by Joe Thompson
‘I’m very pleased to say that you’re now cancer free, Joe,’ he said. A feeling of relief and elation surged through my veins. I grabbed Chantelle and hugged her as tightly as I could. I felt like jumping up and down and swinging off the light fitting on the ceiling. I’d never felt so happy in my entire life and couldn’t wipe the smile off my face. The chemo had worked as well as could’ve been expected and the only thing that had been left behind was some scar tissue, which I was reassured would disappear pretty quickly. ‘So when can I start playing football again?’ I asked him and my nurse, Rachael Campsey, who had been there throughout my treatment. ‘I thought you might ask me that,’ said Professor Radford. ‘You need to take some time out to rest. Your body has gone through extreme stress and it needs to recover. You could play again but it’s going to take time for you to get back to where you were before.’
I had the answer I needed. Before we left the office, I asked one of the staff to take a picture of the four of us. I was so grateful for their help and all the nurses at Christie Hospital for saving my life. We jumped in the car and drove home, but this time laughter filled the air and the feeling that we were about to embark on a fresh start. The future was ours again.
I’d listened to Professor Radford’s advice, but I also knew that football doesn’t wait for anyone and I knew I’d be forgotten about if I didn’t return as quickly as possible. I was out of contract and didn’t know what would happen next, but there were six weeks before players would return for pre-season which would give me the perfect opportunity to work on my fitness while everyone else was lying on the beach. Just hours after being given the all-clear, I had started to plot my comeback.
Chapter 10
P45
THE letterbox slammed shut and an envelope landed on the hallway floor with a thud. I dragged myself off the sofa with a groan and trudged through to pick up the morning mail. As I bent down, I could see the Tranmere Rovers crest stamped on the front and tore open the seal like a child opening their Christmas presents.
Two weeks had passed since I’d been given the all-clear and now I was waiting for news of a different kind. The two-year deal I’d signed upon joining the club had come to an end and I was now out of contract. For nine months I’d been no use to them, but I thought I’d be offered a short-term deal on reduced terms so I could prove my fitness, but so far I’d heard nothing and was beginning to fear the worst.
I unfolded the envelope and quickly scanned the letter to see what had been put on the table, and mouthed the words written in black ink as I read them. ‘Dear Joe Thompson, thanks for all your hard work for Tranmere Rovers Football Club, but we won’t be retaining your services beyond this season. Good luck for the future.’
My heart sank. I sat and stared at the letter for a moment and then threw it across the room. I was so angry. I couldn’t believe they had cut me loose after everything I’d been through, and they didn’t even have the decency to call me. The supporters had been incredible. I’d had messages from hundreds of them asking me when I was going to be back and telling me they couldn’t wait to see me wearing the number seven shirt again next season. Now I knew I’d never wear it again.
A lot had changed at Tranmere whilst I’d been undergoing chemotherapy. The club had sacked Ronnie Moore in April 2014 after the FA had found him guilty of breaching betting rules and a month later they were relegated to League Two. A host of players had been released in a bid to balance the books, and given that I was earning good money they’d decided to cut their losses. From a financial and playing point of view, I was now seen as a risk because they didn’t know if I’d ever return to my previous level.
I felt rejected, just as I had done when Manchester United had released me as a 15-year-old. Back then I’d realised just how ruthless football was and now I’d been given another reminder. It doesn’t matter who you are or what you’ve been through, clubs are businesses and there is little place for empathy. If you’re seen as a drain on resources, particularly lower down the leagues, then you’ll get the boot and join the hundreds of other players desperately hunting for a new club during the summer months.
Chantelle was sat next to me and had read the letter. I looked at her face and could tell she was shocked. ‘Shit, the fucking bastards,’ she said. ‘Joe, where are we going to get the money from?’ It was a good question but I didn’t have an answer. During my treatment we’d cut down on all our outgoings and got rid of anything that we could do without so we could save money. We were running around in a little Vauxhall Corsa and a Renault Clio. We had to be financially strict in case I was told I’d never play again. We had a little pot of money together but it wasn’t going to last us very long with a mortgage to pay and a little girl to feed.
I picked up the phone and called Lloydy to tell him the news. ‘Gaz, we’re fucked mate,’ I said. ‘I know we are mate, but don’t worry, I’ll make a few calls and see what I can do,’ he replied. I was only 23 but it’s hard enough getting a new club if you’ve had a serious injury, never mind cancer. I had a good set of GCSEs behind me and a BTEC sports diploma, but that wasn’t going to be enough to get me a decent job if I didn’t play football again. I began to think I’d end up stacking shelves at a supermarket and we’d have to sell our house to make ends meet if I didn’t pull my finger out.
I started to do the sums in my head. I knew that I had my final pay packet in the bank and would receive some severance pay, which would buy me a bit of time, but realistically I had six to eight weeks to get something sorted or I’d be in the shit financially. The PFA had been a huge help while I’d been out and had added another couple of hundred pounds to my pay packet every month to help pay for the cost of additional childcare when Chantelle was at work or visiting me in hospital. I knew I’d have to speak to them again for advice. I didn’t have any critical illness insurance, so I wouldn’t get a payout if I was forced to retire. Chantelle had also reduced the number of clients on her books because she needed to be at home looking after me, so she couldn’t support both of us on her wage alone.
I’d been in a privileged position financially and was probably earning more money than most people my age, but I wasn’t being paid hundreds of thousands of pounds a week. I was on £1,200 a week, plus healthy bonuses if I was playing, which I obviously hadn’t been. It was a lot for someone my age, but at the same time I’d only been on good money for a few years. During that time I’d bought a car and saved up a deposit for a house, and had to provide for my first child. Although we’d been living comfortably, I didn’t have ten years of earnings behind me on Premier League money. I now get why players lower down the leagues move for financial reasons because a footballer’s career is a short one and you don’t have the same opportunity to restock the pot once you’re retired. Someone in a normal job will be earning until they’re 60 or 65, whereas a player will often have to retrain for another career because he has no qualifications or experience to fall back on.
Today’s players also don’t have access to their football pension until they’re 65. Luckily, I was in the last age group who could immediately tap into their pension at 35, but I’d only been a professional for five years, so I knew I wouldn’t have a huge sum of money to fall back on. Hindsight is a wonderful thing, but looking back I wish I’d stashed some more money away for a rainy day or even invested in myself and studied for other qualifications away from the pitch. I tell young players to do that now, rather than wasting their money on pointless things like clothes and expensive trainers. Ollie Rathbone is my little project at Rochdale, he’s a good player and very smart and is always asking how he should invest his money. I wish there were more young lads with their heads screwed on like him, but being financially savvy and learning new skills is easier said than done when you’re already trying to learn a trade and work your way up the football ladder. There was no point in me thinking what I could or should have done; these were the cards I’d been dealt and I had to get on with it.
The firs
t thing I had to do was get fit. Professor Radford had told me to rest but I couldn’t just sit on a sofa for weeks and then turn up for a trial and expect to win a contract. I hadn’t kicked a ball for nine months and decided to start rebuilding my fitness with road running. Several nights a week I’d put Lula to bed, then pull on my running trainers and put my earphones in before setting off around the roads of Prestwich. They were lonely nights, pounding the pavements and mulling over my worries in my head. In a way, it felt like I was a kid again, running cross country and pretending I was Rocky, except now the only competition I had was myself. I had no fitness plan or regime. At first, I just ran from lamppost to lamppost, to see how I felt and how hard I could push myself. The following night I’d add another five minutes on or sprint a bit harder between lampposts so I knew I was improving.
When I looked at myself in the mirror, my body didn’t look much different to how it had done nine months ago, but I could feel the difference the morning after each run. My hamstrings, calves and feet were in agony. I realised my legs were basically hollow. There was enough strength in them to get me around my route, but none of the endurance I knew I’d need to sprint repeatedly up and down a football pitch. The minute I put my foot down and tried to run a little faster for a prolonged period, I felt like my tank suddenly ran out of gas. That was a worry, but I tried to keep any negative thoughts out of my head and told myself that everything would return to normal in time.
Every day I called Lloydy in the hope of good news, but each time the message was the same: ‘I’ve got nothing yet, Joe, he likes the look of you as a player but doesn’t want to take a risk, but don’t worry, we’ll sort something out.’ It was a pattern that continued for another month until an old mate came to the rescue. Dave Flitcroft had been given the manager’s job at Bury after leaving Barnsley. We’d always got along really well and he’d called Lloydy and asked him if he thought I could get back to my best. His reply was a firm ‘yes’ and so Flickers invited me in to do some tests. I was dreading it. He was obsessed with fitness so I knew the other players would be in great shape. I'd worked hard for the previous month but that was no preparation for the sort of beasting I was likely to get.
The first test I had to do was called a VO2 max, which pushes your mind and body to the limit. It measures your maximal consumption of oxygen and the efficiency of your muscles during exercise of increasing intensity. I had to put on a mask and run on a treadmill for as long as possible as the pace got faster and faster. With this test, there is no hiding place, because your heart rate is on a screen so the staff know how hard you’re working and how much you’ve got left in the tank. I worked my bollocks off and put my heart and soul into every stride, and when I finished the run there was literally nothing left in my legs. I was wearing a harness, which whipped me off the machine. Afterwards, I laid on the floor dripping in sweat and gasping for breath.
Remarkably I’d done better than a lot of the other players and my performance prompted Flickers to invite me in for pre-season training. I was one step closer to a contract, but I knew more hard work was to follow. I think I speak for most footballers when I say the beep test is the one we all dread every summer. I felt sick as we lined up ready to start, much like I’d done when I used to wait for the gun to sound at my athletics races. I told myself I wouldn’t be the first to drop out. If you’re that guy then your reputation is in tatters and you simply haven’t worked hard enough during the summer. The player who drops out second is almost as bad. He’s a coward in my eyes because he’s seen that someone else has also quit and thinks he can do so without suffering the embarrassment of the first player. That’s just my opinion, but he’s probably got plenty more in the tank and is happy to sit on the side and watch the rest of his team-mates suffer. Providing I wasn’t either of those two, I thought I’d have done myself justice, but I exceeded my own expectations by finishing in the middle of the pack, even ahead of some of the youngest and supposedly fittest players in the squad.
My efforts exposed a few of the younger lads, including an 18-year-old called Regan Walker, who Flickers called out in front of the whole team. ‘He’s had chemotherapy for six months, how has he beaten you?’ he shouted at him. Regan admitted to me later on that he hadn’t put the work in during the summer and had been found out. He was released soon after and played non-league football for a while, but later that year he was diagnosed with bone cancer in his femur.
It turned out he’d been suffering with horrific pain in one of his legs for months. At one point it was that bad he passed out but continued playing in the belief it would pass. I was stunned. I knew how he was feeling. Luckily, after 12 months of chemotherapy, he made a full recovery, but cancer ended his career at the age of 21 after parts of his leg had to be removed along with the tumour. I still keep in contact with him and he knows I’m only ever a phone call away if he needs my help.
That day had been a wake-up call for Regan, but for me it was the moment I realised I wasn’t finished. Physically, I was still some way off being 100 per cent fit, but I knew I could compete and that did wonders for my confidence. It also convinced the club to offer me a 12-month deal on £600 a week. It was a big drop in pay, but it was better than being on the dole and gave me breathing space and an opportunity to work on my fitness for a year. The squad was aiming for promotion, and I thought if I could hang on to the coat-tails of the other players and make a few appearances then in a year’s time I’d be in a good position to play regularly in League One and Two.
After a brutal first few days of pre-season training, we headed to Tenerife to continue our preparations for the new season. I got through the sessions but realised that my recovery was a lot slower than it had been before. I had to work on my body like a Formula One car to make sure I was ready to train again each day. I was having ice baths, switching between hot and cold showers, using foam rollers and having massages to ease the pain in my legs. When the masseur, Nick Meace, first got to work on me, he was alarmed at the lumps he could feel in my quads. ‘Fucking hell, what the hell is inside these?’ He asked me. My lymphatic system still wasn’t flushing properly, so my legs were clogged up with fluid and lactic acid. My back and joints were killing me as well, because I’d lost muscle mass after spending days at a time lying in bed.
Flickers had been watching me from afar and wanted to know what my goals were for the next six months. I didn’t expect to feature that much, and my first target was just to be on the bench and be ready to make an impact. I didn’t want to be in the squad for the sake of it if I knew I wasn’t capable of performing. Beyond that, I wanted to get a goal because I knew it would give me a massive confidence boost. Regardless of my illness, there was pressure on me to return. Flickers had taken a risk by offering me a contract and he wanted a return on his investment. Bury had a good budget that year, but he couldn’t afford to carry dead wood, especially when this was his first managerial position. He’d done me a favour and I had no intention of letting him down, but, for all my efforts in pre-season, the road back to professional football was tougher than I thought.
Away from the pitch, Chantelle and I had learnt from our financial mistakes. We’d been saving as much money as possible and spotted an opportunity to invest in our future. A salon had become available near our house, but the owner was asking for £30,000. We didn’t have the cash, but decided to keep tabs on it and see if we could strike a deal further down the line. She’s incredibly driven and already had a long list of clients, including the wives and girlfriends of a few footballers, many of whom were based in suburban Manchester, so we knew there was the potential for her to start her own business, which would provide us with another source of income.
Six months later, the salon was still available and we decided to barter with the owner. We’d been saving every penny we had and proposed a down payment of £10,000 and then additional money over a period of time. He accepted the offer, but now we had to work out how to actually run a salon. We got the keys bu
t didn’t even know how the till worked or who did the water and electric. One thing we did know was that it would take time before we turned a profit. Chantelle would have to invest in hiring staff, buying products and also advertise the business in the local area and hope she could attract enough clients to at least break even. It was a risk, but she has a sound business head on her and an incredible work ethic. If anyone was going to make a success of the place, it was her.
Back at Bury, my progress had been stop-start, and Flickers was growing frustrated. I was fit but I kept on picking up little niggles and knocks which would set me back a few weeks. I came on against Hemel Hempstead in the FA Cup and changed the game, but my performance almost hindered me. He expected me to be able to repeat my performances every week and I just couldn’t do it. On some occasions I just wasn’t fit enough to play, and when I did it could then take me a week to recover and I wouldn’t be ready for the next match. My touch and anticipation, which comes with playing regular games, was also below par, so I couldn’t express myself as I wanted to. He didn’t understand that I still probably shouldn’t have been anywhere near a football pitch and that I was already over-extending myself.
He decided to loan me out to Wrexham, who were in the Conference, so I could play regular games at a lower level and hopefully get my confidence back. I felt like I was under so much pressure and my enjoyment for the game went out of the window. If I couldn’t impress at that level, what hope did I have of doing so in the Football League every week? I hated everything about Conference football, even down to the footballs, which were hard and plastic and made by a brand called Jako. I’d played with Mitre balls since I was a kid and I had to relearn how to control and bend the ball because it felt completely different. The pitches were heavy and the games were 100mph. There didn’t seem to be any pattern to the play. In the Football League, the midfielder wins the second ball and then feeds the wide players. It’s then my job to beat the full-back and whip the ball in. The Conference was like pinball and the game would pass me by for large periods because defenders would just lump it up the pitch.