Darkness and Light

by Joe Thompson

  It was one of the best nights of my life. I looked around at my boys all having an amazing time and felt proud that they’d made such a huge effort to come to Vegas and celebrate. Lloydy was in his element; the sparklers and banner weren’t really my thing but I was happy he was having a good time. He’d been like a dad to me since we’d first met when I was 18 and he was still by my side, ready to watch me start a new chapter in my life. Before the night was over, a few of us went to the toilet for a pit stop. Out of nowhere, Neymar walked past and headed inside one of the cubicles. ‘Boys, we do not let him out of here without getting a picture,’ I said. ‘I want a deep block, men behind the ball, he isn’t getting past us.’ When he came out he stopped for a picture and then dropped his shoulder like he’d done past countless defenders on the pitch and disappeared into the darkness of the club.

  It was the perfect way to end the trip. We’d managed to man-mark Neymar in a nightclub toilet but getting everyone on the plane back proved more difficult. We had to fly from Vegas to Chicago before flying back to Manchester. If we didn’t make the flight we’d face a race to get to Ibiza in time for my wedding, which was only a few days away. When we arrived at Chicago airport, a voice over the tannoy sent us into a panic. ‘Please would Mr Thompson and his party go to Gate B59, this is your final boarding call.’ We were all drained and hungover but we mustered the energy to sprint through the airport. However, Nicky Blackman, who had been nursing a knee injury all year, refused to run. Knowing Nicky, I reckon he was secretly hoping he’d miss the flight so he could stay behind and see what Chicago had to offer for 24 hours. Luckily, we managed to have a word with the plane crew, who waited a few minutes longer for him to board. Within minutes of finding our seats, we were all fast asleep as we tried to recover from a brutal few days.

  A few days later, the big day arrived. I’d always wanted to get married abroad. Part of me wanted to see who would go the extra mile and fly out to watch us tie the knot. We were joined by 65 guests in San Miguel, which is in the north of Ibiza island, away from all the clubs and bars. Getting Paul on the plane was like a military operation. His cylinders had to have the right amount of oxygen in them and we were concerned that they might be affected by the change of air pressure in the cabin during the flight. Fortunately, he was fine and he felt a lot better in the warmth of Spain. We’d flown out a few times during the season to make sure everything was in place and now all I needed was for Chantelle to turn up and say ‘I do’.

  The ceremony was due to start at 1pm, but in typical Chantelle fashion, she was 20 minutes late getting to the church. I wasn’t worried she wouldn’t show up, that’s the way she’s always been. If we go to a restaurant I’ll book it for 8:30pm and tell her we need to be there for 8pm because I know she’s always on the last minute. Eventually, she came walking down the aisle with Paul and Lula on either side. She looked absolutely stunning. I was so happy we’d brought the wedding forward so that Paul could be there to see Chantelle get married. ‘It’s over to you now, look after her,’ he said to me at the altar. I knew he’d used every last ounce of his energy just to walk her down the aisle and was literally handing her over to me to look after her.

  I was still hoarse after five days of partying in Vegas, but thankfully held out long enough for me to say my vows. Afterwards we all headed back to the villa for the speeches, before dancing the night away. During my speech I did my best to frighten the lads who had been on my stag do by telling them all to stand up like a police identity parade. They were petrified and exchanged nervous glances while their girlfriends and wives looked on waiting to see what stories I had to tell. ‘Don’t worry lads,’ I said. ‘I just want to thank you for making my time in Vegas perfect, I couldn’t have asked for more.’ I could tell they were all relieved when they sat down with their pride and relationships still intact.

  I mentioned my dad briefly, who had just been released on tag for assault and battery, and explained that he was unable to attend due to his 7pm curfew and a court order banning him from leaving the country. It was dark humour, but everyone was howling with laughter. In my haste I forgot to read out my passage thanking Niecey for everything she’d done for me over the years. Midway through the night my cousins mentioned that I hadn’t really mentioned Niecey and it was only then that I realised my mistake. I was horrified and asked the DJ to stop the music. For the first time during the whole wedding I burst out crying as I told everyone what a rock she’d been for me and the rest of the family over the years. I know she hates attention but I couldn’t let that moment pass without acknowledging her role in my life.

  The rest of the night was like a dream. Everyone danced the night away and loads of us ended up jumping in the villa pool, including Chantelle in her wedding dress. I dread to think how many pounds worth of material was soaking in the water, and I’ve never asked her since. I made sure I enjoyed the moment and smiled as I looked around at everyone having a great time. My mum must have been so proud that day given the daily battles she faced just to make ends meet when we were kids, on top of her own struggles with mental illness. She did an amazing job bringing us up, and in the end her two sons had turned out ok.

  I often watch our wedding video to remind myself how amazing our special day was. We only decided to get it filmed about a week before the wedding and it was one of the best decisions we’ve made. We hired a young lad called Cameron and he did such a good job; he’s since worked on weddings for loads of other footballers, including Manchester United defender Chris Smalling and Sheffield Wednesday’s Liam Palmer. Over 100,000 people have now watched our video on Facebook and we occasionally get strangers coming up to us in random places asking us if we’re the couple from the Facebook wedding video. I can confirm that we are.

  We spent a week in Ibiza, squeezing every last ounce of happiness out of our wedding. I’d never felt as content with life as I did during those seven days. It had been a dark few years for the whole family but we were stronger for it, and at last I felt we’d come out of the other side. Ibiza was the light at the end of the tunnel.

  Chapter 14

  Christmas is cancelled

  I FELT like I was waking up from a dream as the plane touched down on the runway at Manchester Airport and shuddered to a halt. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and realised I was an unemployed footballer again, but I wasn’t worried like I had been in previous years. I’d been in this position before and felt I’d done enough to show I could still cut it in the Football League. But finding a new employer proved to be more difficult than I thought.

  A few weeks after returning to normality, the only concrete interest had come from non-league side Barrow. It was better than nothing, I thought, so I spent a week training with them to get a feel for the club and work on my fitness. They trained in Manchester, which was convenient, but it was a huge drop in professionalism compared to what I’d been used to, and I was convinced I still had plenty to offer at a higher level. I pestered Lloydy for news but the clubs who had been in touch were up in Scotland, and I didn’t want to uproot my family, particularly after the stress of the last few years. Lloydy was honest with me about the situation and told me to speak to other agents to see if they could help, even though it meant he wouldn’t get a fee.

  The way in which players find new clubs and win contracts has changed a lot since I started out. I know several lads who have been signed after putting together highlights packages and posting them on social media or even LinkedIn. You have to be active now and put yourself in the shop window. If a coach needs to get a player in quickly and you’ve got a well-edited video of yourself in action then it gives him an immediate idea of what you can offer. It also saves him the hassle of being misled by agents claiming to have a client who is the next big thing, only to find out that he’s anything but. It isn’t something I’ve had to do yet myself, but social media has become a great platform to showcase your talents and advertise your availability.

  One afternoon I was at a play centre wi
th Lula when Chantelle and my mum ordered me to ring Keith Hill. I was reluctant to go cap in hand to my former manager. I know a few players who have had great spells at clubs but then things have turned sour on their return. They expected to go back and everything to fall into place like it used to be, but then couldn’t adapt to a new manager and team-mates. I’d made some amazing memories at Rochdale and didn’t want to ruin them or taint my reputation in the eyes of the fans if my second spell wasn’t as successful as my first. I was also wary of the stick I might get if things weren’t going well when I lived close to the club. People love to rub it in and I was fearful of things not going to plan.

  I explained my concerns to Chantelle, but she was persistent, and so was my mum, so I picked up the phone and gave him a call. ‘What are you doing with yourself? You do know pre-season has already started?’ he said to me in typical Keith fashion. I told him I was basically a househusband. ‘You don’t want to be doing that, Joe, it’ll mess with your masculinity,’ he joked. He said I could join his squad for pre-season training but added firmly that there was no guarantee I’d be offered a contract. I’ve never been given anything that I haven’t worked for and didn’t expect any favours from him. I was on trial again, just as I’d been after leaving Manchester United all those years ago.

  I’d forgotten how hard training was under Keith, and it was a shock to the system after Vegas and Ibiza. I trained for three weeks without playing a pre-season game, but he could see that my fitness was good and I was ready to compete. We sat down in his office and he offered me a six-month contract on £500 a week. The wage was a pittance for a League One player. ‘I want to see how hungry you are,’ he said. ‘Ohh I’ll be hungry, I’ll be eating baked beans on toast at this rate,’ I replied. I had nothing else on the table, but I thought I’d try and make him sweat. ‘I’ll think about it,’ I said.

  I’d been driving for about five minutes when Lloydy called me. ‘Where are you? Tell me you’re still at the ground,’ he said with urgency. I explained that I’d had a chat with the gaffer and was going home to think about the offer in the hope I could squeeze another couple of hundred quid a month out of him. ‘I’ve spoken to Keith, if you don’t sign it in a couple of days he’ll withdraw the offer,’ he said. ‘He’s calling your bluff, mate,’ I replied. ‘I can tell by his tone of voice that he isn’t, turn around and sign the contract,’ he ordered. I sighed and did as I was told. ‘I’ll show Keith how hungry I am,’ I thought to myself. Ten minutes later I was a Rochdale player again. As always, Keith had won the battle of wills.

  I wasn’t happy with my salary, but on the pitch everything was rosy. We made a flying start to the season and I played a lot of football. The only thing missing from my game was goals, and I scored my first since my return in a 3-2 win over Scunthorpe, who were flying in the league. I was named man of the match, and the win saw us move into fourth place in League One. It was December, which meant it was Christmas party time again, and after the game we all headed to Newcastle to let our hair down. I had even more reason to celebrate. Keith had handed me an 18-month deal a few days earlier as a reward for my efforts. I was relieved to have some financial security at last, which meant I could now just focus on my football.

  It was a two-day trip, but I had to return to Manchester a day earlier than the rest of the boys to make sure I was in a fit state for a check-up scan at Christie Hospital on the Monday morning. It was nothing to be worried about, it was a routine procedure. Normally cancer survivors undergo these scans every six months in the first two years after their treatment, but after my first diagnosis I’d undergone a trial to help with research, which meant I had to have one final scan three years after my initial diagnosis. I felt fitter and healthier than I’d ever been but ten days after they’d taken one last look at me, the hospital called and asked me to go back for a PET scan, which gives doctors a more detailed view of your insides. It unnerved me, but I had no reason to fear there was a problem because I had no symptoms and quickly buried the concerns in my head.

  The nurses injected me with a red dye, which is made out of a radioactive glucose. If you have cancerous cells in your body, the dye makes them light up like a Christmas tree when you’re inside the MRI scanner. I drifted in and out of sleep as I lay inside the scanner for nearly an hour, but my mind was racing. I kept thinking of the worst-case scenario, but I reminded myself that the odds were stacked in my favour. If you get past the two-year mark after remission, which I had done, then there is little chance of your cancer returning. I was also a healthy athlete, so what did I have to worry about? I was told that I would need to go back to the hospital a week later, on Christmas Eve of all days, to get my results.

  I reassured everyone at the club that I was fine and returned to Christie Hospital for my appointment fully expecting to have a brief 15-minute chat, leave with a clean bill of health and head to training straight after. Chantelle drove me there and we took a seat in Dr Gibbs’s office, who had been part of the team of experts who had overseen my first battle with cancer. I could tell by the look on his face that something was wrong. ‘I’m really sorry to have to tell you this Joe, but we’ve found a cancerous tumour on your chest and it’s showing signs of growth,’ he said. ‘I’m so, so sorry.’

  I burst into tears. They were angry tears. I wanted to smash the room up. ‘What do you mean, one fucking tumour, you’ve got to be kidding me?’ I said. ‘You didn’t get rid of it the first time, did you?’ He explained that my original treatment had been a success but I’d suffered a relapse. The tumour was a centimetre and a half in size but it was spreading towards my lymph nodes again. He told me there was cause for optimism because I had the same type of cancer as before and it hadn’t attacked a major organ. I didn’t care. I’d been told there was less than a 5 per cent chance of it coming back and didn’t want to hear about statistics and platitudes. ‘Don’t try and tell me there’s good news, because there’s no fucking good news,’ I wailed at him.

  I could tell that he was finding the situation incredibly difficult having seen me go through my treatment the first time around. He explained that it was likely I’d have to wait several months before the treatment would start. ‘I’m not sitting around waiting again,’ I said. ‘Calm down,’ he replied. ‘It’s easy for you to say calm down,’ I said. This time around I would need a more potent form of chemotherapy to try and eradicate the cancer for good, which would involve 24-hour cycles for six days, every other week, until they were confident it was gone. It was that powerful I would also require a stem cell transplant, to replenish my body with red and white blood cells, which would be killed by the dosage, and rebuild my immune system.

  I felt like I’d buried an enemy, but they had climbed out of the ground and clawed me back. I didn’t know how I was going to explain to Lula what was happening. Last time, she had only been a baby, but now she was old enough to ask questions. I knew that this time I would lose all of my hair and probably a substantial amount of weight. I wouldn’t look like the dad she knew. I was worried what impact that would have on her psychologically. There was no way I could hide it from her. No child should have to see their mum or dad suffer with a serious illness, not at her age, but I knew I couldn’t hide the truth from her. I’d have to be honest and find a way to break the news without frightening her.

  I also had to tell Rochdale, who had just given me a new contract, that I might never play football again. We got in the car and I started punching the dashboard in anger. I was meant to be training on Christmas Day ahead of a game on Boxing Day, but after Chantelle had managed to calm me down I called Keith to tell him the news. I could barely string a sentence together and started crying over the phone. He told me to come to the training ground that afternoon so we could talk. It’s only a short drive from Christie Hospital, so me and Chantelle headed for a coffee before we went to see him.

  When I arrived, I bumped into Jimmy McNulty in the car park as he was leaving. It was déjà vu. He was the first person
I saw the first time around when I went into Tranmere to tell the lads. I just started crying and he gave me a massive hug. The rest of the boys were finishing off a gym session inside. ‘It’s back boys, I’ve got cancer again,’ I said. I felt terrible putting them in that position. What do you say to somebody who has just told you that? They told me they knew something had happened because Keith had been behaving like a man possessed, screaming and shouting at any little mistake. They did their best to make me feel better but we all knew I was in the shit.

  Keith was waiting for me in his office along with a few of the other coaching staff. I did my best to relay to them what the doctor had said and told them I didn’t want to play on Boxing Day, but they already had a plan to raise my spirits. ‘Don’t just stop now,’ said Keith. ‘You’ve got time before you start treatment; if you do nothing you’ll just overthink everything. Let’s get you fitter and stronger and better prepared for it.’ It was a good way of thinking about it. I still felt completely normal and didn’t have any symptoms. If I spent weeks sat on the sofa feeling sorry for myself and worrying, then mentally I would already have let cancer win the first round of our fight. We agreed that I’d train and play as normal until I felt I was no longer able to or my doctor intervened.