by Joe Thompson
Nearly two months had passed since the final day of the season. After a three-week break in Miami with my closest friends and family, I’d spent the past few days in more humble surroundings, at a Haven caravan park in Weymouth, a short drive away from Dorset’s Portland prison, building sandcastles and making memories with Lula and Chantelle. It was the sort of quality time I never spent with my dad and that was why I’d come to see him. I wanted answers to the questions that had haunted me since my childhood so I could let go of the past and move on with my life. I drove up a winding, narrow road, which I hoped would lead me to the truth. I pulled up in the car park and took a few deep breaths. For a moment, I considered turning around. ‘Why should I miss an afternoon with my two girls for him?’ I thought. I reminded myself that I wasn’t doing this for dad, I was doing it for my own sanity. I was wearing a bright orange t-shirt like an American convict and was immediately greeted with suspicious looks from the prison guards as I stepped out of the car. I was raging inside. I felt like I was being judged for having connections to a prisoner. They didn’t know anything about me but sadly their environment had taught them to trust no one.
I stepped inside the visitors’ centre and was alarmed at the number of women waiting to see their husbands, boyfriends, sons and relatives. It showed the beauty of the female spirit. They were willing to stand by the men in their lives, despite the terrible things some of them must have done. My dad’s girlfriend, Sarah, shares those same qualities. She’s been in an on-off relationship with him for the past 15 years and I’d organised my visit through her son and my half-brother, Malachi. I’d been granted a two-hour slot, but I doubted if that would be long enough to talk over everything from the past 29 years.
Before I could see him, I had to show my passport to prove my identity and allow a sniffer dog to check me up and down, before a guard put a torch in my mouth to check I wasn’t carrying drugs. One in five prisoners at Portland had developed addiction problems behind bars, which had prompted a rise in violence between inmates. The psychoactive drug spice had been smuggled in by visitors and was traded between lags, at a price even cheaper than tobacco. I was sure dad knew how to handle himself, but I deliberately left my ring and watch in a locker so his inmates didn’t think I was a rich footballer and attempt to extort money from him for drugs.
I walked up a set of stairs, where a female guard was sat at a desk in front of a glass door. ‘You must be Nicholas’s son,’ she said. ‘He’s been waiting a long time to see you, I can tell by the smile on his face.’ She then asked me if I had any money I wanted to give him. ‘Why would I give him money?’ I said. ‘He hasn’t given me anything for years.’ She rolled her eyes and laughed. ‘He’s over in the far corner.’ I looked through the glass and saw him. He looked like a caged animal. He’d clearly been lifting a lot of weights to pass the time and was a lot bigger than the last time I’d seen him, when he visited me briefly with my auntie Jocklin shortly after I’d left hospital following my first battle with cancer.
The guard opened the door and I headed towards him, past four or five prisoners who were chatting to their loved ones. They all looked at me, nodded and gave me the thumbs up. Dad was clearly respected by his fellow inmates and must’ve had a reputation within the prison system. I wasn’t impressed and wondered exactly what he’d done to earn his high rank. I suspected that fear was his weapon of choice, just like it’d been with my mum when I was a kid. He stood up and gave me a hug. ‘I thought you wouldn’t turn up,’ he said. ‘Good things come to those who wait,’ I replied sarcastically.
We sat down and he pointed at a man two desks to my left who looked to be a similar age to me. ‘That’s your cousin, Josh,’ he said. I was shocked. I knew I had other relatives behind bars but I’d never met him before. It was bizarre to think I had two family members locked up in the same prison wing on the south coast. Dad told me he was proud of me for everything I’d achieved and had watched me on TV in the FA Cup against Tottenham and on the final day of the season. He kept asking me questions, which was his way of using his charm to distract me from focusing on him and the real purpose of my visit. ‘You know why I’m here, don’t you?’ I asked him. He nodded. ‘You can ask me anything and I’ll give you the truth,’ he said. I wanted to believe him but he’s a compulsive liar, capable of convincing himself of his own, made-up version of events.
I started by asking him why and how he’d ended up behind bars again. ‘Plain and simple, I’m a mug, Joe,’ he said. He was adamant that he’d been stitched up and hadn’t sold drugs to an undercover officer. He even claimed he’d rumbled the policeman who was posing as a junkie after noticing he’d had a shave the day after first meeting him. ‘I know who all the junkies are in Bath,’ he said. ‘Why would I be so stupid?’ I found it hard to believe. He must’ve done something to get a three-year sentence, and even if he hadn’t it was probably karma for all the misery he’d caused to other people over the years. I wanted to know if he was doing anything to change his ways. He said he was working as a painting and decorating instructor at the prison during the day, teaching younger inmates the tricks of the trade. It took me back to my mum’s story about how they had first met, when he was painting the walls of the Women’s Aid shop where she worked all those years ago.
I asked him to take me back to a time before I was born, so I could understand why his life had taken such a murky path. He explained that he’d become involved in crime in an attempt to make ends meet after mum had fallen pregnant with me. His first job was a burglary on a house close to where he lived. He’d watched the place for a month, along with several associates, to work out when the best time was for them to strike and the most vulnerable areas of the property.
One night, they decided it was time to get their loot. He crept towards the house and blowtorched the lead off the outside of the window before shoving it through. As he set foot inside, a dog started barking and his accomplices ran off down the street. Dad wasn’t perturbed. He grabbed the dog, which he said was the size of a shoe, and locked it in a bathroom before carrying out the burglary and running off with his goods. After that night, he realised he had the nerve to operate in the underworld. The houses he stole from got bigger and so did the value of his haul, which he sold on to various jewellers. He was hooked.
What he did was wrong, and I’d never try and condone it, but a small part of me empathised with his desperation to provide for his family and newborn son. He also blamed his lack of education, which meant he had little hope of acquiring a serious job that would pay the bills to keep us afloat. Still, that didn’t explain why he was missing for so much of my childhood. He blamed much of it on his addiction to drugs. He’d grown up in a Jamaican family who had a liberal attitude towards cannabis. He started smoking it when he was a teenager and then dabbled with pills and cocaine in nightclubs. From there, his habit turned into an addiction and he started smoking crack. I looked at him in disbelief and asked him why he’d been so stupid. ‘It gave me a buzz and took me to a place I’d never been to before,’ he said.
He knew he had a problem and sought help from a doctor. He was prescribed methadone but stopped taking it after realising he was becoming addicted to that as well. His only solution was to resume his volatile relationship with crack and at one point he was taking up to £500 worth of the stuff a day. He found himself staying awake for days on end, unable to come down from the high, and turned to a dealer for help. ‘He told me to take two hits of heroin a day,’ he said. ‘It gave me balance.’ It reduced his spending on crack to £60 a day but he was now reliant on two powerful drugs to get by. I don’t know how he afforded it but it was clearly his way of escaping his responsibilities and the reality of a life he didn’t want. Drugs scare me, but he didn’t seem to have any fear and I’ll never understand why that buzz was greater than the one he would’ve got from bringing up his kids.
We started talking about mum. He told me he still loved her and always will do, but said his reckless personality
and her bipolar disorder meant their relationship was always likely to spiral out of control. Surprisingly, he blamed her family for failing to address her mental health problems when she was a child. My grandparents said she was a hyperactive kid who would whistle and sing all day long. When you look back at old photos of her, she is wide-eyed and alert, but back then the condition hadn’t been classified and my grandparents wouldn’t have had a clue she was different to any other excitable young child. Ultimately, she needed an anchor in her life and dad couldn’t provide it. He asked me how Lula was and wanted to know why I’d never sent him any pictures of her or replied to his letters. ‘You should be making your own memories with her,’ I snapped. He held his hands up in the air. ‘Fair enough,’ he said.
I still had more questions I wanted answers to but a guard informed me that my two hours were up. Before I left he asked me why Reuben hadn’t visited, but I assured him he would do in time because he had questions of his own to ask. I also said that, despite everything, I wanted him to be part of the family again once he was out of prison. But, there was one condition. ‘If you fuck up and get involved in any more bullshit then that’s it for good, I’ll cut you off,’ I said. ‘I understand,’ he said and hung his head in shame. I stood up to leave and he handed me some beads. ‘Say a prayer for me every night,’ he said. ‘Life’s not easy in here.’ Maybe it was because the other prisoners had left, but it was the first time he’d shown weakness and admitted to the difficulties of life behind bars. There had been a death at the prison and violence between inmates was a regular occurrence. Dad would need every ounce of his charm to keep himself safe.
On my way out of the prison, I got chatting to a woman and her daughter. Her son was in there for the second time. She just couldn’t understand why he’d broken the law again, when he knew the reality of life behind bars. She wondered if he’d found his place in the prison hierarchy and felt at home there alongside people of a similar nature. The outside world was scarier, trying to find a job with a criminal record and resume friendships and relationships with people who had moved on with their lives. It’s a vicious circle and that, in a nutshell, is probably the reason why my dad has reoffended so often. Only time will tell if he’ll do so again.
I started the car engine and set off back to the caravan park in the afternoon sun. The first song on my playlist was ‘Proud’ by Heather Small. Lula loves to sing along to it and the lyrics summed up my emotions. I was proud that I’d stared the past in the face and felt I understood my dad better, even though I disagreed with his choices. I was also proud of what I’d achieved and overcome. I haven’t seen and done it all but I’ve experienced a lot in my 29 years, which means I can empathise and help other people going through hard times. I wish things had been easier, but I don’t consider myself to be an unlucky person. I’ve been blessed with an amazing life and have done things and been to places I dreamt of as a child. I have a beautiful wife and daughter and have played football for a living; in many ways I’ve been incredibly lucky.
Over the summer, I considered retiring from football, to avoid putting my body under any more unnecessary stress, but my doctor has reassured me that my major organs are all in good working condition. With each day that passes, there is less chance of my cancer returning, and it no longer preys on my mind. The future is bright; I have a life to live and goals to pursue. Away from the pitch, I’d love to have another child and give Lula a brother or sister to look after. I also want to use my story to inspire others and plan to start by helping a friend to get back on his feet. After returning to the caravan and turning on the TV, a yellow news strap snaked its way across the screen. ‘Wolves goalkeeper Carl Ikeme in complete remission’. I smiled, opened the door and walked towards the light.
1989. Me enjoying a snooze with mum when I was just a few months old.
1993. My face sums up my mood around the time Reuben was born.
2001. (Top left) Grinning like a Cheshire cat after joining Manchester United. Tom Cleverley (bottom, second from right) was the one that made it to the first team, but a lot of these boys went on to forge careers elsewhere.
2006. Getting stuck in on my full debut away at MK Dons.
2007. I won the League Two Apprentice of the Year prize at the end of my first season. It’s still one of my proudest achievements.
January 2009. Three is the magic number. My confidence was through the roof after I scored a hat-trick in the opening 17 minutes against Aldershot aged 19.
2012. Running down the wing in my first season at Tranmere Rovers. I started well but had a disappointing campaign.
2013. The Fresh Prince of Prenton Park. I’d do anything to have that trim again!
Me and Lula shortly after she was born. I feared I was too young to be a dad but all my worries melted away the moment I first saw her.
2013. My Tranmere team-mates, fans and a host of other players grew their hair for a charity I set up called #grow4joe during my first battle with cancer.
2013. All the Tranmere lads showing their support by wearing Thompson No. 7 shirts. My face had become really puffy following chemotherapy.
2014. Smiling from ear to ear with Lula, my nurse Rachel Campsey and Professor Radford after being told I’m in remission and cancer free.
2015. Celebrating with my team-mate and housemate, Charlie Wyke, at Carlisle. My time at Brunton Park was one of the happiest 12 months of my career.
Me and Chantelle tying the knot in front of family and friends in Ibiza. The entire day was perfect from start to finish.
Enjoying the moment. We’ve come a long way since our first date at the cinema.
Me and Lloydy on my wedding day. He was the closest thing to a father figure that I’ve had in my life.
Reuben, me and Chantelle’s dad, Paul. We brought the wedding forward a year to make sure he was well enough to make it. I’m so happy he got to walk his girl down the aisle.
(Left to right) The boys looking well. My groomsmen, Nicky Blackman and James Rothwell and best man, Reuben, before I said my vows.
2017. Me and Lula attending my final Rochdale game before I started chemotherapy treatment after being diagnosed with cancer for the second time.
2017. Midway through my treatment my remaining healthy cells were harvested ahead of my stem cell transplant.
2017. Literally living off machines. Needing blood transfusions to try and raise my red and white blood cell count. They were some of the longest days of my life. Torture!
2017. I defied doctor’s orders and told Chantelle to bring Lula into my isolation room for a brief visit on Father’s Day. She was my shining light on what was my darkest day.
2017. After 18 days in isolation, I hobbled out of hospital with Lula and Chantelle weighing just 10 stone.
2017. All smiles after Dr Gibbs gave me the all-clear. The relief I felt that day is impossible to describe.
2017. Me giving my first motivational talk to Sheffield Wednesday’s under-23 squad at Cassius Camps just a few weeks after finishing my treatment.
2017. Laughing and joking with Keith Hill and some of my Rochdale team-mates on my first day back at training.
2018. From the ward to Wembley. It was a dream come true running on to the pitch as a second half substitute in Rochdale’s 6-1 defeat to Tottenham in our FA Cup fifth round replay, eight months after getting the all-clear.
What a feeling. My second half goal gave Rochdale a 1-0 win over Charlton and saved us from relegation on the final day of the season. That moment was written in the stars. My family were all so proud of me! What a whirlwind year.
Me and my two beautiful girls at the christening of our friends’ little boy, Hendrix. After everything we’ve been through we’re stronger than ever before. Teamwork!
s book with friends