#2Sides: My Autobiography (4 page)

So how did the gaffer react? I remember him in the changing room afterwards: ‘You fucking
remember
this! You young boys are going to be here a long time … you’re going to come back here … remember how this mob up here
cheered
when you lost the league the way you did …’

Remember it we did. The next year we came back and won the league.

Until I was 30 I never had any injuries. Fit as a fiddle, I was. Played every game, 45 or 50 a season. In training, I’d just go out and smash balls about, jump straight into it at 100 miles an hour without any stretching or warming up. That was how I’d always been as a kid and I just carried on like that. But I remember Ryan Giggs saying to me: ‘Once you hit 30 your body changes. You have to take care of yourself more.’

I thought, ‘Yeah, right.’ It was like when you’re a kid and people say ‘Enjoy your school years, they’re the best time you’ll ever have’ and you go ‘Yeah, yeah …’ You take it with a pinch of salt. Then I hit 30, and Giggsy was right: it was like someone flicked a switch!

I started picking up little niggles. I was getting these little tears, small tears in my groin and in my hamstrings. I didn’t know why. Then we had this game against Stoke. I was fine before; the night before I was perfect. And we’re doing our warm-up and I jump. It’s just a jump – a normal part of warming-up. But as I land I feel my lower back go. And the pain was just ridiculous – crazy pain – the craziest, most unbelievable instability. I was almost bent double.

That was the start of it all.

It became the weirdest thing because I never understood what was wrong with me. Nor did the doctors or the back specialists or the physios. I had some exercises which sometimes helped. But mostly I was taking tablets; I was taking so many painkillers and
anti-inflammatories I could have opened my own chemist. When it was really bad I’d be bent over and my back would be arched and I’d walk like an old man.

I didn’t sleep a lot of the time. I thought I’d have to retire; I thought I might be damaged for the rest of my life.

I tried everything: I went all over the North West; I went to London; I went to Germany; I was having manipulations from chiropractors. I’d find one chiropractor I thought was really good and I’d use him for three or four months. But I’d still be getting the problems, so I’d search for someone else. I saw Muller Wolfart, a renowned specialist with Bayern Munich and the German national team. He had his own private practice in Munich and I went there quite regularly for a few months. He’d give me injections and I’d be sorted – but only short term. For big games, he’d get me right quickly. Like if we had a league decider on the Saturday, then a quarter final of the Champions League or a semi-final … that sort of thing.

Then I got back in touch with a guy called Kevin Lidlow in London who helped me when I thought I’d need surgery on my knee. He gave me exercises for the injury and I didn’t have to have the operation, so I knew he was good. Kevin was great at manipulations and stuff like that, and he used to get me back into good nick in a couple of hours.
Almost
good nick, anyway. He looked after a lot of the England rugby team and is well thought of.

But even he could only get me to a certain point. Nothing would work long term.

So I developed a weekly routine. I’d play on the Saturday and then I’d be debilitated from the moment I got home after a game. I couldn’t walk properly at all on the Sunday and I wouldn’t even attempt to train. I’d just do warm down stuff, like going in the pool, trying to get my posture back. Then, if I took some tablets,
if we had a game on the Wednesday, I might be able to play. Or if I didn’t take tablets, and we had a game on the Saturday, then I’d wait. By Thursday I might be able to do some jogging. By Friday I’d train with the team. Then I’d play again.

The same cycle would repeat itself. It went on like for 18 months! The doctors worked out it was a problem in my lower back – the SI joint, L3 and L4 – and they couldn’t fix it. Between 2009 and 2010 – that was the worst time.

I couldn’t even go in the garden with my kids. That used to kill me. My boy would say. ‘Dad, can you come in the garden and play football?’

‘Oh, lads I can’t. I can’t get out there at the moment.’

I felt awful. I couldn’t even stand up for longer than a couple of minutes. I just about managed to get out for the school run, then get back to the car and have to take a deep breath. At night I’d wake up, sweating, thinking ‘Fuck me; I’m going to have to retire. I don’t want to go out like this. I don’t want to go out on a sick-note.’

Some days bed was the only place my back felt comfortable. I’d get up and try to move around in the afternoon. Then, when the kids went to bed, I’d just lie down and watch TV. Most days I’d basically lie down and watch the sports channel, or reality TV.

There was so much fear and anxiety about being injured. At times I almost wished I had something straightforward like a broken leg. With some injuries you
know
: if you get a cruciate it’s six months; a broken leg it’s a couple of months. Meniscus is four weeks. You know how long so you’ve got the light at the end of the tunnel. Not having that light ate away at me. Bad back? No one knew what was wrong. Not the top specialist, not even the top physios.
I thought: ‘If they don’t know, who else will? How am I ever going to get better?’

It must seem strange to an outsider. But you have to remember football is still a ‘macho man’ culture. I’d never been injured before, so I’d never had those thoughts going through my head. Looking back I think I was projecting my feelings onto other people. I would have looked at myself and thought ‘Fucking hell, I reckon he can play, he just don’t fancy it this week. We’ve got Everton this week and big Duncan Ferguson’s playing so he just don’t fancy it …’ At West Ham I used to think Paolo di Canio wouldn’t play in certain games. He’d play at home and be a macho man, but I’d think ‘He won’t turn up next week ’cos it’s Everton away.’ Sometimes I was right. Sometimes I was wrong. But that was my mentality: you should be out there no matter what.

Looking back I can see the whole psychology was weird. I should have been more balanced. Injuries are part of football – everyone knows that. But I felt ashamed; I’d walk into the training ground like a
mouse
, hugging the walls and doors. I didn’t want anyone to see me; I didn’t want to have contact with anyone. To be honest, I didn’t want to go to the training ground at all. I tried to arrive when the lads had gone out for training so no one would see me. You’re embarrassed. You think: ‘The lads are all having a banter and I’m not out there …’ You don’t feel part of it. You feel lonely. You feel insecure.

Do the lads think I’m shirking?

Do they think I don’t want to play anymore?

Do they think I’ll never get back to what I was?

So you don’t want to be around them. I’d always been one of the bigger personalities in the changing room: bubbly, up for a laugh. But you become subdued. Even around the physios and sports scientists and coaches. When I wasn’t playing they’d see me
around the training ground, and they’d be a bit subdued and I’d be a bit subdued. But as soon as I got back to training, the difference was obvious first time out on the pitch. Suddenly they were loud and lively again: ‘Oh, I can tell you’re back, fucking hell!’ The difference was just immediate. When I went back into training, the lads would be laughing at me. I’d walk in and they’d take the piss and say: ‘Oh fuck, look at him!’ or ‘Rio’s alright. Rio can train today.’

I didn’t really let on to the doc, or the gaffer or anyone how much pain I was probably in ’cos I just wanted to keep playing. I thought ‘If I don’t play, the manager’s going to go and try and buy someone else.’ That didn’t help me in the long run. I thought I’d find the cure.

The lads weren’t much help. But to be honest I’m the same. When you’ve got an injury you don’t want to burden anyone else with it and you try and get back as quick as possible. When you’re playing, there’s so much going on, you’re so busy being worried about getting yourself ready for the game – physically, mentally – you’re a little bit selfish. I remember when Louis Saha was at United. He had a lot of injuries, and when I look back, he must have been feeling really shit. You’d see him every day and I remember saying to him ‘What you doing, man? How’s the injury? When you back?’ And he’d go ‘Oh I don’t know, man’ and slope off. When I look back I realise he must have been thinking ‘I don’t even want to
see
Rio because all he ever fucking does is ask me about my fucking injury.’ You think you’re being concerned and showing an interest, but he’s probably got every member of the squad saying that. Sometimes you just have to leave people to it.

There’s an old-school idea in English football that you have to play on whatever. A lot of foreign players, if they get injuries, that’s it: they shut down and down tools. We say: ‘Look at them, the
flipping pansies, they just play one game, it’s a big game we need them to play and he’s not even going to hurt himself just a little bit to play.’ But invariably these guys go on for a bit longer than us because they take themselves out of the firing line when they get a little niggle and don’t let themselves get exposed to more injuries.

We’re a bit more stupid; we think we’re ‘Braveheart’. It’s your personal pride. The gaffer says ‘Are you ready to play or not?’ When I can’t actually walk, I’ve had to say: ‘Sorry, boss, I just can’t.’ But you sit there doubting yourself; you think, ‘Did I really say that?’ You know deep down you can’t play but you’re still thinking: ‘But could I? Could I go out there and play? Oh no! I’ve let the manager down!’

You’re always playing with your own mind. ‘Am I cheating him? Am I cheating myself? Am I cheating the club?’ Really and truly, if you did play you’d be probably letting the club down and you might be out for longer which will let the club down even further.

Strangely enough, Alex Ferguson was really easy with injuries. He had such a big squad that you being injured sometimes worked in his favour. If someone got injured he could give someone else a game. Unless it was a really massive game and he thought: ‘I need him to play.’ Then he’d show his disappointment. But he’d never push you to play. He’d say ‘Just let me know. Let me know on Friday… or let me know in the morning.’ That way he could make his decision on what to do.

I was trying to mask the extent of the problem from everybody. Probably the club doctor had an idea. But the amount of tablets I was taking … I wouldn’t tell anyone how bad it really was. If I had my time again I would have just stopped and said ‘I need to find a way to solve this.’ But I didn’t see a way out. I thought: ‘I’ve got to either keep playing like this or retire because this is just too much, and I’m not going to be able to walk when I finish football.’
It was crazy. I had some really depressive moments. You think: am I ever going to play properly again? At top level? Are my kids ever going to be able to watch me play? What the hell’s going on? You don’t ask yourself once every few months or once a week – it’s continuous. When you’re driving into the training ground it’s ‘How many more times will I be doing this?’

Compounding the problem, you’ve got people in the media saying: ‘Oh he’s gone. His legs have gone … He’s injury prone.’ People in the street stop you and ask ‘When you coming back? Are you all right or what? What’s going on?’ You don’t even want to talk to anyone! Every person walking by is asking you about your injury! Actually I used that later. People doubting me, writing me off; that was my fuel, my fuel to work that extra bit harder to come back.

The other thing that really bothered me is … I can’t imagine my life without playing football. I can’t imagine giving my place up in the team or letting someone else have an opportunity to prove themselves. I was so scared of not being able to get back in the team – of not playing. I was scared of having to give up doing what I do every day and what I
love
.

Yet loads of people, hundreds of people … all they can talk about is money! People came up to me and said ‘Oh, it don’t matter ’cos you’re earning loads of money.’ It’s what people write on social media: ‘Don’t worry. What do you care? You’re earning hundreds of grands a week or whatever.’ People think that money is the route to all happiness and that it solves all the problems. But there’s more to life than earning money. OK it’s easy for me to say – I know – but once you get past a certain point with money, the only thing you’re thinking about is what you love. To be stopped from doing something you love, no matter how much money you’ve got … it’s hard to deal with that.

As it happens, I was thinking about money in a completely different way. I was thinking: if I’m injured, should they even be paying me? I really worried about it. Do I warrant getting paid this money?