Mr Cleansheets. Adrian Deans

read the recommendation from our scout in Australia (Mr Warren). We would be prepared to give you a trial if you can get yourself to Manchester.Come as soon as you are ready, and bring this letter with you.

      Yours sincerely,

      John Argyle

      Youth Team Coach

      Manchester United FC

      The 15th of October was my birthday. It seemed like an omen.

      About a month later, the day I was to pay for my ticket to England, I’d finished work early and was racing through one of the local parks to get to the shopping centre at Hornsby, where the travel agent was…

      It’s hard to think about what happened next.

      I didn’t play football for a couple of years, and I could have played at the highest level in Australia. No doubts about that. But I just wanted to play with the mates who’d looked after me. We started out playin’ Premier League in the Gladesville-Hornsby comp. Then a couple of years later, the nucleus of the team had moved to Dartford Town, a small club in the lower reaches of the New South Wales State League. We won promotion most years, but we never made it out of 2nd Division into the State Super League. After a couple of years in the 2nd Division, I was the only one left of the original bunch of mates who’d all fallen by the wayside due to work, family, injury or the simple facts of time. At 30, I was part of the furniture and oblivious to the needs of Manchester United (who seemed to be doing alright without me). I just kept playing.

      Mr Cleansheets, they called me. At six foot two, I was the perfect height and build for a keeper; big enough to dominate the box, but not too big to get down quickly. Jimmy always said it was my reflexes that set me apart - that, and my ability to read the game and be in the right place at the right time. The non-goalkeeping public always think of the flashy, agile keepers when identifying their favourites. Only a goalkeeper knows that the real skill lies in anticipation, positioning and timing. The perfect performance by a keeper could, in theory, involve no diving at all. But as I’ve said before, just catching a ball does not compare with diving full length and tipping it round for a corner.

      Yeah. Manchester United.

      I didn’t even follow United, to tell the truth. I’d always divided my affections between Arsenal, Newcastle and Hibs, but United (at least in terms of revenue) were the biggest club in the world. It wouldn’t be bad to give up carrying fridges and pianos and just play football - especially if that’s what Jimmy wanted.

      I found myself staring at Shona, dimly aware that the drugs were making me stupid.

      “Shona …”

      She broke from her animated discussion with Dave, and her face changed as she remembered my plight.

      “How are you feeling, Eric?”

      “I’m gonna play for Manchester United.”

      Dave laughed out loud, but Shona turned white. She knew me better than he did.

      FOOLHARDY IN THE EXTREME

      “You have no choice, Mr Judd.”

      I waited for the doctor to smile, to show he was pulling my leg.

      “I’m sorry. Could you repeat that?”

      His expression never changed, and I suppose I should not be expecting humour when everything is so pervaded by the serious smell of disinfectant, and the distant beeping of serious machines.

      “You have no choice, Mr Judd. You have suffered significant trauma around the disks L4 and L5. The disks themselves are quite worn… almost as though you had spent your whole life carrying heavy weights or jumping about and falling over all the time.”

      “Well, my work is— ”

      “There is also,” he interrupted, “evidence of severe trauma in the past. This is not your first spinal injury, is it?”

      Shona turned to me with raised eyebrows, but I just sat there blankly. The doctor grew tired of waiting: “In any case, if we don’t do something now to shore up the damage, you risk spending the rest of your life in a wheelchair.”

      He wanted me to have the lower part of my spine fused.

      “Doc, this fusing, wouldn’t it have some sort of impact on my flexibility?”

      “Indeed it would… a very considerable impact. You would have almost no flexibility, which is exactly the point, the state we require to prevent you becoming paraplegic.”

      “But I need my flexibility. I can’t keep goal if I’m not flexible.”

      For the first time his expression changed, so he wasn’t a robot.

      “You can’t … what?”

      “Keep goal,” I finished lamely, one eye on Shona, whose sympathy was dissolving into thin-lipped impatience.

      “Keep goal?” asked the doctor. “I thought you worked as a removalist.”

      “He does,” said Shona.

      “You mean he did,” replied the doctor. “I think, Mr Judd, that you will have to find a new occupation … one which does not involve lifting, or strenuous physical activity.”

      Obviously, they weren’t getting the message.

      “I have an occupation. I keep goals. I’ve been invited to trial with Manchester United.”

      Shona’s impatience finally boiled over, and she spoke in a threatening, teeth-clenched whisper: “Eric, for God’s sake! The doctor’s being serious here.”

      “So am I,” I told her.

      There was a bit of a silence, eventually broken by the doctor.

      “Mr Judd, isn’t football a young man’s game?”

      “I’m 39, doctor. That’s not so old for a keeper.”

      “I see. And this keeping you do, does it involve much rough and tumble … contact with other players?”

      “He flings himself around like a bloody maniac,” dobbed Shona.

      “Well that settles it,” declaimed the doctor, one hand raised as though proclaiming holy writ.

      “Whether you have or refuse the operation is up to you, Mr Judd.

      However, I believe it would be foolhardy in the extreme for you to continue playing football given your back condition. Just one more knock could put you in a wheelchair for life.”

      * * *

      “What’s this?”

      Shona stared at the rectangular piece of paper I had placed in her hand.

      “It’s a cheque.”

      “Why are you giving me a cheque?”

      “It’s a deposit on a house. I know you’ve always wanted your own home.”

      “Of course I do. But what are you doing?”

      “I’m going to England.”

      The cheque was for $200,000. I was keeping the rest of Jimmy’s legacy to get myself over to Manchester. Indeed, I had already booked the flight - Qantas business class. The only thing left to be done was remove “The Letter” from the frame in which I had kept it for the last 20 years.

      Shona watched in silence as I pulled the frame off the wall and began tearing it to pieces.

      “When are you going?”

      “Tomorrow.”

      “So this is it? You’re breaking up with me?”

      It had been five weeks since the accident in the beer garden. I’d spent three days in hospital and had quickly become a laughing stock when news of my intention