1.51 - Medical Devices

51.

What do I have in common with Lionel Messi (7x Ballon D'Or winner)?

What do I have in common with Ryan Giggs (13x Premier League winner)?

What do I have in common with the American striker Jozy Altidore (2 goals in 70 Premier League games)?

We've all had a football medical.

That's right, kids. I had a medical. I underwent a medical.

Medicals are the tests clubs do with players before they sign them. You've seen the photos. You've seen Richarlison relaxing on a bed. He's covered in sensors and he's giving the camera a thumbs up. You've seen Lukaku on a treadmill and he's giving the camera a thumbs up. You've seen Neymar at his sister's birthday party and he's flicking Vs at the camera because he's a twat. That last one is nothing to do with medicals. Not sure why I even mentioned it.

(Random thought: whenever a player 'fails a medical' I always wonder if that's true or if the buying club has got cold feet and is using that as an excuse to cancel the deal.)

***

While Livia drove me to the small private clinic that Chester FC use to carry out their medicals, she asked if I was a player Jackie had recommended to Chester. No, I said. It's just that for insurance purposes you need to be a prospective employee, she said. She left that hanging. I thought through the implications. If I lied about potentially signing for Chester, that would get me some top-notch healthcare for free. Chester's insurance would cover the costs, so the club weren't losing out. It's all fun and games until someone discovers the fraud, I mused. Why would they? she said. You're the right age, the right athletic profile. Anyway, she went on. You might join us one day. Sure, I said, as a scout. That caught her interest, which I'm afraid to say filled me with a childlike urge to interest her more. She wanted to know who I was and why Jackie had brought me, but despite my burgeoning intoxication with her I was fixated on the upcoming scenario. It seemed like I'd have to sign some documents implying that Chester wanted to sign me as a player. And what would that do? Register me with FIFA? Stop me from signing with another team for 6 months? What was Jackie's game?

I voiced my doubts and Livia was utterly bewildered. Why would Jackie trick me into signing for Chester, she said, when he worked for FC United? Well, I said, Jackie is always cooking up a scheme. And she said, like what? What's the scheme? What other schemes have you found him doing? Trying to get me to become a footballer, I said. She laughed and asked if that wasn't every boy's fantasy. I nearly replied with something flirtatious but it would have been too crude.

"Where's Jackie disappeared to, anyway?"

"He's just taking care of some things and he had to repark his car away from the stadium. Sometimes he forgets he doesn't work here any more."

Doesn't work here any more. Yeah. Maybe someone should tell the Head Physio that. Dean had behaved like Jackie was Stalin, but Jackie didn't even have his own parking space. I stared out of the window and pulled at my lip. Curiouser and curiouser.

***

The next quarter hour was coldly professional. At the clinic I signed some boilerplate documents. They seemed harmless. I couldn't imagine a world where they could be used to prevent me doing whatever the fuck I wanted in life. As usual, I'd worried for nothing. A doctor took a look at my eye, then x-rayed my ankle.

"No fractures," said the doc. She was middle-aged. Brown hair, brown eyes. She had been injected with a healthy dose of the X-factor. If she'd been behind you in the queue at ASDA, you might not have thought to look twice. But in the doctor's coat you really, really got full exposure. Megabonus: slight Eastern European accent. Call me Marie Curious!

"Will I ever walk again?" I said, sort of breaking my rule on flirting with women at work. But I was actually using her to score social proof points with Livia, so I felt it didn't really count as proper flirting.

She smirked at me. "If you sign for us instead of Chester, you'll never walk alone."

"What?" That phrase! I couldn't believe my ears. Surely she should have supported FC Krakow or whatever. "You're a Liverpool fan?"

"Yeah, why not?"

"Because I've never been attracted to a Liverpool fan before."

Her mouth sort of medically flatlined - superb self-control! - but her smile shone out of her eyes even more. "Do you have any questions for me?"

Well, I still didn't know her name, which was dumb. But it was sort of too late to ask for it. And she'd obviously asked this question thousands of times before and knew when to expect some lame quip in reply. She was steeling herself for it.

Which made forming my next question even harder. This woman dealt with more footballers than most doctors in the world, so her opinion was really fascinating to me.

"I've been called a narcissist and an egomaniac many times. Can't really argue with that. If I was good at some sport I'd never shut up about it. But I do think I have a pretty clear-eyed picture of my physical gifts. Not average, but... average for a 22-year-old who doesn't binge drink or do drugs and that sort of thing. Do you know what I mean?"

She did, but couldn't predict where I was going with this. "I know what you mean."

"Livia here - a professional physiotherapist at a historic club - described me as having the right athletic profile for a footballer."

The doctor was veering towards being annoyed, now. "Yes." That was all she said.

"What do you mean, yes? Do you mean, yes, I'm listening?"

"I mean, yes you do."

I looked from woman to woman. "This is... this is confusing. What are you basing that on? It's not possible."

"Why not?" said Livia.

"How about because I haven't done any serious training for three years?"

The doctor's growing annoyance vanished. "Impossible."

"What?"

She grabbed a stethoscope and placed it on my chest. "Breathe normally," she said. She palpated bits of my body. Especially my calves. She stared at my torso. After a while, she checked her watch. She looked at Livia. "Kick off's at three, is it? Won't be much action until then. We could do a medical. As much as his injury allows. Pretty much the same cost to the club."

"Max?" said Livia. "What do you say? Want to let two nice Liverpool fans run tests on you?"

Oh. My. God.

Did she say what I thought she said?

Talk about heartbreak.

I recovered like a champion. It helped that all the machines looked really complicated and cool. And if you think failing a medical is ever going to hurt my chances of getting a phone number, you haven't been paying attention.

"Let's do it."

***

"We'd normally get you warmed up on an exercise bike," said the doctor.

"No probs," I said. "I can do that."

"The role of a doctor is to heal, not make things worse."

"I'll pedal one-footed."

"Don't be stupid." She had just eased my right foot into a fancy ankle stabiliser.

"Just help me on the bike." I actually would have loved to get a sweat on - the crutches had started doing my head in. But I didn't have a change of clothes or anywhere to shower so anything strenuous was out of the question.

I pedalled one-legged for a while, resting my mangled foot on the middle of the bike. It was just to get my blood pumping a bit.

The ladies then helped me into a Biodex machine. It's a chair with a computer attached and loads of wires and levers and shit. I love things like this! They always look like they can boil an egg, make your tea, and update you on your bond holdings. (Scottish woman's voice: Currently your portfolio is valued at... Robot voice: Zero. Dollaaaars.) In reality, they seem super complicated but only do one specific thing. The Biodex measures muscle group strength in a way that is somehow useful for sportspeople.

The ladies helped me into the chair. There were no fewer than four different seatbelts, which just added to the drama. And, to be honest, added to the sexual tension I was feeling.

Once I was strapped in, the ladies kind of ignored me and turned to look at the screen. Which was probably helpful in terms of my blood flow. I had to kick out my (healthy) leg then pull it back, repeat, repeat with more resistance, and so on. Something beeped. The doctor pressed buttons on the screen, stared at Livia, then back at the screen. Their postures seemed pretty conclusive. You don't stare at a screen like that unless you're trying to work out how to deliver bad news.

"I'm still not quite sure what this thing does or how I failed," I said.

The doctor was the alpha so it fell to her to deliver the bad news. "Typically with an isokinetic dynamometer you might find that a patient's joint torque favours eccentric or concentric muscle action. Or put even more simply, their hamstrings are weaker than their quads. Your numbers... are not only sky high but in perfect balance." She stared at the screen like the data was a male stripper wearing... I don't know... nothing but a cowboy hat and crotchless chaps. "Let me take a photo of this."

I reached out to grab her arm. She turned to stare at me. "Please don't," I said. I was starting to have a very bad feeling about this whole adventure. Jackie thought I could be a good footballer. He would skip the trial and go straight to the contract signing if it was up to him. And these medical professionals were talking like I was ready for the Olympics. What... Just what. I mean, there was one very obvious explanation, and it wasn't two years of watching classic Hong Kong kung fu movies on a sofa, sideways.

Doc slid her phone back into her pocket.

"We'll have to skip the VO2 Max test. Let's go to the orthopaedic and movement screen. What we're looking for here, Max, is the quality of your joint mobility. Obviously your right ankle is out of action, but if we're careful we'll get a good sense of your other one, plus your knees and hips. Have you ever had any injuries there?"

I closed my eyes and thought about it. "Not that I can remember."

"We grade your joints from 1 to 7. One would be something like occlusive effusion in the knee joint. Seven is perfect musculoskeletal capacity."

"And what would your score be?"

"Mine?" exclaimed the doctor. I must have been the first person ever to ask that. "6, I suppose. What do you think, Livvy?"

Livia looked sheepish. "Sorry but 6 is a stretch. You can't be more than a 5."

"Oh? Be like that. You can do this."

'This' involved Livia twisting my legs, palpating me, and generally touching me in a way that should have been extremely erotic but was way, way on the other end of the spectrum.

The women looked at each other again.

"Let me guess," I said. "Seven."

***

While Doc and Livia purred over my test results, I felt a growing unease. In their view, I was, essentially, a perfect specimen of a man. Perfect specimen of a footballer, anyway. My thoughts turned to a small park in a rough part of Manchester.

I tried to remember what I'd said when I'd been talking to Old Nick, the Polish guy who'd got into my head and messed up my tidy, orderly, boring life. Hadn't I said something about wanting to understand football the way Klopp and Guardiola did? When I'd started getting all these powers and perks it had been scary and even annoying but it had at least been consistent. They were all geared towards making me a good football manager.

Nick, it seemed, had gone above and beyond.

But wait - hadn't I also specifically said I didn't want to be a player?

Maybe he'd played fair with me. Maybe Jackie, a good player and top coach, was wrong. Maybe Doc and Livia, trained professionals who'd tested hundreds of footballers... were wrong. Even in my mind, the thought trailed off.

I blinked and realised the women were staring at me. They had baffled looks on their faces. Maybe that's because they'd given me what they thought was incredible news and I was biting my nails.

***

They say you are born with a certain number of heartbeats and when you hit that number, boom, game over. And if you ask me, it's the same with the extremely beautiful women of the world. You get 4 billion heartbeats. Most men get a maximum of 4 questions with a woman like Livia.

She drove me back to the stadium. It was quarter to three and the match was about to start. My head was swimming with all the new images and information. There was much I'd like to have discussed with her.

I stayed internal.

I tried not to look as terrified as I felt.

***

She helped me into the wheelchair and pushed me into the stadium.

"Livia," I said. "Sorry if I haven't been sparkling company."

"That's all right," she said, accidentally confirming that I'd been weird.

"Do we have doctor patient confidentiality?"

"I mean... Not the way you think. But if you're going to ask me to keep certain things private, yeah, absolutely."

"Could you... Could you come with me into a small, windowless room?"

She stopped and I turned to check her face. After a mild panic, a tiny smile appeared. "Yes, I think we can do that."

***

I was on my back, looking up at her. She brought her face close to mine. God, she was beautiful.

"How hard do you want it?" she said.

"What can other players do?" I said. "What can Jackie take?"

"How would I know?" she said, with a half-flirty, half-pissed expression.

"Approx."

She looked to the right. Her hair bounced and I briefly forgot my mission. "I don't know. I'm more on the therapeutic side. I think they expect you to do 90 kilos as a sort of base line."

I scoffed. "90 kilos? Are you insane?" I shook my head. I'd never lifted a weight in my life. Never saw the attraction of it. "Can you put, like, 40 kilos on there and I'll see if I can even budge that?"

Livia fitted two 20kg weights to my long hard rod, secured the ends, and gave me the go ahead. I gripped the metal bar and pushed. Even though I couldn't use my right foot as leverage, it was piss easy.

"Good?" she said.

"Yeah." I looked around the tiny gym. The bench press was the only thing I could really do with a dodgy ankle. I wondered what this room smelled like after a few players had spent a few hours in there. "Can you bring it up to 60?"

"60 total, yeah?"

"Yeah."

Reader, bench pressing 60 kilos was as easy as flipping a pillow on a Sunday morning.

"More?" she said. She seemed keen to see what I could achieve, and more keen for me to show off for her.

"Think I'll stop there. Don't want to aggravate my injury. Thanks a lot."

***

She wheeled me through the double doors and back into the physio room.

Still no sign of Jackie, and the sounds of the match were really picking up. It was a small stadium but they made a fair old noise. Fair play to them.

Through all the walls between me and the pitch I heard the referee blow his whistle and the crowd give a throaty roar. "I guess I'm not going to Wrexham," I mumbled.

"Why would you want to go there?" she said. "Haven't we made you feel welcome?" Very flirty vibe to this. What the F? That had come out of nowhere.

I was about to push myself along in the wheelchair, but I realised in time how stupid that would be. If I could propel myself, Livia would leave me to do her actual job. I put my hands on my lap and she grabbed the handles. "I just have a big crush on..."

"Ryan Reynolds," she said.

"No. Tom Jones."

"The singer? He's not from Wrexham."

"Oh. Then I'll stay here."

"Good choice. Jackie's texted. He wants me to take you, upstairs, and make sure you get a good view."

Oh, god...

***

We went into a lift and after a short but slow ride, emerged into a corridor. She helped me into a VIP box - like the one at Oldham but designed for scouts or media types instead of affluent fans - and said she'd have to get back to her post in case there were injuries in the game.

"Wait," I said. "What's this?"

I'd found something on the desk that was pressed against the glass that separated this booth from the plebs. It was a piece of paper with a printed template on. In the top right, the badge of Southport FC. There was a place to fill in a team's formation, plus slots where you could fill in details of the starting eleven. Under each slot were six boxes. Three had plus signs, three had minus signs. My galaxy-sized brain speculated this was where you noted a player's strengths and weaknesses. Then there was another section containing three sub-columns: Fit, re$, and Score. I had ideas of what these would mean, but they were fairly ambiguous and could have meant many things.

"I have no idea," said Livia. "I'm not sure anyone's been in here for a while. Southport... That was ages ago."

"Was it your last home match?"

She looked up and to the left. "No... No, but it was the last home league match. We played Hanley in the FA Cup. And Pontefract. I think that was after Southport."

"They're teeny tiny clubs, right? They don't have scouts. So Southport was the last team that sent a scout to a match."

She thought about it. "Possibly. Is everything okay?"

"Everything is amazing! Can you get me a pen? I want to have a go at filling this in."

She ran off, and came back with one a couple of minutes after the game had kicked off. "Thanks!" I said, and started scribbling furiously.

She said something, but when the sound made it deep enough into my consciousness to warrant a reaction, she'd already gone.

Old Nick might have changed my body against my will - citation needed. But when it came to scouting, the whole curse thing felt clean. It didn't involve me asking grown women to kick 14-year-olds. It didn't involve dampening the ardour of 30,000 fans just so I could engineer a shock October victory. So far 'scouting' had involved finding crouching tigers and hidden dragons, and there were no moral grey areas to bringing joy and hope to Ziggy, Raffi, and Kisi.

I watched the match for a couple of minutes, then started filling in the scouting report.

...

Thanks for all your support!