Please, can someone knock me down and wake me up in 2006?
Wake up. Wake up.
Why I'm so uncomfortable? Why I can't sleep? Why there is someone coughing behind a curtain on my right? And why I'm hearing voices from distance? Someone's crying? Someone's calling for help? I'm holding what seems to be a primitive remote controller, with a single black button on it. Hey, there is a tube coming out from my hand.
I can't sleep. I can't sleep. I can't fucking sleep.
I can't move my left leg. It's way too heavy. What can I do?
Press the button. Press the button. Wanna go home. Press the button. Press the button. Click.
Morphine in my body.
Wake up again.
I'm watching the small digital clock on the television system. I'm watching it for 20 minutes, counting the seconds.
Nice way to keep my mind distracted.
Focus, focus, what the fuck happened?
Yes, football. It's tuesday night now. There is a porno magazine sitting on the pile of GQ, Maxim and Mirrors. I can't reach it, and anyway, in this condition, it won't help keeping the blood flowing. Andy came yesterday, or sunday, or today, with a book and this porno. Nice fella.
I like football. I'm good at it. I've been promoted captain and finally, after a shaky start of the season, we won on Sunday. We played the best game in the last couple of months. So why I'm not sitting in the pub or relaxing in my room with a happy grin on my face?
Well, I had a happy face, for a while. Even the guys on the ambulance asked me why I was still smiling and I wasn't crying for pain. Hey, guys, we won. And we played well. Any better way to start a sunday?
No, but do you know any worse way to finish it? Yes, I know now.
Damn, my back. Two pillows ain't enough. The plaster on my leg is heavy. Heavy. Where is the black button? Where is... click.
Well, I did. 45 more minutes. I still have my glasses on.
A tackle. Foot stuck in the ground. Someone kicks me in the calf. Foot does a nice 180° on the opposite direction. Crack. Snap. Crack.
Ok, I'm done it.
The captain falls down. The captain is dead.
I will live, but what about the football?
Memories. Manager stays with me for hours, Rob brings me some stuff to survive the hospital. Bill, Ashley, my office team. Nice guys. Many phone calls. Ian, Family.
Damn, battery low. Damn, I wish I could call Lindsey. I wish I could call my family. My sister left me 50 messages and she leaves Italy in just 1 week. I'll see her again in 2006. Too long.
Hey, I'm sleeping. Time to think about it. 2005.
Such a crap year so far.
Yes, I've been in South Africa but I got sick but I couldn't convince Lins to come back. Oh, I've been in Atlanta, and in the meanwhile the ceiling in my flat collapsed. Back to my flat after 2 weeks guested by friends.
Bye bye flat again, hello hospital. You've seen Rob before while I was exploring Africa, and now you see me. What else?
Dad phoned. Asked me to give up sports. Tomorrow I'll change my surname. I can't believe it. I'll be back.
Maybe he's right. I've always pushed myself to the maximum, cause I've never broken anything. I was the unbreakable. Now I'm a common man.
I was a superhero, now I'm fuckin Clark Kent, without Lois Lane.
How will I play once back on the football pitch? Scared? Afraid of tackles? What about kickboxing? Will I enjoy pain again? I do, I did. Maybe I will. I asked to not have any painkillers on the ambulance. You know, feel the pain, listen to the gain, be a man.
Let me feel it.
Let me feel it.
Oh, morphine. Too easy. Click. Aaah.
Nice nurse: "Mr Olgiati, do you know you are not using much morphine? If there is something wrong, just click the button. You clicked it 8 times in 2 days!"
Thanks. No pain no gain no brain.
Tonight football trainings. Kickboxing, later.
I'll be back.