MY LIFE, PART 35: How to tear your shoulder

Real men should have scars. Right?

Just maybe not as many scars as I have. 

Unfortunately, being a goalkeeper means anticipating injuries and wounds, some of them bloody and requiring stitches. I’m not talking about October 2006, when Reading’s Stephen Hunt kneed me hard in the head and for the next couple of days I was fighting for my life. That was an extreme case that I’ll talk about later. 

Or not?

I’m sorry, it’s still a very painful and personal memory, I’m not sure I want to talk about it yet. 

Today my face is full of scars and I don’t even find it strange. When I was still in my teens, only one injury was visible on my body: a slash above my right eye. It was the 15th minute of an U16 match between the Czech Republic and Slovakia, played in Hungary. 

The opponent is pressuring us, their striker is sprinting towards me, I jump under his feet and crack! His knee connects with my head. I manage to get the ball and expect praise, but I feel something tickling my face. 

Must be sweat, right?

Instinctively I bring my hand up to wipe my face, but my glove comes away red. I’m bleeding! There was a gaping wound above my eye. 

I have to get off the pitch! Fortunately the wound healed quickly and my eye was OK, so we can continue with the scar count. 

When I take of my shirt, I can see the scar on my right shoulder: a souvenir from Blšany, my first professional gig. It was the end of my first training session and coach Beránek sent us to run laps on the bark, which was what we called the pitch at the opposite end of the Blšany compound. It had a great advantage: a soft underlay, so that it was more comfortable for running. So we’re jogging along and suddenly all the guys in front of me were swerving to the side. I didn’t swerve. We were nearing a spreading tree, under which there was water distribution system covered with a little metal roof. 

“Why are all the guys zigzagging like this?” I thought. “Are they stupid?”

No, I was the stupid one because I just ran on. The rim of the metal roof scratched my shoulder. I continued running but noticed some red stains on my sleeve. Drip, drip, drip. More and more! Blood was streaming down my arm, soaking my shirt, oozing out. I ran to the dressing room and asked the club doctors to put a plaster on the slash so that I could go home. 

But that was a mistake. I should have gone to the hospital and have the wound stitched up, and I wouldn’t have this unnecessarily conspicuous raised scar on my shoulder today. 

I hate all my injuries. There have been so many of them, and I’m not nearly done yet! And after each injury, I only set myself one challenge, which can be summed up in a simple command: “Off to the goal again!”