Finding Life: Nick’s Story
If I could still play football myself, I would. I did actually. I played for Manchester City… God…. So many years ago I can’t even count… Had a bit of trouble with my knee, got traded down to Everton… broke my leg. Since then have had several surgeries on my left knee, a couple on my right… getting another one on my right knee sometime this year. Either way, it was career ending, and for a footballer all through primary and secondary school, that was a dream killer. Growing up in Manchester, and watching the home team – that’s Manchester City for all you foreigners… there are no Man-U fans in Manchester, they’re all shandy-drinking Londoners trying to be as fashionable as the cars they drive but the banks own – watching the home team as you grow up, and putting your whole heart into the game to one day be a part of a professional club only to be hobbled by injury is a bitter pill.
Well, I had my chance, and as God apparently willed it, I suddenly… didn’t. So I turned to coaching because, well, there’s no use trying to do anything else. Eventually I got myself a Class B coaching rating from the FA – England’s Professional Football Association. Soon after that I found myself coaching the U21 boys… well, let’s be honest and call it “Young Men’s” league in Shropshire, England. The team was FC Hodnet, and I had a fantastic legacy to uphold. Shropshire is a county somewhere between Manchester and Birmingham for those of you who are Anglicanally Challenged… and for those of you who know nothing of England… it’s somewhere in the middle, and not London.
As I coached my guts to high heaven for this team a couple years, I realized that nothing about coaching really satisfied me as much as playing used to. Sure, there was the action and the emotion of the big match, there was the adrenaline rush as I hobbled myself onto the pitch with the boys, but certainly not like it was at the Championship League level… and certainly not as it was as a player. I began to get a bit selfish, I must say, and maybe resent what I did as an unsatisfying and damned unamusing compromise to what I wanted to really do.
One day, the powers that be and the people that make a lot more money than I do, decided to merge my U21 team with my colleague Adam’s U18 team. Adam was gracious enough to stay on as an assistant coach now that I had gobs of new lads to try and wrangle. One of those lads, Adam warned me, was this up and coming midfielder named Nick. Nick Pollard, he said, had the guts to give it all when it counted, the charisma to win his way into the hearts of any of the fans he were ever to have a chance to meet, and the character that shamed I imagine everyone but maybe Jesus Christ himself. When I met Nick in the beginning of 2006, I was honestly about ready to quit the footballing business altogether. But a promise to Adam to stay on the season won out against my personal angst. I am glad it did, to say the least.
For five months, Nick trained on the squad under me. At just 19, this kid had everything Adam promised and then some. Nick was a stand up guy, a guy the others rallied around, and a hell of a footballer. Nick was the type of guy who would go down on an injury during a match, and me, I’d run out onto the pitch to see if he was alright – just to make an initial observation, believe me, I’m no doctor – and I’d say “Nick, Nick, where does it hurt, how bad is it?” and Nick would smile at me and say “Coach, I was just a bit tired, I needed a bit of a lie down.” The first time he did that, it took me a minute, but eventually, I recalled back in the time I was playing when I wished to God I could just rest for one damn minute to regain just the energy I needed to move forward. Needless to say, my amusement outweighed my concern, and I ended up laughing with the lad on the pitch. I pulled him to his feet and told him if he did that again, I’d yank him. “I know coach” he replied, and he did… he was honest with me, and I with him and we had that pact.
Nick’s leadership skills came into play many times over that five months through training drills, matches, and even as my representative for the team when the FA came calling. They wanted FC Hodnet to represent the FA in Canada for a tour in May of 2007. Nick made himself well known to the FA when he promised a grand showing for them during their trip abroad. The opportunity was one that kids like Nick lived for, and for less than selfish reasons this time, I remained on with the club to join them in their adventure, signing for another year.
In May of 2006, Nick went down hard during a match. I ran out to him, hoping he wasn’t playing one of his “tired” tricks on me. I asked him “Nick, are you alright? Where does it hurt?” and I got the oddest of answers. “My left leg coach… it’s been hurting for a while, a good couple weeks, and now it’s just too much.” I sent him home and told him he needed a real doctor to look into this, as it didn’t seem to be any injury I could diagnose, and I do have some experience with leg injury as you may remember.
The GP gave Nick some anti-inflammatory tablets, but for the rest of the spring I could see he was missing half a step – though despite that, his presence on the pitch was well maintained. Nick never complained for anything, and when his mates went down on the pitch, or had an ‘altercation’ with a referee, Nick was the first one there to control the situation, a true captain of a squad I would dare say.
The season ended with some success, but more anticipation for the next one, with the upcoming inaugural season of the “new” FC HODNET and the trip to Canada, the squad could hardly wait to reconvene in a few short weeks to start training again.
When the new season started, Nick’s brother, Dan, himself an accomplished footballer, showed up for training but Nick was strangely absent. Apparently, the pain in his leg had never bothered to heal, and he was scheduled for follow ups with a specialist instead of the GP. He had an X-Ray on September 15th that showed a shadow on his left femur. The specialists could not decide what to make of it from just the X-Ray, so they booked Nick for more tests the next week. On September 20th, Nick and his family were told that it was in fact, a tumor on his bone. On the 29th of September, he was to have a diagnosis as to whether the tumor was benign or cancerous. So, Nick being Nick, he showed up to football training on the 21st, 22nd, 23rd, etc etc up until the 28th to whip the other lads into shape from the sidelines. Nick didn’t share his condition with the others, and I followed suit, sensing Nick’s desires to keep the team focused on football. He told his mates on the pitch he had a “sore leg” and couldn’t practice. That was just like Nick, always putting himself last.
On September 29th, he was told it was cancerous. He was also told he would need an operation to remove the tumor and 8 inches of his femur. Knowing he could not resume his position on the pitch, Nick called me and told me the same thing he told his family – “"If I can't play in midfield anymore, I’ll get myself in goal!!"
Nick was in pain and on crutches for weeks after his surgery, and to add a bit more insult to this injury, the doctors decided he needed 6 five week chemotherapy sessions. The final session would end dangerously close to the Canada trip, with a high risk that he would not be in a fit state to make it.
As anyone who has been through, or seen one go through chemotherapy, it’s a medically induced winnowing of the body in an attempt to kill bad cancer cells. It’s unfortunate that the chemicals do a hell of a job killing the good cells as well. But Nick showed up. Nick came to the matches, he came to the training and the meetings. He came to the victory parties. Sometimes he came on his good days, and many times he came on his bad days. I always gave Nick my ear, as his intuition for the game was never affected by the coarse drugs running through his systems. The lads kept an ear out for his screams of adjustment and support as well. Needless to say, and hardly due to my coaching more than the clubs inspiration from Nick, we finished the season on top of the League Table.
By the time May of 2007 rolled around, Nick was doing all he could to endure his final cycle of chemotherapy. He persevered and came off his final IV a mere three days before the trip. The doctors weren’t happy about it, but Nick went to Canada after all. The tour was tremendous. Nick and the team did as promised and represented the FA in premiere fashion in Canada, beating previously unbeaten teams, and showing confidence, grace, and true sportsmanship on the pitch.
We as a club were doing well, and me, I was hopeful at the news that Nick may indeed be able to rejoin the club in an extremely limited fashion the next season, so, I re-upped again for another year.
On June 23rd, barely a month after returning from Canada, I got a call from Dan, Nick’s brother. A follow-up appointment had given the family devastating news. Another shadow had appeared and proven itself to be cancerous, and in a place that could only be treated by the removal of the young lad’s left leg.
I went home that night and went through the five stages of mourning right then and there. God seemed so willing to give this boy hope and then tear it away for no reason then to create turmoil in both he and his family’s lives.
Just to prove that point, Nick’s amputation, in all clinical terms, was a success. He even then turned 21 and had himself as good of a party a man could want, with over a hundred and a half people coming to celebrate with him. Everything started going so well for Nick, that at the beginning of the football season, I could count on him to be at my side, on his prosthetic limb, screaming at his brother and the other lads just as much as if he were the coach and I the assistant. He would laugh with me at our bungles, and still helped direct the players as the unofficial captain on the sidelines.
It all went south for Nick in October, however, as a persistent cough quickly became a lung tumor, then two tumors, then spread across everything in his chest. By the end of November, Nick’s insides had become more cancer cells than good cells. Nick’s troubles with chemotherapy the first time, along with the prognosis that his condition had a 50% chance of prolonging his life up to one year with the drugs, led him to decline the treatment.
My final memory of Nick is seeing him, connected on an oxygen tank, sitting in his mother’s car just off the pitch during our December 15th match against Prees United. The lads often looked to Nick during that match, straining their eyes to try to make out if he was giving advice or orders from the extended sidelines. They won the match 3-1. Nick lost his match to his cancer 3-2 a week later as he passed away in the night.
At that point, I was convinced that nothing anyone has ever shown me would make me feel that there is grace or mercy left in the world. If one as selfless and charming and generally good at Nick could fall the way he did, what hope was there in the world for those of us who can’t live up to that example?
Just after the new year of 2008, the funeral for Nick Pollard was held. Just after the new year of 2008, my life was changed forever. An event like no one in Shropshire had ever seen unfolded in front of me. As I drove to the church for the service, I was caught in a traffic jam. I admit, I swore a bit about the possibility of being late to a funeral service where I was a pall bearer, where I wanted nothing more than to show what support I could to the grieving family and teammates of the young man. It was soon after that I realized the traffic jam was due to the fact that everyone in it was heading the same way I was. As I weaved through the cars on the small road to the church, I felt my jaw come loose and fall open, as cars backed up nearly what seemed like miles, and people lined up outside the church, hoping to catch a murmur of the eulogies.
Over 300 people had arrived at the church that day. Over 300 people were touched by Nick’s courage. Over 300 people stood by in the January English weather to pay respects to a man they may or may not have known. And when the service had concluded, and we carried Nick’s light casket to the hearse, 300 people walked… WALKED… behind the hearse 4 miles to the cemetery. Traffic behind this procession came to a standstill, as no one dared interrupt the sanctity of what had just occurred.
300 people escorted Nick to his final resting place, mourned with his mother, wept with his teammates and colleagues, and 300 people came to that same realization that I did that day.
Nick’s life of courage, honour, humour and respect inspired people to live life to its fullest. I felt that, and I believed that all the time I knew Nick. Nick’s death inspired people… inspired me… to love life to its fullest. If a young man of 21 can touch this many people by loving life, then his legacy is cemented in the annals of history. If he can change one life through his legacy, and believe you me, he has already changed mine, then every day I live can be nothing less than a testament to every day he did.
I’m Neil Woolliscroft, coach of FC Hodnet, coach of Nick Pollard, and a better man because of it.
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