The phone pinged and a notification popped through.
“I didn’t want you finding out from anywhere else, but just to let you know that firstly, I’m OK,” the message began and, like any rational human being in those circumstances, my heart sank. In my experience, you don’t get random texts from mates telling you everything’s fine unless there’s a big “everything’s actually not fine” on the way, and the caveat that followed from Steve Harper was difficult to process.
I read words and phrases like “two CT scans” and “angiogram” and “hospital” and then the scariest of all, “subarachnoid haemorrhage”, and can remember thinking, “Jesus, no, this isn’t meant to happen”.
People, images, flashed into my head; Steve’s wife Lynsey and their kids, the bond our families have, our similar backgrounds, those dressing rooms we shared at Newcastle United — him a goalkeeper and me a striker — the elation of victory, the agony of defeat, rooming together, the conversations and frustrations, the drinks and meals out, the brutal banter.
And although Harps ended his message with “Colliery lads are made of strong stuff” — he grew up in Easington, a County Durham mining village — I have to be honest: my thoughts briefly turned to Gary Speed, another…
