‘Whooooooosh!”
This is the sound. He hears it once every four seconds, or 15 times every
minute, or 900 times every hour, or 21,600 times every day.
“Whooooooosh!” The sound of the ventilator. “Whooooooosh!” The oxygen being
pumped through the tube in his neck to his lungs.
“Whooooooosh!” The legacy of his England career. “Whooooooosh!” The rhythm of
his life. Two years have passed since that day in Northampton when he
marched onto the training field with the England Under21 rugby team. It was
Tuesday, March 15, 2005, and Matt Hampson, a 20-year-old tighthead prop from
Cold Overton in Leicestershire, could not have been happier. He had just
passed his driving test. He was dating a pretty girl. Life was unfolding
like a beautiful magic carpet.
He had just won his fourth cap against Italy in the Under21 Six Nations. The
team to face Scotland was about to be announced. “Crouch and hold,” was the
order as they lined up for a scrum. He remembers the call to “engage” and he
remembers the shove and he remembers the scrum collapsing, just as it had
many times before. And the next thing he remembers is . . .
“Whooooooosh!” Sometimes his body will jerk in spasm and the tube will detach
from his neck or block with gunk from his lungs and the alarm will trigger.
He hates it when it happens during the night. Imagine the fear of being
shaken from your slumber by a siren announcing your imminent mortality.
Imagine the despair of being held captive by your own body as you glance
towards the door waiting for help to arrive. He has learnt to deal with it
and to trust the team of carers that assist him daily. He is never on his
own. They are with him 24/7, as regular as . . .
“Whooooooosh!”
IT IS a Sunday morning on the A1 in Hertfordshire. We are heading for
Twickenham and the England v France game in the black Mercedes van he calls
the Matt Mobile. His father Phil is driving. His mother Anne directs. His
17-year-old brother Tom has been charged with the on-road catering. His
carer Amy Smith sits by his side. He asks her to call one of his friends in
London.
“They teach you this in hospital,” he explains. “It’s called verbal
independence — telling your carers what you need and how to do it. ‘Can you
get me a T-shirt? I’ll have the green one’, that type of thing. You’d pick
the shirt automatically. I have to give instructions . . . It’s strange.”
“And you have to learn that?” I ask. “Yes,” he replies. “You learn to
surrender your intimacy and tell the carer what to do for you?”
“Yeah, but that didn’t exactly come hard for me,” he laughs, “because I’ve
always been a lazy sod.”
Amy dials the number and puts the phone to his ear.
“Hey! What time were you up?” his friend Adam inquires.
“Seven-thirty,” Matt replies. “So you’ve had a paper.” “Yes, I’ve had a
paper,” Matt replies. “And you’ve been for your walk?” “Yes I’ve been for my
walk,” he laughs. This is how he likes to be treated: share your gossip,
tell him a dirty joke, offer to buy him a pint, treat him as he was before.
He tells me a story about the first lesson he learnt about adapting to life in
a chair. “I was really lucky,” he says. “There was this great bloke at the
hospital [Stoke Mandeville] called Jeff and about two weeks after I had come
out of intensive care he says, ‘Matt, I’m taking you out. We’ll go down to
the pub’. It was a really hot day and I was basically shaking like a
shitting dog as they wheeled me out and strapped me into this old Transit
van.
“We got to the pub and sat outside and I’m sitting there with a feeding tube
in my nose, drinking a pint of Stella that Matt Cornwell [a friend and
former teammate] has bought for me. We stayed out for a half an hour and I
was exhausted when they brought me back to the hospital, and looked really
ill. But that was a massive part of my recovery because I just thought, ‘Sod
it! Life’s too short to be worried about what people think’. And that’s the
biggest part of going out: ‘What will people think? What will I look like?’
Because people do look at you differently, there’s no hiding it, but you
have to learn to come to terms with it. I remember having lunch with Mum at
this place in Aylesbury and the waiter arrives to take our order and says,
‘And what would he like to drink?’ I said, ‘He can talk you know’.
The journey to Twickenham takes two hours. We are greeted by Dave Phillips, a
friendly Rugby Football Union official, who facilitates our arrival at the
ground. The morning is warm and pleasant. Matt decides to sit by the gate
and observe the streaming crowds. He played here once as a 14-year-old for
his club Syston in the Sanyo Cup final.
“It was a junior final,” he says. “All of the best teams in the country played
in a knockout tournament at Loughborough University and we got to the final
against Spartans at Twickenham. It was played just before a game between the
[Leicester] Tigers and the Barbarians and it was amazing. We played on the
full pitch, seven minutes each way, and won by one try.”
He always believed he would return one day and play for England and devoted
his teenage years to the dream. Three years later he won his first cap for
the Under18s. Four years later he played in the Under19 World Cup in France.
Five years later he was playing in the Under21 Six Nations. Tom Rees was the
team captain and they both had their eye on the next step of the ladder as
they accepted their England kit bags. Rees carries a new bag on his shoulder
this year. Matt carries the old one on the back of his wheelchair.
“We have all had to deal with it in different ways,” his father says, “but I
think Anne has probably dealt with it better than I have. I tend to lose the
plot and get angry and disillusioned and start looking for reasons . . . and
of course there are no reasons, it was just an accident. It would be
devastating for any father, whether he played sport or not, but he was
playing at such a high level for his country. He was on the point of making
it; life for him was at its peak and it’s suddenly taken away. It was pretty
devastating really.
“The fact that he’s so positive and strong helps me through the day but I
still get very down about it and struggle if I am perfectly honest. When I
see all of Matthew’s teammates who are now coming good; when I see other
fathers travelling with England and watching their boys play and I can’t do
that any more . . . It’s selfish, I know, but I find it very hard.”
Lunch is served in the Spirit of Rugby suite. Matt’s sister Amy and her
boyfriend Adam have joined him at the table and Rob Andrew and a host of RFU
officials drop by to say hello. Twenty minutes before kick-off, Matt steers
his chair along the ramp to his usual position behind the Royal Box, and
watches as the teams line up for the anthems. Tom is standing by his side as
Rees is introduced to the crowd.
“Did you know I played with him?” he asks his brother.
“Yes,” Tom nods. When the packs collide for the first scrum of the game Matt
is totally absorbed. The dark arts of the scrum remain an obsession. He has
started a fine weekly column with the Leicester Mercury and in his preview
on Friday he expressed reservations about the England loosehead prop, Tim
Payne. “It’s funny,” he observes, “but we look quite strong and up for it on
their ball but they seem to be disrupting us on our ball.”
After a somewhat shaky start, England gradually seize control and an
electrifying run by Shane Geraghty seals the game. Rees is named man of the
match. Toby Flood, another former teammate, has also played well. Hampson is
genuinely pleased for both of them.
“You always know when someone is going to make it,” he says. “I could have
told you five or six years ago that Tom Rees was going to be up there as one
of the leading players in England. I think he will be a superstar, and he’s
a lovely bloke as well.”
He retires to a members’ lounge with his family and allows himself one beer as
they wait for the crowds to disperse. George Chuter, the England hooker,
makes a detour to say hello. At 6.25pm they begin their retreat from the
ground. A small, boisterous crowd have gathered around the team bus outside.
A steward directs Matt’s party around the back of the bus and you wonder
about the look on his face as he crosses the empty car park.
“It’s funny, but the first time I went to Twickenham after the accident was
quite emotional for me,” he explains. “We went in the same door as the
players but instead of taking the door to the changing rooms, I was directed
towards the lift. I thought, ‘I could be going in there’. It was the same
after the match.
“The coach was waiting for the players outside and the fans were gathered
round and I thought, ‘It would be great to be getting on that coach now’.
But I’m not bitter about it, I’m very jealous, obviously, but I’m not
bitter. It would just have been nice to get on the coach with them.”
The journey home takes 4½ hours. We discuss the game and our favourite
movies and I promise to convert him to the glories of fine wine after
demolishing a cheeky pinot noir with Phil (Amy is driving). He finds it hard
to regulate his body temperature when he is tired and needs the heater on
full blast and by the time we reach Cold Overton, we are all jaded and
dripping with sweat.
“Was it worth it?” I inquire. “Wouldn’t it have been easier for you to watch
the game at home?”
“Yeah,” he replies, “but it’s not always good to take the easy option. I’ve
got to show my face — not just for me but for other people in my situation.
I’ve got to show that I’m willing to go and do things and get out there and
give myself a kick up the backside and not settle for sitting in my lounge,
slobbing out.
“I like the big occasion of going to Twickenham; I like getting dressed up and
meeting people. It’s hard work — you’ve seen what it takes for me to get
ready — but I feel it’s worthwhile. I’m not going to stay at home and become
a recluse.”
“Whooooooosh!” IT IS Monday morning and he is lying in his bed at the start of
another day. Another carer, Michelle Metcalf, has picked up the baton and
has just brought him a cup of tea. His home is a beautifully converted barn
— Phil is a builder — that adjoins his parents house in Cold Overton. Seven
months have passed since he was discharged from Stoke Mandeville and he has
been slowly rebuilding his life: coaching a team in Oakham, writing a column
and attending Leicester Tigers games.
Four framed rugby shirts and a trophy won during his last season at the club
adorn his bedroom walls. He is feeling slightly chesty this morning and asks
Michelle to replace his speaking valve.
“He doesn’t need this at night,” she laughs.
“I talk in my sleep apparently,” Matt explains.
“What does he say?” I ask. “Trade secret,” she says. “A lot of swear words
apparently,” Matt smiles.
“Normally about his brother: ‘F****** hell Tom!’” she mimics. “But I’ve heard,
‘Stop it Michelle!’ as well, and you run in and he’s still asleep.”
“Yeah, it’s funny,” Matt laughs. “I think a lot of it is an experience I’ve
had during the day and need to get off my chest . . . If I’m annoyed about
something or thinking about something.”
“It manifests itself when you are sleeping?”
“Yeah, but I think that’s quite normal. A lot of people are like that.”
Michelle leaves the room. I ask about his dreams.
“It’s funny,” he says, “but in my dreams I’m always walking, I am never in a
wheelchair. I dream that I’ve been playing; I dream all sorts of things but
I’m ably bodied; I’m never, ever in a wheelchair — it’s quite strange. Or
maybe that’s not strange. Maybe eventually I’ll get used to it and dream
that I’m in a wheelchair, but I’m not sure I will. In the back of my mind is
this thought that I will walk again; I think you’ve always got to have that
slight . . .”
“Hope?” “Yes, hope, it’s always good to have hope — even if it’s completely
unrealistic at times, you’ve got to believe that you are going to get better
because if you don’t you won’t get better. You’ve got not chance if you
don’t believe.”
“Does that mean you don’t ever get down?” I ask.
“I met this girl in hospital called Allison,” he says. “She came in with a
lump on the back of her neck and they told her it was a tumour on her spinal
chord. She had the tumour removed and was paralysed on a similar level to
me. I never saw her cry. She is probably the bravest, most inspirational
character I have ever met. She just gets on with it. How can I be negative
when I think of her?”
“You’re saying she got a worse hand?” “Yeah, I was doing something I loved and
felt passionate about. I knew the risks and that it was dangerous but of
course you think you’re invincible, don’t you? Her paralysis just happened.
It was an illness and I think that’s a lot harder to take. I’ve met people
who are a lot worse off than me. My family have been fantastic. The lads
[Leicester Tigers] have helped me so much. How can I feel bitter when they
have been so supportive?”
You absorb his reply, too stunned to respond. The sound of his ventilator
breaks the silence.
“Whooooooosh!”
- If you would like to make a donation to the Matt Hampson Trust please
visit www.matthampson.co.uk. The trust is staging Matt Hampson’s Big Thunder
on April 25, where for a donation of £500 you can join teams captained by
Leicester Tigers players past and present, including Martin Johnson, Martin
Corry and Ben Kay, and vice-captained by Leicester City legends in a day of
driving thrills at Bruntingthorpe Proving Ground. To book your place contact
Roy Jackson, the Leicester Tigers president, on 07793 381 033.
