Forced Retirement

"So in the end, Sheffield Wednesday didn't make it, huh..." Richard murmured, a heavy sigh escaping his lips.

He had always hoped the team would rise to the challenge, but the harsh reality hit. They couldn't compete in the top tier of English football in the end.

His disappointment was clear, but it didn't last long. Deep down, he knew that his feelings for Sheffield Wednesday weren't that deep. Playing for them often felt more like being under contract than out of sheer loyalty. Yes, it was meaningful, but in the end, if a better offer came along, he would leave.

The doctor's voice broke through his thoughts. "Lie down," he instructed gently as he checked his condition. Richard complied, lying back on the bed.

"Does it hurt here?" the doctor asked.

"No, I don't feel anything," Richard replied.

The doctor nodded to the nurse standing beside him. She nodded and scribbled something down in her notes.

"What about here?" the doctor continued, probing gently around Richard's head. "Any discomfort?"

Richard simply shook his head again. There was nothing. He truly felt fine, almost too fine. It was as if the long, unsettling period of being a wandering ghost had somehow restored him completely—his body healed, no aches, no pain. It felt almost like a fresh start, like he'd never been hurt at all.

In fact, he even thought about returning to the pitch, the idea of playing again lingering in his mind. But as soon as he asked his doctor about it, the answer came instantly: "You probably could never play football again."

A harsh verdict. But after everything, he had already spent time as something supernatural thing—what else could possibly shock him or drive him to despair?

The doctor, sensing Richard's devastation, decided to open up. "Here," he said, showing Richard the CT scan results.

Richard's eyes locked onto the CT scan, the image of his skull fractured in ways he couldn't quite comprehend. It looked almost alien—so many fractures, so many plates and screws holding him together. A part of him still couldn't quite believe it.

"Is it me?" he asked quietly.

The doctor only nodded slowly. After thinking for a moment, Richard stood up and bowed slightly to the doctor.

"Thank you for saving my life."

Dr. Mark Waller, the club doctor of Sheffield Wednesday at that time, was the one who made some big decisions that shaped his recovery.

He knew immediately that Richard had fractured his skull and that there was potential for brain damage, especially since the entire right side of his face had dropped and was paralyzed.

The ambulance driver had wanted to go to the nearest hospital, but Dr. Waller insisted they go to St. James's University Hospital—they actually drove past two other hospitals to get there.

That decision probably saved his life. If they had gone to one of the nearer hospitals, he likely would have had a scan and then been referred to St. James's, which would have wasted valuable time.

Dr. Waller simply waved his hand before continuing to check Richard's condition thoroughly. After making sure everything was in order, he nodded and said, "I think your recovery is going very well. I'm confident it won't be long before you can go home."

"Home, huh?" Richard said, feeling nostalgic at the sound of those words.

The next seven days were filled with final assessments and preparations for Richard's discharge. The doctors and nurses carefully monitored his recovery, running a series of tests and evaluations to ensure he was fit enough to leave the hospital.

The physical therapists worked with him to regain strength and mobility, and the doctors went over the results of his CT scans once more to make sure everything was as it should be. It was a slow process, but a steady one. Finally, on the last day of his stay, Dr. Waller gave him the final clearance.

"You're in great shape," Dr. Waller said, smiling as he shook Richard's hand. "You'll need some rest and recovery at home, but I have no concerns. You're good to go."

Richard smiled back, a mix of relief and exhaustion. He'd made it through. Despite everything, he was finally able to leave this damn place. Every day here had felt like forever—dull and boring.

After leaving the examination room, Richard returned to his room. There, waiting for him, were his father, mother, and older brother. But what he didn't expect, however, was to see his manager—or rather, his former manager—standing there as well.

"Richard, I'm glad to see you're alright," said Howard Wilkinson, the current manager of Sheffield Wednesday.

Richard looked at him with a complicated expression. This was the man who had given him his debut, but it was also under his leadership that Richard's football career had come to a premature halt.

Don't get him wrong, it wasn't personal. But the end of his career had come under Wilkinson's tenure, and that stung.

Shaking off the complicated thoughts swirling in his mind, Richard took a step forward and extended his hand.

"Thank you, Mr. Wilkinson," he said.

Howard, hearing the way Richard addressed him, could immediately tell the distance in Richard's eyes and also the sadness behind them.

Yes, this was indeed a farewell.

He knew Richard had been exceptional, a player destined for greatness. And yet, fate had not been kind. Football could be cruel that way. Howard had been the one to lead Richard into his career, but he was also the one who saw it cut short.

"You know this doesn't have to be goodbye, right?" Howard said, trying to offer some encouragement.

"Sheffield Wednesday's door is still open for you. In fact, I've already spoken to the higher-ups, and they're on board. If you're interested, we can offer you a potential transition to a coaching role. With your experience and ability as a player, I believe you'd be great at guiding the younger players."

Richard paused, the idea of coaching lingering in his mind. 'Transitioning to coach, huh... but after everything I've seen in the future?'

He sighed, his voice tinged with melancholy. "I've spent so many years in the hospital, and I missed out on so much with my family…"

In the end, Richard gently declined.

"Howard couldn't argue with that. He understood all too well. If Richard wasn't ready or willing to make that change, no amount of persuasion would convince him. Howard gave him a moment of silence, then nodded in understanding.

"I understand," Howard replied softly. "It's important to take time for yourself and your family. This is a big decision."

"Thank you, coach."

Hearing the familiar words, Howard finally smiled and regained his enthusiasm.

That day, Richard and his family, along with Howard Wilkinson and the club's lawyer, were gathered to discuss finalizing the terms of Richard's contract termination. Since it was a mutual termination, there was no requirement for a lawyer from the Maddox family's side.

Richard's injury clearly fell under the clause allowing termination due to a career-ending injury. With two years remaining on his contract, Sheffield Wednesday would need to provide compensation, but both parties had agreed that the Maddox family would only take 50% of the compensation package.

The club had provided all the medical care and facilities for Richard's recovery, and they had also handled all the publicity surrounding the injury and his career. The 50% was seen more as a gesture of honor to the club, or a formality for the legal process.

The Maddox family, if it were solely up to them, would have opted not to take any compensation at all. However, from a legal and public relations standpoint, it wasn't an option. The club also had to ensure the process was handled in a way that protected its image and followed legal requirements.

By the end of the meeting, both sides were satisfied with the outcome—a win-win situation.

Both parties agreed on a fair and respectful settlement, allowing Richard and his family to move on with their lives while also protecting Sheffield Wednesday from any negative publicity or legal complications.

Howard shook Richard's hand once more. "We'll always be here if you need us. Take care of yourself, Richard."

Richard nodded, grateful for the support. "Thank you, Coach. I'll always have a place in my heart for Sheffield Wednesday."

Richard's weekly wage at Sheffield Wednesday had been £90 before he signed a new contract two years ago, which was worth £120 per week and set to last for four years.

With two years remaining on his contract, Richard had earned a total of £14,042 during his football career. Including contributions and bonuses, his total savings now stood at approximately £15,000.

"Mr. Maddox and Mrs. Maddox, take care."

"Take care, Mr. Wilkinson, and Sir Montague."

After bidding farewell and watching the Ford Sierra drive away, Richard finally felt like he could breathe. He turned to his father, mother, and older brother.

"Are you okay, dear? Are you feeling dizzy? Can you walk? Are you hungry?" Before Richard could even get a word in, his mother bombarded him with questions, her worry evident in her voice.

"Yeah, if you're feeling uncomfortable, just let us know, alright?" his father added in his usual calm tone.

Bryan Maddox and Anna Maddox—Gallo, by her maiden name—were the two most important people in Richard's life.

His father worked as a forklift operator at a warehouse in King's Cross, spending his days moving heavy pallets and boxes. It was tiring work, but he never complained. His mother, Anna, was a housewife—a dedicated one. She took care of everything at home.

"I'm okay, Mom, Dad," Richard reassured them with a tired smile. "I've never felt this good before." He chuckled, trying to lighten the mood.

His older brother, Harry Maddox, stepped forward and pulled him into a hug. "That's good to hear. Just focus on resting for now, alright? Make sure you recover properly before worrying about anything else. And don't think about football."

Harry was afraid his little brother would be devastated. Football had always been Richard's life—his dream. The thought of his career ending like this was almost unbearable. 

"I already told you, I'm okay," Richard joked as he playfully pushed his older brother.

After chatting and laughing with his family, they decided to spend the night at a small hotel. The next morning, they took the first train home to Islington, London.

It is an inner-city area of North London, England, within the wider London Borough of Islington. Talking about Islington—the neighborhood where they lived—or seeing what it had become made Richard's face turn gloomy.

If he looked at it now through the eyes of himself when he was still a wandering ghost, the difference was too great. It was like comparing two entirely different worlds, and the transformation was undeniable: from shabby to chic.

The streets were unkempt, with potholes, litter, and neglected buildings. Thankfully, during the day, from morning to evening, the area was still lively, so it wasn't too dangerous to walk alone. But at night, it was better to walk with someone, as it could get dangerous.

Soon, Richard walked on and noticed the familiar sights. Despite the poverty, the neighborhood had a strong community feel, with local shops, fish-and-chip stands, and small pubs where neighbors gathered.

Living amid a seemingly never-ending construction boom, it was hard to believe how much London had changed since the 1980s, especially Islington. Once a quiet, neglected area, it had transformed into one of the most fashionable places in the capital by the 2020s.

"Still... It was like a desert—too empty, too vacant…" Richard mumbled without realizing it.

"What did you say?"

"No, nothing. Let's go."

The house they lived in was just like any other on the street—a mix of old Victorian and Georgian terraces, post-war council estates, and aging tenement-style flats.

These buildings, originally built for working-class families, featured classic details like bay windows, pitched roofs, and brick facades that had seen years of wear and tear.

When the Conservatives rose to power, they introduced the Right-to-Buy policy, which allowed council house tenants to purchase their homes at a discount.

For many families, it was a chance to own a piece of the city, and the Maddox family was no exception—they didn't want to miss out on this opportunity.

If Richard remembered correctly, his father had spent nearly £3,500 to purchase their house—almost their entire savings at the time. It forced them to tighten their belts just to get by.

The deal came with a condition though: the council retained the right to buy the house back in the future, based on its market value at the time.

'Hmm, seems like we took advantage of that policy while it was still available,' Richard thought to himself, reflecting on the decision.