How my son's illness showed me football's accessibility gaps

The National

a day ago

There are certain things you think will never happen to you, or your family. Until they do.
It was just before the Covid pandemic really took hold. The whole world, it seemed, felt uncertain, but for us, the threat of the virus was a secondary concern.
Our eldest son was eight at the time. He was football daft. He went to watch his favourite team, Motherwell, every chance he got. As I would usually be working on matchdays, he would go along to Fir Park and away from home often too with his Grandad and a squad of his pals from school. He played for the club's Community Trust team and was still dining out on recently captaining his side to a last-gasp comeback win.
He lived for it.
One day, he complained of a painful sensation down both arms that he likened to 'electric shocks'. He came running out of the bathroom one morning soon after and suddenly went down like he had been picked off by some distant, crack sniper.
(Image: Graeme McGarry) His doctor was puzzled. Growing pains, perhaps? No. Eventually, the symptoms were too severe for that. He had recently bumped his head on the pavement while playing football at his Gran's, could that be the cause? Several visits to the hospital and CT scans revealed nothing amiss.
The shocks worsened and their duration lengthened, to the point he could no longer bear the pain, nor could we bear to witness his distress. He began to lose feeling down his right arm, and was struggling to drag his right leg behind him. A first socially distanced trip to Tesco to stock up on toilet paper ended with us having to abort the mission and carry him back to the car in tears. His, less well hidden than mine.
He was admitted to Wishaw General Hospital. We spent three nights there, the only ones on an otherwise deserted ward, as his condition slowly worsened. A neurologist came to see him on the Friday and immediately instructed us to drive to Glasgow's Queen Elizabeth University Hospital for an MRI.
He walked in the front door, albeit with something of a struggle. When he would eventually leave, many months later, he would do so in a wheelchair.
At last, though, and at least, we had an answer. Jack was suffering from a Spinal Arteriovenous Malformation, an incredibly rare condition to present in children where blood vessels coil around the spinal cord and restrict communication from the brain to the rest of the body.
The surgeons could attempt to 'fix' it, or at least limit the damage, with an angiogram, but that couldn't be performed until the Tuesday due to weekend staff shortages. Still, as long as the blood vessels didn't burst in the intervening period (a million to one shot, one consultant said) then the prognosis wasn't all that bad, all things considered.
(Image: Graeme McGarry) There would be rehab, particularly for his right hand, which had all but ceased to function by this stage, but the prospect of him being unable to walk still seemed a relatively distant one. Or maybe that's just what we wanted to believe.
On the Sunday morning, the blood vessels burst. He awoke with no feeling from the neck down. The room became a blur of doctors and nurses in full PPE gear. He was whipped away for an urgent CT scan. Papers had to be signed in case they had to operate. Perhaps to his brain. In a cramped room with a small table at its centre, a box of tissues placed on top, the gravity of the situation was spelled out in no uncertain terms.
Luck, as we found, is a subjective notion. Having described the situation above, you may wonder how any parent, any child, finding themselves suddenly in the middle of it could be described as fortunate. But we were indeed lucky.
The bleed had travelled down the spinal cord, not up towards the brain. The lesser of two unimaginable evils, yes, but in such a situation, you take what you can get. This would mean an operation of at least eight hours. Further procedures. Gruelling rehab. Months, and indeed, years of uncertainty over his future. Still, there are no clear answers to how that will look.
In the immediate aftermath, we had no way of addressing the concerns on his mind, of which, there were chiefly two. Will I play football again? Will I be able to go to the football with my mates again?
Time will tell, pal. What else could be said? But in time, we were able at least to answer one of those questions.
As news of his illness spread, Motherwell reached out. An area would be reserved for him not in the disabled shelter at the far end of the Main Stand away from his friends, but in the Davie Cooper Stand, in amongst them, where he had always watched his team. As a family, we will be eternally grateful to the club, and in particular, to stadium manager Robert Park, for making this possible. I can't begin to adequately explain what that meant to him in that moment, and what it has meant since.
(Image: Graeme McGarry) Again, we were lucky. Others in similar situations may not be, though, and that is why I am telling this story here, and why Herald Sport is running this campaign on disabled facilities in Scottish stadiums today.
We want to highlight the great work that is going on in Scottish football, the admirable investment from many clubs in this area, and above all, the unsung heroes like Robert, or Alexis Dobbin at Celtic, or John Speirs at Rangers and the countless others who go above and beyond to make going to the match as inclusive an experience as possible.
However, we also want to highlight areas where improvements could be made.
As I said, and this goes for me too, it is only really when you or a loved one is thrust into such a situation that you give these issues much of a second thought. It is only now, as my son drags me to grounds up and down the country, that I can truly appreciate the hurdles that disabled football fans face just to watch their team.
Unfailingly, staff bend over backwards. But the standard of facilities is inconsistent from ground to ground, and often are far from acceptable, whether that is due to a lack of protection from the elements, poor sight lines, or inadequate toilet facilities.
In most cases, particularly at away grounds, there is no choice of where to sit. You take what you get, whether that is a shelter down the front far away from the rest of the support, or even in amongst opposition fans.
Often, disabled fans have no access to food kiosks. Helpful staff at most venues take orders and deliver refreshments to the disabled section at half time, but there is no opportunity to peruse the menu, or independently go for something to eat or drink whenever you might actually feel like it.
Even simple things like buying tickets is a more complicated process than it would be for your average fan, with online purchasing almost always unavailable. Emails have to be sent, phone calls have to be made.
Some of these issues are smaller than others, but they all add up to a feeling that disabled supporters are different, and separate from the rest of the crowd.
Hopefully, these articles will help to share best practice between clubs, highlight areas where they can improve, where they may be able to source financial help to do so, and help deliver a more inclusive experience that makes every supporter feel a part of their fanbase and their community.
We were lucky. But can we establish a standard, so that a disabled fan's experience doesn't come down to fortune, or the good grace of a club employee?
Take it from someone who sees what it means - it would absolutely be worth it.