The world yesterday jolted on its axis as Owen Hargreaves passed a medical examination. The Cutter has uncovered the private notes later jotted down by the doctor involved in the baffling miracle that sadly prompted several wheelchair-bound disables to rise from their chariots and believe they can walk.
‘The patient…excuse me, the player, arrived at my office by cab and immediately complained of a tightening of the hamstrings due to the confined space during the journey. He rested his crutches against the far wall and attempted unsuccessfully to hobble unassisted to a nearby chair. Whilst on the floor, in some visible discomfort, he was heard to mutter ‘That’s another eight months out’.
I was struck by Mr Hargreaves’ unusual curly locks of hair that was styled like a Victorian schoolgirl. Later, on exiting my practice, these same locks would cause further injury to the player when a sudden gentle breeze disrupted his centre parting and a small clump of his fringe brushed against his forehead. The player suffered mild concussion and will be out of action for a matter of weeks.
After recovering from his traumatic walk across the room it was eventually possible for Mr Hargreaves to begin his medical examination.
He complained that the starchiness of the sheet that covered the treatment table would prompt irritable rashes to appear on his skin but aside from that the player was compliant and courteous throughout.
I offered him a rubber ball to squeeze to monitor his reflexes and grimaced at the loud snap of his wrist bone. Once bandaged up we resumed with the examination and this time I concentrated on his heart rate. Here he was exceptional. The boy can obviously run all day long. Or at least he could in theory.
I then asked the player to undress and detected genuine fear in his eyes. I initially assumed he was shy, a quite common occurrence in these circumstances. However, following the subsequent dislocated shoulder, groin strain, and fractured ankle from the act of taking off his t-shirt and jeans I now, in hindsight, acknowledge that it was perhaps asking too much of the poor boy.
I duly signed the player fully fit – mainly out of sympathy, partly out of still feeling the drunken effects of last night’s retirement shindig due to my ever-worsening dementia – and heartily bid the player farewell.
Once treating his burst eardrum he was on his way’.
