John Hartson is set for more surgery on his lungs next
month. Photograph: Teri Pengilley
"I broke my heart in that hospital car park," John Hartson says,
his eyes shining as he remembers the moment in Swansea, last July,
when he first confronted the reality of cancer. "It was just an
ordinary day outside but in my car, on my own, I was crying my eyes
out. My doctor had sent me to hospital and they made the diagnosis.
I finally got round to phoning Sarah, my girlfriend, who's now my
wife, and told her the news. She started crying too and it was
horrendous. Something I had long suspected had suddenly come true.
I had cancer."
In a plush hotel on Park Lane in London, the cocktail music
continues to tinkle and the soft lights gleam on the deep dents
that scar Hartson's hairless scalp after extensive brain surgery.
Despite his despair last summer the former Wales international footballer
stresses that he was not shocked. "I actually knew it would be
cancer," he murmurs. "I had this feeling in my gut."
It is tempting to believe Hartson's instinct lasted just a few
weeks or, at worst, months. He shakes his head. "I had a lump on my
testicles for around four years and so I had this picture in my
head. It was of me walking into a doctor's room, or a hospital, and
them telling me exactly what I heard in Swansea. I foresaw it."
Did fear prevent Hartson from visiting a doctor for so long?
"No, it was just me being stupid, and boyish, and not mature enough
to face it. I hoped it would just disappear. But the lump got
larger."
It also spread, catastrophically, to his lungs and brain. An
hour after he heard the diagnosis of stage-four cancer, Hartson
began to suffer from "a blinding headache. It went on for days and
nothing could stop the pain. I felt so bad I asked my sister to
take me to hospital. The cancer was right on top of me then and the
next six weeks were a blur."
The breath at the back of Hartson's throat is rasping now but he
speaks quickly, and powerfully. "I had to be moved to the neurology
unit and, funnily enough, it's now in Cardiff. But last summer it
was still in Swansea and so I got lucky. It was only a 10-minute
ambulance journey. They tell me that if I'd had to travel to
Cardiff I wouldn't be here now. I had two brain operations and was
in intensive care. I got pneumonia and I apparently stopped
breathing at one stage. But they brought me back and I had pipes
and tubes coming out of me, connected to a ventilator. For a month
they were just trying to keep me alive rather than tackle the
cancer."
When Hartson was strong enough he was subjected to intense
chemotherapy. "I had 67 sessions over three months. Your body is
zapped and I lost five stone in weight. Thankfully, my
appetite came back and I've put half a stone back
since then."
As "bald as a coot", and with Sarah almost eight months
pregnant, Hartson married in secret a few weeks ago. "It was just
us with my cousin and his new wife. We got married on the same day
and we wanted to keep it secret but, in the story of my life, the
Sunday Mirror got wind of it. It's not how you want your family to
find out. But we had our reasons. The plan is to have a big bash
and renew our vows again in July. But because of the baby and all
these operations I'm facing we wanted to get married now. Someone
got a few quid for stitching us up."
Hartson has, slowly, rebuilt his ravaged life. This past weekend
he was a pundit on Football Focus for the BBC and an analyst for
ITV during Stoke City's defeat of Arsenal in the FA Cup. The Sunday
before that he was a special guest on Radio 5 live's 606 –
revealing a calm dignity that is rarely associated with a phone-in
show.
In addressing the brutal way in which cancer took hold of him
Hartson draws a stark link between his carefree but essentially
thoughtless footballing days and the ignorance that allowed his
illness to develop. Years ago, as the most expensive teenager in
British football, he played for Arsenal alongside Ian Wright. The
ginger-haired Welsh hulk, sold by Luton Town for £2.5m 15 years ago
this very month, was one of George Graham's last signings for the
club. Six months later Graham was found to have accepted a bung and
was banished from Highbury's marble halls. Hartson featured briefly
under Arsène Wenger, but he soon moved to West Ham in a team
including the young Rio Ferdinand and Frank Lampard and the more
infamous Julian Dicks. He seems to belong to that lost, less
glamorous era of football personified by Graham and Dicks.
Hartson won 51 caps for Wales but he was often derided during
fleeting stints at Wimbledon, Coventry, Norwich and West Brom. Yet
he made a significant impression at West Ham and, of course,
Celtic, where he scored more than a
hundred goals alongside Henrik Larsson. He developed a rapport with
the passionate fans of Upton Park and Parkhead and he was the
Player of the Year in Scotland in 2005.
"People just thought, 'John Hartson – that big bleeding hard nut
from Swansea.' But I let myself down," he says. "The Eyal Berkovic
incident really blighted my career. It's something I deeply
regret."
Even now, amid our consuming talk of chemotherapy and surgery,
of cancer and death, Hartson shudders at the thought of what he did
to his former team-mate at West Ham. After the talented Israeli
midfielder struck him on the leg in training, Hartson booted
Berkovic full in the face. It was a sickening sight, caught on
camera, and Hartson is still mortified.
"Eyal is a terrific fella and he made a lot of my goals at West
Ham. I get asked about it all the time, even though it happened 12
years ago. But when you do something that thuggish you rightly get
a reputation. I then joined Wimbledon and that added to the
thuggish image. But I come from a wonderful family. My parents have
been married 30 years. I have a brother in the police force, a
sister who is a hairdresser and another who is a solicitor's
secretary. I've now got a fantastic wife with three children of my
own – and a fourth due in early March. I've got a big heart. But
when you do something that vicious you carry a reputation."
Two weeks today the much more mature and generous Hartson will
endure his next operation. He tries, admirably, to remain upbeat in
describing yet another ordeal. "There is some activity on the lungs
that needs to be addressed. The first operation is the big one.
It's a six-hour op on the one lung and I'll be in hospital a week.
And then a month later they'll do the other lung and in May they'll
do the next brain surgery. There's no abnormal activity on the
brain but they need to clean out the debris.
"It's tough but I like to think I'm already over the worst. I've
had some wonderful news about the cancer. It came at what I thought
might be a horrendous meeting with my oncologist. You just don't
know what he's going to tell you. But when we went in he was
smiling. He told us that the cancer is all but gone and that the
chemo had shrunk the tumours. When we heard that, the missus and I
were crying and hugging each other in his office."
The dangers obviously remain; but the warmth people now feel
towards Hartson is evident as we leave the hotel. He is stopped in
the lobby by a polite couple who tell him earnestly how they admire
his courage. And then, down a side street, he is hailed by a London
taxi driver – an Arsenal fan who just wants to shake his hand and
hear how he is coping. "I'm doing great, mate," Hartson beams as
leans into the cab, takes the man's hand and mixes a quick medical
update with some chitchat about Arsenal's title chances.
Later, as we say goodbye, Hartson's longing to live burns
through him. "If I was 75 I wouldn't mind so much. I'd say 'take
me.' But I'm 34. My children are 10, seven and 17 months. My new
baby girl is not even born. I want to see them all grow up. And
things are good now. The work's rolling in and, while I'm going to
have to take a break for these operations, I'm getting lots of
offers. I was with the kids in the pool the other day and I
thought, 'this is what I want. I want to live.'"
Hartson clears his throat and, looking up, he acknowledges
another obvious but defining truth. "Some of us are outspoken and
do lots of stupid things. We can't all be Michael Owen. It took me
a long time but, finally, I've matured. It took a couple of
marriages, four kids and illness, but I've grown up. I've now set
up The John Hartson Foundation in the hope I can help other young
men avoid the same mistakes. Ryan Giggs and Martin Johnson are
trustees and I think we can make a difference. If I'd heard someone
like me talking four years ago I would've gone to the doctor
straight away.
"I've got a long way to go but I can face anything now. I'm not
especially religious but I believe in God. I feel he has been
looking after me. I had a great career and scored over 200 goals.
And now I'm lucky enough to still be here. You need a bit of luck
whatever you do in life – whether you're going for a job interview
or you're just crossing the street. I've had that good luck a long
time now. I just hope it continues."
