With fallout from the scandal still relatively fresh in the mind my parents had decided that it was best to get away from the country for a bit. They had enquired about a number of rehab centres in the States and eventually settled on one in Utah. Secluded and away from prying eyes it was concluded this would provide the best chance of recovery and keep me away from any potential relapses. Secluded was perhaps an understatement. The flight took nearly ten hours and before jet lag even had a chance to kick in I was hustled into a black Chevrolet 4x4 and driven out towards the rehab center.

The setting was without doubt spectacular, set amongst the northern Wasatch Range of the Rocky Mountains you couldn’t have asked for better views. After checking in with reception I was shown to my room and then left to get acquainted with what would, for the next 12 weeks be my home.

If I had any belief this was going to be like a mini holiday they were quickly put to bed on my first morning. Woken at 7am I was briefed by my councillor on what lay ahead. A 12 step programme, which involved lots of various sessions, from yoga to psychiatric evaluations…from life control to physical exercise. The idea was to take back control of my life and give me a sense of direction and purpose again. It sounded like a whole lot of cods wallop to me, let’s be frank how was I going to get my life back on track…I was a sportsman…competition and success was ingrained in me. I didn’t want some normal 9-5 life, that wasn’t me. However given my location and circumstances I had very little choice but to go along with it.

It took me two weeks to really push myself into the programme, filled with scepticism and wallowing in self-pity I tried my best to fly under the radar and just get out there. It was never going to work so I decided to do the next best thing, throw myself into it. Whilst I still found the majority of the ‘exercises’ useless I did find one which gave me a new lease of life. Part of the programme involved physical exercise ranging from running to weights, but my favourite was cycling. With the idyllic settings I would but for a brief few hours find an inner peace. At first I just rode to get away from the enclosed surroundings of the rehab center itself, but after a while I began to enjoy the physical aspect of it. My body was in shocking condition for a professional athlete but this at least tested me and made me realise just what I had been doing to myself.

Having been chauffeured back to the airport I felt optimistic about moving on with my life. Sure it still hurt that I had been stopped from doing the thing that I most loved, but I had renewed hope….the end of my football career didn’t mean the end of my life. Upon check in I was informed that my flight had been delayed, just what one needs when seeking optimism! I took the extra time I had to check my emails. Apart from the odd phone call all electronics were banned from the rehab center. It was a way to distance people from the goings on which had triggered problems in the first place. I couldn’t find fault with the idea to be honest, especially given the amount of media limelight I had endured before going into rehabilitation. I soon learnt that I had been inundated with emails, all from various people. Journalists still looking for some more juicy stories, abusive messages from fans and former team mates, nothing which I hadn’t already been sent before. Then one caught my eye, it was from FIFA and Interpol…..

As I clicked on the email my heart began to race. I hadn’t had any contact with the governing bodies since the FA’s ruling. I was expecting news and whilst I half expected it to be bad I still itched to see what they said. *click*….