Once, when Laura and I were walking home from Starbucks, we ran into Brad Friedel. I was prepared for it to be a pass-and-nod -- no greeting, only a perfunctory acknowledgment that we'd seen each other. Brad had different plans.
"I'd like to come by and talk to you about what I did," he said. He paused before adding, "You know, with regard to your work permit."
I knew exactly what he meant, of course. He was talking about his refusal to help me out with my work permit papers. I had also learned something else. The legal team at Manchester United -- the ones who had originally applied for my papers -- had already told me that Brad hadn't merely refused to sign a statement on my behalf, he had actively tried to block my transfer. He'd written to the appeals committee suggesting that I shouldn't be given a work permit at all.
I hadn't asked for an explanation, and I certainly didn't need one. But I wasn't going to stop him from dropping by.
"Sure, Brad," I said. "Anytime."
A few days later, he showed up at my door with a folder full of documents.
Laura arched her eyebrows at me. This will be interesting, she seemed to be saying. Then she disappeared; she cared for Brad about as much as I did.
Brad began to explain his own struggle getting a work permit.
Would have signed for Nottingham ...
Had to wait until '97 ...
Problems at Newcastle, too ...
Permit for Liverpool denied ...
He showed me one document after another as he spoke without a pause. I glanced at the papers and passed them back. The crux of his presentation was this: if he'd had this much trouble getting a work permit, why should he make it easy for me?
"It's a matter of principle, you see," he said.
A matter of principle? Whatever his principles might have been, I knew they were different from my own.
Besides, the simple fact was that Brad Friedel had tried to undermine the best opportunity of my career. If he'd have succeeded, it could have dealt a tremendous blow to my lifelong earnings and career ... and for what clear benefits?
I'd always be the kid from Northwood Estates watching my own mother scrimp and save. I can tell you right now: that's not something I'd do to anyone. Ever.
After an hour of show-and-tell, Brad stood up.
"Oh, and one other thing," he said. He spoke casually, as if presenting it as an afterthought, "just so you know: Manchester United was interested in me at the same time. So, obviously, there was a real conflict of interest."
I thought about the way Manchester United had signed Cristiano Ronaldo within days of that preseason friendly. I had a feeling that if Manchester United wanted the pope to play in goal for them, they'd have been able to arrange that.
"Okay," I said. I wasn't going to argue with him. I shook Brad's hand, and we parted ways.
It was amicable enough. But as far as I was concerned -- and to borrow a favorite phrase from the Brits -- the guy could sod off.