It’s been raining a lot recently. The parking lot and sports field are slick with mud. I feel Ruth’s arms strain behind my chair. I try to help by pushing my wheels forward but it’s not very effective. Mud sprays behind us, Ruth sounds out of breath, and we’ve barely moved. I picture Jakey pausing in his game to scan the people watching on the sidelines, trying to find our faces, masking his disappointment so his teammates don’t tease him later.

Ruth groans, but my chair doesn’t move an inch. This is pointless.

“Shit. Look, you go on, Ruth, we’re already late, shout extra loud for me. I can get myself back to the car,” I say, leaning down hard on my right wheel to turn around.

“No, no, come on, I can get you there, I just need to . . .” She pushes the sleeves of her jacket up, tries to get purchase on the slippery ground. I move about an inch. “Ruth, please, just stop. Look, what matters is that one of us is there, OK? You can come and find me at halftime. I’ll listen to the radio, have a snooze, I’ll be fine.”

She comes round in front of my chair. She’s frowning, her lips twisting around the words she’s stopping herself from saying. We’ve talked a few times about accepting things are going to be different, limited. I got Alex, my physical therapist, to have a quiet word with her, explain that sometimes it feels better to accept my limitations rather than constantly battle them. He told me later what her response was: “Are you sure you’ve met Jon?”

But this Saturday afternoon she listens to me. She nods, kisses my chilly cheek with her warm lips. Gives me the car keys and heads towards the shouts and calls from Jakey’s game.

I start to haul myself back to the car. Alex reckons in a couple of months I’ll be walking with a cane, but Alex is paid to be optimistic. The docs said I was lucky to keep my leg. As well as the leg, I broke three ribs, my pelvis, both arms, my cheekbone, and my collarbone. And that’s just what was broken, not counting the bits that were punctured and perforated. Perhaps it sounds trite, but almost dying saved me. I know what matters now. Listening matters, family meals matter, being there for my son matters.

“Jon, mate?”

A tall man strides in front of me. He’s wearing a blue hat with a yellow pom-pom, and inside his navy puffer I catch a glimpse of a wool sweater with a reindeer stitched on the front, even though it’s only December 2. He’s in his midforties, grinning like he’s got the funniest joke in the world on a loop in his head. He bends towards me, resting his hands on his thighs like he’s greeting a small dog. I can’t remember his name but I think I met him at the last match.