Marcus Stewart dismounts his electric scooter and a few minutes later, in the corner of a restaurant a few miles outside of Bristol, he discusses how his exercise regimen has evolved. Stewart, whose left foot propelled Ipswich into Europe, has lost the use of his left hand since being diagnosed with motor neuron disease last year. “This morning I rode my cycle, but only indoors; I was on Zwift. “I’m not required to brake, so it’s pretty good,” he says with a smile.
Stewart, who grew up in south Bristol, established his reputation with Rovers before achieving success with Huddersfield, Ipswich, and Sunderland. On Saturday, he will return to the Memorial Stadium, where he previously coached, to raise funds for the Darby Rimmer Foundation, which was established after former Liverpool and Bradford defender Stephen Darby was diagnosed with MND in 2018. To date, Stewart and his wife, Louise, along with family, friends, and innumerable other supporters, have raised more than £160,000 to combat the degenerative disease.
A couple of incidents prompted Stewart to visit his physician, who ordered nerve tests.
There was the time his left hand “went all crampy” while attempting to pick up a pint, the day he had to stop doing pull-ups because he kept losing his grip, and the time he noticed his left hand and arm were noticeably thin while relaxing at home.
Stewart consulted a chiropractor in the hope that it would prevent future problems, but two or three months later, nothing had changed. “I was considering the possibility that it was a cervical or back issue… Motor Neurone Disease was not even on my radar. However, I believe it was my wife’s computer because she Googles topics. “Her name is Dr. Lou,” he says with a grin.
Then, a consultation with a neurologist was scheduled.
Stewart puffs out his cheekbones as he recalls the afternoon of January 6, 2017, when he received his diagnosis. “I phoned Lou immediately. She was crying. I was crying. I was somewhat shocked.
“When I returned home, everyone was like, ‘Fuck. How shall we proceed now? What do we do? Whom do we inform?’ You are considering the following: writing a will, selling the car, and selling the home because we now have a townhouse. How will I navigate the area in five years?” There were some difficult discussions. “I told my lads… I do not recall that. I do, but I do not wish to. I am simply living in the present.”
When confirming arrangements for this interview, one of the final messages Stewart sent was that he did not want a fuss. This partially explains why the former Premier League striker is unwilling to participate in the charity game he helped orchestrate.
Paul Scholes, Jill Scott, and The Outlaws actor Gamba Cole – “he’s a big Gashead” – are slated to claim the spotlight. Stewart dislikes the spotlight but recognizes the importance of raising awareness.
“I have to do it,” he declares. “I feel obligated to assist those who do not have a profile like mine. That is my sentiment.”
In the dugouts will be Darrell Clarke, whom he assisted at Rovers, and Paul Tisdale, his former manager at Exeter. Stewart, a coach at Yeovil who turned 50 last year, does not desire a grand entrance. “I don’t want to be the person who walks onto the pitch with the teams and exclaims, ‘Oh,'” I do not wish to do so. I will permit them to proceed. I do not want it to be my day. I wish for it to be a Darby Rimmer Foundation day. I just want everyone in the stadium to enjoy themselves. Wear any uniform you like, be it Bristol City or Manchester United.”
Stewart routinely checks in with Jason Bowen, a former Cardiff forward whom he played against while playing for Rovers and who was diagnosed with MND in February. He has become acquainted with Darby and his wife, Manchester City’s defender Steph Houghton. Stewart and his spouse have attended multiple Houghton’s City matches.
“Stephen is a tad older than I am, but he still maintains his sense of humor, as does Steph. I’d like to take him out for a beer without having to discuss or worry about what you’re going to eat, what you’re going to drink, how you’re going to get there, and everything else. Over the past year and a half, he has provided me with excellent counsel. He said, “Marcus, regardless of how it develops, you must adapt as you go.”
Adapt. This word recurs throughout an hour of candid and at times sobering conversation. His lack of control in his left-hand makes zipping and buttoning difficult. Likewise, grabbing a cup of tea and operating the TV remote can be done simultaneously. Because his index finger protrudes slightly, he cannot completely clench his left hand.
He describes the difficulty of retrieving his phone, for instance, from a horizontal surface, in this case, a coffee table.
“I must push it against something before I can proceed. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a hassle in the**. However, I must get on with it.”
Otherwise, he asserts, life is fairly ordinary. “There is a part of me that feels somewhat remorseful. Six months after receiving a diagnosis, I’m encountering a large number of patients who are in a poor state: unable to speak, having great difficulty walking, and stiffening. As of now, I have not consumed any of it. However, this could be MND for you. You pose yourself questions. ‘Why? Why me? Why am I this way?’ But I must shake it off and make the most of the situation. This is who I am and how I am handling the situation.'”
Stewart is not a person who wallows. It is for this reason that he considers himself to have a new group of comrades, with Kevin Sinfield, the England rugby coach who has raised more than £7 million for MND charities, serving as his captain and Darby as his vice-captain. Louise advised him not to watch a program with Rob Burrow, Doddie Weir, and Darby.
“I find it unsettling to observe another individual with MND. I do not wish to be transported to a dismal location. If I choose to watch that program, I will. Not for an extended period, but I will. I say this not out of disrespect for the individuals involved, but for my well-being, so I am not considering what I may be like in five, ten, fifteen, or twenty years. Whatever it may be. Two years, I have no idea.”
Stewart is extremely appreciative of the support from all of his former organizations.
As he scans through his JustGiving page, his pride is audible. His erstwhile Bristol City teammate, who is now the club’s kit man, has signed up for a skydive. Recently, Ipswich donated £10,000 from the proceeds of custom Stewart merchandise.
“I attempt to be emotionless because if I’m not, I’ll cry every 10 minutes, you know what I mean?” There are messages of support on the page, and all I can say is… I repeat to myself, ‘Don’t read them! Don’t read them!’ However, I would like to recite them aloud after the charity event so that I am aware… I must attempt to be emotionless at times; otherwise, I’d be a disaster.”
When the topic of Stewart’s membership in a local golf club arises, he engages in self-deprecation.
“I’m required to call for right because of the club, not the ball. ‘Fore! Sorry, I didn’t mean to hurl it…’ Stewart exclaims while bursting into hilarity. “I used to play off seven until about a year and a half ago. I’ve steadily declined. The forearm is about to give way. My wrists are completely weak. I’ve reached 12, and I’m rising rapidly. Rapidly. You are aware that rugby players apply tack spray to their palms. I was considering placing that on my clubs before I go out to improve my grip. I’ve just got to adapt.”
In September of last year, he received a deluge of messages, texts, and phone calls within two weeks of announcing his diagnosis. More than two thousand, he believes. There would have undoubtedly been thousands more if he had been on social media. “I choose to not be,” says Stewart. “I don’t want to get involved in arguments. All I want is an uncomplicated life: seeing my sons, seeing my wife, watching Netflix, playing golf, going to the pub on the weekend, and having a couple of beers.”
