On the Couch / When playing at the top is doubly painful

Fans and sporting scribes alike demand an awful lot of our sporting heroes. That's fine. But they, in turn, have every right to demand that it work the other way too. Unfortunately, it doesn't always. There's an end-of-year feel to international sports at the moment, a time to look back - and forward.

A fortnight or so ago, all around Germany, fans did well by the memory of Robert Enke, the Hanover goalkeeper who took his own life by stepping in front of a train near his home. They turned out in tens of thousands to pay tribute, to show he'd conquered their hearts.

Robert Enke was 32 when he died. On the surface, he was at the peak of his professional powers, regarded as Germany's best 'keeper, a certain choice for next year's World Cup. But beneath, he was deeply troubled. His widow Teresa revealed he had suffered from depression for six years; he concealed his mental state, however, fearing it would jeopardize his career, and in terror that it might lead to their adopted baby being taken away (three years ago, their first child had died at the age of just two).

Perhaps his death had little to do with being a top athlete, with his being in the sporting limelight. But with shockwaves continuing to reverberate, a slew of questions have surfaced along the lines of whether we don't ask too much of our sports stars. It's a question which shouldn't be dodged or kept under wraps, in the same kind of silence as those who carry the illness.

"Do we ask too high a price from those who thrill and uplift us?" asked The Observer's Paul Weaver a few years ago when the great Italian cyclist Marco Pantani died of cocaine overdose. "Depression and even suicide is not uncommon in the world of sport where total dedication is insisted upon from a young age, and where real life is often put on hold.

"Pantani's career was in tatters after four years of bans and failed drugs tests, he was treated for depression and he was estranged from his family, including his father, his greatest supporter. Perhaps, though, we should own up to our contribution. We have difficulty coming to terms with the fact that athletes, who should be the epitome of health and fitness, might have something wrong with them which is more fundamental than a groin strain. We drive them ever upwards and onwards. Yet, the pressurized world which top sportsmen inhabit can make them especially vulnerable."

Weaver's remarks echoed at one of last weekend's memorial services for Robert Enke, when a German politician mused about the values that dominate attitudes to our sports heroes - do we forget they aren't only superhuman, but also human beings: "We don't need flawless robots. We need people with rough edges, with all their weaknesses and all their wonderful qualities," he said.

Cricket seems to have had many more suicides than other sports. In 1990, cricket historian and journalist David Frith published "By His Own Hand," a study of cricket suicides. In 2001 the book, with updated research, was reissued under the title "The Silence of the Heart."

"The first book related to 80 cricket suicides. By 2001 I had 150. And since that came out I have discovered a dozen new cases," Frith notes. "Cricket has this dreadful, hidden burden; It must answer the serious question of whether it gradually transforms unwary cricket-loving boys into brooding, insecure and ultimately self-destructive men."

There may be pure sports reasons for the pressure, notes Ed Smith, a recently retired top young cricketer, now a top columnist and leader writer in the British press: "How can playing sport, which ought to be a dream come true, provide so little lasting fulfillment? Why does the dream sometimes sour? Ambition is part of the story. The drive which motivates sportsmen is the same drive which leaves them perpetually dissatisfied. Having climbed one rung, sportsmen want to focus on the next heave upwards - a ladder that never ends.

"But why," he asks further, "are the pressures on today's professional sportsmen harder to bear? The obsession with accountability is surely part of the problem. Every mistake must have a paper trail that leads to the man who failed, the villain. 'Professionalism' now demands we discover exactly who is to blame whenever something goes wrong. For the goalkeeper, of course, that scrutiny is particularly lonely. There is no safety in numbers, just one solitary man. Goalkeepers carry an unusual burden of responsibility. But isn't there a danger we are making goalkeepers of everyone?"

Doctors and psychologists say a key to helping people who suffer depression is to get them to open up. That can be doubly daunting when a profession, a career, a life, depends on seeming to be strong. In a world where bravado and hyper-masculinity can mean money, fame and a high life, athletes are under constant media scrutiny; they aren't much inclined to talk about such things since it might be perceived as weakness.

Mike Atherton, a former England captain and now The Times chief cricket correspondent, once wrote, "Playing sport well is about suspending belief. You have to convince yourself that you are invincible for a while. Any sign of vulnerability is dangerous - there is always somebody ready to take your place. Any sign of weakness will be seized upon. I would have thought it would be easier to keep going in some kind of private hell, grinning to the world and playing up to the myth of invincibility that generations of sports writers encouraged, than to admit to their problems."

Athletes who are able to speak out are thus, he concludes, even more courageous than people who aren't in the limelight.

The most famous contemporary German soccer club, Bayern Munich, deserves great credit for understanding the predicament of their former midfield star Sebastian Deisler. The club ensured he was able to get help in his battle with the potentially debilitating effects of the illness. Recurrent depression may ultimately have brought Deisler's career to an end, but the awareness that he was suffering from it probably saved his life.

A month or so ago, the BBC featured a gripping half-hour interview with Marcus Trescothick, one the most high-profile contemporary sportsmen to suffer from depression - first quietly, then very publicly. The England cricketer spoke movingly of battling "the beasts of depression," a battle which "never ends," but which he's no longer afraid to fight. What helped him cope was an honest portrayal of that battle in his autobiography "Coming Back to Me," a remarkable sports book that came out last year.

A decade ago, Trescothick had been singled out as England's top future batsman. But, when he seemed at his peak, he pulled out of the Test game; he simply could not handle the constant overseas tours. The media, unaware of his torment, gave him a rough time.

Since, he has restricted himself to playing for his county Somerset, and this past season he was again one of the classiest performers during the English season. Somerset's success brought a new challenge, though; last month, it called for Trescothick to join the team for the inaugural world club championships in India. He faced up to the challenge and, unlike in the past, had his family with him. Lonely out in the middle, however, he again could not handle the pressure away from his own environment and was compelled to fly home early.

Even amid a painful wait to see whether, come May, he will be able to resume the pounding of opposition bowlers, his courageous struggle to stave off the ravages of depression has stirred admiration in sports followers everywhere.

When reviewing the Trescothick autobiography, Mike Atherton offered another hopeful story: "Shortly after I retired I heard of a county cricketer who had tried to commit suicide. I made contact and he agreed to talk but insisted on anonymity (another sign that cricket had yet to free itself from the stigma of mental illness). With his career at a second club in decline, a relationship that was on the rocks and nobody to turn to, he found himself in what he called a 'big black hole.' One day, he locked himself in his flat, filled the bath, slashed his wrists and waited for his maker. Only by an outrageous piece of good fortune - a team-mate arrived, smashed down the door and hauled him to safety - did he live to tell the tale.

"A couple of years on, I inquired about him," Atherton discloses: "He had moved abroad, is happily married and plays cricket recreationally."