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Chapter Four: Even Further North

Signing for Sheffield United

DURING THE 1995-1996 season my great friend Adrian Heath (the ex-Everton midfielder) was appointed assistant manager at Sheffield United under Howard Kendall. One Sunday lunchtime, just as that season was coming to an end, I found myself sitting in the back of a Mercedes with Adrian, in the car park of the country pub a bunch of us used to meet up at, signing a contract.

Back in the days of Sunday opening hours, when pubs were only open from midday until about 2.30pm, they used to get completely packed. We couldn’t even find a table, let alone hear ourselves speak, so we ended up sitting in the car while we went over the contract details. That’s when I discovered that Stoke had sold me to Sheffield for half a million pounds. I couldn’t get my head around being worth that much. It was a good deal for me, my wages were going to be doubled and there were the usual bonuses associated with cup wins and league promotion.

As usual, I negotiated my own deal. Most players used to negotiate their own deals back then, sometimes with the help of a PFA rep, but times were beginning to change, with sports agents becoming more and more prevalent. The hit film Jerry Maguire, in which Tom Cruise plays the eponymous über-sports agent, helped to catapult the notion of agents into the sporting zeitgeist when it came out in cinemas early in 1997.

When I arrived at Sheffield United for the 1996-1997 season, I heard that a number of the players, including the great Scottish midfielder, Don Hutchinson, were being represented by a sports agent called Rachel Anderson. Rachel was the UK’s only female footballers’ agent, and the only woman accredited by FIFA. She approached me and I signed with her, just before she hit the headlines.

Every year, the PFA holds its annual awards dinner at the Grosvenor House hotel in London. It’s always a great event, and a chance to catch up with mates from old clubs. That particular year, I was going in a group of footballers from Sheffield and one of the lads had invited our agent, Rachel, to come along as his guest. There was nothing unusual about inviting an agent as a guest, except for the fact that all the other agents were men.

When we arrived, the PFA decided to refuse to admit Rachel on the grounds that she was a woman and it was traditionally a men-only event. The incident caused quite an uproar; the press got wind of it and Rachel got the support of then sports minister Tony Banks as well as the prime minister himself, Tony Blair. She ended up suing the PFA for discrimination. We were all on her side and it was a great victory when she won.

That annual dinner was legendary. Most of us would stay in the same hotel near Hyde Park Corner and after dinner, every year, we would go back and literally drink the bar dry. One year, the Professional Jockeys Association was having its annual dinner at the same hotel so there was double the trouble.

With hindsight, I do feel sorry for the other people who were staying there. If I arrived in a hotel with my family today and saw the place was packed out with loud, boozed-up footballers and jockeys, I think I’d walk straight out again. It makes me cringe now to think what we were like back then!

A difficult start in South Yorkshire

Adjusting to life in Sheffield was harder than I’d bargained for. Stoke had been home for seven years. Now I had to find my way in a new city, at a new club, with new teammates and new fans. I was completely out of my comfort zone. It might have been easier if there hadn’t been a huge black cloud hanging over me.

Mum was seriously ill. She’d been diagnosed with the asbestos-related disease, mesothelioma. None of us knew for sure where she had been exposed to asbestos but we began to hear of other cases afflicting some of the people who had worked in the car parts factory where she’d been for years so in the end we assumed that it must have been there.

I’d been told that mum was poorly, but I had no idea how bad it was. Or maybe I hadn’t wanted to accept how bad it was. I’m sure there was a little denial going on. I was struggling at Sheffield and I probably couldn’t handle the added stress. As an expensive new signing, I was under pressure to perform and I knew I wasn’t doing my best. Mentally, I just wasn’t there. My mind was on my mum. I also felt a bit lost without my network of friends at Stoke; the people I’d known for most of my adult life were miles away.

On the ball for Sheffield United

I knew Sheffield United was a great club and even though we had just been relegated, no one thought that we would stay down for long; there was a real buzz in the air, you could really feel the passion and the potential. It was just tough for me trying to make new friends and impress the coach with so many worries on my mind. I was 28 and separated from my family while they were going through a particularly tough time. I felt guilty not being there. I was also lonely. I was living further from home and further north than I’d ever lived, and I was discovering that the cold really does get into your bones and your brain! In the end, I went to see the manager. I felt I owed it to him, and myself, to tell him what was going on at home.

Howard Kendall was a big cigar aficionado. When you first walked into his office, you would find yourself talking to a disembodied voice for a while, until you made it through the thick clouds of cigar smoke and arrived at the desk.

I sat down and told him all about mum. He was brilliant. He told me I could take whatever time off I needed to go and visit her and be with my family. Strangely, once I got permission to go, I didn’t leave. I don’t know why. Maybe on a subconscious level I felt if I went down there I would be admitting how bad things were. If I avoided making the trip, I could convince myself that it wasn’t that serious, that mum was going to get better.

The months rolled on and, as we approached the end of the season, our chances of being promoted back to the Premiership weren’t looking good. We lost Howard Kendall to Everton and Nigel Spackman took over as player-manager.

Nigel and I had signed with Sheffield on the same day at the beginning of the season. We had done all the press conferences together. He was a great player, but there’s always a little tension amongst players when one of the team gets promoted to manager, and some dust settling had to take place in the wake of Howard’s departure. However, I liked Nigel and I was determined to get off to a good start in his first season.

Things felt more settled with mum, too. When the season had ended, I’d spent some time at home, and mum had even been up to Sheffield to visit me at the start of training. I finally felt some weight lifted off my shoulders and it looked like things were on the up.

Heartbreak

On Tuesday 12 August 1997, I was at the training ground doing some of our usual drills when I noticed a policeman walk up to one of the assistant coaches and start speaking to him. They looked over at me and I knew. I just knew it was mum. I ran over immediately.

The first thing that struck me was how old and traditional the policeman looked. This moment was going to be etched in my memory forever and I remember wishing it could have been a different looking policeman bearing the bad news. I wanted the memory of a younger man, with a kinder face, looking more compassionate. This chap was perfectly nice, but he looked severe. He was old, with grey hair and a stiff moustache. He could have come straight out of an episode of a BBC country drama set in the 1940s... a typical British bobby on the beat, cycling along a country lane, shouting at the schoolboys who were frightening the cows.

Paul had been trying in vain to get hold of me at the club and on my mobile. In a panic, he’d eventually phoned the police and asked them to try and find me. I had to get to Basingstoke immediately. Mum was in a coma.

I showered as fast as I could. I was in a complete daze. My friend David White stayed in the changing rooms with me, offering me friendly support and trying to console me. I was a mess; I couldn’t stop crying.

Then I did what every person does (but shouldn’t do) when they’re in that state of mind: I got into my car and shot down the M1, going at over 100mph all the way. I was in a state of total shock; the tears wouldn’t stop pouring down my face. I kept looking at my mobile phone, lying on the seat next to me, willing Paul to call me. I knew he would call if there was a chance I was going to make it to see her. The longer it was silent, the more afraid I became. I didn’t want to believe she was gone. I had to believe I was going to make it to say goodbye.

I made it to Basingstoke in record time. I drove through the town centre, jumping every red light I came to; it was a miracle I never got stopped. When I finally pulled up outside the hospice and jumped out of the car, I left the engine running and the door open. But Paul and Dad were waiting for me at the front door, and their faces said it all. I was too late.

She was gone.

I sank to my knees. I was sure I could feel my heart breaking in two inside my chest. I couldn’t breathe. I don’t remember exactly what happened next. It was like time stopped for a bit. I knew mum was ill, but I didn’t think she could just die without due warning. For a long time, I simply couldn’t get my head around it.

The next few weeks were a blur. I drove back and forth between Sheffield and Basingstoke, supporting my family, helping to sort mum’s affairs out, having the funeral and trying to come to terms with it all. I needed to be there for my dad, who was obviously in pieces.

There is one moment I remember quite clearly. I’d just got off the phone with Nigel, who was pressing me to tell him when I’d be getting back to Sheffield that day, when I turned on the radio. It must have been the morning of Sunday 31 August because it was the moment I first heard the news that Princess Diana had died. The first thing I thought was... now there are two angels in heaven. Somehow that helped.

Mum’s death left a huge hole in my heart and I couldn’t forgive myself for not being there when she went; it haunted me.

One day, I was driving back to Sheffield after spending a day with my dad in Basingstoke and suddenly I found I was crying so hard I had to pull over. The tears just wouldn’t stop flowing and I was shaking from head to foot. Suddenly my phone went. It was my cousin, Dawn, calling from Australia. I knew Dawn was a really successful medium in Australia, but I wasn’t sure if I believed in all of that psychic stuff.

“Hello, Lee,” she said, in her sing-song Australian twang. “It’s Dawn, your cousin, calling from Australia. Listen, love, I just got a message from your mum. She says, everything’s all right. She says everything’s going to be okay, love.” I was stunned. I thanked her and chatted for a short while. When I hung up, I felt a lot better.

I continued to drive up to Sheffield feeling strangely calm, and comforted by Dawn’s call. I kept thinking to myself, I mustn’t forget her voice. I told myself, over and over, “Don’t forget mum’s voice,” and to this day, if I want to remember mum’s voice I just have to go somewhere quiet and listen carefully. I always manage to hear her clearly. She’s calling up to my bedroom in our old house, saying, “Lee! Turn your music down!”