Читать книгу Hammered - I Played Football for West Ham, Man City and Everton… Then the Police Came Calling and My Life Fell Apart - Mark Ward - Страница 12

AFTER being released by Everton, the 1981-82 season quickly became a reality check for me. For a start, I didn’t even have a club to play for as the new campaign loomed. Everton had promised to arrange practice matches against lower league teams, to give me the chance to impress other clubs, but nothing materialised.

The only contact I had with anyone at Goodison was from Geoff Nulty, one of the first team coaching staff and a former senior player who lived near me in Prescot. He arrived at the house one day in the summer to reassure my dad and I that he believed I had what it took to become successful. It was good to hear and gave me some much-needed encouragement at a time when I really needed it.

Then, out of the blue, a telegram arrived at the house – the first we’d ever received. It was addressed to me and I was excited as I opened it, praying for good news and the offer of a trial by a league club.

The telegram read: ‘Can you contact Tony Murphy, who is a player at Northwich Victoria FC, so he can bring you along for a trial at Drill Field, Northwich, to play against Bolton Wanderers’. Tony’s address was printed at the bottom of the message.

At first, I mistakenly thought it said ‘Norwich’, so I immediately assumed the telegram had been sent from Norwich City (who had just dropped from the first to the second division). I must admit, I felt deflated when I realised it was Northwich, a non-league club in Cheshire. Dad told me to go and knock at Tony Murphy’s house, which was just a short distance from us, to find out all I could about the Alliance Premier League side.

I hadn’t heard of Tony before our first meeting but he is still a good friend of mine to this day. We always reminisce about the first time we clapped eyes on each other. I knocked on his front door and was greeted by the most unlikely looking footballer you could imagine. My first impression of Tony, who had a big, round face and legs like tree trunks, was that he was too fat to play football! He always says that when he first saw me, he thought I was too small and looked like a young teenager.

He invited me in, I handed him the telegram I’d received from the club’s new manager, Lammie Robertson, and he read it to himself. Tony was friendly enough and told me not to be late on Saturday because he would take me to Northwich with him.

He chauffeured me to my first trial game in his Hillman Imp and it was the first time I realised how close Northwich was to Liverpool. I took an instant liking to Tony, who was 25 at the time and in his third stint with Vics after spells with Runcorn and Bangor City. He never shut up all the way there and was good entertainment.

Before leaving home that morning, Dad advised me to treat the game as a training session and, no matter what happened, I should not sign for Northwich under any circumstances.

On arrival at Drill Field I was disappointed to be told that I’d only be one of the substitutes. I watched the first half and was surprised at the quality of the Northwich lads, who were holding their own against the strong full-time pros of Bolton Wanderers. Tony Murphy played at left-back and he had a great left peg and tackled anything that moved. As expected, he was slow but he read the game amazingly well. Not many got past him – he’d take out anyone who dared to try.

There was a crowd watching and I was itching to get on and show everyone what I could do. Scotsman Lammie Robertson, who had a brief spell at Leicester City and a 400-game career with various lower league clubs, told me to warm up with 20 minutes to go. He told me to go on and enjoy myself. And I certainly did.

I felt no pressure at all and was instantly picking the ball up and flying past the opposition. We were a goal down but within minutes I made the equaliser with a dribble and a neat cross. My two previous full seasons spent training every day at Everton had seen me attain a very high standard of fitness. I scored the winner with five minutes to go and didn’t want the game to finish.

As I walked off the pitch at the final whistle, Tony put his arm round me and said: ‘Don’t sign for us, son, you’re too good’. I took his kind comments with a pinch of salt but I knew I’d done well.

I got changed and enjoyed the buzz of the dressing room, where it soon became obvious that Tony was the joker in the pack. I was asked to go and see the manager in his office before I left. Lammie came straight to the point: ‘Mark, you have done really well today,’ he told me. ‘We would like to sign you on a two-year contract.’

He went on to tell me how easy it was to drift away from football and become forgotten. Northwich could offer me £45 per week and a platform to bounce back into the Football League. I was getting £22 per week on the dole by this time and whatever possessed me to reach out for the pen and sign, I’ll never know to this day. But I’m glad I did.

Lammie looked as pleased as punch at getting my signature. It was only when Tony and I were nearing Liverpool, on our way home from the trial game, that I remembered Dad’s last words before I left the house that morning.

The Watchmaker was the nearest pub to Tony’s house and it also happened to be Dad’s local. Tony asked if I fancied a shandy as I told him my father would be in what I called his ‘second home’. He was keen to meet him, so we made our way to the bar in The Watchmaker and, sure enough, there was Dad, standing in his favourite place … drunk.

I introduced him to my new team-mate and Tony immediately went into detail about how well I’d played and told my father that he had a good footballer for a son. I was praying that Tony wasn’t going to let slip the fact that I’d actually signed for Northwich that day. I wanted to tell Dad myself later, when he’d sobered up, as I knew he’d kick off on me for ignoring his advice.

I’d just taken a sip of shandy when Tony told Dad: ‘I told him not to sign for us, he’s too good.’

‘Have you signed for Northwich?’ Dad snarled.

‘Yes,’ I replied, waiting for the inevitable eruption.

He lurched forward but I was already poised to make my escape. Dad chased me out of the bar into the street, shouting obscenities and telling me I’d ruined my career, while Tony made his diplomatic exit through the other door. Having seen Billy Ward in one of his infamous tempers, he was wise to beat a hasty retreat. Dad was drinking too much by this time. He still hadn’t got over losing Mum – he never would – and so he found salvation in the bottom of a beer glass. He could become very aggressive and unpredictable through drink.

The next day, however, he eventually came around to the fact that I’d lowered my sights to non-league level. Little did either of us know then that Northwich Victoria were going to be an excellent club to propel me back into full-time football. They were a great, little non-league outfit with a proud history. There was a warmth and friendliness running right through the club and I felt instantly at home there. The people embraced me as the Greens’ youngest player and they looked after me in every way.

Our team was a good, interesting mixture. The Vics players all had full-time jobs, so the wages they earned at Northwich was their secondary income. Kenny Jones, the captain who had been with them for 10 years, was a brickie.

His sidekick and centre-half partner was Jeff Forshaw, who worked as a joiner. They were a formidable pair of Scousers.

We had a school teacher in Philly Wilson, a building society manager in Dave Fretwell and just about every other job description you could think of. Tony Murphy worked at the Ford motor factory in Halewood.

One thing I quickly noticed was their unbelievable team spirit. It was a team that bonded on and off the pitch – in spectacular fashion. After matches, it was all about drinking and shagging! The motto of the team was: ‘Win or lose, on the booze’. And didn’t we just.

Some of the lads were on good wages and used their football earnings to fund a very enjoyable and active social life. After every game, home and away, the lads went out together in Northwich and they introduced me to drinking in a big way. We had some long away trips – to Weymouth, Enfield and other far-flung fixtures in the south – and I was regularly p****d by the time I got off the team bus back at Drill Field on a Saturday night.

Then we would continue drinking in local haunts – the Martin Kamp nightclub and the famous Cock Inn pub. Even though Northwich Victoria were only non-leaguers, the players still attracted their share of local groupies. The same women hung around us every week. And the lads would share them, especially two of the more desirable ones, named Pat and Debbie. I was gobsmacked by how flirtatious these women were. They just wanted a good shagging – and the lads never liked to disappoint them!

Kenny Jones, our inspirational skipper and defensive rock, was having an affair with a local woman known to us as ‘Louby Lou’. She would be waiting for him religiously after every game. Some of the messages she left on Kenny’s car windscreen were outrageous.

There was always fun and games after matches and there were some legendary party animals, namely strikers Colin Chesters and Paul Reid plus goalkeeper Dave Ryan.

But the team didn’t make a good start to the 1981-82 season and poor Lammie Robertson was sacked after just six matches. I was injured in a game against Barnet – who were managed by Barry Fry – just before his dismissal.

It was definitely more competitive at this level of football compared to what I’d been used to in the youth and reserve teams at Everton. I was up against strong, experienced footballers each week and getting clobbered regularly. But then I always did enjoy the physical side of the game.

The lads tried to look after me on the pitch. The nasty injury I suffered against Barnet resulted from an horrendous tackle. Their cocky midfielder had been mouthing off all through the game, telling me what he was going to do to me.

And, true to his word, he topped me and I thought he’d broken my leg. I was in agony and as I waited to be attended to by the physio, I heard Kenny Jones arguing with Barnet’s hatchet man. I wanted my revenge but the blood was pumping from my leg wound and I was forced to leave the field.

Kenny told the beefy Cockney that he was a coward. The Barnet player replied: ‘F*** off, old man.’ I heard Kenny add: ‘I’ll show you how old I am in the bar afterwards …’

I thought nothing of this spat but these careless words from the mouthy Barnet player would soon backfire on him. I was bandaged up and limped into the players’ lounge after the game to have a beer. Tony Murphy whispered in my ear. ‘Watch what Kenny does when their players come in.’

I was intrigued. The Barnet players arrived in the bar to tuck into the customary sandwiches and a quick beer before their journey back to the smoke. The cocky b*****d who had nearly finished my career was laughing and full of himself as he got the beers in. To my delight, Kenny walked up to him and calmly said: ‘I’m the old man … remember me?’

The Barnet player had a nervous look of surprise on his face and the room suddenly went deathly quiet. ‘Look mate,’ the trembling Cockney blabbered. ‘The game’s over now, let’s forget what’s been said.’

Kenny wouldn’t let it go, though. He called him a cheat and a coward, and offered him outside. It made great viewing for me. This dirty b*****d had tried to break my leg – no doubt about it – and could easily have finished my career there and then. My captain had put him on the spot and he was now cowering in front of his own team-mates. His voice started to stutter and you could see the tears welling up in his eyes as the colour drained from his face.

Kenny made his point before rejoining his Northwich team-mates, while the Barnet players left our ground very quietly, with their tails between their legs.

I’ve always maintained Kenny was one of the best I’ve ever played with. He was the Bobby Moore of non-league football – no pace but read the game impeccably.

While I was recovering from that assault by the Barnet player, our new manager had been installed. It was John King, the 43-year-old ex-Tranmere Rovers boss who had also been a young player at Everton. It was a coup for Northwich to obtain the services of a well-respected manager of his calibre.

At this time, I was still relying on Tony Murphy to ferry me to and from home matches at Northwich and training on Tuesday and Thursday evenings. But if Tony had to work nights at Ford’s, it meant I couldn’t get to training.

John King’s appointment in October 1981 brought stability to the team. After three creditable draws I was fit enough to be selected. I was named substitute for an away fixture at the mighty Altrincham. I remember warming up constantly in the second half but the new boss didn’t put me on. I was fuming and feeling very frustrated. After another draw I knew I could hold the key to us getting a win, so I had to challenge the manager and let him know how I felt.

Straight after the game I approached him and told him I should be playing. John’s words rocked me back on my heels a little: ‘I’ve heard you can play a bit, son. But how can I play somebody who can’t be bothered to turn up for training?’

He had a very valid point. I cheekily warned him that if I did get to training on that Thursday, he’d better start me on Saturday. He just said: ‘We’ll see what happens.’

Although I’d promised to attend training, I found out to my dismay that Tony Murphy was working nights that week. On Thursday evenings we trained on a floodlit shale pitch at the Guinness factory in Runcorn. I explained my problem to Dad but he just said that I had to make it to training one way or another.

So I decided to run all the way there.

I realised Runcorn was a fair way from our home, so I gave myself two hours in which to jog the full distance. It was November 5 and, therefore, not the best night of the year to be inhaling the smoky night air. I don’t know if John King honestly expected to see me at training that night, once he knew Tony Murphy wouldn’t be around to give me a lift, but I was determined not to let him down. I took it easy, jogging at a steady pace, and eventually arrived in Runcorn after one-and-three-quarter hours.

The dressing room was full when I arrived, with the manager stood in the centre. I was soaking with sweat. ‘Well done, son,’ he said. ‘How did you get here?’

‘I ran,’ I replied.

I sat down to briefly rest my legs before training started. I managed to get through the two-hour session but felt so shattered afterwards there was no way I could run all the way back home – I was spent. Much to my relief, team-mate Graham Abel was willing to go out of his way and drive me all the way home to Prescot.

When we arrived back at my place, Graham clocked the distance in his car. It was 12 miles from door-to-door.

As I got out of his Ford Capri I told him that Johnny King had better start me on Saturday, or else I’d be off to another club.

Saturday arrived and Kingy was looking for his first win. We were playing A.P. Leamington, who were bottom of the league, and I was relieved to hear that I would be starting the game. We went 1-0 down but in the second half I found the net with the equaliser and then hit an unstoppable free-kick to seal the points.

After the game, the first he’d seen me play in, the manager took me to one side with some welcome words of encouragement: ‘You did very well today. And running to training this week showed a great attitude. Don’t lose the fire in your belly and hunger to succeed,’ he said.

Kingy was well known for his quotations and he’d talk about his great admiration for the legendary boss Bill Shankly. ‘Shanks’ had favourite sayings he would use to inspire his Liverpool players to greater heights and so did Johnny King, a real character. He used to say: ‘We are starting on a long boat trip and you all need to start rowing like f***.’

If you had a bad game, he’d stick with his nautical theme, point his finger at you and say: ‘You were busy being sick over the side.’ And he’d ask certain players who were off form: ‘Have you lost your oar?’ Another great quote came as we progressed further towards the FA Trophy final at Wembley in 1983. He’d keep saying: ‘We’re not far from Treasure Island!’

He was very infectious and enthusiastic about football. I look back and realise my decision to run 12 miles to training that bonfire night in ’81 was a very important one. If I’d not bothered to jog through the dark, misty streets from Prescot to Runcorn, my football career could well have petered out or ended there and then.

In later years, after John returned to Tranmere as manager and dragged them from the foot of the fourth division to the brink of the Premier League, he used me as an example of a young lad who ran 12 miles to training … just so that he could make the team for the next game.

King became an inspiration to me. A Londoner who grew up on Merseyside, he’d joined Everton as an apprentice and played 48 times for them in the late ’50s. Like me, he was small and could therefore relate to me very easily. He encouraged me to train hard and push myself to the limit to compensate for my lack of inches. After each training session he took me aside and put me through hell with sit-ups and strength exercises, plus plenty of sprints.

His interest and confidence in me fuelled my own self-belief. Before one game he told me I was playing in the centre of midfield. His instructions were to treat the game like a boxing match. He described it as a head-to-head between me and the opposing midfield player. In the first couple of minutes, he said: ‘Suss out his strengths and weaknesses and then dominate him.’ I took this advice literally.

Kingy’s words of wisdom were so true. Within the context of any match there are individual battles to be won: Centre-half against centre-forward; full-back versus winger, etc. I adopted his simple philosophy and carried it with me all the way to the Premier League.

The principles of sheer hard graft that I learned under John King’s shrewd man-management at Northwich Victoria in the early ’80s stood me in good stead throughout my playing career.

My first season at Northwich ended in heartache. Although we moved up to finish fourth in the APL, Enfield beat us in the semi-final of the FA Trophy and I was gutted to just miss out on the chance to play at Wembley. But another opportunity to fulfil that dream would come along much sooner than expected …