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 13

BY the time the 1982-83 season came around, Jane Spruce, my girlfriend of nearly two years, had fallen pregnant. Although we had been together, off and on, since our school days, the pregnancy came as a big shock to us both. But it became a major positive in my life. The reality of bringing a child into the world gave me that extra impetus and desire to succeed.

The day we found out that she was definitely pregnant was one I’ll never forget. I was working with George – Jane’s father – helping him install central heating, while Jane was at home with her mother, Barbara, desperately awaiting the result of her pregnancy test. George was completely unaware that he was about to become a grandad and I knew he wouldn’t be pleased by the news.

With Jane’s test result due from her GP at any minute, I was terrified to go back to the house with George for dinner that night. When we arrived home, Jane still hadn’t had confirmation, so she then rang the doctor’s surgery while her mum and I stood waiting on the stairs with bated breath. George was out of earshot, in the kitchen making a cup of tea.

A few seconds later, Jane quietly put the phone down, turned to her mum and me and burst out crying. ‘It’s positive!’ she cried. Jane and I ran up the stairs together and we both shed tears of joy.

But I was also very concerned. Neither of us seemed ready to bring a baby into the world but that wasn’t the only problem on my mind. I told her I’d better go downstairs and break the news to her father but Barbara stopped me, saying it would be better coming from her.

I thought how awkward it would be going back to work with George. The next day he was working away under the floor-boards while I wondered what his reaction was going to be once his wife revealed our secret. His beloved daughter, who he idolised, was pregnant. I thought, ‘George will probably bury me under those floorboards if only he knew what I’d done to Jane!’

Barbara broke the news to her husband while I was training with Northwich Vics. When I got back to their place later that evening we all sat around the television. Jane had mentioned to me that her father had now been told of her pregnancy and I just sat there worrying and waiting for him to say something. But he never uttered a word to me that night.

The next morning, over breakfast, George asked me to pass him the sugar, before calmly adding the following ice-breaker: ‘What have I told you, son, about losing your ball control!’

It was a relief to hear his joke and he went on to explain that while he wasn’t happy about his daughter’s pregnancy, he and Barbara would help us in any way possible.

Jane wanted to be married before the baby was born, so we set our wedding date for January 14, 1983, at Prescot registry office. The financial predicament I found myself in at such a young age was the catalyst for my success as a footballer. I had a wife and a child to look after and because we were skint, every game from then on became like a cup final for me. I realised my responsibilities and wanted a better life for my wife and child. There was even more of an edge to my game now.

George and Barbara were a great help. Jane’s dad gave me his car – a Ford Cortina Mk11 – which I drove around for months before I’d even taken my driving test. I had no insurance, the car was a horrible gold colour and it was a death-trap. It would lurch violently left if you didn’t have both hands on the steering wheel. How I passed my test I’ll never know, because I’d had no driving lessons. I can only assume that the fact that my examiner was called Mike Ward did me a favour.

For all its flaws, though, George’s old banger was a big help to me. It gave me independence and meant I no longer had to rely on my mate Tony Murphy for transport.

The team started to string together good results, especially in the cup competitions. We progressed through the early rounds of the FA Cup and landed a plum draw against Chester City at their Sealand Road ground – my first competitive match against Football League opposition.

Determined to maintain Northwich’s impressive cup pedigree, we went to Chester confident and came away with a creditable draw. The evening replay at Drill Field was nearly called off – the pitch was a bog and the rain fell relentlessly throughout the game. Johnny King decided to play me up front in the replay. I was feeling much stronger and definitely a little quicker as I scored two goals in an excellent 3-1 victory.

The second goal came from a ball over the top of their defence, which I latched on to, scampering across the ploughed field before burying a shot past their keeper. As I celebrated, I saw George and Jane standing by the corner flag, looking absolutely soaked. Jane was heavily pregnant, and I immediately dedicated those two goals to her and our unborn baby.

The next day I made the headlines on the back of the national papers. It read ‘Dole Kid Ward Sinks Chester’ and Dad was so proud that I was getting recognition again after being shown the door by Everton.

Unfortunately, our run in the FA Cup ended in the next round at Scunthorpe United, where we were unlucky to lose 2-1. It was after this defeat that John King told me that a number of league clubs were interested in me. But he immediately made it clear that he wouldn’t let me go just for the sake of it. He wanted me to go to a decent club, one that would look after me and help me to progress. ‘Keep the fire in your belly, Mark, and you’ll be okay,’ he’d say.

We were still in the FA Trophy and the lads were determined to put the disappointment of the previous season’s semi-final defeat by Enfield behind them. We were due to play Kidderminster Harriers away in the first round on January 15 – the day after our wedding. Getting married the day before the game was not going to prevent me from playing, though. The way I saw it, the wedding day was an occasion for our families and friends to get drunk – I only had thoughts of playing the next day at Kidderminster.

I wish we could have been married in different circumstances. Jane was heavily pregnant by now and she looked great on the big day. I’ve never regretted marrying her – it was the right thing to do.

The evening reception went well. George, who sang under the name of Earl Preston as lead vocalist with his group, the TTs (later to become the Realms), in the early ’60s, got his old band together again and they helped to make a brilliant night of it with their medley of Beatles hits and other Merseybeat sounds. My father-in-law, George Spruce and his band were entertaining music lovers in Liverpool clubs such as The Cavern and earned a recording contract with Fontana before anyone had even heard of Lennon and McCartney. By early 1963, Earl Preston and the TTs were on the same bill as the Beatles, The Hollies, The Swinging Blue Jeans, The Dominoes and The Merseybeats.

Jane and I managed to get away early and head to the Shaftesbury Hotel in the city. We left the two families partying through the night back at George and Barbara’s – and couldn’t believe it afterwards to find out that there had been no fights!

Despite my determination to stay sober and fully focused on the cuptie, John King was adamant he would pick me up himself from the hotel on the morning of the game. It was just a short journey through the Mersey tunnel from the Wirral where he lived. Kingy had become like a father-figure to me.

The 45-minute drive to Northwich, where our team bus was waiting to take us to Kidderminster, gave us the opportunity to have a good chat. John was well educated in the ways of football and talked common sense at all times. He had played for Everton and that was something that I, too, badly wanted to achieve.

In the dressing room before the first round tie at Kidderminster I got terrible stick from the lads about having got married and being ‘under the thumb.’ But the match went brilliantly for me. I scored twice in a 3-0 victory, with my strike partner Colin Chesters notching the other goal. Although my natural position was wide right, Kingy used me as both a striker and midfielder and the two different roles certainly enhanced my overall understanding of the game.

That opening round success sparked a superb run in our quest to reach Wembley. After further victories against Croydon, Bangor City (after a second replay) and a quarter-final win against Blyth Spartans, which also required a replay, we reached the semi-final again, this time against Dagenham. We were really wound up for the home-and-away tie and desperate not to experience the bitter disappointment of missing out on a trip to the Twin Towers for the second time in a year. We just edged the first leg at home – 3-2 – and although we knew the return clash at Dagenham was going to be tough, the Vics players were determined to get to fulfil our manager’s dream of reaching ‘Treasure Island’.

Dagenham were a good side and, once again, Kingy put me up front for a game played in front of a crowd of more than 3,000. I just wanted one chance to take us to Wembley and in the second half it came my way. I pounced on a through ball played over the top of the Daggers’ defence. The pitch was hard and bobbly and as the ball bounced in front of me, it didn’t fall kindly in my stride.

I’ll admit it now, what I did next was cheating.

I used my hand to deliberately guide the ball forward into my path, before hitting an unstoppable right-foot shot that rocketed into the top corner of the net.

It wasn’t blatant – nothing as obvious as Maradona’s ‘Hand of God’ – but a few of the Dagenham players appealed and I fully expected the referee to disallow the goal. But my team-mates mobbed me, screaming ‘We’re on our way to Wembley!’ And we were. My decisive, illegitimate goal was allowed to stand.

I was 20 years old and I’d already enjoyed a great year. I‘d married my childhood sweetheart, somehow passed my driving test and I’d just found out that I’d been included in the England semi-pro squad. And, best of all, on March 30, 1983, I became a father when Jane gave birth to our beautiful daughter Melissa.

* * * *

I was determined to progress and make a full-time return to professional football, to resume where I’d left off at Everton. I just needed a manager to take a chance on me.

With money tight at home, I pressurised Northwich to increase my wage to £60 a week and I also pushed the club to help me get a job. They came up trumps. One of Vics’ directors, Alan Gleave, was sales director of the local Roberts Bakery, who were the club’s main co-sponsors.

He created a role for me at the bakery as a checker, keeping tabs on all the bread trays that left the large site at Rudheath each morning. The bakery had been losing thousands of these trays each year but I found it an easy job.

I earned £120 a week at the bakery and, added to what I was getting as a player at Northwich, life became more manageable. I enjoyed getting up early to do a day’s work and with our Wembley date looming, I became a bit of a local celebrity at the bakery.

The build-up to the big day – May 14, 1983 – was the most exciting time at the club since Vics reached the fourth round of the FA Cup in 1976-77, having beaten league sides Rochdale, Peterborough and Watford before going out to Oldham Athletic at Maine Road. We were rigged out with special suits for the grand occasion while the wives and girlfriends all got together to travel in their own bus to the game. There were constant rumours and reports linking me with Football League clubs before the end of the season – Crewe Alexandra and Scunthorpe United were mentioned in the press – but nothing distracted me from my burning ambition to be a Wembley winner.

In the tunnel before kick-off it was awesome, enough to make the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I stood there, gazing up at the famous Twin Towers and kept telling myself that I wanted to be the best player on the pitch. My moment had arrived and I didn’t intend to blow it.

Stan Storton, the Telford boss who had managed at Northwich in 1980-81, had done his homework. In the very first minute their left-back, Tony Turner, hit me hard and late with a disgraceful, over-thetop tackle that left my shin in a mess. A player would be banned sine die if he committed a tackle as violent as that today but it was clearly a deliberate ploy by Telford and Turner to put me out of the game. I cried out in anger at the realisation that I’d been reduced to a virtual passenger for the rest of the game.

I was gutted not just for myself, but for all my family and friends who had travelled south to support me. I just couldn’t compete. We ended up losing the game 2-1 and I was bitterly disappointed. So much so that when the final whistle blew, I started to walk towards the tunnel. I remember an FA official trying to drag me back, saying: ‘You can’t just walk off, you’ve got to collect your medal.’

I just ignored him and kept on walking. I honestly didn’t care about a loser’s medal. I didn’t want it.

When I reached the quiet solitude of the dressing room, I stripped off and got in one of the big individual baths to soak and mope. It seemed an age before my valiant team-mates, who had effectively played the whole game as 10 men, joined me back in the dressing room. I felt that I’d let them down.

Kenny Jones, Vic’s all-time leading appearance record-holder, the man who had been quick to stick up for me when that nutter from Barnet tried to end my career, handed me my medal as I lay in the bath. I appreciated his gesture but I didn’t want it and flung it to the other side of the dressing room.

Kenny went over to pick up my medal and handed it to me again. He said: ‘If I can accept a medal, then so can you.’

His words made me come to my senses. I had so much respect for Kenny, both as a player and as a man. He ended up playing for the club 961 times, so who was I to petulantly toss my Wembley medal away like that, as if it meant nothing?

We drowned our sorrows late into the night after our Wembley woe. It would have been a fairytale finish to a great year for me if we’d won the FA Trophy but it wasn’t the end of the world – either for me or Vics. Just 12 months later, the club returned to Wembley and after drawing 1-1 with Bangor City in the FA Trophy final, they won the replay at Stoke City’s aptly named Victoria Ground. I was absolutely delighted for the players, supporters and everybody involved with this great, little club.

I don’t have a great number of mementoes from my playing career but I do still have a copy of the Northwich Guardian’s souvenir cup final special and the club who gave me a route back into league football will always have a place in my heart.

Just before the start of the 1983-84 season I received a phone call at home. It was the call I’d been waiting for – from a legendary centre-forward who I knew all about as a former Everton and England star. He was by then a young, up and coming Football League manager and he wanted to meet up for a chat in a Liverpool pub.

His name was Joe Royle, the boss of Oldham Athletic.