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 14

OUR Billy was well into boxing and I’d work out with him and the other lads at the Whiston Higherside ABC Boxing Club in my efforts to be as fit as possible before the start of the 1983-84 season.

Their fitness regime was very gruelling and although I struggled to keep up with the others in the gym, I stuck at it because I knew it was definitely making me stronger. Billy kept himself very fit and I’d work on the pads and the bags in between some very strenuous exercises. But I’d particularly look forward to the road-run at the end of the session, knowing that none of the boxers could get near me when it came to running.

Boxing instilled discipline in Billy and, like many of the lads at the gym who also had a reputation for getting into trouble, the art of boxing no doubt helped to keep them on the straight and narrow.

Throughout our childhood we’d compete against each other. Being just over nine months older than Billy, I’d give him a head-start whenever we raced together. Dad would set Billy off from our house two minutes ahead of me. The usual course was over two and a half miles through the streets where we lived. We’d raced against each other many times and I’d always managed to reel my brother in before finishing back home.

But there was one memorable occasion when he got the better of me. I was tanking along, expecting Billy to appear in his usual place on a long stretch of road about half a mile from the finish. But, to my amazement, he was nowhere in sight. Had he gone faster than ever before or had I taken it too easy?

With so little distance left in which to catch him, I realised he’d done me for the first time. I approached our house convinced that I’d completed my fastest possible run, so how on earth had he beaten me?

Almost breathless, I entered the house and was stunned to find Billy sat with my Dad. ‘What kept you?’ my brother asked, with a smug grin on his face. Dad joined in, laughing and ribbing me for having finally lost out in a race against my brother.

I sat outside in the garden for a while feeling utterly devastated. Dad and Billy let me sulk for a good hour before admitting the truth. Just after Billy had left our street, he flagged down John Ashton, a lad we both knew who lived in the next road. He jumped into John’s work’s van and sped off, leaving me in hot pursuit of the Invisible Man.

Cruelly, they followed my progress around the streets and, with great timing, passed me in the nick of time to enable Billy to arrive back at home without having expended an ounce of effort.

I laughed when Billy owned up to his little scam and, deep down, I was happy because it confirmed that I hadn’t been beaten fairly. I’ve always hated losing at anything and any defeat would leave me feeling depressed. My tenacity and will to win at all costs was going to be a massive ingredient in my future success as a footballer.

My earnings from the bakery in Northwich and part-time football for Northwich gave Jane and I the opportunity to buy our first home. We bought a two up, two down terraced house in Cronton Road, Whiston for what now seems the paltry sum of £15,500. She soon had the house looking spick and span and we were both very proud of it.

However, events were to change dramatically for both of us two weeks before the start of the new season. I was watching Coronation Street at home with Jane and Melissa when the phone rang.

‘Hello, is that Mark?’

‘Yes,’ I answered.

‘It’s Joe Royle here, the manager of Oldham Athletic.’

My heart started pumping faster and I nearly dropped the phone. Joe went on to explain that he’d been monitoring my progress at Northwich and would like to discuss the possibility of signing me. We arranged to meet at The Baby Elephant pub in Woolton village at 6.00pm the very next day.

Feeling very elated, I gathered up my young wife and baby daughter and set off to tell our respective families about my possible life-changing phone call. We called first at Jane’s parents and then I walked the short distance to The Watchmaker to tell Dad the news. He felt ecstatic and gave me a hug before drinking a toast.

That evening I spoke to John King, who confirmed that Oldham Athletic and their young manager Joe Royle would be ideal for me. He said he felt it was the right time for me to step up to the second tier of the Football League.

I couldn’t sleep that night for thinking about my next day encounter with what could be my future manager. I’d already spoken to Roberts Bakery to agree the day off and my supervisor was very understanding and wished me all the best.

My drive to The Baby Elephant was nerve-racking. At the time I didn’t think the rendezvous at a public house between a well-known football manager and a future signing was in any way unusual, but of course it wouldn’t happen today. I made sure I arrived early and wanted to make a good impression on the former England centre-forward, who was a legend in the eyes of all Evertonians.

I bought myself a glass of Britvic orange juice and waited eagerly for Joe to arrive. The pub was very quiet at this time and seemed a good choice as a discreet meeting place – or so I thought.

The next minute, a group of six men sauntered in. I must have looked stupid, sat in a pub at 6.00 in the evening with an orange juice in front of me.

‘Hey, Wardy, what the f*** are you doing in here?’ I heard a voice shout. It was Gary Reid, a lad I knew well. He’d just finished work and was having a pint with his work-mates before heading home.

Woolton is a posh part of Liverpool and I didn’t expect to see Reidy, or anybody else who knew me, in there. Before I could explain to him why I was looking uncomfortable supervising nothing stronger than an orange juice, Big Joe walked through the door, I stood up to greet him and then sat back down with six pairs of eyes fixed on the famous former Everton number nine. Three of Reidy’s gang politely asked Joe for his autograph and he duly obliged. Reidy had obviously cottoned on to what was happening and shouted at Joe to ‘sign him on!’

Explaining why he wanted me to sign for him at Oldham Athletic, Joe immediately put me at ease. He said that he and his scouts had been looking at me for some time. There was a hitch, though. The Oldham board of directors were not happy about him wanting to sign a non-league player for as much as £9,500. With those doubts about my ability to make the grade, Joe said the wage he could offer me would be a miserly £130 a week.

He seemed embarrassed by the financial offer. At first it didn’t register with me because I was willing to sign for nothing. To play full-time professional football again had been my target ever since my release from Everton and here was Joe Royle offering me that golden opportunity.

I told him that it would mean having to take a £70 per week drop in wages to resume playing full-time. My combined earnings from the bakery and Northwich were £200 a week. A lot of players at the better non-league clubs were substantially better off if they were in full-time employment, sometimes earning far more than many full-time pros, so it was something for me to think about.

Joe guaranteed me that if – and it was a big ‘if’ – I progressed and played for the Oldham first team on a regular basis, then I could approach him for a pay rise. That was good enough for me and I told him I’d sign.

He looked pleased but, before he left, I made a statement that made him laugh. I promised him that I’d become his best player. He smiled and said he admired my confidence, shook my hand and told me he’d see me at Oldham’s Boundary Park ground the next day, when we would complete the transfer formalities.

By this time, word had got round that Joe Royle was in The Baby Elephant. I passed the growing crowd clamouring for his autograph and wondered to myself if those same Everton fans would ever wait around to get my signature one day.