How NOT to be a Football Millionaire - Keith Gillespie My Autobiography (10 page)

Disaster struck in a meaningless league match at Tottenham. The awkward thing about White Hart Lane was that the pitch slopes down to a path that goes around the playing area. If you were near the endline, there was always a chance of a nasty fall. I came off the bench and was chasing a nothing ball when Colin Calderwood needlessly shoved me over. My left foot landed on the edge of the slope and it turned as I slid down. I was in agony, and my first thought was Wembley.

There was a boost when nothing showed up on the x-ray machine and, considering it was three weeks until the game, the doctors reckoned I would be fine. But the pain remained. It was still there when we travelled to London on the Wednesday of cup final week, and I failed a fitness test after just two minutes when I attempted a block tackle. Any kind of contact was painful. The physios were mystified. I was devastated.

Darren Peacock was in the same boat, and we were like the invisible men for the rest of the build-up. It was hard to be around the hotel.

We pottered around the dressing room beforehand wishing everyone luck, but I struggled to put a brave face on it. The game made it worse.

A defender, Warren Barton, was moved to the right wing because we were so stretched. Arsenal won 2-0.

I sat high in the stands having a few beers with Darren, and wondered if I would get another chance to play in this arena. That old Talking Heads song from Dublin came back into my head. The title is sadly appropriate – ‘Once In A Lifetime’. My only shot at a Wembley cup final had passed me by.

14

Matter Of Trust

IT took me too long to figure out there are very few people you can trust in football.

Perhaps that came from spending the early days with clubs who were competing at the top end of the table. Ferguson and Keegan both had the power to hand out long contracts, and life for the talented younger players was relatively stress-free. It probably gave me an idealistic view of the game.

The illusion was shattered when I reported back for pre-season at Newcastle in the summer of 1998. There was a significant difference in my situation compared to before. I had just one year remaining on my contract and, instantly, the vibe towards me was different.

The club offered a four-year contract on just over £7,500 a week. Good money, but there was a number of first teamers on more than £10,000 and I didn’t want to be earning less than the lads around me. Ian was negotiating on my behalf but the Newcastle hierarchy refused to budge.

I sensed there was something going on. The Bosman ruling had changed the landscape of football transfers because the new law stated that I could just stay for the season and leave on a free at the end of it. Newcastle had to make an attractive offer to stop that scenario developing. The alternative was cashing in.

Towards the end of July, Ian rang to say that Middlesbrough had made an offer of £3.5 million and it had been accepted. Boro were managed by Bryan Robson and were offering £10,000. The combination of a good wage and the chance to work with a man I idolised sounded attractive. I spoke to Robbo and liked what I was hearing. In fact, negotiations went so well that Boro released a statement saying that the deal was done pending the completion of a medical. Ironically, Newcastle were in Middlesbrough for a pre-season tournament and Dalglish was asked about the move. I hadn’t spoken to the gaffer, and he indicated to the press that he was in the dark about developments, which I found strange.

There was one catch. I was still feeling the problem that kept me out of Wembley. It wasn’t excruciating, but I was conscious it was there as the Boro medical staff examined me. The next day, Robbo rang with shattering news. The MRI scan from my medical had revealed that I had broken my talus bone in my ankle, which transmits the body weight to the foot. I was furious that it took the work of another club to reveal the cause of my ongoing pain. It was an unusual injury, and a costly one. Robbo was apologetic. “I’m sorry Keith, but we can’t risk signing an injured player for that amount of money.”

I called Dalglish to tell him the bad news. “That’s not bad news to me,” he said, “you’re still in my plans.” That gave me a certain piece of mind, but the calm was disturbed two days later when the back page of the Newcastle Evening Chronicle splashed with the revelation that my career was in doubt. Nobody had thought about telling me, and I was straight on the phone to the medical staff. They seemed confused by the story, and called me down to the club to allay any fears. A meeting was organised with a specialist who said that while it was a complicated bone to break, the healing process would be relatively straightforward for a healthy 23-year-old.

I was suspicious as none of this information tallied with the Chronicle story. Soon, it all made sense. With the Middlesbrough deal collapsing my contract situation was an issue again, and Freddie Fletcher and Freddy Shepherd contacted Ian with drastically revised terms. They had reduced the offer to a one-year deal, citing the Chronicle story as evidence that I should be grateful for the guaranteed wage, given the question marks over my future. Ian spoke to a contact at the Chronicle who tipped him off that the info for the story had come from Fletcher. I was raging. Not only was it an attempt to trick me into signing a bum deal; it was also a story that would scare away prospective buyers.

I wanted Fletcher to know I was onto him and didn’t have to wait too long. He arrived in the car park with Shepherd as I was getting treated in the physio room so I made my way towards the entrance so they’d have to walk past. I greeted Shepherd, and then Fletcher held out his hand. “Fuck off,” I said. He said nothing in response and must have known why I was angry because Shepherd, who was now club chairman, called me in for a meeting to apologise on Fletcher’s behalf. The coward couldn’t face doing it himself.

That episode hastened my departure from the club. I was fine with Dalglish, but he was no longer making the decisions. The writing was on the wall when players were effectively being sold behind his back. Two games into the season, he was gone.

The board had another big name in mind, and Ruud Gullit rolled in the door, the man I was privileged to share a pitch with two years previously. It was an exciting appointment. A Dutch legend preaching a message of sexy football was just what the Newcastle crowd missing the excitement of the Keegan years wanted to hear.

I was still on the recovery trail when Liverpool thrashed us 4-1 in his first match in charge but, by coincidence, I bumped into him in a restaurant in town that night. He asked me into the corridor for a word, and spoke about his plans for a 4-4-2 formation with two out and out wingers. It sounded promising, but it was bullshit. When I was fit again, the bench beckoned, and Gullit suddenly wasn’t in the mood to talk any more. His team weren’t exactly playing sexy football either.

He was the classic case of a manager living off the reputation of his playing days. It was difficult to warm to Ruud because of his arrogance. On a good day, he would strut around the place like he was responsible, yet when the team got into trouble he seemed unable to react. There was no shouting or roaring. He just didn’t have the ability to grasp why players would make the kind of mistakes that he never did in his pomp. Without that understanding, he was a terrible motivator. He rarely spoke to us individually and, when he did, it seemed as though he was looking through you. Keegan made you want to play for him. Gullit struggled to inspire anybody, and seemed happier alienating people, even if it was a key player like Shearer, which ultimately cost him his job.

His number two, Steve Clarke, was a dour character. The longest conversation I had with Steve was in December when he called to say that a bid from Blackburn was accepted. I’d played a bit in the previous month despite persistent speculation about my future with the contract running out. I was linked with Everton as part of the deal which brought Duncan Ferguson to the club, but nothing came of that and I actually put in the cross for one of his debut goals against Wimbledon. I broke my toe in a 2-2 draw at Middlesbrough at the beginning of December, and that was the end of my Newcastle career.

Blackburn’s interest was unsurprising. Brian Kidd had taken over as manager, and Gaz Neville rang to say they would be making an approach. Newcastle were happy with a fee of £2.3 million, and I was satisfied with a four-and-a-half-year deal worth £11,000 a week in the first year – rising to £14,000 in my final 12 months. A signing on fee of £850,000 broken into five instalments was an additional sweetener.

Moving was a no-brainer. Newcastle will always be close to my heart, but the messing around with the contract taught me a lesson about loyalty. I had to be selfish and look after number one.

My learning curve didn’t stop there. I say that I had to look after number one, but footballers rarely do the actual minding. Agents do. Ian handled my tax, insurance and all the other bills. He also became the first person to steer me towards some investments. I liked Ian’s company, and thought we were mates.

Agents make their money from transfers. My arrangement with Ian was that he would get two per cent of the value of my contract, which was roughly £75,000 when the various elements of the Blackburn deal were calculated. I would have paid it too until I studied the first payslip from my new employers. It detailed transactions arising from my move and one line jumped off the page. ‘Fee paid to agent: £100,000.’ I was liable for the tax on the figure, because the statement implied they had paid the £100,000 on my behalf.

I waited to see if Ian would mention it. But he said nothing, and billed me separately for his £75,000. I couldn’t be sure about what had happened, but it didn’t look good. I was staggered, especially as the move had nothing to do with his legwork. It was me who notified him of their interest after the chat with Gaz. All Ian did was drive down and iron out the terms. For his troubles, he had appeared to collect £100,000 from the club, and now he wanted another £75,000 from me.

I deliberated over my next move. I felt that I couldn’t trust him any longer, but I had to decide how to go about it. A confrontation didn’t appeal to me so, instead, I rang to say that I would be coming to Whickham to collect any documentation in my name, making the excuse that I wanted all my papers in Lancashire in case something cropped up at short notice. A week later, I made the trip, kept the small talk to a minimum, got what I needed, and never spoke to him again.

It turned out to be a lucky break, for otherwise I might never have encountered Phil Munnelly. I was looking for a replacement agent and Darren Peacock – who had moved from Newcastle to Blackburn six months earlier – recommended Phil, a London-based businessman with an Irish family background. He had fallen into the game by accident. Phil owned a construction company and was a sponsor at QPR. A couple of the players got to know him and asked if he could help with their contracts. It spiralled from there, and he ended up with over 20 lads from various clubs on his books. Darren was one of the first on board, and promised I could trust Phil. He set up a meeting and we hit it off on the right note.

One of the first things he managed to do was clear up Ian’s mess. For a while, it looked as though I’d be landed with a £40,000 tax bill for the £100,000 fee, but Phil took control of the situation. Ian had been making threats about the £75,000 when I started blanking his calls so Phil did his homework, went to Newcastle, and made it clear he wouldn’t be receiving another penny. Ian backed off and turned his attention to other clients, including Stewart Downing. In 2012 Ian was prosecuted for the way he handled Downing’s financial affairs. I just wish I had met Phil earlier.

Of course, in hindsight, everyone would make better decisions. Brian Kidd thought leaving a comfortable job at Manchester United to be the main man at Blackburn was the correct call. Wrong.

Kiddo inherited a tough situation. The club were in the relegation zone when he took over from Roy Hodgson, and the owner Jack Walker had committed money to buying our way out of trouble. Matt Jansen, Ashley Ward, Jason McAteer and Lee Carsley were also brought into an already crowded dressing room. Kiddo collected the Manager of the Month award for December following a decent start, but it only delivered false hope.

Kiddo struggled to cope with the definition of his role. At Manchester United, he was always first onto the training ground, laying out cones and making meticulous plans for the day’s session. As a manager, he tried to do all of that as well as the time consuming responsibilities of recruiting players, bartering with agents, and all the press duties. Other managers knew when to step back and let the coaches do their work, but Kiddo was more comfortable in a tracksuit than a suit. He brought Brian McClair with him as assistant, and the lads dubbed him ‘BBC’ standing for Bibs, Balls & Cones because carrying them around was the height of his responsibility. Kiddo wanted to do too much.

Still, I maintain the biggest problem he encountered was a lack of fight in the dressing room. We had the quality to be competitive higher up the table, but didn’t have the application. Some members of Dalglish’s ’94/95 title-winning side were still around the place. There were contrasting attitudes. Jason Wilcox had a real passion for the club and cared about our position in the table. If every senior player had his attitude, then I don’t think we’d have been in a relegation battle.

Chris Sutton was the top dog, though, a player with the ability to turn our fortunes around. But he spent most of the season injured and when he came back, his attitude towards Kiddo was poor. Sutton was an odd fish. He seemed decent one-to-one, but in a group he was an annoying show-off, picking on people who he wouldn’t say a word to otherwise. Everyone should have been fighting for their lives, but Sutton knew he was going to be in the Premier League the next season whatever happened and didn’t contribute enough. Young Kevin Davies was struggling under the weight of a big price tag and was taken out of the firing line; Kiddo needed Sutton at his best to give us an outlet up front. He didn’t get it.

I have to admit that I could have done better too. My form was inconsistent. We were all making mistakes, stupid errors in games we should have won. With six games left and survival possible, we led 3-1 at Southampton and conceded twice to end up with just a point. We could only manage one draw from our next three games, which meant we had to win our penultimate game of the season or else it was relegation time. And the task was made harder by the identity of the visitors. With Kiddo’s history, it just had to be Manchester United.

It was an awkward one for Kiddo, with United a couple of weeks away from completing a historic Treble through that comeback against Bayern Munich at the Nou Camp. Later that summer Fergie released his first autobiography, in which he was very harsh on Kiddo, saying that he was too complex and insecure to manage a top club. I believe there was some tension between them towards the end of their time together, but I couldn’t understand why Fergie was so nasty in the book. Maybe he was sour that Kiddo upped and left, because he’d been an important part of their success and remained popular with the players.

United were cagey that night, and below their best, but we still couldn’t break them down. It finished scoreless, and our fate was sealed. There was an air of disbelief in the dressing room, and some were more upset than others. Sutton, who would join Chelsea for £10 million, wasn’t too fussed. Jack Walker was in tears.

That season was an education, a reminder of how rare sentiment is in football. I was hurt when I was booed on my return to St James’ in the FA Cup. Maybe if the fans had known the full story about Fletcher it would have been different, although in Newcastle they are so fanatical about the club that it’s almost like a cult. They couldn’t understand why someone would ever want to leave.