How NOT to be a Football Millionaire - Keith Gillespie My Autobiography (18 page)

Mick McGuire from the PFA called that evening. “Go in and have the problem assessed tomorrow,” he said. I’d calmed down by then, and agreed. It was a Wednesday, so the first-teamers were off. The only other lads around were those carrying knocks, so Derek Geary and a young lad, Nicky Travis, were there. Dennis performed a few basic checks and said it would be too risky for me to play a match. He told me to go and soak in the bath while he called Blackwell to get the all-clear.

I was lying there when he sheepishly approached me with his response. “I’ve spoken to the manager and he says that under no circumstances are you leaving until 5pm.” This was 11am. No chance. I rang Blackwell.

“Why the hell are you keeping me in?”

“Keith, if I say you’re in until five o’clock, you’re in til five o’clock.”

“No, you’re keeping me in and it’s out of order. You’re trying to bully me.”

He hung up. I rang back.

“Why the fuck did you put the phone down?”

“I’m with my Dad here.”

So I called Sam instead. I threatened to report the pair of them to the PFA. I brought up Blackwell’s dismissal of Bryan Robson in the dressing room at Carrow Road. “How would Bryan Robson, a legend, feel about getting caned by some fucker who played 40 times for Boston and Scarborough?” I said. Sam was suddenly defensive. “Ah, there’s no need to do all of that.” I put the phone down.

The PFA sent Simon Barker, the ex-QPR midfielder, to Sheffield the following day.

We met at the training ground for tea and toast before he went into speak with the management duo and Terry Robinson. He came out with good news. The club told Simon they wanted to sack me but wouldn’t do it if the PFA could sort me with a transfer before the end of the season. It was a stupid thing to say. They couldn’t give the union an ultimatum like that. ‘Find a club or you’re sacked?’ That wouldn’t stand up if we had taken the case to court. Simon reckoned we had them by the balls – if they wanted rid of me, they would have to pay me off. So, Phil was called and went in to thrash out a severance package with the powers that be. On January 30, 2009, the Compromise Agreement was signed. Sheffield United paid me £87,000, and I officially became a free agent.

Despite my departure, I did keep in contact with Blackwell in my own, unique, late night, anonymous way. It was how I channelled the frustration.

My exit had slipped under the radar because, somehow, the team was doing quite well. The nicest thing I can say about Blackwell is that for all his personality flaws, he was technically quite a good coach. He was also given funds to strengthen the squad and played the loan market well, constructing a team with a balance of youth and experience. They put a run together to finish third in the league, and then reached the play-off final where Burnley, a team with modest resources in comparison, proved too good. Blackwell was slaughtered for getting the tactics wrong and going with a 4-5-1.

I wanted to send a message but he had switched to a new number. To be fair, I can understand why he changed it.

My actions would catch up on me. As part of the deal with Ferencvaros, Craig Short had moved there as assistant to their manager, Bobby Davison. They were doing some pre-season work at Shirecliffe and I was invited along. Craig grew up in the same area as Blackwell, so they spoke quite a bit. He approached me after one of the sessions. “Blackie wants a word with you,” he said.

I wasn’t sure what it was about, but thought I’d go and hear him out. He wore a familiar expression when I found him waiting for me, pacing around with a phone in his hand.

“Was this you?” he said, showing me the small man syndrome message.

“That’s not my number,” I lied.

He showed me another text.

‘Congratulations on making history.’

I’d sent that one in February, on the night that Sheffield Wednesday had won the derby to do the double over United for the first time in 95 years. Again, I pleaded ignorance, and butted in before he produced another.

“Look, I know who’s ringing you, but I’m not prepared to say.”

I was aware of another person who liked to dial Blackwell late at night. My Northern Ireland team-mate Warren Feeney hated him even more than I did. Blackwell was appointed Luton manager on the day that Warren had agreed to leave the club and join Cardiff. He went into the dressing room to say goodbye to the lads and Blackwell caused a scene. “We don’t want any traitors in here,” he said. Warren couldn’t forgive that and started ringing Blackwell in the early hours, roaring abuse down the phone. Blackwell’s wife would sometimes answer. “Stop ringing my Kevin,” she’d say.

I didn’t grass Warren up as my ‘chat’ with Blackwell became a full-blown argument. “I’ll decide whether you go to Ferencvaros or not,” he shouted. “I can fuck you up.”

Somehow, we ended up discussing his credentials as a boss. He didn’t like his ability being questioned.

“I’m not just a good manager. I’m a top manager. I’ve been to three play-off finals in the last six years.”

“Yeah, but you’ve fucking lost them all.”

“That makes no odds. I’m a top manager.”

From a man who’d won nothing in the game, the arrogance was astounding (and he’d only been assistant to Warnock in one of those finals). But he did appear to enjoy one victory that summer. The Ferencvaros deal didn’t happen. I couldn’t be absolutely sure that it was down to him but after our conversation, how could I not have thought that? One way or another, 18 months after his appointment, he had succeeded in fucking my career up. I was staring into the abyss, finished in the upper echelons of English football.

There was no happy ending for Blackwell either. The players stopped responding to his confidence-sapping methods. They didn’t make the play-offs the following season, and he left by ‘mutual consent’ at the start of the 2010/11 campaign after a thrashing at the hands of a QPR side managed by none other than Neil Warnock.

Luckily I happened to have his latest number, and sent my commiserations. For some reason, I had the name of a non-league club stuck in my head.

‘Braintree are looking for a new manager,’ I started. ‘A good experienced manager. Do you know of anyone?’

It took him two years to find a job, at my old haunt Bury, who were too broke to find a quality alternative. He announced his arrival by calling his new players ‘garbage’, and then led them to relegation. They have my sympathies.

25

We Can Be Heroes

IT’S the worst training session of my career. Three days before a World Cup qualifier with Wales, I am watching a young full-back from Wolves, Mark Clyde, pump long diagonal balls from the halfway line towards the edge of the penalty box where our goalkeeper Roy Carroll is comfortably gathering every ball.

“Cherries!” shouts Roy, as he rises to collect another punt under no pressure. When a keeper calls that, he’s basically saying that it’s too easy. This is ridiculous. It happens again and again. But Mark is just following the instructions of the new Northern Ireland boss. “That’s exactly what I want,” bellows Lawrie Sanchez, the man who the IFA had selected as Sammy McIlroy’s replacement. My first impression was negative, and on that morning, seven months after our initial meeting, I was even more convinced that it was a terrible decision.

The previous night, we’d lost his competitive debut 3-0 to Poland at Windsor Park. Lawrie’s finest moment as a player was scoring the winning goal for Wimbledon in the 1988 FA Cup final, a side famous for its direct approach, so he clearly wanted to bring that style to Northern Ireland. But some of his drills just weren’t making any sense, particularly this one. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing or hearing. “Are you for fucking real?” I shouted, in response to his approval for Roy’s latest catch.

Lawrie looked at me, shook his head and continued as before.

I didn’t make the bench for the game in Wales. No big surprise considering I was an unused sub in the Polish thrashing, and the obvious evidence that my relationship with Lawrie was rapidly deteriorating. I’d already predicted what would happen when Gerry Armstrong, who was back as part of the coaching staff, interrupted my card school on the afternoon of the game in Cardiff. The boys who aren’t going to get a jersey generally find out before we go to the stadium. Gary Hamilton knew he had no chance. “Gary, can Lawrie have a word?” Gerry asked. “Ah, it’s alright, I know what it’s about,” Gary replied, barely looking up. “Keith, Lawrie would like to see you too,” Gerry said. I decided to go and hear the predictable news.

There was a patio outside the hotel lobby which overlooked some water. Lawrie was sitting there with a free chair beside him. I sat down. “You’re not going to be involved tonight,” he said. “Okay, cheers” I replied, while hopping up and walking off before he could react. I saw his reflection in the glass door as I went back inside and he looked a little taken aback, as though he was preparing for a chat. But I had no intention of spending any more time with him than necessary.

The boys drew 2-2 that night, and Lawrie must have been satisfied with the performance of his chosen players. When he named the squad for the following month’s double-header with Azerbaijan and Austria, I missed the cut.

There was more to it than just one training session. Quite literally, I had started off on the wrong foot with Lawrie. In his first friendly match against Norway in February 2004, the goal famine still hung over our heads. We kept missing chances and were 3-0 down when David Healy finally ended our misery just before the hour mark. From the restart, all I could think about was getting another one, and I did – at our end of the pitch. I was buzzed up and sprinted back to help the defence, just in time to divert a Norwegian cross past Maik Taylor.

The next game, a friendly in Estonia, was a fortnight after I came home from La Manga. I found out on Sky that I wasn’t a part of the squad. So I rang Lawrie, who said he wanted to look at fringe players which was fair enough, but I found it strange that he didn’t call me beforehand. That was Lawrie though, he didn’t really have much personality. He may have been part of Wimbledon’s Crazy Gang, but from his dour opening speech it was obvious he was never going to provide any laughs. The entertainment came from his support staff. His assistant, Terry Gibson, and goalkeeping coach, Dave Beasant, were also members of the ’88 FA Cup team and they seriously lightened the mood. Big Bes was a brilliant character, who’d always join the team on our nights out, and was trusted by the lads.

Lawrie did try to change the social culture though. He’d won three caps under Billy Bingham – he was born in London but his mother was Northern Irish – and knew all the stories about our drinking escapades. Clearly, it bugged him. When all the senior lads were brought back in for a friendly with Serbia, he called us into a meeting. “What should we do?” he said. “Should we just ban drink for all trips?” That idea didn’t get very far. Michael Hughes spoke up and objected, arguing that we were professional enough to drink at the right time. I backed his comments and, with no dissenting voices, it was knocked on the head. Lawrie was asking the question, and had received his answer.

When it came to the beloved summer tours, however, the lines were again blurred on what constituted drinking at the right time. Lawrie’s first such trip in charge was a comical tour of the Caribbean for games with Barbados, St Kitts & Nevis and Trinidad & Tobago. It sounded great for a holiday, but it was a pain in the arse at the end of a long stressful season. CONCACAF, the local ruling body, had invited the IFA and offered to pay all their costs, although I believe there were a few problems from that end of things when it came to the crunch. Not that we paid much attention. All we knew is that we had to turn up because Lawrie made it clear that, unless a good reason was given for pulling out, any no-shows would miss out on the World Cup qualifiers. Considering we’d just been drawn in a group with England, that was a big threat, but it didn’t prevent some withdrawals.

The itinerary was crazy. I think we had to take four different flights to get from Barbados to St Kitts, so the stopovers in the airport bars were the only thing that stopped us from completely losing our minds. And it was the banter that kept us going between the games. Lawrie was getting on everyone’s nerves. In the first game with Barbados, which was played on a cow field, he was intent on introducing his new tactics. The defenders were encouraged to go long every time. I was dropping short to look for the ball and it was just sent over the top for someone to chase. In scorching heat, the strategy didn’t make sense and I let him know my feelings.

Still, apart from the football, the trip was quite enjoyable. Lawrie seemed to think it was too enjoyable. After we brushed aside St Kitts, he laid down some ground rules before the final match with Trinidad & Tobago. Going out was banned. So was afternoon drinking. We were training in the evenings because of the heat, and quite a few of us had taken to relaxing with a few beers in the middle of the day. I suppose I could see where Lawrie was coming from on that one. But the nights were different and when I bumped into Dwight Yorke two days before our game, and he mentioned showing me around his home patch, there was no chance of me staying in. Later that evening, I sneaked out with Gary Hamilton and Andy Smith to go and meet Yorkey. Unfortunately, his chosen club was also where Gerry Armstrong, Big Bes and a few of the backroom staff had ended up on their night out. Gerry came over and told us to go home, but I refused. My attitude was that we were in trouble whatever happened, so we might as well enjoy the night. It was a bloody stupid trip anyway.

Lawrie left me out of the team for the game, and I flipped when he told us on the training ground. Okay, so I had stepped out of line, but he’d selected Phil Mulryne, a lad who was a few years behind me at Manchester United, even though he’d turned up at training drunk the day before I broke curfew. “That’s a joke Lawrie,” I said. We stood away from the group and had it out for a good 30 minutes. He admitted he knew about Phil and, convinced I was being made the scapegoat, I stormed away, telling him to leave me off the bench. I only changed my mind when Terry Gibson came to my hotel room and talked me out of it. That was the start of the slippery slope with Lawrie. He thought I was argumentative and I was, but only because of how much he wound me up with his inconsistent decisions and rubbish tactics. We didn’t have much to say to each other after that. Two or three word conversations at most, one or two words fewer than his chats with the others, many of whom shared my view. I reached breaking point in September when Michael Hughes got the nod ahead of me for the Polish game. Hughesy didn’t go to the Caribbean, despite the manager’s warning. More bullshit. That’s why I had no interest in a discussion on that patio in Wales. I had no time for the man.

That could have been the end of international football for me but, a year later, I tasted my greatest moment in a green jersey. The night we beat England at Windsor Park. It’s an occasion that will live with me forever. Lawrie masterminded the success. My view of his approach had turned full circle.

There’s no big secret about how I got into his good books. Sometimes, in football, it’s quite straightforward. I was dropped for that trip to Azerbaijan and looked to be in serious trouble. But then a few bodies dropped out of the game, the call was extended my way, and I accepted it. Perhaps Lawrie thought I wouldn’t fancy an unglamorous 8,000-kilometre round trip to Baku, but I reported for duty, played the game, did a reasonably good job and stayed in his team after that. Simple. No heart-to-heart chat was required.

The game in Azerbaijan was a dull draw, but I gradually began to understand the method behind his strategy. He just thought we needed to compromise for our lack of options by keeping it simple and getting the ball forward as quickly as possible, and trying to pick up second balls here and there to see what happens. He focused on stats and set pieces, and always produced the figures of how many crosses we were getting into the box. It was repetitive and often boring but, over time, we became more effective. Certainly, it didn’t change overnight. Lawrie was slow to win over the public and had running battles with the press. We drew with Austria, and then lost 4-0 to England at Old Trafford, a game that was memorable for the fantastic travelling support. The fact that we were level at the break gave some hope for encouragement. Still, a defeat in Poland meant we were still searching for a victory going into the double-header with Azerbaijan and England in September, 2005.

If there was a real turning point for Lawrie, it was a friendly with Malta a month earlier. It finished 1-1 and I was sent off by the English ref, Mike Riley, for a silly scrap with one of their lads. They were a poor side so it was another dismal result and Lawrie tore into us afterwards. He made it clear that the two games in Belfast were vital, although the message obviously didn’t hit home with everyone. A team meeting was scheduled on the Sunday, the beginning of the week leading up to the Azerbaijan match. Mulryne and Jeff Whitley didn’t show. They’d arrived in Belfast, mad to go for a drink. I knew because they rang me but, for once, I stayed put, especially as I was so relieved to be available – my first thought when Riley flashed the red card in Malta was that I’d be suspended but it only carried into the next friendly game.

Lawrie kicked Phil and Jeff out of the camp. It was a big statement, particularly at a time when his own position didn’t appear to be that strong. A couple more bad results might have spelled the end for him. But it worked. The focus was good and we brushed Azerbaijan aside 2-0, our first competitive win in almost four years.

Then came England. Victory gave us some momentum, but they were naturally clear favourites when we met in Belfast on Wednesday, September 7, 2005. They had Rooney, Gerrard, Beckham, Ferdinand, Lampard, a squad packed with Premier League talent. We had a mixture of lads from up and down the divisions in England and Scotland. All of us had tasted some kind of rejection in our careers, and this was a chance to make a statement. Before our game in Manchester, The Sun ran a sweepstake for their readers with a range of possible final scores. It went all the way up to a 14-0 win for England, really taking the piss. And that was in my mind before the return match. We knew a massive audience was watching, and it was a chance to show we were better than they thought. Lawrie’s pre-match team-talks rarely lived long in the memory, but he got the tone right. As we were standing up to leave the dressing room, he played the David Bowie song, ‘Heroes’ on the stereo. You know the words. ‘We can be heroes, just for one day...’

And this was our day. The atmosphere was incredible, just like the special nights in the ’80s that I spent with Dad on the Kop. Our first objective was making it to half-time scoreless, and we managed to do that relatively comfortably. The English lads were frustrated. In fact, I probably could have got Wayne Rooney sent off. He jumped for a header and caught me with his elbow. I didn’t make a meal of it and the ref produced a yellow. Wayne thanked me on the way to the tunnel. But Becks was having a right go, telling him to calm down. It was just what we wanted. They were rattled. Lawrie told us to start playing the match in their half, getting the ball forward as quickly as possible. All the training ground work was built towards this. In the 73rd minute, it paid off. We pegged them back, and their keeper, Paul Robinson, hoofed the ball towards the halfway line. Steve Davis judged the flight better than Lampard, and found the space to chip David Healy into space. He did the rest, right in front of the Kop. I was the closest to him and will never forget the sound of that celebration, or the noise at the final whistle after we held out for the win. We were heroes, and stayed on the pitch to do a lap of honour.

England were gracious in defeat. Becks clapped the Kop and was very complimentary. Their manager, Sven Goran Eriksson, popped his head into the dressing room to say well done on his way up to get a grilling from the press, which spoke volumes for his character. I leaned back against the wall, mentally and physically drained by the experience. Just like after the Barca game back in ’97, I didn’t go out that night. So, I went back to Mum’s and sat up and watched the video of the game, reminding myself what had just happened.

I’d be lying if I said that everybody had grown to love Lawrie. We never looked forward to his meetings. “Not another fucking one!” someone would say. They were regular affairs, and often quite strange.