How NOT to be a Football Millionaire - Keith Gillespie My Autobiography (19 page)

A year after the England win, he called us together before the Euro 2008 qualifiers. Expectations were higher, although we’d landed another tricky group with Spain, Denmark, and Sweden. Lawrie presented us with a projection of how the table might look at the end of the campaign. He had predicted the possible results for all games, not just who would win or lose, but also the goals for and against. As he went through it in nerdy detail, there were a few raised eyebrows. It was extremely bizarre. In his scenario, we would finish second, behind Spain. I guess he wanted us to believe in that vision, but we had to come to realise that the oddness was just part of his personality. The main thing was that, football wise, he was bringing us on the right way.

Still, his crystal ball theory was out the window after the first game, the visit of Iceland to Windsor Park. Lawrie had it down as a home win. We were three down at half-time and that was that. They beat us fair and square, and it hurt. It was a terrible afternoon, and I went into town that evening with Healy and Roy Carroll to get it out of the system. We had more than a couple. The following day it was back to work. Spain were coming to town as the second part of the double header. It was an odd build-up. Lawrie always had his issues with the local press and wasn’t talking to them now, so a few of us were sent out in his place on the Monday. Then, on the morning of the game, the Northern Irish edition of The Sun splashed with a front page picture of myself, Healy and Roy on the town after the Iceland match.

The implication was that we didn’t care. Roy had bought a bottle of champagne, which added to the story. Lawrie knew we were out, so it wasn’t like we had breached discipline. Typically, they had waited until the morning of the game to put it out but if the intention was to turn people against us, then it backfired. It was the dawn of another famous day.

We knew at the time that turning Spain over was a big deal. For a small nation like ours, beating a major nation is always going to be huge. But looking back now, it was an even better result than we realised. They were building a team that would go on to dominate international football for six years, winning two European Championships and a World Cup. Xavi, Iker Casillas, David Villa, Xabi Alonso, Fernando Torres and Carles Puyol started, with Cesc Fabregas and Andres Iniesta on the bench. But this was another night where Healy looked like the world beater. Xavi scored, he equalised. Villa scored, and he levelled again. Ten minutes from time, he completed his hat-trick in front of the Kop, lobbing Casillas from 25 yards. It was backs to the wall then and Jonny Evans, another young Northern Irish lad coming through at Manchester United, was outstanding at left-back on his debut. At the final whistle, 14,500 voices let out a roar to rival the English celebration.

It was a magic time to be a Northern Ireland player. From a situation a few years previous where only 3,000-4,000 people were attending games, we could have sold the ground three or four times over. And everyone was starting to believe. Lawrie might have got the specific results wrong, but a top-two finish in the group – and automatic qualification for Euro 2008 – began to look very possible. We drew in Denmark with the backing of our biggest away support in over 20 years, and then took full points from Latvia at home and Liechtenstein away, before another famous win at Windsor against Sweden put us top of the group.

Everything was going right. We had a really balanced side that didn’t give much away, while Healy was in simply unbelievable form. His club career could never reach the heights of his international form. At that time, he was playing for a poor Leeds side in the Championship, yet he still managed to become the highest ever scorer in a European qualifying campaign. Not just in Northern Irish history. I mean, across the entire continent.

It was inevitable that our exploits would draw attention. People in England were beginning to wonder about the secret of our success. Lawrie’s profile soared, and it was to our cost. His contract was small money.

With five games left in the 2006/07 Premier League season, Fulham needed a manager to fight the drop and the IFA allowed Lawrie to take over on a caretaker basis. We feared the worst when he managed to keep them up.

There was a campaign for him to stay, because it was such a critical point in the Euros race. But we all understood why the Fulham job was going to be too attractive when they offered it on a full-time basis. It was a chance to manage at the top level and multiply his salary. Football is a selfish game and for those reasons, the lads didn’t want Lawrie to leave. But it’s also why we couldn’t begrudge his decision to walk away. I’d imagine most of us would have done the same.

I was genuinely disappointed. It turned out the IFA had made a brilliant call to appoint him, and the really sad thing is that his departure didn’t work out well for either party. A little over six months later, Lawrie was out of a job, and our dreams of qualifying for a major tournament were dead.

26

Down The Ladder

MY texting didn’t always lead to trouble.

When my final fling with Frances finished, I waited for time to pass and then made contact with Vikki again. It’d been ages since we had spoken, but she was still on my mind, and I knew the feeling was mutual when I received a prompt response to my message. After a steady flow of SMS traffic, I decided to go and see her in London and, from there, it escalated. The distance apart remained a problem, so she made the big decision to pack her bags and move to Hartlepool, just after I got promoted with Sheffield United.

And then it became even more serious. We decided to try for a baby. Vikki had suffered a couple of miscarriages so we kept the celebrations in check when she fell pregnant in the spring of 2007. But there was no need to be nervous. On October 27, I became the father of a beautiful baby girl. We called her Madison. A couple of months later, I suddenly realised the significance of the birthday; it was the 12th anniversary of Black Friday. I guess I was due a bit of luck on that date.

I’d always been pretty good with my sisters’ kids, so becoming a father didn’t terrify me. Quite the opposite, actually. I reckoned that, at 32, it was time I took on responsibility. I wasn’t a very mature person, but Madison reminded me, however briefly, that I had to take stock of where I was going.

We’d moved to Harrogate just two months before her arrival. With a new contract and a supportive manager in Robbo, everything was set up nicely, but the bliss didn’t last for long. Madison was the only bright light of the Blackwell era. I’d come home from training, pissed off with the world, and her greeting would cheer me up in an instant.

I always knew that I would have to drop down the football ladder eventually, but I was unprepared for the speed of my fall. After Sheff U, the only way was down. Heck, I nearly ended up Down Under. We’d talked about a move to Australia before the severance package was agreed. They had a partnership with a club there called Central Coast Mariners, but the deadline was tight, the deal came up short of expectations, and moving to the other side of the world with a one-year-old just didn’t seem like the right thing to do.

So, I took my chances as a free agent, and my first port of call was another trial at Leeds, who were now in League One and managed by a former colleague from Blackburn, Simon Grayson. Like my first visit, it was a waste of time. My fitness wasn’t where it should have been, but it would have improved with games. But this was mid-season, so the opportunities weren’t there. Going on trial can be a humiliating experience, especially when you’re quite a well-known player. I knew a few lads in the dressing room, guys who I’d played against before, or looked down on from a higher level. They were turning up for work, training and preparing for games. I joined in with their sessions for two weeks and left without the offer of a contract.

I ended up at Bradford, in League Two, the bottom tier of league football. Their manager, Stuart McCall, had been assistant to Warnock, and lived in Harrogate so he knew my story. Considering I was still off the road, I needed somewhere local. Paul Arnison, a lad who lived further north, picked me up on the way to training.

The deal at Bradford was £1,000 a week until the end of the season, and I knew pretty quickly that I wouldn’t be staying any longer. I found the whole package difficult to adjust to. The people at the club were nice, but that couldn’t paper over the cracks of the lifestyle. Our training pitch was bumpy, well below the standards at Sheffield. And the games were a chore for a winger. League Two is better suited to the rough and ready. The ball spends most of the time in the air, and you’re up against lads who have spent their careers at that level for a reason. It’s physical, a battle, and I wasn’t up for it. I just couldn’t find the motivation. The fall to earth had demoralised me completely, and I think Stuart could see it. I made three appearances, none of which lasted for 90 minutes, and that was the end of that.

I reached a crossroads in the summer of 2009. Two years earlier, I’d been playing in the Premier League. Now, there was nobody in the four divisions willing to give me a shot. As much as I disliked the League Two experience, I couldn’t afford to ignore anybody’s call, but the phone didn’t ring. Managers talk, and I’m sure that the manner of my departure from Sheffield United had affixed a ‘Do Not Touch’ label to my name once and for all. I still felt I had plenty to offer, but it mattered little. Desperation time. With nothing else to do, I spent my days running around The Stray, a grassland area which surrounds Harrogate. Sometimes, Ben Rome, my old chaffeur, would come out to train with me. I didn’t know who or what I was preparing for, but I had to keep going, even though every passing day confirmed that, in England at least, there was no room in any inn. The Ferencvaros deal that Blackwell screwed up was the only glimmer.

This was the backdrop in which I married Vikki. Just like with Frances, there was no grand proposal. Once the divorce came through, we thought it was the logical step, especially with Madison in our lives. We were very much in love, and wanted to cement our relationship. There was no dodging the big occasion this time around, though. We had a small ceremony in the registry office on Friday, June 5, 2009. Then, on the Sunday, 100 family and friends toasted our union in Rudding Park, a luxury hotel just outside Harrogate. Jim was the best man, and made a brilliant speech about his childhood memories. It was a fantastic day, but there would be no happily ever after.

Our love was the real thing, but I don’t think Vikki was prepared for what was coming down the tracks. Everything was changing. I had to go where work brought me and, increasingly, it became clear that a return to Northern Ireland was the only option. Gary Hamilton had called earlier in the year to see if I’d be interested in joining his club Glentoran, one of Belfast’s traditional Big Two, on a short-term arrangement, but I’d already given my word to Bradford. So after another lost day on The Stray, I asked Phil to make an enquiry and see if the interest was still there. It helped that their manager was Alan McDonald, my first Northern Ireland skipper, who Phil was familiar with through his QPR connection.

Big Mac’s stature made it an easier decision. He rang with one question. “Do you definitely want to come and play for us?” We both knew that once I packed up for home, chances are I wouldn’t ever properly come back to England in a playing capacity. This was a switch to a part-time league, a drastic change in circumstances. But, there were reasons why it appealed. Some were more obvious than others.

After 18 years away, it presented a chance to come home and build a new life. Glentoran attracted decent crowds, and had pipped their arch rivals, Linfield, to the title on the last day of the previous season, so there was a good buzz around the club. And I liked the gaffer, and was good mates with their main striker, Gary, meaning I had nothing to fear in the dressing room. I told Big Mac and Phil to make it happen.

With the help of a sponsor they came up with the cash, and I was officially unveiled at their famous old ground, The Oval, on August 19, before a derby game with Linfield. It was a big story in Northern Ireland, a novelty really considering that it was rare for ex-internationals to come back to their local league. The attention and the warm welcome was a contrast from the solo runs around a field in Yorkshire.

For Vikki, a lot had happened in a short space of time, and then she found out that another child was on the way. It added another layer to her struggle to adapt to life in Bangor. She was a city girl, and moving from London in the first place was a challenge. Now, she was pregnant in an unfamiliar country, a plane ride away from her friends and family. Mum and my sisters were delighted to have me around, and tried their best to make Vikki feel welcome, but it didn’t feel like home to her.

My lifestyle didn’t make things easier. With the other lads having day jobs, training was scheduled for the evenings, and I had the unusual feeling of being free every morning. Angela’s husband, Davy, invited me into a golf society with a gang of his mates, and I launched myself into that, while striking up friendships with the other lads. Vikki didn’t have that outlet. I’d be packing my clubs into the car while she complained about being stuck at home as a childminder again, taking no consolation when I pointed out that I was still spending far more time around the house than a bloke in a 9-5 job could. There was similar grief when I went for a few drinks with the lads.

Our second amazing daughter, Lexie, was born in the Ulster Hospital in Dundonald on March 8, 2010, and she temporarily shelved our tensions. But the strain was always there, lingering in the background. I resented her complaints, believing she could have made more of an effort to give Bangor a chance. She thought I didn’t care about her concerns. We chipped away at each other, arguing for days at a time.

The real problem was gnawing away at me, a headache that I couldn’t avoid any longer. Call it the elephant in the postbox. Cash was the other driving force in coming home. Moving into the five-bedroom house in Bangor I’d bought in 2006, saved me the expense of the £3,000 a month rent in Harrogate, and I was beginning to grasp the necessity of budgeting. Numbers were suddenly a major part of my life. I even wore the 33 shirt at Glentoran because the sponsors stumping up my wage were a taxi company, Fonacab, whose hotline ended with those digits. That commitment was a potential deal breaker, or else there’d be no £1,000 a week contract.

I couldn’t afford to say no. The letters that were arriving with alarming frequency reminded me of that. I knew what they were about – I could see through the envelope. It all stemmed back to that meeting in that room in London, introducing the film scheme, the opportunity for a quick buck that I’d discarded to the back of my mind, along with all the warnings about the future which I hadn’t really listened to.

It was the unspoken reason for coming home to Northern Ireland. My toughest opponent, a pursuer that I simply could not escape. The Inland Revenue were on my case, and nothing could ever be the same again.