How NOT to be a Football Millionaire - Keith Gillespie My Autobiography (23 page)

30

Pills

“CLAIRE, I don’t want to get out of bed today.”

In the autumn of 2012, I started to spend entire days in my bedroom, a voluntary inmate between the four walls. The growing anxiety that I wouldn’t be getting any of my money back, which was duly confirmed, had sapped my spirit. I’d wake in the morning with no interest in moving, nor desire to interact with anyone. The phone was ignored or switched off. I didn’t see the point in stirring to have a shower or face the day. Instead, I’d lie back, switch on the TV and mindlessly flick through the channels.

For Claire, who was coming to terms with life as a first-time mother, it was difficult as I withdrew further into my shell. She would try and gee me up, get me to do something. “Go and play some golf, Keith.” I couldn’t be arsed.

Occasionally, I would find some motivation. Until November, there was training once a week and a match at the weekend to give me a little focus, or else the odd trip to England to earn a few quid. They gave me a distraction from whatever was draining my enthusiasm the rest of the time. Claire was barely sleeping because she’d be up breast-feeding Nico during the night and, sometimes, when I was having an off day, she would lie in bed next to me, with our infant son beside us, as the hours ticked by and evening drew in. Mum would drive by, see the blinds down in our bedroom and realise there was no point in calling because I wouldn’t be talkative. If Claire couldn’t get anything from me, nobody else stood a chance. It was no way to live. I had to seek help, for the sake of Claire and Nico as much as myself.

Depression. It’s a scary word. I don’t think I have the authority to explain what it is and what it means fully. I’m still trying to discover more about it, and know that the journey is going to take a while.

My family saw the warning signs before I did. They knew there was something up, realised I wasn’t myself. It was the moody behaviour, the snappy comments, the lack of heart for anything. I’d spent a lifetime telling everyone I was fine, even as things appeared to be going wrong. It’s a recurring chain of events. Shit happens – people worry – I say I’m alright. Done. Whatever the strife, my stock response was consistent.

“I’m fine... I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Keith, you need to go and sit with someone.”

“No I don’t. That’s silly. You’re being silly.”

Maybe that’s how I convinced myself I was okay as well.

It changed that autumn. Everything seemed to come together at once, from the likelihood I wouldn’t be getting any cash back, to the distance from my girls, and the pressures of having a child in a new relationship. It snowballed to the point where the emotions I was bottling up were more than I could deal with. I heard the same questions again.

“Is everything okay, Keith? Do you want to talk about it?” This time, I knew that I had to give in and find out the reasons I was feeling this way. Without Claire, I’d never have done it; she was the catalyst. We fought tooth and nail about it as I tried to resist and continued with the denial but, over time, she broke down the walls I had built up and made me see sense.

What do you do? Where do you go?

My first port of call was my local GP in Bangor, a man who I’ve known for years. He listened to my problems, made some recommendations and referred me to the hospital in Newtownards, where an appointment was made with a man in the Mental Health Assessment Centre.

Mental health? It sounded a bit dramatic to me. I associated the words with lunatics going around screaming and pounding the walls. I suppose I was guilty of buying in to that stereotype. It was recommended for Claire to come along too and we kept a low profile, taking the seats closest to the waiting room door where my name was called immediately before anyone had a chance to recognise me. I was taken into a room where a consultant, an African guy, was waiting to assess me. I can always tell if someone knows who I am – their eyes give it away – but I don’t think he had any idea. We talked for an hour. I went through my feelings while he jotted down notes. Claire offered her thoughts. He concluded that I was suffering from mild depression. Claire wasn’t satisfied and made it clear on the walk back to the car. “Mild?” she said, shaking her head. “It’s gone further than that.” She called my GP to make her point.

“How can you determine someone’s state in the space of one hour?”

In the meantime, he had arranged for me to see an occupational therapist, who ran a clinic in his office once a week. She was a friendly woman in her fifties with blondey greying hair and a warm smile. I went on my own and she instantly made me feel at ease. I felt we had a productive hour and was given the opportunity to come back the following Wednesday. But the timing didn’t suit, the following week was the same and, then, in typical fashion, I just let it slide.

After all, I had my tablets. They’d been prescribed by my GP at the outset. I brought my happy pills everywhere, the green and gold capsules in a tin-foil package. Fluoxetine. Or, Prozac, as it’s commonly known. I read an article recently which said it’s been prescribed to 54 million worldwide. 54 million! That’s one way of realising you’re not alone.

I started with one-a-night and the dose was doubled on the advice of the doctor who did my medical ahead of the 2013 season with Longford. I take them at night, with a glass of water, and I suppose they must be having some impact. If I’ve forgotten to take them the next day, I can feel something’s not right, which probably isn’t a good sign. They say you can become addicted. My doc ran through the science of it with me at the start, explaining how the tablets tackle the chemical imbalance in my brain that apparently makes me feel this way. But I didn’t take in enough knowledge to be able to give a presentation on the mechanics. I just had one question really: ‘Will these make me feel better?’

When Gary Speed took his own life on a miserable Sunday in November 2011, the mental health of footballers became a talking point, but the bigger picture stuff from the talking heads on the television passed me by. I was too numbed by the fact that Speedo was dead. I really couldn’t think about anything beyond that.

It’s such a typical, predictable thing to say, but he’s the last person I’d have expected to take that option. From the outside, his life looked perfect. After taking over as manager of Wales, results had improved dramatically, and I know that would have made him proud. When I shared a dressing room with Speedo at Newcastle and Sheffield United, his patriotism shone through. We all heard about it when the Welsh rugby boys were on fire.

I was at the final game he attended, the meeting of my old clubs, Manchester United and Newcastle United, at Old Trafford, but our paths didn’t cross. I thought it was some kind of sick joke when the news broke the following morning, that his wife, Louise, had found him in the garage of their family home.

It just didn’t make any sense. I’d socialised plenty of times with Speedo, and he never displayed any hint of unhappiness. There was so much crappy speculation afterwards that I tried to ignore, because all I remembered was my own experience. Yet you could sense that the shock amongst those who knew him well, like Alan Shearer, was totally genuine.

Speedo was such a bright fella, the definition of a good character to have around the dressing room. Blackwell’s deference towards him spoke volumes. He was the manager in waiting, and so it proved. Then, the seamless manner in which he slotted into the Welsh job marked him out as a candidate to reach the very top but there was obviously something deeper going on. It just goes to show, you never know what’s going on behind closed doors.

I’ve heard Stan Collymore speak powerfully and impressively about his own problems with depression since then and I can relate to it but I’m still wary of generalising when I discuss Speedo. He didn’t fit into any obvious category. Sometimes, there just isn’t any explanation.

After he died, there was a big drive for the PFA to raise awareness. I don’t ever remember receiving any material through the post about depression or mental health issues in the run of my career but then I wasn’t a great man for opening letters and, even if I had come across something, I probably would have folded it up and tossed it in the bin.

Footballers aren’t superhuman, much as we might like to think we are. But we’re not really taught to open up about our feelings either, nor do many of us feel comfortable doing that. When I started taking medication, the last thing I was going to do was tell my team-mates at Longford about it. I certainly had no intention of letting anyone know beyond my immediate family. Phil only found out when Claire told him. It’s wrong to think in these terms, but I suppose I didn’t want to admit any weakness considering I’d been pretending to cope so well for so long. Heck, I’d been pretending to myself.

Pride is a strange thing because I’d like to think I would never let it get in the way of anything. I wouldn’t have gone on the dole if I was precious. My time on Jobseeker’s Allowance lasted for six weeks. There were a few puzzled looks from others in the Social Security office but that wasn’t going to deter me from doing what was necessary to survive and look after the kids. I’m aware of ex-pros that are in a bad way and too embarrassed to admit it in case the wider world finds out. Other guys involved in the film schemes are doing whatever it takes to meet their payments. Phil and I invited a mutual friend, a former high profile Premier League player, to Old Trafford last year, and he refused as he was driving a van for a living and couldn’t justify the expense of taking a day off and travelling. It’s a glum existence when you’ve spent half your life in a bubble.

In the midst of my self-imposed isolation, I did open myself up to cyber scrutiny by signing up to Twitter, the social media website, to see what it was all about. Most people are nice, but you get the odd idiot who has a go. Against all advice, I do react; I can’t abide grown men in their 40s who just go on Twitter to hurl abuse at people. We all have our issues, but those lads need help too. What pisses me off is guys talking as if they know me. One fella wrote that I used to go around Newcastle thinking I was the top dog, which has never been my way. When I went there first, I always used to stand in 50-deep queues for nightclubs, and the bouncers walking down the line would double take and ask what the hell I was doing there when I could stroll in anywhere I wanted. I always hated doing that because I knew there’d be guys looking, thinking, ‘who the fuck does he think he is?’

But the presumptions come with the territory on Twitter. I even had a player from one of Longford’s promotion rivals, Mervue United, talking shit about me, claiming I was at the centre of a match-fixing investigation which actually revolved around one of my team-mates. I confronted the coward when we played them and, unsurprisingly, he wasn’t as brave in person.

The silver lining of my slide down the ranks was finding out who my real friends are. I spend more time now with people from other professions, like Davy, who is a builder, and the boys in the golf society, whose jobs range from the civil service to kitchen fitting. It was the same when I lived in Hartlepool. My social life then was a ‘Tuesday Club’ with Jim and his mates. There was a policeman, a solicitor, a butcher, an estate agent, a plasterer and a surgeon. Good guys. It’s the same now. Everywhere I go, 99 per cent of people are positive. I’ve made appearances at legends dos in Newcastle and Manchester and all over Northern Ireland and the response is great. People are sincere, slapping you on the back and wanting to know how you’re doing and I say that I’m good. It’s the safest answer, but it’s not always the truth.

I need to get off these pills though. I can’t spend the rest of my life relying on antidepressants. It’s delaying a solution, not finding one. Claire stuck to her guns on the mild depression verdict and made sure that another trip to the Mental Health Assessment Centre, to see the same guy, was arranged. I opened up more the second time, gave a fuller picture of the moods, the stifling lows that trapped me in the bedroom for days. What I really wanted was to be referred to a clinical psychologist, so that I could receive proper treatment for my condition instead of just upping my Prozac dosage. After a productive chat, I received a letter from the Clinical Psychology Department of the hospital to say I would be given an appointment within three months. It came up sooner than that, and the first step was routine, another assessment with a view to breaking down the barriers. I’m hopeful I can stay on this path.

I’m perfectly capable of closing myself off to people I care about, never mind complete strangers, so I don’t expect an overnight miracle. But these psychologists are experienced in what they do. They can dig deeper and draw things out, help me embrace the discussions I avoid, and find the strength to become a more open person. I’m not a great communicator and, by the end of this process, I want that to have changed, so I can become a better person for everyone that needs me. I’ve buried my head in the sand for too long. You can’t find answers if you don’t allow the questions.

31

The Other Side

“WHAT’S your gameplan, Keith?”

Phil often sits me down over a pint and steers discussion that way. I shrug my shoulders.

As an active businessman who always has something on the go, I don’t think he really understands my approach to things.

My lack of direction was the motive behind getting me involved with his company, Munnellys. I couldn’t run away from the offer, because it was all I had. So I found myself in London on a December morning, showering and shaving and putting on a shirt and tie instead of a tracksuit. The uniform for an alien world.

Over the winter of 2011, I spent a couple of days each week in their head office in the suburban borough of Harrow, gaining an insight into a real job. Phil invited me to meetings, where experts in their field talked about the finer points of the construction industry. I didn’t really know what I was supposed to say or do, so concentrated on looking busy. The lingo went straight over my head. I just hoped that nobody noticed my blank expression.

The whole experience was strange. It’s not that I disliked it. I did find it interesting to watch a successful business in full flow, and the boys in the office really made me feel welcome. And I reckon they were glad to have me around for their annual football tournament with other companies from around the UK. Their new recruit played a significant part in a glorious victory.

But the problem, really, is that the 9-5 existence is just so different to the working environment I grew up in. I can’t adjust.

I remember sitting at a Christmas party, listening to a guy complaining about the fact that he was paying his secretary £32,000 a year, and all I could think about was the contrast in the discussion from my old Christmas bashes. Some of the flashier lads might have spent £32,000 on a round of drinks.

It wasn’t the life for me; I was a duck out of water. As I sunk into depression, I didn’t have the fire in the belly to keep it up, even though Phil was paying a decent wage to keep me focused.

When he set up a new international recruitment company, City Calling, at the start of 2013, he called me into the promotional drive. I wound up at a jobs expo in Dublin, watching Phil’s son James sign people up with a view to helping them find work around the world. I listened to the ‘roll up, roll up’ pitch he was giving every potential customer and was encouraged to join in. As the crowds increased, I was on the coalface, taking people’s details, explaining the procedure. At one stage, I was signing up a new person every 27 seconds. We took in 2,000 people in two days. It was more up my street and there could be a future in that, I suppose, but I’d be lying if I said it with any certainty.

I realise the prospect of living without the structure of football is scary, but all things must come to an end. That’s why the news that Sir Alex Ferguson was retiring from Manchester United really struck a chord with me. Even he had to accept there’s a time to say goodbye.

Phil and I decided at the start of 2013 that I’d hang up my boots at the end of the year; we timed the announcement for the day of the sponsorship launch which saw the City Calling name take over Longford’s jersey and stadium. I only told the manager, Tony, on the day itself. I’m not really sure I thought it through properly. My body still felt good; the aches and pains were minimal. The new defensive midfield role is kinder on the limbs – I sit while the younger lads do most of the running – but it emerged a couple of months into the season that I’m suffering from a knee cartilage problem that makes it the percentage call to quit. Injections will get me through to the chequered flag.

A few of the lads at Big Mac’s funeral raised their eyebrows when they heard where I was playing these days, but the boys who’ve gone into management, like Michael O’Neill and Steve Lomas, they understand that nothing compares to the buzz of playing when you consider the pressures on the other side. Regardless of what else is going on in my life, I still love having a game to look forward to at the weekend. If I go through with the retirement, there’ll be a huge void, I know this, and that could be dangerous for someone with my personality. I have to prepare myself for that challenge.

What will I do?

There’s punditry, I’ve dabbled in a bit of that, some radio, some TV. I’m getting the hang of it. It’s all about getting your foot in the door in the right places really. Dave Bassett has encouraged me to go into the after-dinner speaking circuit. Some of my old pals, like Jason McAteer, have adapted to that scene perfectly. Me? I think I’d need to sink a couple to find the confidence to address a group of pissed-up strangers.

Then there’s the old boys circuit, the charity track. One of my first housemates, Colin Telford, organises legends games, which brings you up against retired lads from other big clubs, and they are worth a few quid. I’m a bit fitter than some of my peers, so I seem to get invited back. It’s taken me to Brunei and Malaysia and places I’d never dreamed of visiting otherwise.

The Manchester United connection still opens doors. Their TV station, MUTV, followed me for a week as part of the documentary to mark the 20-year anniversary of the ‘Class of 92’, and I actually enjoyed it. Self promotion doesn’t sit easy, but to stay in the picture, and keep bringing in cash, I have to put myself out there. My links to Newcastle also help; I’ve done a few gigs back in the North East, including a lively reunion with Tino Asprilla. Blackburn has also thrown up opportunities to catch up with friendly faces. These gatherings follow a similar pattern. We briefly talk about the present and then revert to storytelling mode and delve into the past. The hours fly by.

I signed up to do my coaching badges; it seemed the natural step and Mum and Claire are very keen for me to go down that route, but the experience of the ‘B’ Licence gave me second thoughts. Parts of it were tedious. We’d sit in a classroom, studying what kind of a warm-up should take place every morning before a particular type of session, and I struggled to see the relevance. I’ve worked under some brilliant coaches, and this regimented, boring process didn’t tally with the way I was raised at the Cliff. The top guys, like Brian Kidd, naturally knew how to vary sessions so as to keep players interested. It was instinctive, rather than by a book. People in football have said to me that securing the right coaching qualifications is a bit like the process for a driving licence; you get through it in a particular way and then practice your own ideas.

At Big Mac’s funeral, Ian Stewart from the IFA gave me a pep talk, telling me that we needed more ex-internationals in the system. I said I’d think about it. I guess it’s a bit like the after dinner stuff. You wonder if you have the right personality for it. I’ve seen lads who weren’t the most obvious candidates going into management. Gary Hamilton, my regular drinking partner, surprised everyone by taking a job as player-manager with Glenavon in the Irish League. For his first game, he stood on the sidelines wearing a pair of jeans, doing things his own way. The one thing about dropping down the levels is that it makes you appreciate the experience you’ve gleaned from mixing it with the best. At Longford, I see lads with raw ability making bad decisions, trying a Hollywood pass when a simple ball would do and I think, yeah, the benefit of my experience could bring something. Other days, I think a break from the game would be for the best.

For every retiree that goes into management or media, there’s another who goes off the rails. I hear tales about the exploits of my old team-mates which really make me wonder. By far the most bizarre is Phil Mulryne joining the priesthood. I associate Phil with chaos, the boozing in the West Indies and the no-show before the England game that led to Lawrie throwing him out. Knowing what he was like on nights out, it’s hard to imagine him standing on an altar, preaching to an audience, but that’s the path he’s chosen and good luck to him. He’s found happiness. Many of us never do.

Sometimes, when Madison and Lexie visit, they order me to turn on Sky Plus and go into my saved programmes. They’re always looking for the same thing, a recording of a goal I scored for Sheffield United against Manchester United, a header past Edwin van der Sar in the relegation season. Every single time, they go crazy around the room, screaming as the camera pans in on my celebration.

I hope they’ll still be as proud of their Dad when they’re older.

Things are better with Vikki now. She appreciates what Claire does with the girls when they’re in Northern Ireland and she’s invited her to come over to England with Nico and me for a visit. Madison and Lexie love their little brother too; it’s great that everybody can get along, so I don’t have that pressure of worrying about the phonecalls, thinking that I want to ring the girls but feel Claire won’t like to hear me speaking to Vikki. Now, I can sit and have a chat with Vikki with Claire sitting next to me. It’s eased a lot of the pressure.

I still have bad days, where I think it would be so much easier if I had the means to live more comfortably. The logistics of getting the girls over to Northern Ireland can be hard if it’s around a Longford match. I’ve got to fly over, pick them up, get a flight back with them and then, after a week, go through the reverse journey. The schedule seems to mean I’m always on the red-eye flights; it’s cheaper. Here’s a typical example:

I had a game down in Wexford, in the south-east of the Republic, on a Friday night, when the girls were due back in England on the Saturday morning. I was sent off, which didn’t help my mood, and then by the time I made it back to Bangor, it was 2.30am. I was up at 4.30am to get the girls dressed and ready for the airport and a 6.15am flight. The only option available for my return was at 6.55pm in the evening so, after Vikki picked Madison and Lexie up, I retired to the airport terminal for an 11-hour wait. If you ever need advice on a good place to sleep in Stansted Airport, I’m your man. The evening flight always goes from the same gate, which is deserted during the day, so I make my way down there and stretch out, waiting for the time to pass. I bring a book sometimes, I’ve become a fan of the author, Stephen Leather, who specialises in crime thrillers. I read them between naps in my own little prison, as the minutes towards departure slowly tick down. There was more to do in Sangonera.

I feel guilty for complaining because I love every minute with the girls. When I set eyes on them after a break, and Lexie runs towards me with a smile and hug, I forget everything that’s wrong. What I hate is losing quality time from their trips because of the stress of making sure everything runs smoothly. Sometimes, we fly from Dublin because quite often the easyJet fares from Belfast are impossible to justify with my cashflow. With another mouth to feed, I have to shop around for value. Every penny counts.

I don’t have time to gamble anymore; I flick through the racing pages now.

On Saturdays, I still like to do a football accumulator and maybe a few quid on the golf as well, but it’s only small money. I never received any treatment for my betting habit, so I can’t describe myself as a reformed gambler. I just grew out of the madness; it’s unsustainable. Claire will never allow me to go down that road again.

I have to do the right thing by my kids now, and that’s going to colour all my future decisions. There’s plenty of people around me to help; Mum, Dad, Angela and Heather all live within a two-mile radius and Claire’s family are close by too. As much as I like being based in Northern Ireland, I can’t say for certain that I’m going to live there forever. I’ll have to go wherever the work is. But for Nico’s sake, it would be good to have stability. Before I know it, he’ll be old enough to pose questions too, wondering about what his Daddy used to do.

People assume that I’m weighed down with regrets, and it might sound like a contradiction when I say that I’m not. Heck, I’ve made so many mistakes, done so many stupid things. Trusted the wrong people, ignored the right ones. And I’ve still got a lot of talking to do to sort my head out. I’ve mastered the art of self deprecation; I can go on a stage and talk about how my big money move to Newcastle was good news for me and better news for the bookies and people laugh. If that’s how I’m to be remembered, then so be it.

I am proud of my football career though. I’ll tell Nico that. I was able to pull on the shirt of some huge clubs, alongside great players, under a selection of the biggest names and best managers the game has ever seen.

Maybe I didn’t meet other people’s expectations but when I was kicking a ball around Northern Ireland as a kid, I didn’t have any. I just wanted to play.

Life’s easy when you’re running around a field with a ball at your feet. Figuring out what I’m going to do without it will be tough, but I’ve got to find a way. The most important people in my life are depending on it.

I’m not there yet. There’s no simple way of signing off this story. Phil can keep me asking the same question the same day of the week. Chances are, I’ll give him a different response every time.

The gameplan?

Don’t have one. Not sure that I ever did.

What happens now?

Honestly, I haven’t got a clue.