How NOT to be a Football Millionaire - Keith Gillespie My Autobiography (4 page)

My own form dipped after Christmas. I don’t know why. Right midfield was a confidence position. I always found the first couple of minutes in a game to be the most important. If you get on the ball early and roast the full-back, you’re off to a flier. I started to find it difficult. Rather than bollock me, Eric was decent about it. He took me aside and told me not to stress, saying that it was common for a lad my age to go through a sticky patch.

There was so much quality in the ranks that I knew I would suffer for it. Sure enough, my difficulties opened the door for others. Becks, who was still developing physically, was taken out of centre midfield and placed on the right. Simon Davies joined Butty in the engine room, with Ben ‘Squeaky’ Thornley raiding the left flank.

The focal point of our campaign was the FA Youth Cup and, after booking a place in the semi-final against Spurs, Eric went with those four in midfield. Scholesy wasn’t even considered ready for the bench at that stage. That was a good Spurs team, with Sol Campbell, Nick Barmby and Darren Caskey in their ranks, but they were no match for us.

A two-legged final with Crystal Palace was the reward. I was so out of sorts that I didn’t even make the squad for the first leg in London which was nearly postponed due to a downpour in the hours before the game. Instead, I was in Manchester making up the numbers for the reserves, when the news came through that the boys had won 3-1.

Eric put me on the bench for the second leg at Old Trafford, which attracted a crowd of almost 15,000 people. Giggsy, who had been drafted in for the cup games to further strengthen Eric’s hand, was already comfortable in that kind of arena. For the majority, the occasion was a new experience, both frightening and exciting at the same time. I was brought on as a sub in a 3-2 win on the night [6-3 on aggregate] and the buzz of being involved made up for the disappointment of the previous months. The reassuring words from Eric had removed any trace of worry anyway.

Giggsy lifted the trophy, and the ‘Class of ’92’ danced around the pitch like idiots, drunk on the feeling of achievement. It was the start of something special.

5

Stepping Up

THERE was always a strict door policy at the first-team dressing room in the Cliff. Young players went in there to clean but never to change.

The tradition was that you served your time before graduating to the big boys’ area. I wasn’t at the club long enough to make that leap.

Even when I became a part of the first team picture, I checked in at the reserves’ room across the corridor because I wasn’t established enough. The pegs on the main dressing room wall were highly sought after. Even when Giggsy broke through, it took him a few years to get one.

As much as the senior pros at the club were supportive of Fergie’s Fledglings, the invisible barrier preventing a youngster from changing with the top men every morning was a reminder that a season or two in the first team didn’t constitute making it. Still, when I reported back for my second year as a professional footballer in the summer of 1992, it became apparent that the Youth Cup-winning team were going to be spending more time around the elders. I was back in form – an end of season tour to Switzerland had got me back on track – and as a final-year apprentice, now was the time to impress Alex Ferguson. I got the chance when I arrived for training one morning and Eric simply said: “You’re in with the first team today, Keith.”

After admiring from afar, I was suddenly in the mix. Brian Kidd ran the session, and I was desperate to show I belonged. I started off afraid of giving the ball away, but I was a player who had to take risks and eventually I was able to relax in some illustrious company.

There was a real sense of purpose around the club. Foreign signings Peter Schmeichel and Andrei Kanchelskis were settling into their second full seasons, Paul Ince was growing into the midfield general role, while Paul Parker, Steve Bruce, Gary Pallister, and Denis Irwin were a rock solid and settled back four. With Giggsy getting better, Mark Hughes and Brian McClair providing goals, and a production line of talent, the vibes were good.

Gaz and Becks made first-team appearances in September. Gaz in a UEFA Cup tie at home to Torpedo Moscow, and Becks in a League Cup tie at Brighton. The promotions gave all the apprentices something to strive for. The Friday after the second leg of the UEFA Cup tie – which the lads had lost on penalties in Russia – Eric told me that I was training with the first team again, which was unusual considering they were travelling to Middlesbrough afterwards for the following day’s fixture. I guess that was a strong hint. When the session finished, the kitman Norman Davies handed me a tracksuit; an unsubtle way of telling me I was in. I raced back to the digs to pack a bag, and hopped in a taxi to Old Trafford, pausing only to ring home but nobody answered.

I was the only young lad on the trip so I sat up the front and minded my own business, although I couldn’t resist a look around to see what the others were doing. The gaffer was down the back in a card school with Ince, Bruce and Pallister. Paul Parker was forever chatting away on the mobile – he must have owned one of the first ones. Giggsy and a few of the others were listening to music. We reached the hotel and I was put in a room with Darren Ferguson, the gaffer’s son. Darren took a bit of stick from the boys over that, and probably had to prove himself that little bit more, but he’d started that season well until injury checked his progress.

Being stuck with the new guy had its pitfalls for Darren. We came back from dinner to find crushed crisps in our bedsheet and a trail of crumbs all over the floor. Incey and Giggsy, of course.

Incey was the loudest and brashest of the group, with a flash car and his nickname ‘The Guv’nor’ carved into the back of his boots. Luckily, he was able to back it up on the pitch. Darren told me that Incey always answered the phone with a simple one word response: ‘Speak’. When we rang the lads’ room to see if they were the culprits, Incey answered with that very word. After that, all we could hear was the two boys cracking up.

Matchday was about learning the routine. Getting up early for light breakfast, then a long walk before the pre-match meal. Up to the room to change. Down for a team meeting, and then into the bus and off to the game.

I sensed I was only along for the ride. 16 of us had travelled, but only three substitutes were allowed on the bench back then, so I missed the cut along with Neil Webb, an English international. Neil had played well in Moscow, and was pissed off about missing out. Not knowing what to do, I just ended up following him around. He went straight to the players’ lounge and started sinking pints. I was underage, so I just sat there, feeling sorry for an unhappy bloke who I didn’t know that well, and would soon be on his way out of the club.

My next taste of travelling was in December. I didn’t make the subs, but I was sitting unchanged on the bench for a landmark moment – Eric Cantona’s first goal for Manchester United. He was two weeks at the club, and his shock arrival from Leeds had given everyone a lift. Eric oozed charisma. When he walked into a room, heads turned. And when he crossed the white line, regardless of whether it was in training or a match, he was the centre of attention. By no means a shouter. Quiet, actually. But with his swagger, he exuded authority, and led by example. Eric was a serious trainer. Brian Kidd always encouraged people to stay back after training to do some extra ball work, and Eric was always prominent. Incey as well. It was a chance to learn.

The senior lads were always mindful of us, even when it came to the financial side of things. If there were newcomers in a squad who didn’t get stripped, Steve Bruce or Bryan Robson would go to the gaffer asking him to pool any bonus for the game so the young lad could get some of it.

We didn’t immediately warm to everyone. Schmeichel was hard work when we started getting on the bench. The subs had to warm the goalkeeper up, and if you crossed a ball in that went astray, he’d bollock you. Proper pelters at times, which was embarrassing because there were people in the crowd that could hear it. You could hardly turn around and tell him to fuck off. Every time I was named sub, I’d be dreading it, and it was the same for the others. Before every cross, I’d pray that it landed in his hands. He was precious too, any minor knock was a drama. You’d hear grumbles. ‘What he’s done now? Broke his toenail?’ But he was the best keeper in the land, and those annoyances were part of the package.

After spending a bit more time around the set-up, I was gasping for an opportunity. The first game of 1993 was my chance, a Tuesday night FA Cup tie with Bury at Old Trafford. I’d trained with the youth team on the Monday, so assumed I was just being invited along to the pre-match to make up the numbers. Giggsy had been struggling with a knock, but there was no hint that it was anything serious.

The gaffer walked past during the meal and Paul Parker asked if Giggsy was fit. “No,” he replied, “but he can play.” His finger was pointing in my direction.

Some moments live with you for ever. That was such a big thing, so it was a strange way to find out. I didn’t have time to tell anyone. Before I knew it, I was in the dressing room, with my hands trembling, tying up my bootlaces while senior players queued up with words of encouragement. Steve Bruce just told me to play my natural game. Brian McClair only ever really said one thing to me, both then and in the future. “Run fast, score goals.” Choccy was always an odd one. The manager was relaxed, like he generally always was pre-match.

Certainly, there was no reason to be on edge for the visit of Bury, a team from the fourth tier of English football. He was fielding an experienced side with one obvious exception. Look at the names, listed 1-11: Schmeichel, Parker, Irwin, Bruce, Sharpe, Pallister, Cantona, Phelan, McClair, Hughes, Gillespie. I was in good hands. “Just do what you’ve been doing,” he said.

I walked out, had a brief, ‘Wow, what am I doing here’ moment and got down to work. After a few nice early touches to relax, I collected a pass from Mark Hughes, and centred it for Mike Phelan to head the opener. The perfect start. Easy game, this.

We coasted through the rest of the game. Cantona was majestic, although his best piece of advice was from left field. I was running out of the tunnel at the start of the second half when he called me and gestured to take off the black armband we had worn for a bereavement; it was a bit uncomfortable, and I seemed looser without it. Bury weren’t applying much pressure anyway, and I was set for a winning debut whatever happened. But the best was yet to come. Eleven minutes from the end, Eric played me into space and I veered inside and released a tame shot that slipped through the fingers of their keeper, Gary Kelly, and crept over the line.

My heart was still racing at the final whistle. I was just 17, barely 18 months out of school, and a Manchester United fan that had just scored on his debut at Old Trafford. Players I had grown up watching on television were queueing up to offer congratulations. I could have floated back to the digs, but a taxi would have to do.

I rang home to see if they knew and was met with a chorus of screams. My sister had heard on the news that I was in the team, so they were tuned into Radio 5. They were jubilant. Robbie and the lads were delighted for me as well, and said I’d be all over the back pages in the morning. I was sceptical, but was out of bed quicker than usual to find out that the housemates were right. My name was plastered everywhere, accompanied by some nice words from the gaffer, although he pointed out that I could have crossed the ball better and would be back in the youth team at the weekend. Bump.

It was a giddy few days though, a small taste of the trappings of fame. It was the little things. I was wearing Puma boots at the time and, courtesy of their rep Martin Buchan, an ex-United player, a big package arrived at the Cliff with free tracksuits and boots. That was a novelty and so was the attention of autograph hunters. The hours I’d wiled away at school practising my signature finally came in useful.

Later that month, I was given another chance in the next round of the FA Cup when I was summoned from the bench with half an hour left at home to Brighton. It was scoreless when I came on, and the gaffer said I did more in that 30 minutes than in the entire 90 against Bury. Giggsy nicked a winner.

After that, I faded into the background. The business end of the season was approaching and the club was on course to finally be crowned league champions. Cantona was the missing link, the man with the flair to complement a sturdy spine. When nearest pursuers Aston Villa slipped up against Oldham, the title race was over.

The youth team had their own celebration on the night when the trophy was lifted at Old Trafford, but our own year ended in disappointment. Against the odds, Leeds toppled us over two legs in the FA Youth Cup final. We had lost a bit of momentum with the earlier developers spending so much time with the first team and reserves.

Our two-year cycle had ended and I was an apprentice no more. In fact, the change of status was confirmed in the weeks after Bury. The club took the unprecedented step of handing out eight professional contracts in January, shortly before my 18th birthday. Gaz, Becks, Scholesy, Nicky, John O’Kane, Ben Thornley and Chris Casper were the other chosen ones.

We were invited down to Old Trafford to sign a four-year deal worth an initial £230 a week with a £20,000 signing-on fee split into four instalments. It felt like a lotto win.

They said we were the future.

My parents were delighted. In their eyes, it was a reward for all the hard work. I had a secure job, and a wonderful opportunity. The daydreams were closer to reality.

6

Joining The Party

ALL the time, strangers ask me if I am jealous of the boys I came through with at Manchester United who lasted the course and won everything the club game has to offer.

Gaz, Nicky, Becks, Giggsy and Scholesy were key components of the 1999 treble-winning side. Becks became a global superstar and moved on to crack Spain. Gaz eventually became club captain and, along with Scholesy, won the lot and stayed at the club for the rest of his career. Giggsy the same, and he’s still bloody going.

Trust me, I’m not bitter or resentful of their success. I believe I was one of the lucky ones.

Perspective can always be found in the pictures of the teams I grew up with at the Cliff. Every so often, a newspaper will run shots of the Class of ’92 and circle the heads of those who went on to be famous. But what about the others? MUTV ran a documentary to mark the 20-year anniversary of our Youth Cup win, and it made me appreciate my fortune.

Thousands of teenagers have come through the gates of Manchester United with dreams of glory. The vast majority leave without securing professional terms. When I put pen to paper on my contract, I was already ahead of the pack. When I was selected and scored for the senior team, I joined an elite group.

All was good in my world after I signed that four-year deal. For some of my pals, it was a different story. While I was moving up the football world, there was a steady stream of youths going in the opposite direction.

I think back to my first set of dressing room colleagues.

Colin Telford was always struggling with a back problem and was released within a year. Colin McKee made one first-team appearance, had moderate success in Scotland and hung up his boots in 2001. George Switzer, the left-back in the ’92 cup-winning team, was in non-league football two years later.

Football kicks you in the nuts sometimes. A four-year contract was no guarantee of luck. For many, ‘Squeaky’ Ben Thornley was the pick of the crop, a silky left winger with the world at his feet. His knee was destroyed by a tackle in a reserve match in the first year of his deal, and he was never the same.

Chris Casper found opportunities limited at Manchester United, secured a decent move to Reading and was retired by the age of 24 after sustaining a complicated double leg fracture. John O’Kane was a bit too casual and finished in senior football at 28.

Others, like Colin Murdock and David Johnson, stayed in the game for a long time, albeit below the top tier.

The saddest story of all is that of Adrian Doherty, my original housemate from Strabane, who was tipped for the top but never recovered from a cruciate knee problem. He drifted out of the game and tragically died in an accident in Holland in 2000.

Robbie Savage bucked the trend by fighting back from rejection and establishing himself in the Premier League. He rebranded himself as a midfielder at Crewe, attracted the interest of Leicester and went from there. But then, Robbie was always a bit of a one-off.

Football is a selfish game, though. It has to be about number one. After I became a fully-fledged pro, my priority was to avoid falling through the trap door. The boss sent me on loan in the 1993/94 season, and it was a window to a different existence.

Wigan were towards the bottom of the league ladder, near the foot of the old Division Three. The club reckoned that a couple of months there would strengthen me up.

It was an eye-opening experience. Back then, Wigan played out of Springfield Park, an old school terraced ground, in front of a couple of thousand spectators. The surface was good though, which couldn’t be said for all of the grounds I’d visited.

My first game was at Doncaster’s Belle Vue. One of our centre halves was poleaxed and ruptured his cruciate in the first 10 minutes. The tackles were flying in, and I was beginning to wonder if this was a death wish. But it went alright after that. They stuck me up front to utilise my pace, and I scored four goals in eight games, including a couple in a mad win over Chester that was scoreless after 30 minutes and finished 6-3.

I trained with them every day. One of the other lads picked me up from Manchester every morning. It was a no-frills exercise. We travelled on the day of away games rather than going down the night before, so you might be sitting on a bus for five hours, breaking the journey to stop for beans on toast.

Kenny Swain, the manager, looked after me and I realised the benefits of the exercise. Still, I was relieved when the gaffer turned down a request from Wigan to keep me for a third month.

The first team were well on their way to a second successive title. Roy Keane was a significant addition to the dressing room, bringing a bite to both games and training sessions. The Fledglings were mostly confined to the reserves in 1993-94, and provided the core of the team that won the Pontins League.

That summer, the club sent myself, Becks, Gaz, and his younger brother Phil – who the youth coaches were very excited about – off to the US to do some coaching at a kids camp in Santa Barbara around the World Cup. After a few days work, the rest of the trip was a holiday in scorching heat. We joined 93,000 others in the Rose Bowl for the fateful encounter between USA and Colombia. The latter’s Andres Escobar, who scored an own goal, was shot dead upon his return home. Again, perspective was close at hand.

You never know what’s coming next in life. I knew that Mum and Dad had been having issues in their marriage; I spoke to my sisters on the phone all the time, and they informed me there were problems. Being away from home meant that I missed out on it. Still, it was a shock when they told me they were splitting up. It’s a normal thing, it happens – as I would find out later down the line – but it takes a while to get used to it. And it did upset me, although it was much harder for Angela and Heather who saw it develop before their eyes.

There was no big drama; they just grew apart. Mum had become a born-again Christian. Her faith was very important to her; she stopped drinking alcohol and devoted time to the church. Dad was a different type of personality. He liked a drink and a bet. So, they divorced. Mum met a lovely man named Ivor, who I grew very fond of, and Dad eventually settled down with his new partner, Marlene, who I’ve also warmed to. The important thing was that I remained close to both of them. I suppose it was another stage of growing up.

Things were moving fast in Manchester so I didn’t have too much time to dwell on it. When I returned from the US, I moved house. The club wanted the new apprentices to lodge beside the Cliff, so I left Brenda’s and relocated to a different digs in Irlams o’ th’ Height – we called it The Heights – which was around 10 minutes drive away. Colin Murdock moved in as well, which was handy because he owned a car.

Viv, my new landlady, was great. It was a more adult environment. We’d sit and have dinner with her and her partner and just chat away in the evenings. She realised we were young men now, and gave us an extra bit of independence. Within reason, we could do what we wanted. For example, there was no problem if we wanted to bring girls back. That was never an option in Brenda’s, although it wasn’t like I was overcome with offers. You needed a bigger first-team profile for that.

I had started to drink a wee bit, if not excessively. My first proper taste of alcohol was on Manchester United duty as a 15-year-old. I’d been flown in for a game with Colin, and Nicky Butt invited us out to Gorton after. I drank nine cans of Woodpecker cider and threw up all over the back of a cab. That experience scarred me for a while. I drank Bacardi and other stupid stuff until I started going out a bit more regularly, and developed a taste for beer.

The senior players had a good social life. Most Wednesdays and Saturdays, they’d be out and we had a good idea where to find them. Our ambition was always to track Lee Sharpe down. Good things happened if you hung around Sharpey for long enough. He loved a night out – too much as far as the gaffer was concerned – and women adored him. A huge three-storey club called Discotheque Royale was his playground.

We had a little Manchester United ID card that was enough to get us in for free, so I’d go in with the likes of Becks, Colin and John O’Kane. There was a bar out the back of Royales where you’d find a gang of the lads, with Sharpey at the centre of the banter. Giggsy would often be about too.

Women would flock around them, and if you hung about long enough you might get Sharpey’s cast-offs. They wouldn’t have any idea who I was, but probably thought, ‘well, if he’s with Sharpey, he must play as well.’

Our chances, on all fronts, improved at the beginning of the ’94/95 campaign. We drew Port Vale in the League Cup in September, and the gaffer decided to throw us in en masse for the first leg. Gaz, Nicky, Becks, Scholesy, Simon Davies and myself all started the game, and John O’Kane came off the bench. After falling behind early, Scholesy scored twice to take a lead back to Manchester for the second leg a fortnight later which ended in a comfortable victory.

I was taken off with half an hour left, and was disappointed about that until the gaffer stopped me on the sideline and said that I’d be making my Premier League debut at Sheffield Wednesday that weekend.

He kept his word, and gave me the nod for Hillsborough. We lost 1-0, but I was happy with my contribution. Scholesy replaced me with 15 minutes to go. Incey approached me in the dressing room to ask if I’d taken a knock. “No”, I said. “Why the fuck did you come off then?” he replied, shaking his head.

Two quickfire games with Newcastle later that month were the next step. First was a 2-0 League Cup loss on the Wednesday. The atmosphere was incredible; we all talked about it on the way home.

On Saturday, they came to our place in the league. Dad was over for the game with a supporters’ club from Newtownards. My best pal, Jim, had also decided to come across. Neither had any idea I’d be involved. They were in luck.

We were a goal up when I was sent on for Giggsy midway through the second half. Shortly after, I cut inside from the left on a weaving run, threw a few shapes and smashed the ball home. Old Trafford erupted. I don’t remember what the gaffer said after; I think the applause was still ringing in my ears.

That night, in Royales, I got the rock-star treatment. I didn’t need an introduction from Sharpey. I took home a girl whose father I happened to know. He was a wheeler dealer guy from around the club. The phone rang the next morning, and I ran down to get it. The father, was on the other end. “Uh oh,” I thought.

“Is Chantelle there?”

“Yeah, yeah, she’s here...”

“That’s ok, just wanted to make sure she was all right.”

And that was that. I guess a different set of rules applied once you made the breakthrough. Maybe I was son-in-law material.

From that night onwards, I was permanently in contention. I was part of all the squads, with the exception of the Champions League games, where the manager was snookered by UEFA rules that limited him to five non-English players. Two of those had to be assimilated and the club initially thought I met that criteria until it transpired that you needed to be in the country permanently for five years. It cost me a couple of starts, and Becks capitalised. I was in illustrious company, and found myself sitting next to Schmeichel in the stands for the 4-0 thrashing to Barcelona at the Nou Camp. I’m often asked if I saw Alex Ferguson’s hairdryer in full flight. He had a major blow-up with Incey in the dressing room afterwards, but I was already outside, itching to get home. By all accounts, it was an epic argument, although you’d expect some kind of row after a humiliation like that. More significantly, it was a night that made the boss realise what was required to succeed in Europe. In the short term, buying English was his priority.

Another positive of my progression was a full participation in Christmas party festivities. Unfortunately, it didn’t go so well. I was in a group with Roy Keane that enjoyed a few drinks before rocking up to the Hacienda, a legendary Manchester hotspot. They thought we’d drunk too much and wouldn’t let us in. It was all a bit chaotic. Mark Hughes had just been ejected from the premises for saying something to Incey that a bouncer had taken offence to, even though Incey was fine with it.

So, a gang of us were having words with the door staff when, out of nowhere, a fella hopped out of a car, barged into the middle of our group, and started throwing punches. Perhaps he recognised us, but it all happened so quickly that there was no time for introductions. People started weighing in from all sides and I received a ferocious dig that was my cue to leave. I escaped the riot to jump into a taxi.

Viv took one look at me when I arrived in the door and said I’d better go to hospital. Blood was leaking from a wound at the back of my head, and I required a couple of stitches which I tried to disguise at the Cliff. The gaffer knew we had a night out planned and usually heard if there was trouble. Miraculously, the details of our scrap never reached him.

I’d already fallen foul of him earlier in the season. When I was left out of the squad for a home game, I arranged a Friday night out with a few of the lads from Northern Ireland. We met at the Castlefield Hotel and I was carrying a couple of bottles of Budweiser through the lobby when I caught sight of the gaffer. He looked at me and said nothing. I hurried away.

On Monday morning, I was pulled into his office.

“A week’s wages for telling the truth, two for lying,” he said.

“They weren’t my drinks.”

“Ok, two weeks.”

That incident was a minor blip, though, and long forgotten as we entered the festive period well in the title hunt, with Kenny Dalglish’s Blackburn emerging as a strong rival. After sitting out a few matches, I came on at The Dell in a 2-2 draw with Southampton, and was reinstated to the starting line-up for the first game of 1995, the visit of Coventry to Old Trafford.

Scholesy and Cantona scored in a routine win, and I did reasonably well. The gaffer kept me on for the full 90, which was a good sign. If I had known what was coming, I might have taken a few pictures. There was nothing to suggest it was a pivotal moment in my career, but fate had other ideas. Why? Turns out, I had just played my last game for Manchester United.