Pitch Black (11 page)

Like many Caribbean parents, Mrs Canoville was uninterested in football, and wanted her son to be a policeman or a solicitor, but all Paul was interested in was football. He eventually signed for non-league Hillingdon Borough at the age of sixteen, where the youth team manager, Colin Barnes, was extremely patient and supportive. Canoville was an erratic trainer, frequently missing sessions for no apparent reason. Barnes took a fair amount of stick from other players and their parents as they complained about Canoville’s preferential treatment. However, Barnes’s faith was rewarded, as Canoville soon progressed to the first team. Before his first-team debut for Borough, he was taken by the first-team manager, Alan Patterson, to Spurs legend Steve Perryman’s sports shop. Canoville owned a pair of cheap Winfield boots, which were Woolworths’ own brand. They were horrible and plastic and unbecoming of a semi-professional footballer. He was invited to select a nice pair of kangaroo leather Patrick boots costing £75. Quite a sum in 1978.

He progressed well and began to make a name for himself. After trials at West Brom, Wimbledon and Southampton, Chelsea invited him for a week’s trial, and then another week, after which he signed in November 1981. He was nineteen.

He couldn’t believe his new life as a professional footballer. Playing in the Football Combination, the reserve team league for southern teams, he was enjoying life. A physio would give a pre-match rub to anyone who wanted one, he had his kit and boots laid out and he was doing well, scoring goals and getting Man of the Match awards aplenty. After three months or so, he was told he had been selected as substitute for the first team, away at Crystal Palace. He was going to make his debut. Beside himself with excitement, he
told friends and family to come down to Selhurst Park to cheer him on. Travelling on the team coach to the game, it was only the second time he’d ever been on a coach, and this one had tables, table lamps and toilets.

The game was tight and goalless; Canoville was itching to get on: ‘I was looking at the right-back, thinking, if I get on, I’m roasting him.’ In the Palace side that night was one Vince Hilaire. In the second half, Chelsea manager John Neal instructed Canoville to warm up, as he was going on. This was it, the moment he’d dreamed of for as long as he could remember, the moment he’d acted out in scores of games in the street and in the park. As he went through his routine, he heard it, the sickening abuse and monkey chants. ‘OK, this is how it goes on at Selhurst Park,’ he tried to tell himself. He began to get increasingly upset, turned round to look at who the protagonists were and, in a state of utter disbelief, realised it was his own supporters. ‘I was completely gobsmacked. I had to look again, is that Chelsea? … And it was Chelsea fans. I was lost, didn’t move from the side, just wanted to get off, when I got the ball, I gave the ball straight back, I just wanted the whistle to blow.’

That night he didn’t remember getting home, so affected was he by his experience. His debut had been one to remember, but for all the wrong reasons. He’d dreamed of getting on and making an impact on the game, scoring the winner and milking the adulation of his teammates and the supporters, but it had been the stuff of nightmares.

The pattern had been set and it was to continue in that vein. Over the next few weeks he began to get more time and get more starts, but the treatment of the nineteen-year-old continued. Every time he touched the ball, he was booed and abused by Chelsea fans. When the team was announced
just prior to the start of a game, tradition dictated that each member of the starting XI would be cheered when their name was announced. Canoville’s name was always booed. In the match programme, each player had their kit sponsored by local companies or individuals. Canoville never had his kit sponsored, and when he scored against arch rivals Fulham, the Chelsea fans said his goal didn’t count. He received razor blades in the post as well as death threats and hate mail. He took to waiting two or three hours after a game before he left for home, pulling his cap over his head to avoid being recognised. He also took the Tube to and from games and was once handed an NF leaflet on match day by a Chelsea fan, who hadn’t recognised him as he emerged from Fulham Broadway Tube on his way to the ground to play.

Furthermore, he was deeply isolated in the dressing room. For a long time nobody ever really spoke to him, except for the pre-game call to arms: ‘Come on, Canners, do it today, come on.’ He had no one to speak to and was forced to carry this on his own. The club did nothing by way of a response, possibly too scared to take on the racists or too indifferent to the welfare of one of their valuable assets.

His first season was daunting, but he’d done reasonably well. The following season, Chelsea had signed Pat Nevin and Kerry Dixon and, on the pitch, things started falling into place. The worst away grounds to visit were Upton Park and Millwall. He once played at Millwall in a cup game and in the line-up for Millwall was John Fashanu. As well as the usual racist abuse, they suffered intimidation and threats of violence. In the away dug-out, Canoville sat in such a way as to keep one eye on the hostile crowd, for fear someone would get over the fence and attack him. On leaving the
ground, a group of Millwall fans had chased some of the Chelsea players, who had to flee to the comfort of their transport. On another occasion, they had played Millwall in a reserve game and amongst the sparse crowd on the terraces were three Millwall supporters with pillow cases on their heads. Stewards, and indeed any other officials from the club, failed to challenge them or ask them to remove their headgear. Canoville was incensed. He was flying erratically into tackles, such was his anger. The referee had to tell him to calm down or he would be sent off. He was eventually substituted, in order to protect opposition players from serious injury.

Towards the end of the season, and with Chelsea chasing promotion, they visited Selhurst Park again to take on Crystal Palace. The abuse was as bad as the previous season but the result this time was different. Once again, Canoville had come on as substitute to be greeted by the now familiar though no less sickening abuse. Ironically, the black Palace players had not been abused as badly as Canoville by the Chelsea crowds. Canoville set up a late winner, which Nevin scored in a 1–0 victory for Chelsea. The game had been broadcast on TV and, as Nevin had scored the winner, the programme was keen to interview him about his goal and the game itself. However, Nevin didn’t want to talk about the game. Post-match interviews usually consist of hackneyed sound bites and stock clichés. In this one interview, though, Nevin used the airtime to express his disgust at the actions of the fans and the racist booing of Canoville.

A significant minority of Chelsea fans had conducted an orchestrated campaign to drive Canoville away from the club. While the abuse of black opposition players was routine at Stamford Bridge, they saved their most ardent, most
passionate and fervent abuse for their own player. Many had far-right affiliations and sympathies and there were regular chants of ‘Sieg Heil’ and Nazi salutes on display within the Chelsea support, which increased every time Canoville was in possession or came on as substitute. Black players at the time could not have expected to speak out against racism, given that this would have left them open to accusations of a lack of mental fortitude. Nevin’s intervention, freed as he was from such baggage, was nonetheless a brave stand. The subject of racism was never spoken about and rarely discussed, certainly not publicly, and the issue was very rarely acknowledged in media circles during the mid-1980s. As Paul Davis pointed out, there were no forums, no Kick It Out campaigns and no networks in which black players could get advice, so they had to go it alone. The campaign to drive Canoville out of the club was sustained and went unopposed until Nevin made a stand; it is to Canoville’s credit and strength of character that he continued to play. There were many times when he considered whether it was all worth it and, ultimately, what was to keep him going was his love of the game.

One of football’s unwritten rules is that criticism of fans by players, chairmen or managers is taboo. Nevin’s bravery in breaking one of football’s reverential taboos, and doing so in such an unapologetic manner, marked the first time any player, black or white, had made such a public stand against racism. A stand that should have been made by the clubs’ hierarchy had instead been made by one of its star performers. Nevin’s speech hadn’t been contrived or pre-meditated and he hadn’t spoken to Canoville or any other member of the team.

The club was now shamed into taking some kind of action. Anti-racist statements and notices threatening to
impose bans on supporters for racist abuse began to appear in match-day programmes, although these threats were never carried out. In the hospitality and post-game players’ lounges, some fans began to express a degree of shame for the behaviour of the Chelsea support and let it be known to Canoville that not all Chelsea fans were like the ones who abused him. While Nevin’s stand was welcome in that Chelsea were finally forced to admit they had a problem at their ground, Canoville still felt a deep sense of isolation in the dressing room.

His friends, including his childhood pal the comedian Geoff Schumann, had explained how he’d made a lot of black people stronger, but although this gave him a degree of comfort, he was a footballer and not a politician and he still had to go it alone. It would be two and a half years before other black players, like Keith Jones and Keith Dublin, came into the first team. In that time, he would also have to challenge racist banter in the dressing room. He found that players from London, who had gone to school and grown up with other black people, had a practical, concrete understanding of racist behaviour and its taboo nature and impact. Commentators from today who recall racism within the game in the 1970s and ’80s often give the impression that racism was acceptable as well as accepted, but this was far from the case. Other players in the dressing room who were from outside London and other large urban centres, or who, unlike Nevin, did not find racism loathsome, had to be challenged. Racist behaviour would often be carried out under the auspices of banter.

Promotion brought the club and Canoville bigger stages to play on. One of the highlights was playing at Anfield. He got to touch the famous ‘This is Anfield’ sign, and was amazed
at the great atmosphere; although he found it intimidating, the ground was free from racism.

He also recalled a game at Arsenal. He’d not long moved to Hackney and many of his friends were Arsenal fans. With several of them in the crowd at Highbury, and up against England right-back Viv Anderson, Canoville played well. Tracking Anderson’s forays forward and causing him all manner of problems when he got the ball, it was a great personal performance.

However, things were beginning to change off the pitch. John Neal had retired, citing ill health, and John Hollins had been appointed as manager and had brought along Ernie Walley as his no. 2. Walley had been in charge for six games at Crystal Palace and had brought Jerry Murphy with him. While Murphy had a fantastic left foot, he didn’t track back and didn’t beat anybody: in short, he wasn’t as good as Canoville. As a favourite of the new management team, however, Murphy was ahead of Canoville in the pecking order.

Canoville considered Walley a poor coach who masked his inadequacies by acting as some kind of drill sergeant. His attitude alienated the players, and results began to suffer. For Canoville, there was also a stalemate over a new contract, and a combination of this and a serious incident involving racist abuse from a teammate would usher in the end of Canoville’s career at Chelsea.

At the start of the 1986/87 season, the team had gone to Wales for pre-season training and on the last night a 9 p.m. curfew had been imposed by the overbearing Walley. Canoville hadn’t gone out, preferring to stay in the hotel and play cards with some of the younger players. Outside the room, they suddenly heard a commotion: Ernie Walley was severely reprimanding three individuals who had broken the
curfew. Giggling as they listened from their room, they heard Walley laying into the three in his usual hectoring style. Lecture over, Walley left and, still laughing, Canoville opened the door to their room, stepped into the corridor and said to them, ‘Bwoy, you get a right tellin’ off innit.’

One of the three latecomers, who would later be known for making racist remarks, said to Canoville, ‘What you laughing for, you black cunt? Shut up.’ Canoville was amazed.

In those circumstances, given a night to reflect on the incident and assess the situation, the sensible strategy from Canoville’s teammate would have been to apologise for the drunken outburst. Pride may dictate that an apology is a step too far, in which case quietly pretending the incident never happened and hoping that it will never be spoken of again is the usual strategy adopted in these circumstances. However, Canoville’s teammate had other ideas.

The rumours were true. While Canoville was eating breakfast, his racist teammate, brandishing a golf club, attacked him in the canteen. Canoville had been ready for him, so fortunately he managed to escape with only a glancing blow to his shoulder, while at the same time landing a few telling blows of his own. It was Walley who pulled Canoville away from his attacker.