Pat Van Den Hauwe

by Pat Van Den Hauwe

  I sincerely hope, from the bottom of my heart, that it was my views that cost him that job!

  18

  UNSUNG HEROES

  A few years ago, I was sitting in the garden, enjoying the South African sunshine, when I received a phone call from none other than my old drinking partner Graeme Sharp, who was calling on behalf of Everton Football Club … inviting me to attend a dinner.

  ‘Fuck me,’ I thought, ‘they must be short of guests if they have to invite an ageing ex-full-back who hasn’t set foot in the place for nearly 20 years to sit round a table with them for dinner.’

  Sharpy went on to explain that it was a reunion to celebrate the 25th anniversary of the club’s greatest-ever season, and I was obviously an integral part of the original line-up. I explained to my old mate that it was highly unlikely that I would be able to attend as, unlike him, an ex-player who had stayed involved in the game and saved a few quid over the years, I was on the bare bones of my arse. And there was another minor issue – I no longer possessed a passport!

  Graeme explained in greater detail that the club were prepared to fly me over and put me up in a hotel for a couple of nights if I’d agree to attend, so I told him I’d run it past the missus, try and get myself a passport and let him know. I then received a call from a Mr Andy Nicholls who introduced himself as a Sports Promoter. He told me he was mates with Sharpy and that Graeme had mentioned I was thinking of attending the reunion dinner. He then said that if I did come over, he could get me some work at some smaller dinners and introduce me to a few autograph dealers who, he claimed, would pay me decent money to sign memorabilia for them.

  I thought this bloke was winding me up – why would anyone want me to sign a few pictures or shirts? Why would people want to pay to sit in a room and listen to tales of my time at Everton? Andy assured me that it was no wind-up and I agreed in theory that, if the club would sort my flight out to the main function, that I would meet him there and discuss some of his ideas in more detail.

  I managed to get myself a passport, the club sorted my flight and, during this time, I kept in touch with Sharpy and Andy who both tried to convince me that the fans at Everton would be happy to see me and that I could also earn a few quid while I was back in the UK. I was unconvinced; it was years since I had played for Everton and, although I had a great relationship with them in the mid-to late 1980s, this was 2010, a new generation of fans were now watching the team and I thought they idolised superstars like Tim Cahill, not ex-pros like myself.

  I’ll be honest and admit that I was worried that nobody would even remember who I was and that I would look a fool at the events. At one point, I thought of backing out and letting them down with some excuse. That was not me, so I nervously caught the flight as arranged and set off to meet my old team-mates and fans – if any turned up.

  I am so glad I made that trip, as there is a reasonable chance that it could have turned my life around. It was years since I had flown and the flight from Cape Town to Amsterdam was uneventful; that was the only part of the trip that was, though. We landed at Schiphol Airport and I followed the crowd through passport control and out of the arrivals lounge and, within a minute, was out in the streets of the Dutch capital! I was like a first-time tourist and it took me about half-an-hour to explain to the security police that I should not have left the building but gone to another terminal for my connecting flight. Eventually, they believed me, and I was allowed back in and shown to my departure gate like a little lost child.

  I landed in Manchester and, after a few minor hitches, checked in at the Hilton Hotel near the Albert Docks in Liverpool city centre. The place was unrecognisable to me as the docks I remembered was a run-down area full of dodgy dealers and street corner pubs; the place now looked like a little London, it was superb.

  One by one, the lads arrived – Sharpy, Howard, Bails, Inchy, Peter Reid, Trevor Steven … until there were about a dozen of us doing as we had done all those years ago when we played together, talking bollocks and getting pissed. It was like I had never been away!

  It was a night I will take to my grave; we had a superb time and I was thrilled to have been given the opportunity to attend. On the day of the major event, the rest of the squad arrived, although it was disappointing that Kevin Ratcliffe, Neville Southall and Andy Gray were unable to attend for one reason or another. I was especially sorry that Andy could not make it due to Sky TV commitments. He was at a game in Germany the following day and sent his apologies, but Germany is only two hours away, tops. I think if he knew what kind of a night we were going to have, he’d have told his bosses at Sky to sort it for him. Either way, he was sadly missed, as were Ratcliffe and Southall.

  Still suffering from hangovers, we were transported to the venue, a superb arena a few minutes’ drive from the hotel and ushered into a private area for some club photos. After about half-an-hour, a bloke who I thought was Howard’s minder came into the room with my old gaffer, and Sharpy introduced him to me as the Sports Promoter Andy Nicholls. Within seconds, the Everton security bosses were over and politely asked Andy to leave, and then Sharpy explained a bit about my new agent and it was colourful stuff to say the least. As Kevin Ratcliffe was not in attendance, a club official asked me if I’d lead the team into the main arena and take the Cup Winners’ Cup with me. I’m a shy bloke, but it was too good an opportunity to miss, so I happily agreed.

  What hit me next still brings tears to my eyes. The doors were opened, ‘Z Cars’ began playing and every one of the 2,000 guests rose to their feet to greet ‘The Boys of ’85’. If I could bottle that moment and keep it for ever, I would. I nearly backed out of the trip thinking nobody would know who I was; I was wrong and was mobbed from one end of the room to the stage in scenes that money simply could not buy. The warmth and affection shown to me and the lads that night was truly heart-warming. We were treated like gods by an adoring public; it was awesome, truly awesome.

  The night came and went. I was asked to go on stage and say a few words, but was unable to. Anyone there disappointed by my lack of participation, please accept my apologies; I couldn’t take to the stage for any other reason than I was too emotional. I had been away too long, I had never said goodbye and had I gone on stage that night, I would have broken down in tears, such was the effect the initial reception had had on me.

  I was due to fly back the following day but, after Andy had sold me a few of his ideas, the club kindly agreed that they would extend my stay and I was given another week to enjoy the kindness and affection that only Evertonians can give to their former players. I quickly checked out of the posh hotel – they are nice but are not for me – and I was soon settled in my old friend John Smith’s house a few miles from town. I then began catching up with mates in drinking holes I had not had the pleasure of visiting for far too long.

  I was so lucky that, on the Saturday, Everton were at home to West Ham and I was a guest on the pitch at half-time where, once again, the reception I was given brought tears to my eyes. I visited lounges, met the fans and numerous ex-players and, to a man, every single person I met made me realise that I was a member of a truly remarkable family called Everton.

  During the week, I attended a few question and answer nights at various supporters’ clubs and pubs and was amazed at the reception I was given. I signed so much memorabilia that my right hand had not been so sore since I was living with Mandy Smith! The night before I was due to fly home, I went to a function on the Wirral that was jam-packed and I was sad to say goodbye to everyone. I had been treated superbly but left knowing that it would not be too long before I was back.

  When we met, Andy had given me a copy of his own autobiography – Scally – which, after a few chapters, explained why the Everton security guards were not too keen on him. He also told me that a publisher he knew would love to have a chat about the possibility of putting my story into print.

  As I mentioned during the introduction to this book, I had previously written my memoirs with a m
edia friend in South Africa, but the completed manuscript was not really what I wanted, so it never saw the light of day. I wanted my autobiography to be as colourful as my life had been, and was convinced by Andy that it would be if the people he knew were involved in its publication.

  Within five months, I was back in the UK and did a mini-tour of sports evenings while spending every day working on the book. Once again, I had a great time as John, Andy and the Bennetts made sure there was never a dull moment for the duration of my stay.

  One day, I was taken to meet Frank Bruno and my old mate from London, Nobby, joined us for the day. Nobby was a highly-respected member of the Krays’ firm in the 1960s and had more tales to tell about fighting than Frank did, although his did not involve gloves and boxing rings.

  To cap it all, we spent a day in London when I met up with my beautiful daughter Gemma and went on to meet my old boss Terry Venables. Tel is a very busy man but took time to meet myself and Andy with my old pal Nick Trainer, when he offered to help in any way he could with this book. I am not ashamed to say that when I left that meeting, I had a tear in my eye, such was the affection and respect that Terry showed me that day.

  Once again, I took in a game during my trip and was one of many who had no doubt left their seats and were in the bars around Goodison when Mikel Arteta scored the injury-time equaliser against Manchester United.

  So I left and flew back to South Africa knowing I would be back soon, as the book deal was sorted and we had a release date to aim for. I had been treated so well that I felt I needed to let people back home in Cape Town know that I was part of such a fantastic family, so the day before I departed, I booked an appointment in a tattooist’s and proudly had the slogan ‘Nil Satis Nisi Optimum’ etched deep into my skin across the top of my back.

  The first launch of this book coincided with the anniversary of the last time Everton won the League Championship. It is hard to believe that it’s over 25 years ago since that crazy day in Norwich when my winning goal clinched the title. So much has happened to me during that time, but it’s a moment I think of every day of my life.

  How times have changed – I can’t believe that Everton are now a club that struggles to compete with the likes of Stoke and West Brom in the transfer market, when the likes of Liverpool, United and mega-rich Chelsea and Manchester City can go out and buy any player who takes their fancy.

  I’m not one for pointing the finger at certain individuals, but surely there are people out there who would buy such a fantastic club? I was only at Everton Football Club for five years and, although I have the utmost respect for the fans of every club I have ever played for, I see myself as an adopted Scouser and a true Evertonian. I hope that, after reading this book, you can understand my reasons for leaving, a move that I still, to this day, regret.

  The late, great Alan Ball, a true Everton legend, was once quoted as saying, ‘Once Everton has touched you, nothing will ever be the same.’ He is right – only people who have been part of this superb club and forged a relationship with you, the fans, could understand what Alan meant. I have and I do, and I know now that, from the minute I walked away from Goodison Park, football was never the same. I thank you all from the bottom of my heart for buying this book but, more importantly, for allowing me to be a member of this very special family.

  The Everton family … my Everton family.

  Epilogue

  BOYS DON’T CRY

  On Sunday 27 November 2011 I was feeling good! I’d just finished my daily gym session and was sitting outside a bar in Cape Town drinking fresh orange – yes, fresh orange, no vodka in it! I was admiring the fine scenery and thinking about how my life was back on track when, like so many people that day, I was hit with a bombshell. My phone went and I answered a call from Lynne Smith who gave me the tragic news that Gary Speed had taken his own life.

  I never knew Gary personally, but like the majority of ex-footballers from my era I knew that when we were coming to the end of our careers the man was making a name for himself and was destined for the top. He succeeded and had a great career, and at the time of his death seemed to have turned Welsh football fortunes on the pitch upside down. That took some doing, believe me.

  Lynne told me that Gary had apparently hung himself and I was shocked and saddened that a man who seemingly had so much to live for had taken his own life. The rest of the conversation was irrelevant and as soon as the call ended I wept. They weren’t crocodile tears for Gary – like I said, I never knew him. I wept because the sad news reminded me that just a few weeks before I had been about to do the same thing – kill myself.

  I’d thought about ending it all years ago, and you’ll have read about how Mick McCarthy and a few of the Millwall lads once talked me out of jumping off a bridge into the Irish Sea on a pre-season tour. That was a cry for help; I was still playing football and although I was depressed that my career was coming to an end, I was still young enough to maybe make something out of my life. Even though at the time I was doing everything possible to fuck it up.

  Now it was 2011, I was in my fifties, and I had been waiting eagerly for my PFA pension to mature. It would give me the opportunity to pay off my debts and maybe open up a business or something like that to keep me busy and earn a few quid to see me through to retirement. I’ll be honest and admit that when I was playing I never even looked at tomorrow, let alone the future; I lived and played for the hour, not the day! I did pay into the pension fund, though, so I assumed that when the time was right I’d have a lump sum to kick-start a few ideas I’d put together.

  When the cheque eventually landed, I was distraught. I’d heard about pension funds losing value but without going into detail what I got was heartbreaking. I did a few calculations and it didn’t take Einstein to help me realise that I was floating down Shit Creek with no boat, never mind a paddle!

  I gave up – threw the towel in, if you like. Enough was enough. I took the decision to commit suicide, but this time I didn’t tell anyone how I felt. I simply went to the bank, where I cashed my cheque and paid some bills. With what was left I bought a crate of whisky, enough sleeping pills to send a hippo to the land of nod and a Stanley knife. Then I checked into a local B&B and began the countdown.

  This was no cry for help; I’d had enough and could take no more. I was as low as I’d ever been – even after my playing days were over, even after all the shit with Mandy had ruined my life, even after I’d blown my last wages on cocaine. Getting that paltry sum of pension money had tipped me over to the point of no return.

  I wrote a few letters to the people closest to me and decided that I’d have a week in the B&B, binge on the whisky, and on the Saturday night when the last bottle was drained I’d take the pills, use the tool and get myself out of the lousy existence I was leading. I had only myself to blame.

  Things were so bad in my head that I was ticking off the days on the wall of the poxy bedroom I was crashing in. It may seem selfish – there were people who were probably worried sick where I was – but I’d gone, I’d lost it and nothing in my own mind could convince me I had anything left worth living for. I was beating myself up inside. The good times, the Cup Finals, the medals, the money, the birds and the so-called fame all seemed to be wiped out by the bad times. I once had everything, but now it was just me, the last two bottles of whisky from the crate, a load of sleeping pills and fuck-all else apart from memories. Most of them made me weep.

  I was waking up, taking a drink, and sleeping until my next craving stirred me. Then the door came in and two men, who I owe my life to, dragged me out of bed, tidied me up and frog-marched me to one of their houses to begin yet another chapter of my madcap crazy life. Emil Brice and Hendrick Human both owned gyms in town that I occasionally used, and they had been looking for me since my wife had said I’d gone AWOL. Luckily for me they tracked me down with a day to spare; I had one bottle left and was one tick on the wall away from ending it all.

  For days they kept watch, looking
after me and talking to me. That was the important thing, talking. I’d tried to hide everything away; I was ashamed of myself and was forever beating myself up inside, but still I’d put on a brave face to hide how I really felt. They got me back in the gym and to this day I don’t miss a session and am as fit as I ever was.

  Thanks to Emil and Hendrick I am still here to tell you how low I had fallen, how depressed I was, how lonely I felt. Sadly many people who may also have experienced these lows – including Gary Speed – are not.

  If any good can come from Gary’s death it’s the fact that it seems to have raised awareness into how people who seem to have everything can still be prone to manic depression. I later read in the Daily Mail that Dean Windass tried to commit suicide and I’m sure there are many other ex-players who, when they hang up their boots and the money drains away as quickly as their so-called friends, have also considered taking the most drastic way out there is.

  I also read an article by Allison Pearson in the Daily Telegraph that tried to highlight how prone men are to suicide. The figures are disturbing.

  Men are hopeless at depression, but they are terribly good at suicide. That is what the sad statistics tell us. One in every 100 deaths is the result of what Hamlet called self-slaughter, and the vast majority who die that way are male.

  Hanging is not a cry for help. It’s the opposite. Decisive, quick, resolutely masculine. An exit that brooks no argument, no pleas to think again. Small wonder [Gary] Speed’s death has caused such widespread bewilderment and anguish. A distraught Alan Shearer asked, ‘Why, Speedo? Why didn’t you give me or one of your other close mates a ring if you were feeling so bad?’ His agent, Hayden Evans, went so far as to assert: ‘Gary did not suffer from depression and he was happily married.’