by Joe Thompson
Chapter 3
Welcome to Manchester
‘WHAT are you looking at you Paki?’ Geography clearly wasn’t my classmate James’s strongest subject and I let him know of his mistake with my fists. We brawled in the school playground in front of a crowd of baying kids before a teacher ran over and brought a premature end to the contest. It wasn’t quite the welcome I’d imagined. I’d been at St Vincent’s Primary School for about three days, but my classmates still greeted me with suspicion. I didn’t look like them and I didn’t sound like them either. There were only two other mixed-race children in the whole school, and they weren’t keen on another two brown boys joining their flock.
A few weeks earlier my heart was beating with excitement as I stepped off the train and into a new world. Manchester felt so much bigger and busier than Bath, as people hurried past clutching their bags and briefcases and headed off on their journeys. I’d visited a few times before during the school holidays but now it was my new home. Niecey had travelled down to Bath to collect me and Reuben and a few of our belongings and taken us back up north on the train. My uncle Peter was waiting for us through the crowds, ready to lead us on our new adventure. We put our bags into the car and then stared wide-eyed out of the windows as we rolled away from the station and the hustle and bustle of the city slowly disappeared into the distance.
It was early May 1997, I was eight years old, and my destination was Rochdale, a small working-class town on the outskirts of the city. With its terraced houses, high-rise flats and streets lined with takeaways, it didn’t have Bath’s good looks, but it made up for it with a rugged charm, and it wasn’t long before I felt right at home. Niecey lived in a small flat above the family paper shop with her two daughters, Lisa and Michelle. They probably weren’t happy that their two little cousins were moving in with them, but they never complained. We squeezed into the three bedrooms, pulled up a couple of extra dining chairs around the kitchen table and made the best of our new surroundings.
The property was on a small estate, which was a little rough around the edges, but it felt sheltered, which we needed after the turmoil of the previous few years. We had a back garden for the first time and lived near a large park, which gave us the freedom to run around and burn off our pent-up energy. It was home for about four months until mum recovered and found a little two-bed terrace for us to live in on a council estate. It was about ten minutes away from Niecey’s paper shop, which was an old-fashioned newsagents and a cherished part of the family. My grandma and granddad had owned it before Niecey and uncle Peter had taken it over. It seemed to stock anything and everything, but most importantly it had a penny mix-up tray. Me and Reuben felt like we were in Willy Wonka’s factory and would often do chores to ensure that we got a few sweets as a reward for our good deeds.
My auntie is the complete opposite of my mum. She’s a sensible soul who goes quietly about her work and likes a simple, peaceful life. Whenever the shit has hit the fan in the Thompson household, which it has done plenty of times over the years, she’s the one who has been there to help and if I’ve ever got a problem I know I can turn to her for advice or shelter, which I needed on many occasions after being thrown out by my mum quite regularly in my late teens over various disagreements and my sarcastic tongue.
Niecey was a teacher at St Vincent’s and carried an air of authority, which meant I did as I was told at all times. Within a few weeks of arriving in Rochdale, she had managed to get us a place at the school and made sure the teachers kept her up to date with our progress and an eye on our behaviour. She needn’t have worried, there wasn’t a chance I’d have crossed her, but unfortunately I couldn’t stop other people from crossing me. The playground was a jungle with its own set of rules, which I struggled to navigate in my early weeks. ‘Nigger’, ‘coon’ and ‘Paki’ were three of the welcoming messages I received from the ringleaders of the concrete tribe, who objected to me joining in. I didn’t get it.
I pleaded my innocence to the teachers and had to ask my auntie to explain what two of the words actually meant. The boys probably didn’t even understand what they were saying, but it opened my eyes to the dangers of ignorance. My daughter Lula is mixed race and I make sure she knows that all humans are born equal, so she doesn’t look at other people and think they’re different because of their skin colour, hair or body shape. Children are born innocent and it’s only when they are exposed to racism and ignorance that they pick up on certain terminology. I think it’s one of the biggest challenges as a parent, giving a child freedom but also trying to protect them.
I was thirsty for acceptance and through sport I was granted it. It was obvious to my auntie that I needed an outlet to release my frustrations, so she started taking me to the local athletics club, Rochdale Harriers. Physically, I was one of the smallest children in my group but I soon found out that I had a talent for middle- and long-distance running. I trained in the evenings during the week, and at the weekend I ran the 600m and 800m races, as well as cross country. I would often leave the other lads my age trailing 50 or 100 metres behind me and soon had a reputation around Greater Manchester as the boy to beat.
Athletics gave me the perfect physical education. In football, if you have a blend of speed and endurance, you have got a massive head start over everyone else. Psychologically, I learnt to shorten my races into chunks so it became more manageable in my head, and it’s the same when you’re playing a game over 90 minutes. If you can chop it up into smaller periods, you can stay focused and stick to a gameplan. I also had another way of mentally zoning out when my legs and lungs were burning as I attacked the hills during cross country and road races. In my head I imagined I was Rocky Balboa running up steps with the theme tune in my head. It was a film my mum had made me watch countless times.
Winning races gave me an identity and also a boost in confidence. My classmates would look at me and say, ‘He’s the one who does athletics, he’s rapid.’ It’s fickle, but the biggest and fastest boys at school are the popular kids and I quickly went from an outsider to someone people wanted to hang out with, and I still hadn’t shown them what I could do with a football. When I arrived in Rochdale I was taken aback by how obsessed people were with football and their local club. It was a tribal mentality I hadn’t experienced before, because there are so many teams in Lancashire and Greater Manchester compared to Somerset. I’d only flirted with football on the park with my friend Quinton back in Bath but that began to change. Slowly but surely, I started to make friends, but inside I still felt there was something missing. Athletics was a very lonely sport and I was only enjoying it was because I was winning. In the car on the way to races I’d struggle badly with nerves. Sometimes I’d be sick because of the pressure I was putting on myself and then almost wee myself on the start line. I felt a longing to be part of something; I wanted to be part of a team.
Our two up, two down was only five minutes away from Rochdale Football Club, but at eight years old I’d barely kicked a football and hadn’t even been to watch a match. My lack of knowledge didn’t put me off and I accepted an invitation to train with the local junior team, in nearby Norden, managed by the dad of one of my classmates. It was within walking distance from home, so my mum didn’t need to worry about picking me up and dropping me off. Money was still tight but she managed to save up enough to buy me some boots. It was a big moment for me and I charged up the road one evening for my first taste of grass-roots football. My team-mates couldn’t believe how fast I was, but I quickly encountered a big problem. I didn’t have a clue about the rules or football tactics, so I was offside all the time. Slowly, my football brain started to develop and before long I’d mastered a simple move: my team-mates would hit the ball over the top and I’d use my pace to run in behind and slot the ball into the net.
At school, my PE teachers noticed that I had a raw talent and took me under their wing. Mr Pegg was a mild-mannered man who suffered with diabetes, which meant he could no longer play football. He lo
ved working with young children and watching them improve. He was the man who gave me a basic understanding of the game. I instantly respected him and felt that the feeling was mutual. He formed a two-man coaching team with Mr Callaghan, who was more of a disciplinarian with a loud voice. With dad out of the picture, they were the first positive male role models I’d had in my life. When you’re a small child you want your mum, but once you’re in school and start playing sport, you crave your dad’s validation. I didn’t have one in my life, so Mr Pegg and Mr Callaghan became the men I wanted to impress.
I’d started football later than a lot of the other lads, but within a few months I was banging in the goals for my local club. I was the best player in my school and often played one or two years up despite my slight build. I loved being part of a team. A pat on the back from my team-mates made me feel 10ft tall.
During my career, the times when I’ve struggled have been when I’ve felt like an outsider and not a key part of the team. Mentally, I can have doubts when I go out on a pitch, so I need encouragement more than you’d imagine. If you don’t know me well, you might think I’m a bit arrogant, but it’s just bravado and a front to give an impression of confidence. Football is all about hiding your weaknesses and exposing the opposition’s. There’s definitely a vulnerability to me as a player and the managers who have understood that are the ones that have got the best out of me.
I’d been playing for less than a year when my team entered a five-a-side tournament in Moston, which pitted some of the best sides in the local area against one another. It was the ideal place for scouts to cast their eyes over hundreds of kids in one afternoon. I remember scoring goals for fun that day, and at the end of it a man called John Cutt approached my mum and coach, Billy Sweetman, and told them he was a scout for Manchester United. He’d been impressed with what he’d seen in the tournament and previous games he’d attended and wanted me to go there for a trial. I didn’t know it at the time, but mum was initially reluctant to let me because she knew the chances of me making it were slim and feared my education would suffer. Luckily, she had a change of heart and realised the structure and discipline of academy football could be good for me if I was successful.
United gave me a six-week trial but saw enough potential to offer me a two-year deal after just three weeks. I felt like I’d been handed one of Willy Wonka’s golden tickets. Mum didn’t drive, so Niecey or a family friend called Jim took me to training on Tuesday and Thursday evenings, as well as my game on a Saturday or a Sunday. It was an incredible time, with the club on the brink of winning the treble. The Class of 92 were in the first team and every young player felt there was a real chance of following in their footsteps. United were also in the process of big changes off the pitch. They were about to sign a multi-million-pound sponsorship deal with Nike, which meant we were kitted out in all the best gear. My first sessions were at the Cliff in Salford before we moved to a brand spanking new base at Carrington. The car park was like football’s equivalent of Hollywood’s Walk of Fame. On the tarmac, the initials of each player were painted in white. I remember spotting DY for Dwight Yorke, AC for Andy Cole and DB for David Beckham. It was surreal that I was training at the same facility as some of the game’s biggest names.
I was given tickets to most home games at Old Trafford, where I realised the type of player I wanted to become. I loved watching Cole and Yorke playing with a smile on their faces. Professional football is a high-pressure environment, but they always looked like they were having a kickabout in the playground. Every weekend they would bamboozle defences with their trademark one-twos and then celebrate in front of the Stretford End. I always try to remind myself that football is fun because once you become a pro and you’re fighting for your place and livelihood every week, it’s easy to think of it as just another job. I quickly fell in love with United, but secretly I was an Arsenal fan because of Thierry Henry and Ian Wright. They were my idols. I loved that they had an air of arrogance and would exchange verbals with the defenders. They both played with real personality, and as a fan of the game I love players who break the mould and go against the grain.
Surprisingly, I didn’t feel pressure when I signed. That might have been because I was so young or maybe I just didn’t completely understand the size of the opportunity I’d been given. Academies are often criticised for sheltering players from reality, but it was one of the best experiences of my life. I worked with brilliant coaches like Paul McGuinness, Tony Whelan, Mark Dempsey and Tommy Martin, who all epitomised what Manchester United were about. There was a real emphasis on learning over results. If we lost a game, it wasn’t the end of the world. They would explain what we’d done wrong or ask us what we felt had happened and then we’d improve. Every couple of months, I had a one-on-one assessment with them. They gave me ratings out of ten for various areas of my game; for example, shooting, dribbling or passing, and then designed various drills, which would target a particular weakness.
United were also keen for us to have a cultural education by exposing us to different football environments. I played tournaments in America, Spain, France and Holland, where we became used to the pressure of playing knockout football and also some of the perks of being a footballer. When we were in Spain, a group of local kids were desperate for our autographs and waited for hours outside our hotel because they thought we could turn out to be stars in the future. We felt like we’d already made it and happily signed their shirts. I was also surrounded by a talented group of boys, who pushed me to become the best I could be. The likes of Tom Cleverley, Danny Drinkwater, Tom Heaton, Danny Welbeck and Danny Simpson, who have all gone on to have successful careers in the Premier League, were in my age group or around it. It’s no coincidence they’ve gone on to have good careers or why so many footballers have either been on trial or spent part of their youth career at United.
It’s fascinating when I look back because those household names weren’t necessarily the best in their age groups. The two outstanding players in my team were Sam Hewson and Febian Brandy. Sam was a Frank Lampard-type player who could run box-to-box for 90 minutes and score goals from midfield. But Febian was the star of the side. He had blistering pace and a bag of tricks to beat players. There were times when we’d just give him the ball and he’d win us games on his own. We played Barcelona in a competition in Tenerife and he was named the tournament’s best player. Barca were keen to sign him but there was no chance of United letting him go. It’s incredible that neither of them went on to have a career at the top level. Febian, who I still keep in contact with, was last playing in Thailand and Sam is at a club in Iceland. It just goes to show that players develop at different rates and ages.
We didn’t just learn by playing, we also improved through observation. From time to time, the coaches would allow us to watch the first team train, so we could see at first hand the level we needed to reach if we were going to make it. What struck me was the focus of the players and the manager, Sir Alex Ferguson. They meant business and the pace was relentless. On one occasion, I stood open-mouthed as I watched Ryan Giggs and Paul Scholes take it in turns to practise their shooting. Both of them had won the Champions League and numerous Premier League titles, but they were being given pointers on how to generate more power by lifting both feet off the floor after striking the ball. Scholes’s finishing was like a highlights reel of his greatest goals. Every strike, with both feet, seemed to pick out the top corner with ferocious power.
The attention to detail of the manager was frightening. We were playing at a tournament in Shelbourne, Ireland, which Sir Alex attended so he could take a look at the club’s next batch of prospects. I can’t believe I did it now, but I tapped him on his shoulder and then darted around the other side so he couldn’t tell it was me. I was trying to amuse my team-mates, but this wasn’t a random bloke in the street, it was the most successful manager in English football. He had eyes in the back of his head and laughed once he caught me: ‘I’ll remember that,’ he said.
A few weeks later, I was walking down a corridor at Carrington when he saw me. ‘You! Come here,’ he said in his Glaswegian accent. ‘Was it you who tapped me on the shoulder?’ I gulped and looked up at him. I couldn’t believe that he’d remembered who I was. ‘I hope you’re as confident on the pitch as you are with your mates,’ he continued. ‘Now go on, get yourself to training.’ Without hesitation or taking a second look back, I sprinted down the corridor like a child who’d just been given a telling-off by the headmaster.
The importance of maintaining high standards was drilled into us at all times. Turning up five minutes before training or being a couple of minutes late wasn’t acceptable. The message was clear; winners make sure they’re properly prepared before they go out on to the pitch. One of Roy Keane’s favourite quotes, which I read in his book, is, ‘Fail to prepare, prepare to fail,’ and it summed up the mentality of the club perfectly. I hate being late and will always make sure I’m early for training or social events, and one of the big reasons I’m so punctual is because of the education I had at United. All the academy players were also told to wear black Nike Tiempo boots, so our football made us stand out rather than the colour of our footwear. When we went out on to the pitch we looked military smart. We were all convinced that we were the best players in the country. We didn’t play the likes of Arsenal and Chelsea that much, but because of the success of the first team and the quality of the set-up there was a belief that nobody else was doing it quite like us.
At school I was no longer just Joe Thompson. I was Joe Thompson who played for Manchester United. At the back of the class, I’d practise my signature in my books, and daydream of one day doing it for real. My teachers weren’t happy and reminded me that, if I didn’t make it, I still needed an education to fall back on. I still worked hard at school, but in my head I was convinced I was going to be a footballer. I’d go shopping at the Trafford Centre, but I wouldn’t take my tracksuit off because I wanted people to know I played for United. I was proud to represent such a successful club steeped in history and tradition. When you enter your teenage years, temptations start to arise. I had mates who would go to the park for a few sneaky cans of booze or the golf course to mess about, but I was never tempted. Very early on, I understood that I had to live a different life to them if I was going to make it. They would often knock on my door but I’d always say no and tell them I had training the following day.