Sol Campbell

by Simon Astaire

  In contrast to Sol, Rust’s father played a major role in his football career from a young age. ‘I was always encouraged by my parents. My father was in some respects more dedicated to my career than me. He was a big influence.’ He was impressed by Sol’s maturity, even at that age. ‘I found Sol had a sense of humour and a very positive attitude to life. Although he was solitary at times, I never saw him as an outsider. He applied himself not just to football but also his academic work. While others were having fun, he would be doing his homework – he was grounded and I could see he didn’t rely just on football being his career. He was covering all bases.

  ‘On one occasion Sol was confronted by a boy in the senior year. He was goading him, trying to pick a fight. But Sol kept his cool. He refused to react. I remember he left the room and when he returned, the atmosphere had calmed. It was as if he had gone out to measure the situation. He thought before reacting.’

  Rust continues: ‘You never heard him complain about his background. He was more interested in what was given to him rather than what he didn’t have.’

  • • •

  Sol was certainly lapping up the rigorous training schedule at Lilleshall. There was a marked difference between the club sides and the boys at Lilleshall. Those at the clubs would report two or three times a week for training, while the boys at Lilleshall were being conditioned every day. ‘It was like a lab, really,’ Sol says. ‘We were being intensely coached on how to improve our skill. The staff watched closely to see who would come through and take their education into the professional league and international football.’

  When Lilleshall first played Manchester United away at their ground The Cliff, it was the first time Sol saw Ryan Giggs play. ‘I remember him scoring two goals, one was a sidekick, the other an overhead, and I thought wow, what a player!’ They also went to games during the week. ‘We saw Manchester United, Everton. Mostly Aston Villa though, as it was local. We would go as a group. I enjoyed it. I’d hardly been to games like that before.’

  Sol made his England Under-15 debut in a Scandinavian tournament in Finland alongside the other boys from his age group at Lilleshall. England played Iceland in their opening game. ‘I was on the right side of midfield,’ he says proudly, ‘and I scored! A left foot shot into the bottom left corner.’ It was also in Finland that he changed his name from Sulzeer to Sol. When he heard the announcer ‘muck up’ his name for the fourth time, he thought, enough of this, and so not only did he pull on the proper three lions England shirt for the first time, he changed his name too.

  A new chapter had truly begun. In his heart, mind, and soul.

  • • •

  Sol’s parents travelled up to see their son’s graduation. Sewell and Wilhelmina again took the train, and before they had passed one word to each other, they had arrived.

  Sol is waiting outside the hall when the minibus bringing the parents from the station arrives. Wilhelmina sees her son as the minibus draws up and thinks immediately how smart he looks, what a kind boy he is and what a fine man he is turning into. He welcomes her with a hug. ‘You look well,’ she says to her son, still of an age, and seemingly he always will be, to listen to what his mother has to say. Sewell, walking just behind his wife, gives his son a grasp like a vice then immediately looks round to see what is happening, who is greeting who.

  It’s a bright day. The air is warm. The atmosphere is good. The sense of formality is evident. Speeches are made. The boys are sitting together in the front row; the parents and officials behind applaud enthusiastically, never in the wrong place. The legendary Don Howe, coach of Arsenal’s 1971 double-winning side, makes the keynote speech. He talks about the talent sitting in front of him and his hopes for English football. He then presents the caps to the boys and handshakes to all, like he is presenting the FA Cup. Sol, still only sixteen, towers over him. He is cool and unflustered. He says thank you and hurries away. When the ceremony ends, Sol poses for photos with Howe and then with Howe and his parents.

  Sewell was proud of his son that day. You can see it in the photograph. But he didn’t mention it.

  ‘It was a good day,’ says Sol. ‘Nice words were said about me. Yes, it’s a good memory.’ He lets out a laugh and a smile that loiters long, or certainly for a while after the laugh itself lights up his face.

  First senior England cap. Sol comes on during the England v Hungary friendly at Wembley, May 1996 as a 65th minute substitute for Paul Ince.

  Sol battles with Gianfranco Zola, who scored the only goal in Italy's 1-0 defeat of England in the 1998 World Cup qualifier at Wembley.

  Paul Gascoigne and Sol during an England training session. Sol thought the world of Gazza. The warm-hearted Geordie was an inspiration to the young players at Tottenham.

  Tottenham

  ’You should have faith. You are going to surprise everyone.’

  Old Man on a train

  It was Terry Venables who gave Sol his debut for Tottenham’s first team against Chelsea on 5 December 1992. He would do the same for England. Yet Sol hardly knew the man who gave him his chance. ‘After my debut with Tottenham, the following season, he had gone. The same thing happened after Euro ’96. I think he liked my ability and attitude. I understood he picked me for Euro ’96 because he saw me conduct myself beyond my age.’ As he prepared to run onto the White Hart Lane turf in the 68th minute, for a moment it seemed all the sounds around him stopped dead. There was a pause. As if time had come to a halt. He clenched his fist and said to himself, ‘I’m ready for this.’ Twenty minutes later, he scored. He jumped up in celebration, arms in the air. Goal! People were open-mouthed, rolling their heads. The White Hart Lane faithful were shouting in delight; shouting their heads off. A new hero had just been born in N17.

  He remembers the goal as special even though his shot bobbled over the line after poor Chelsea defending. ‘It was well executed and it was a drilled shot. Although I do remember Justin Edinburgh, doing his best to follow it through and grab the goal for himself.’ The dressing room was miserable after the game. Tottenham had lost 2-1. None of the players went up to congratulate Sol for his goal. He felt not for the last time completely alone in his celebration. The twenty or so minutes on the field had taken a lot out of him. ‘My chest was burning. I was sitting on the floor. The pace of the game was very different to the youth games.’

  As he drove home that night in his white Ford Orion 1.31 – ‘I remember the number plate, A207CUY; it was, after all, my first car’ – Sol felt a certain pride wash over him. He had scored on his debut. He knew his parents would not be waiting at the door anxious to hear the result or how their son had played; proud parents revelling in pride to be shared with friends and neighbours that their youngest son, just eighteen, had played for Tottenham and scored on his debut.

  No. The game would never be mentioned. Never.

  When he crept back into his family’s house, it was, as he expected, quiet. It didn’t matter, he had by now a numbness located somewhere in his chest. No emotion, no pain because of the lack of recognition. ‘It was normal that no-one took any interest,’ he says simply. He walked upstairs, straining his eyes until reaching his room. He undressed silently so as not to disturb his brother Murphy and crept into bed. He needn’t have bothered to be so quiet; his brother was sleeping soundly, snoring like a drunk.

  As he lies in bed, he looks up to the ceiling. What a wonderful day. He relives his goal again and again. His lone celebration – ‘I don’t remember anyone else joining in’ – and the surge forward of the crowd. And then he pauses.

  Here I am, without even the freedom to switch on the light, play my own music. Shit. He continues to gaze up at the white ceiling. This isn’t easy. This is not easy at all. Each day the past fades a little. Time heals, but does not cure. I’ve grown out of this. I have to get out of here as soon as possible. (He won’t for two more years.)

  He interrupts his headache and thinks again about the afternoon. Oh, it felt so good. Something moment
ous happened earlier, from which he won’t fully recover, and probably never will. Things are changing. He can try now to smile his way through his days. Things aren’t that bad. Are they?

  In the present, Sol thinks back to his frustration: ‘I could have been playing before that game; I had the skill and the temperament. The only thing I didn’t have was experience.’ He wouldn’t be picked for the first team again that season. The following week he went back to the youth and stayed there. He would play a reserve game against Arsenal at Highbury but in his own words, ‘I didn’t play well. The ball deflected off me for Arsenal to score and I had an off-night. It can happen.’

  It wouldn’t be until returning Spurs legend Ossie Ardiles took over as manager at the end of the season that Sol would get another chance. He was called up three days after helping England win the UEFA European Under-18 Championship. There would be no summer holiday for him that year. He was part of the Tottenham first-team squad and from that moment would never look back.

  Terry Venables has no doubt he made the right decision to leave him in the youth. ‘If he had played left wing, it might have been different.’ Spurs had a shortage of naturally left-footed players at the time. That was why Andy Turner, another teenage talent coming through the ranks, was picked from the youth ahead of him.

  ‘I could have played anywhere,’ Sol says without a hint of irony.

  • • •

  His days playing for Tottenham youth are good memories. They had a fine team and won the league and League Cup during his time. He was enjoying being part of a winning team. Football was again his escape. His sensibilities off the field had profoundly changed. His time at Lilleshall had been happy, a transformation, a rejuvenation. The delicious smell of green fields and the pastoral echoes of the country wind had now been replaced by the sound of an early morning breeze restless against the ranged brick of a terraced house with a hint of decay and the smell of Newham’s dirt-strewn streets. He hadn’t noticed it before. Why would he? Newham was all he knew. But now he did and the surge in his senses would never desert him. He had opened his eyes and he was wide awake. He would always be in search of beauty, maybe not always finding it but noticing it when encountered.

  His return to Newham coincided with a newfound potency in his game. It was at Lilleshall that he started to believe in his talent; the opportunity to make football his career. Now Tottenham was waiting and he was ready to work harder than anyone to reach the top. Even when he was a regular playing for England, his intensity would rarely flounder. David Dein tells a story of when he travelled with the England squad to Hong Kong. After the England team and officials had checked in, Dein decided to go for a stroll to investigate the hotel. He went from lobby to lounge to restaurant until he reached the gym. There, working on the Stairmaster, was Sol. After a twelve-hour flight, he went straight to the gym to work on his fitness. ‘He was the only England player there. I wasn’t surprised. It is a part of him. A part of his dedication to his work.’ Tottenham paid him £29.50 per week in his first year and the following year £37.50. The money was sent straight into his bank account. He saved every penny, looking weekly in the local paper at house prices, scanning the best price to buy his first property.

  To reach White Hart Lane on time, he’d leave home at Stratford at 7.15am. For breakfast, he would drink a cup of instant coffee and eat cereal, usually Special K, never leaving a single flake. He would always wash up afterwards and put his clean bowl and mug on the sideboard. He’d then increase his pace. It wasn’t worth being late, otherwise he’d miss the bus that took the trainees to Mill Hill; then he would have to get a taxi, which was expensive and a waste of money.

  He’d make his way to Plaistow station, a ten-minute walk, and catch the train to Mile End, then on to Liverpool Street; the carriage was always crowded with commuters reading their morning papers from back to front. Sol would stand, telling himself he shouldn’t grumble. He had a job everyone dreamed of. At Liverpool Street, he changed to the overground train to White Hart Lane. ‘I caught the train just past eight at Liverpool Street or sometimes eight-fifteen. It took about thirty minutes to get to White Hart Lane and from there it was a short walk to the ground,’ Sol recalls.

  The minibus would be waiting for the trainees inside White Hart Lane to take them to Mill Hill. It would leave at 9am on the dot. There would be no argument. Whoever said punctuality was the thief of time probably had been a football trainee once. If you were a minute late, you would be just in time to see the minibus disappearing from view. The long-serving kit man, Johnny Wallis, a bald cantankerous figure behind the wheel, would ring a bell above his head, slam the doors shut, clench his fist and bang on the steering wheel. ‘It’s fucking nine o’clock and WE ARE OFF!’, followed by something indistinguishable uttered with a howl of laughter lost in the growl of the engine. He would nod his head in the mirror as confirmation of what he had just said and off they went, hooting at every junction, the banging of windows in irritation a cacophonous noise both in and out of the minibus. ‘He was a fantastic character,’ Sol remembers, ‘and despite his pissed off attitude, we all liked him.’

  • • •

  The coaching staff at Tottenham saw a marked change in him. Sol, as he was now known, was poised, more self-aware, and more confident. ‘The experience at Lilleshall gave him that extra self-assurance,’ Keith Waldon remembers. He was naturally taller and even more of a physical presence than before. ‘When I played football, I was physically a very hard player. No-one liked playing against me and I was never frightened by anybody,’ Keith says, ‘but once I saw Sol charging at me at a hundred miles an hour – and I’ve never seen someone so daunting, so huge – I literally jumped out of the way. That had never happened to me before. Never!’

  His physicality wasn’t always a help to him. Mondays, for example, were never Sol’s favourite day. It meant a run, a long run, twice round the Mill Hill fields and twice through the woods at the top. The youth would join in with the reserves and first team. He found those runs testing, especially at the start of pre-season. It always took time for him to build up his stamina. Some players could run for hours and not be bothered while others would do anything to avoid it. ‘It was not the best ground for training; when it rained, it became a bog,’ Sol says.

  This particular Monday for Sol hasn’t started well. He nearly misses the bus. Wallis is about to close the doors before Sol literally slides in before he can get to the handle. ‘You’re lucky,’ Wallis sneers. At the training ground it is pouring down. The group of players trudge across the field to the start. No-one is particularly looking forward to the run, and the rain doesn’t make it much better. The teams are staggered by seniority. They wait patiently before being given the off, squad by squad, the first team followed by reserves and then the youth. Sol ignores the whisperings of the other players’ chat about Saturday’s game. Instead, he focuses on what is about to happen. ‘On your marks, get set, go!’ The space between the players begins to widen as soon as they set off. The keenest, or probably the naturally fittest, burst out in front; Sol is somewhere in the middle. As he runs, questions may have entwined him but by the time the training has finished they will have been discarded. Instead he concentrates on his breathing and keeping up with the pack.

  Sol is running next to Doug Livermore, one of the first-team coaches, when he sees a player in front of him duck into the bushes. ‘Keep running, Sol!’ Livermore orders, looking the other way and acting as if he has seen nothing. Who was that? Look, quick. He’s gone. It was Gary Lineker, England international and most famous man at the club. Lineker’s plan was to see out the first circuit and join the group when they ran by the next time. Sol chuckles to himself. I don’t think I’d do that even if I could. If, with one insolent sweep of the hand he could finish without the work, he wouldn’t take the option. He knows that hard work is the one and only means by which he’ll get anywhere in life. That lesson is hard-wired in him.

  • • •

 
‘What’s happening?’ asks Sol.

  ‘Terry wants us to play against the first team.’

  The first team are making their way over. It’s going to be a twenty-minute game. First team versus youth. Not a long game but long enough. It hasn’t happened before. This will be a test, Sol thinks. His eyes set firmly on the pitch, he checks his boots and straightens out the tongues. He undoes a lace, only to do it up again. He is determined to give the management a show. The youth are a very good team. He knows it and is now going to show the first team, with all their swagger, exactly how good they are. He has watched the first-team players closely: how professional they are, how they conduct themselves. He didn’t like what he saw. Not all but most. Some of them are more interested in how much they will get for their tickets on the side than improving and working on their skill. It jars with Sol. The lads mentality, with its cheap jokes and caustic banter, the smirks like overpaid traffic wardens. All right for some, but Sol doesn’t like it, never did. Some he has respect for, such as Gary Mabbutt – ‘one of the finest professionals I played with’ – Erik ‘the Viking’ Thorstvedt and Gordon Durie, but others give the impression of having those half-smiling, self-satisfied faces. He keeps his antipathy to himself. He knows it is wiser to keep his sentiments close. No-one will ever know; better to pass by on the other side of the street. It doesn’t really matter, as he doesn’t have too much direct contact with them. It just seems like he takes his job more seriously, that his journey to improve will continue with ruthless efficiency and will not stop even if he becomes highly paid and heralded as a football star. In fact, he didn’t feel a brotherhood, a common bond on how to conduct oneself as a professional footballer, until years later when he joined Arsenal.