Inter’s training ground is named after Angelo Moratti and is 40km outside the city, in Como. Built in 1961, at the time it represented a new age of football. But now, as Sol concludes his tour of his new suitors at their training facilities, it is beginning to look a little tired. The pool is small, the dressing rooms dilapidated. It gives the impression of an Italian stately home that has been in the family for years and nobody wants to spend to bring it up to date. ‘I got the impression as he left that day, it was a straight choice between living and staying in London or moving to Italy and playing for Inter. We were certainly offering more money,’ says Terraneo. ‘When he made his final decision, he called up directly and thanked me for the time and interest we had showed. I appreciated that.’
• • •
Sol flew back to London the following morning. Arsenal had called Sky asking if everything was fine. A follow-up call, nothing more. No talk of money. Too early for that. ‘Is there anything more we can do?’ Dein wanted to know. Sol said he would go and see Dein that night, this time on his own. He asked Sky to call him. ‘Tell him, I’ll be over just past midnight.’
‘David Dein was the best in the football business: the way he spoke, his understanding of players and how they would work within the club,’ Sky says.
Barcelona were still in the hunt. They had been since the beginning of January. They had flown in to London to meet with Sky. They wanted a face-to-face meeting. ‘Barcelona made a huge offer. We didn’t jump.’ Barcelona didn’t stop there. They are a club you don’t just walk away from; they come back until they get what they want.
Sky’s phone rang. He was still at home. It was an agent who was trying to help make the deal. ‘Sky,’ he said, ‘I am here with the owners of Barcelona. Here in the same room.’
‘Hola Sky…’ The executive’s words blurred as if a blanket had been pulled over their heads. ‘We want to make the deal for Sol not today, but this morning.’ There was still time for that. The call had been made very early. ‘We are prepared to increase our offer by fifty per cent. Fifty per cent, Sky! We will even set up an office for you in Barcelona to look after your client; everything included, phones, faxes, paper…Your own secretary. But today Sky. It has to be done today.’ They hung up. Sky looked at his watch. This was a life-changing deal. These were numbers he hadn’t heard before. This can secure us financially. He called Sol immediately – forget the time! – and told him what was on the table. ‘You must do what you think is right,’ Sky said, biting his tongue. He meant it. He wasn’t going to try to persuade him to play for Barcelona. Their long friendship allowed Sky to forget his own pocket. He thought of his client first. ‘I did. It is sometimes difficult to think of the wealth that deal would have brought me. And I’m not sure even if I had advised him to sign that he would have listened. I will never know. Some agents think of themselves before their clients, but I never did.’
Sol was tempted by the offer but not for long. Perhaps an hour. Call it what you like but fundamentally it was instinctive. Barcelona had consistently been mentioned. The team had shadowed his name. He remembers watching on Sky TV Barcelona beat Valencia 3-2 on the last day of the 2000-01 La Liga season. ‘Rivaldo scored this extraordinary hat-trick, his third goal the most incredible overhead kick I have seen, and Gerry Armstrong, one of the commentators that night said: “Sol Campbell is in the ground and about to sign for Barcelona. He must have been impressed by what he saw.” I just laughed at the invention of it all.’ Despite that performance, they were not yet the Barcelona of Pep Guardiola; they were a side treading water. Maybe, above all, Sol didn’t want to move abroad? New Language. Unknown streets. He denies this. ‘Moving to Europe held no threat,’ he says and takes a pause, before making what sounds like a formal statement: ‘My decision was essentially about the Arsenal team, the squad of players. What trophies they would win. Whatever happens in your career, no-one can take trophies away from your record.’
He turned Barcelona down. What about Inter Milan? There were rumours that the Brazilian Ronaldo was going to leave (he departed a year later for Real Madrid); the club had finished fifth in Serie A and had been knocked out of the qualifying rounds of the Champions League. What was expected to be a short siesta for the Italian giants had turned into a lengthy doze. He didn’t see them waking up for a while. He turned the Italians down.
But even then there wasn’t that rush of blood to quickly sign for a new club. He knew his standing. He carried no fear; his talent was his stock. He knew someone somewhere would want him. But all the while he couldn’t get the Arsenal team, their squad of players, out of his mind; he kept returning to their football skill, what it had been like playing against them. They were good and would only get better. He knew it deep inside.
Sol met David Dein alone. Dein knew that for Sol to want to meet again meant the transfer was not far off from becoming a reality. He didn’t know who was competing for his signature. He didn’t ask and it wasn’t brought up in their conversation. This time the two men walked around Dein’s garden into the early hours of the morning. ‘We hardly sat still. We generally got up and walked around for hours talking about everything, from football to his upbringing,’ says Dein. The day had begun windy but, by the early hours of the morning, the wind had abated, although there was still a slight rustle in the surrounding foliage. The moon cast a spotlight that seemed to follow the two figures as they moved from one end of the garden to the other. It was their only light other than the faint glow from the kitchen. If you had been standing only metres behind, the conversation would have been indistinct. Like musical instruments heard from outside the concert hall, the two seemed to have a resonance more evolved than just language. Sol felt he was being understood probably for the first time in his life.
• • •
The following day he returns to Newham. When in doubt, he always went back to his roots. He walks his neighbourhood. He visits West Ham Park with his mum. It feels good and safe to be by her side. He talks and his mother listens. Measuring things up; this is good, this is bad. He looks at the strip of grass he used to play on; the tennis courts he went straight to after school in search of those lost tennis balls. He chuckles to himself. On the wall he used to practise against for hour upon hour, he notices a loose brick and thinks for a moment someone may have had a secret hidden inside. He notices a fly land on his hand. It annoys him. He wants to slap at it, yet doesn’t want it to die. In the same way at times he wanted to sleep, yet didn’t want to be unawake; to think, yet not want his brain to work. He looks at a group of kids sitting on the grass in a circle sharing a laugh and intermittently at the fly, which isn’t moving, stationary as if it has nowhere to go…then suddenly, it flies off into the blue sky. It’s time to step off the ride. To somehow let go of all that pressure that has built up in the previous months.
They walk out of the park towards his childhood home. As he carefully leads his mum into East Road, he thinks of his last days at Tottenham. He is no longer happy. He had some good times, some of the best of times, but things have changed, or perhaps have never changed. That’s it. They have remained the same. Their ambition may never match his. His face is a discord of disappointment, fatigue, and resignation with perhaps a tinge of sorrow. What will the fans think? But as he asks the question, his sense of sadness fades. It’s been done before, hasn’t it? Pat Jennings made the move. He didn’t know of much fuss with that. In fact, Jennings was still a hero. He had seen him at White Hart Lane. He was admired. Still loved. It won’t be different for me. He is sure some of the fans will not be happy, but eventually they will understand. Won’t they? Yes! Hey stop giving yourself such a hard time. It has been done before. You have an extraordinary opportunity. Lighten up! The world is yours. This is the best, most exciting time of your professional life. You will be joining one of the best clubs in the world with some of the best players.
His mind is made up. He starts to dial a number on his mobile. He gets straight through. ‘Sky, make the dea
l. I’ve decided. It’s Arsenal.’
• • •
The final meeting with Dein and Wenger was again held at a late hour. The atmosphere was relaxed and, of course, welcoming. These were his new bosses. They had got their man. But Sol still needed another face-to-face to confirm everything. He could still pull out, couldn’t he? ‘We must be willing to pay a price for freedom.’ What he didn’t know on that day, at that time, was how big a price he was going to have to pay.
They sat once again in the living room on a sunken sofa. Dein spoke of the players they had signed and the ones they were still pursuing. Van Bronckhorst and Inamoto would sign before the start of the new season. But they wanted to sign more Englishmen. A month before they had signed Francis Jeffers from Everton for £8 million. ‘Francis Jeffers…’ and Sol was about to say, ‘I’m not sure about him,’ but he kept it to himself. There was no point; the signing had already been made. ‘Perhaps they saw it in my face but I felt it wasn’t the time to start to advise on new signings.’ He can tell the quality of a striker, though. It’s his trade to assess the strikers he is going to face. ‘Jeffers was a good player but he lacked something. I didn’t find him that dangerous. I intrinsically knew he wasn’t going to maintain his ability at the top. Rooney for instance, is strong, works hard, and has the imagination to change things. You’re never too sure what he’s going to do next. I have to be on my top game to deal with him. You could tell he was going the whole way. Shearer was the same. He had a fantastic work ethic, strength and movement, shot. He had this habit of nudging the defender as the ball was coming towards him; a slight push, a twist to give him space. And with that space, he was lethal.’
The manager spoke of how he saw Sol’s role in the side. Wenger was methodical and thoughtful. Each time they spoke, Sol was more impressed by his knowledge, his philosophy. He found reassurance in his tactical knowhow and felt the Frenchman’s authority in his life would have a positive effect on his game.
By now it is three o’clock in the morning. Dein’s son Gavin walks in after a Saturday night out. Dein asks Sol if he is hungry. He is. He always is. Gavin prepares French toast. How appropriate. Every member of Dein’s family has made him feel welcome. As the offering is placed in front of him, he feels a tremendous warmth. Like the blossoming flower on spring’s arrival, or the encouraging word, the helping hand, given at the perfect moment; it is worth more than anything that has gone before. A simple act, which resonates profoundly. This feels like home already.
• • •
Only two people knew about Sol’s pending move: his mother and his agent. He spent three days before the announcement away with close friends on a stag party in Portugal, but nothing was said. Nothing was given away by words or nervous gestures.
He behaved like a spy without secrets. There was no clue anything out of the ordinary was about to happen. He was in a good mood and spoke excitedly about the future. Even during late night gossip with a little drink inside, nothing was divulged. ‘It’s amazing that he didn’t tell a friend, even the day before. Saying something like “Be prepared, tomorrow there will be a bomb!”’ remarks Wenger.
Sol simply says, ‘That’s what makes me different.’ Beneath a surface of normality there often lurks a far more intriguing world. Imagine the thrill of the double secret: your secret from your world at the forthcoming signing; their secret from their world that you are about to sign. All being done, what’s more, under an assumed secrecy.
Wilhelmina was told hours before. He hadn’t told her that day in West Ham Park. He waited. It was a simple phone call just before Sky arrived. Her reaction was calm, not fully understanding the magnitude of the decision, or of what was she was being told: ‘If that’s best, Sulzeer. I have faith in you that whatever decision you make will be the right one.’
‘I need to be appreciated,’ he told his friend Edwin, a couple of days after the announcement. Edwin listened and after the one conversation, he understood why Sol had made the decision. He was supportive and would be in the future. ‘It was difficult, and yes, I was taunted about being his friend and a Spurs fan. And when I tried to rationalise the decision, many didn’t want to listen, but he was proved right. Sol has always been someone who surprises people and I learned early on never to underestimate or second-guess him.’
• • •
Sol is in a car destined for the Arsenal training ground at London Colney. As he heads round the M25, his mind is facing a host of last-minute questions. All questions that have been asked before, but as the announcement of his transfer is nearing, the doubts magnify and all he is trying to do is put a simple tick of the affirmative in the appropriate box.
He looks down at his feet: polished black shoes, tightly laced. He sees his reflection in the window. His reflection gazes back at him. Have I done the right thing? He lifts his head and looks out to his left. He notices a van in the lane alongside. He looks at its logo. It has the words SOL CROWN printed on its side. He smiles inside, and has a rare feeling in his bones that it is all going to go well. ‘I like symbols. They have guided me all my life. I recognise them. By seeing those words at that time, it gave me the reassurance I was on the right path.’ It was a collision of thoughts with a chance external event. His shoulders begin to feel more relaxed. They are now minutes from their destination. He gently clenches his fist. Come on! Let’s do this!
They pull in at the training ground. Sean O’Connor, the manager of the training facility, is waiting at the gate. He has been told that a new signing is arriving with his agent. ‘The boss [Arsene] didn’t tell me who it was going to be,’ he looks back now. ‘And then I saw this Range Rover draw up and recognised Sky Andrew. I ordered the gate to open and let the car pass through. Then I saw who was sitting beside him. It was extraordinary. It was the Tottenham captain. I think I just said, “Hello Sol” as if we had known each other for years. It was the biggest surprise. Yes, the biggest shock! I don’t think it could ever be repeated.’ Sean gets into the back of the car and directs it to the side near to the manager’s office. The agent and player are led through without anyone seeing them. The secret has remained secret; some would say impossible in the modern world.
Wenger is waiting for his prize capture. There is little better than getting hold of a player you admire. The manager knows he has a powerful man with great pace, one of the best defenders in the world. ‘I knew we had someone very special who had a fantastic ability to win the challenge.’
The atmosphere is light. Conversation spasmodic. An early morning feel. Sol begins to relax. He has coffee and biscuits. He takes in where he is sitting. Looking out of the open window, he senses the fresh air over the manicured football pitches.
‘Come, ’tis not too late to see a newer world.’
‘This was the real thing. Years ahead of Tottenham. Better than Inter Milan. It’s a beautiful place. It’s how football should be at the top level,’ Sol says enthusiastically. ‘I was still a little nervous but after the drive I felt better, excited to get on with it. I’m never too comfortable facing the press. I just like to get on and play top football.’
The announcement is planned for midday. Time passes. Time waits for no-one but as he’s on his third coffee he believes that cliché might not be true. It is like someone has tampered with his watch. Time itself has started to act strangely. And when the announcement is made, it will go berserk. David Dein joins them and is going to make the introduction to the press. He was looking forward to this. He knew what he was going to do.
Sean returns to the office and says, ‘They are ready.’ He leads Sol, Sky, Dein and Wenger through to the press room. Dein is adjusting his tie, Wenger straightening his jacket while Sol, who has remained calm, rubs his thumb and little finger in slow motion. How Sean had wanted to tell the waiting journalists what they were about to witness. He knew the tranquil mood with stifled yawns was about to be blown apart by instant pandemonium. There is a smallish turnout. The journalists presume they are there to see the
introduction of the Ipswich Town goalkeeper Richard Wright. Nothing to set the pulse racing there.
They pass no-one as they walk into the press room. Sky nods at his client. He will watch the action from the wings. Out to the front walk Wenger and Dein; Sol will come out when called. The drama continues. There is a touch of showbiz about the whole scene. Touch of showbiz? This IS showbiz. Dein speaks first, making the introduction. ‘Thank you, gentleman.’ Pause. ‘I would like to introduce our latest signing.’ Wenger and Dein look left…
Out walks Sol Campbell. From the slow beating of the drums to cymbals crashing all around. The gathered jump out of their skins. They say the reaction in the room could be heard in St Albans. More likely, throughout the country. ‘Before a question was asked, I saw every journalist in the room pick up his mobile to call his news desk. There was disbelief. I have never seen anything like it before…or since,’ Sean O’Connor says.
Sol Campbell Page 13