Massively Violent & Decidedly Average

by Lee Howey

  It was one of those games that look far more important today than they felt at the time. Not winning could have meant relegation and a truncated spell in the job for Peter Reid. The victory was an enormous confidence boost and we won 1–0 again seven days later at Derby County. Kevin Ball got that one. In those seven games we won three, drew three and lost one (to Bolton, who would finish third, then win the play-offs). Martin Smith looked especially impressive during this run and safety was secured with a game to spare.

  My lack of involvement did not stem my delight. Obviously I wanted to play, but it was a wonderful turnaround regardless of who took to the field. The players on the pitch were my friends and I was still part of the team (my two wonder goals against Bristol City in December remained important). It was all about the club and I remained a fan. The expression ‘we’re all in it together’ has become something of a joke in this country in recent years. At SAFC in the spring of 1995, it was completely apposite. I celebrated as much as anyone else when the job was done.

  • • •

  Our latest escape from relegation induced optimism of the most cautious type. But it was optimism nonetheless, something that had until very recently been missing, presumed extinct. It wasn’t just the artificial lift that clubs often receive when a new manager replaces a floundering one, as indeed we had seen when Mick Buxton replaced Terry Butcher. This was something more; not just ‘here we go again’. Even after seven games, everyone seemed to have stepped up and so, therefore, did the whole club. You could feel it. It was tangible.

  Peter Reid had a way of instilling confidence into players of all abilities. Training started to become, would you believe, fun: an alien concept in the Butcher and Buxton eras. There were short-side games and lots of laughter, without a drop in work rate. Whereas training sessions had previously been immediately followed by everyone just buggering off home, we began to stay around the Charlie Hurley Centre more, taking it upon ourselves to play head tennis or do other stuff together. It was a new world, and during this time my thoughts were simply: ‘You know what? Life is better.’

  It can be hard to imagine now just how disorganised and frankly tin-pot things had become. In 2016, astonishment was professed among the media when José Mourinho ordered his squad to train in a car park prior to Manchester United’s League Cup tie at Northampton Town. Mick Buxton may have read the story and wondered what was so bizarre about it.

  On several occasions, when we were playing away and arriving in whichever town the night before the game, he instructed our bus driver to keep his eyes open for a grassy piece of land. Any old glass-strewn, dog-shit-ridden plot would do, such as you might use for a kick-about when you are eight years old. When somewhere ‘suitable’ was found we would check in at our hotel, change clothes then return to the bomb site and carry out a training session. Mick thought this was perfectly acceptable. His only concession to the late twentieth century was to insist that there was some street lighting nearby if it was dark. By contrast, Peter Reid introduced wacky concepts such as ‘organising things properly’ and ‘making sure there are adequate facilities’. What a breakthrough.

  Training and life generally under Peter Reid was in every respect different from anything I had known since joining the club two years earlier. However much of a thrill it was and remained for me personally just to be a Sunderland player, the best job in the world, there is no escaping the truth: that it had been a dismal time for the supporters and the second lowest point in the club’s history (relegation to the old Third Division in 1987 still claims that unwanted prize).

  Not that all had been beer and skittles before I arrived, and feelings were heightened by resurgent arch-rivals. Until 1992, at least Newcastle United had shown something like common decency by being crap as well. This was before Kevin Keegan selfishly abandoned that policy. Sunderland and Newcastle were what journalists are obliged to call ‘sleeping giants’ and one of them was waking up. The wrong one. Although Sunderland supporters are far more interested in their own club, this didn’t help the mood. It cost the club some followers too, particularly in places like South Tyneside and Durham, where the young children of Sunderland-supporting parents were going over to the dark side.

  We were told ‘You can’t blame the kids for supporting a winning team.’ Rubbish. Not only can you blame them, you can thrash them around the ears with a rolled-up newspaper until they recant. The spineless, glory-hunting little bastards! Damn bad parenting too.

  Luckily I’m not one to rant about this.

  In the traditional and endless bickering about football that people have in the workplace, Sunderland fans didn’t have much with which to deflect the taunting of their black-and-white colleagues. It had been a horrible time in that regard.

  • • •

  Peter’s appointment became permanent and over the summer he was pretty unsentimental about showing people the door. Among those to play their last games for Sunderland in 1994–95 was Gary Bennett, who had played well over 400 games for the club, but was now thirty-three. Tony Norman had played more than 200, but was thirty-seven. Younger players went too, including Stephen Brodie, Anthony Smith, Derek Ferguson and Shaun Cunnington. Our third game of the following season was also Brett Angell’s last.

  Gordon Armstrong, another to surpass 400 appearances but still only twenty-eight, was eased out by comparison. He came on as substitute on the opening day of 1995–96, which proved to be his last league game for Sunderland. He was loaned to Bristol City, then Northampton Town. He didn’t move permanently until July 1996 when he was transferred to Bury, but his time was effectively up long before then.

  Gordon was an excellent servant to Sunderland AFC. He was the mainstay of the midfield for over a decade, playing in three divisions and an FA Cup final. He helped to extricate the club from its deepest, darkest pit of 1987. He scored fifty-seven goals, the most celebrated of which was that fabulous headed winner against Chelsea in the 1992 cup quarter-final replay that paved the way to Wembley. As a fan, I would like to take this opportunity to thank him again for that goal alone. His picture now hangs in the Stadium of Light for a reason.

  The entrance door swung less often than the exit that summer. We had only signed two new players when the season kicked off. Still, all those departures along with the earlier sales of Don Goodman and Gary Owers meant that we had a radically different squad from a year earlier.

  The first of the two arrivals was John Mullin, signed for £40,000 from Burnley. The other ‘new’ player was Paul Bracewell, then aged thirty-three, who came to Roker Park for the third time following his re-acquisition from Newcastle for just £50,000. This time he would be assistant manager too. He was also invaluable. A teammate of Peter Reid’s at Everton during their 1980s pomp, he had done pretty much everything in the game including playing for England. He had won the league at Everton and played in four FA Cup finals (sadly he lost them all). His legs did not now carry him as they once had, but he compensated for this by being totally at ease on the ball, rarely squandering possession and transferring his own confidence to the younger players.

  There is a myth, sadly propagated by Steve Bruce in recent years, that anyone with a Newcastle connection coming to Sunderland – and vice versa – will be made to suffer for it; tarred and feathered, then run out of town. Not true. When Bracewell left Sunderland for Newcastle in 1992 it angered many fans on Wearside. Yet he was welcomed back with open arms three years later, despite having been pivotal in the Mags’ revival. His Wearside background was never an issue for Newcastle fans either. Sunderland fans later loved Lee Clark when he was on the pitch in red and white (off the pitch he later proved to be troublesome) and there was no one more black-and-white than Lee. In 2014, Newcastle fans were thrilled when Jack Colback arrived at St James’ from Sunderland on a Bosman. Dare I say it: they retain a soft spot for the native Mackem, Steven Howey.

  The animosity between supporters of Sunderland and Newcastle is famous. But if you do it right, the fans o
f both clubs will hold you in their affections for ever, regardless of background or previous clubs. There is a very long list of players who turned out for both sides. How fondly they are remembered by the respective sets of fans depends on how well they played – and nothing else. The same principle applies to other staff. Bob Stokoe made almost 300 appearances for Newcastle United and was a Geordie. His statue now stands outside the Stadium of Light. So it was with Paul Bracewell. He was good at what he did, so nothing else mattered.

  Another key appointment was that of Bobby Saxton as coach. I successfully disguised any disappointment when he replaced Trevor Hartley. Sacko was a hugely experienced figure who would be a major presence at Sunderland for the next few years. Television audiences may remember him for the Wildean philosophies he shared on the documentary Premier Passions, such as: ‘Don’t let him turn. Get up his fuckin’ arse!’ ‘That’s fuckin’ mingin’ that’ and other aphorisms. A very quotable man.

  • • •

  I still had a year left on my contract and Reidy had not seen me play. But he had said he would give me a chance, so I was retained. Being an option as both striker and centre-back was an asset. My relatively low salary may have been a factor too. I was still on £500 per week with a £600 win bonus. This doesn’t sound at all bad for what was called the First Division in 1995, but I must caveat this by pointing out that I was a fringe player and, as any supporter could have told you, wins had not hitherto been a predominant feature of my time at Sunderland. There was also a condition that we had to be above a certain position in the league, I think top six, which we didn’t manage too often either. There was nothing for a draw and these rules applied to everyone in the squad.

  There was no honeymoon this time to hinder my fitness and I made sure I was especially conscientious in pre-season training. More thought went into the regime than in times past of simply instructing everyone to run umpteen miles, perform millions of press-ups, sit-ups and squat-thrusts – then do some serious exercise. We still ran but we also trained with a ball, which was more of a novelty than you might think. Fitness was still considered to be of the utmost importance, but so was footballing skill. Training was rotated between fitness, skills and actual games.

  Professionals and youths were all involved and there was no segregation. There were some pretty decent youths vying to be part of the first team, including David Preece, Sam Aiston, Paul Heckingbottom and David Mawson. But one kid is particularly vivid in my memory, a skinny little article who was still only sixteen. To make it more exciting I shall withhold his identity for now.

  This lad, along with Phil Gray, Martin Smith and Craig Russell, were our striking options, soon to be joined by internationals Paul Stewart and David Kelly. I began to feel more than ever that my best chance in the longer term was in defence. With Gary Bennett gone and Kevin Ball now a midfielder, Richard Ord and Andy Melville were the only other available centre-backs. Considering what we were about to achieve, it was a pretty thin squad.

  Perhaps the man who developed most under Peter Reid was Richard Ord, who was transformed from someone who was in and out of the side as a left-back, to an imposing centre-half who was a good passer and very comfortable with the ball at his feet: a defender who was also a footballer. In fact, he became quite brilliant. He also came to be the life and soul of the squad, his shyness dissipating and his humour becoming renowned.

  Key to this, in my opinion, was that Reidy just made everyone happier. In other industries, a happy workforce is a productive workforce. It’s the same in football. We loved the short-side games, and Peter joined in with them. He was not yet forty and his retirement as a player had come only two years beforehand. He still had it. These games were fun, but still high intensity with plenty of kicking and other fouls. Kevin Ball was in his element at this dispensation to wipe out anyone on the opposing side, and one or two in his own – if you can imagine such a thing.

  We were treated like blokes, which was the opposite of how we had been treated on the bus home from Swindon in January. We didn’t spend every spare moment propping up a bar, but most of us still liked a drink, as did Reidy. His mantra was: ‘Go out. Enjoy yourself. Do what you want. Be men. But be respectful. If the police come knocking on my door, you’re fucking gone.’

  Sorry to break it to you like this, but Peter Reid did occasionally swear. It is one of football’s best kept secrets, until now.

  We took this golden rule on board and had the most wonderful social lives, while simultaneously understanding that work was work. Training was enjoyable, but still hard. A perfect balance was struck. When we were out ‘on the hoy’, as they say in Sunderland, it was not a clandestine activity that the management were unaware of. We did as we pleased, but no quarter was given in training because it was the morning after a party; we were worked into the ground to sweat out the booze. Not that we minded, because we were told what would happen and knew what we were getting into. Peter himself would run round the training pitch dressed in bin liners in order to perspire away the previous evening’s Budweiser (Christian Dior bin liners, cutting edge).

  • • •

  The pre-season tour of late July was in Ireland. This time, mercifully, it was in the south. Fixtures were arranged with St Patrick’s Athletic, Drogheda United and Athlone Town. We didn’t see much of Peter Reid on the tour apart from at the games. He would just appear like the Magic Shopkeeper in Mr Benn. Bobby Saxton always took training.

  I have always been a Guinness drinker, purely for its health benefits, you understand (it has a high iron content), so when after a 2–0 win over St Pat’s in Dublin we were told to please ourselves, it was straight into the club bar upstairs in Richmond Park. Any Guinness drinker will tell you that the delicious stuff they sell in Ireland knocks spots off what we settle for in Britain, so I persuaded some of the other lads to try it. They liked it too. Andy Melville added blackcurrant to his, thereby revealing his bohemian side, although this was rather too exotic for some of the others. Still, I enhanced their collective palate. The Guinness went down singing hymns.

  Following the Athlone game, the usual core of us went in search of an open bar. This was tricky as it was Tuesday and Athlone is a small town. But it was also Ireland, so we found one. It was deserted at 9 p.m. but gradually filled up, not just with people, but also with fiddles, banjos, bodhráns and tin whistles. It was an impromptu céilidh. Most of the clichés about Irish pubs are true. Our collective tone deafness notwithstanding, glorious Guinness lent us the confidence to join a sing-along and God knows what time we poured out of there.

  My roommate in Ireland was Martin Gray, not to be confused with either Michael Gray or Phil Gray. The club was certainly well replenished with Grays during this period. The night before Athlone, he had kept me awake by shouting in his sleep.

  ‘Ross! Ross! Come here, boy. Leave that alone. Good lad. Come on, Ross. Fetch! Fetch!’

  Martin used to miss his dog when he was away. But that was no concern of mine and I just wanted him to shut his yap (Martin, not Ross) so I could sleep. When I rolled in at an unfeasibly late hour the next night after the céilidh, Martin, one of the more temperate as well as dog-loving members of the squad, was sleeping soundly. At least, he was until I staggered in and started clashing about, pissing like a racehorse in the loo then creating more noise than is generally thought possible from a man who is merely removing his socks. Martin began to grunt disapprovingly at the irruption.

  ‘Fuckin’ hell, big man! Keep it down.’

  ‘You what?’ I slurred. ‘Keep it dooooowwwn? After the hour we spent at Crufts last night?’

  Just for the fun of it, I then stood on his bed, my head scraping against the ceiling, and placed a size nine desert boot on his chest. I began to remove my leather belt and informed him that I was about to administer a damn good thrashing. At this point he must have thought I was even more drunk than I actually was and began to panic.

  ‘No, big man! Don’t do it.’

  I retired
to my own bed, giggling at what I thought had been an extremely humorous piece of horseplay, and soon nodded off, while Martin attempted to do the same thing with one eye open. We’re friends to this day, although I doubt if he would ever care to recreate that evening.

  We were bonding as a squad in a way that I had never known at Sunderland, and not just in pubs. Steve Agnew was a wonderful addition to the team and to morale. An experienced pro with more than a few stories to tell, he and Martin Scott used to delight in insulting each other. More than ever we genuinely began to look forward to training. We would turn up early at the Charlie Hurley Centre and thoroughly enjoy each other’s company. This extended to the ground staff, Adrian and Glenn. We would sit in the pavilion around the tea urn, our conversations about football interspersed with the most wonderful rubbish. It’s what blokes do. Almost overnight, Sunderland AFC became a joyous place of work.

  The only exception to this was Dariusz Kubicki. This had nothing to do with his ability as a player. He joined from Aston Villa permanently after his initial loan and had quite some pedigree. He had played forty-six times for Poland, including an appearance in the 1986 World Cup alongside the great Zbigniew Boniek. Although Dariusz wasn’t always the most courageous player, he was very dependable and had started every single game since his Sunderland debut in March 1994.

  The fans liked him, but I can’t say that the players shared in this warmth. Richard Ord was probably the least enamoured of him. Dariusz was an odd fish, very insular, sombre and not a mixer, although he had been signed by Mick Buxton who probably considered him the last word in roguish tomfoolery. He was the one who would head straight home after training and keep away from activities outside of football. This was nothing to do with language or culture, it was just the way he was. It wasn’t an issue for me. In any group there is usually one who walks alone and in this case it just happened to be Dariusz. Each to their own and it should be remembered that we were there to win football matches and not for the off-field razzmatazz that was a feature of the Peter Reid era.