Massively Violent & Decidedly Average

by Lee Howey

  Stoke had a good side and would finish fourth under Lou Macari. In the absence of the suspended Stewart, I was back up front for that game. I was shit too. Lárus Sigurðsson and Lee Sandford played at the back for Stoke and barely gave me a kick, other than up the arse. I was surprised to last the whole ninety minutes. But Stoke didn’t get the win they needed more than we did. Poor though I was that day, it was Michael Bridges who missed a sitter that would have won the league there and then; so if anyone asks – he was crap and I was brilliant. Not only that, he was still too young to have a drink afterwards. Loser.

  The game was broadcast live to six ITV regions, the telly people hoping to show the win that would take us up. They must have been narked, because not only had our promotion already been decided elsewhere, ours was an almost eventless fixture. It couldn’t even provide more than one yellow card.

  Unlike ITV, no one connected with Sunderland AFC was remotely concerned with the paucity of entertainment during the Stoke game. We began the celebrations by drenching Peter Reid with champagne in the changing rooms. I don’t remember exactly what the celebrations entailed after that – which suggests that they were very good.

  The main objective, by some distance, was to be promoted. That had been achieved, but there was still the Endsleigh Division One championship to play for. Medals. All we needed was a single point at home to West Bromwich Albion, who had nothing to play for. I kept my place up front and was much better than against Stoke. I headed against the post and had a volley that clipped the crossbar. It was another game that we ought to have won, but this time it really didn’t matter. We were the champions. We had done it. We had done it on a very paltry budget too. The only signing that Peter Reid had made for any significant fee was that of David Kelly, who hardly played.

  Cue more celebrations. There was a warm-up area adjacent to the changing rooms, but no one was warmed up in there that day, occupied as it was by a four-feet high stack of booze: slabs of the ubiquitous Budweiser and bottles of dodgy champagne.

  After a brief pitch invasion had cleared, we were introduced back to the crowd in twos. I was paired with Craig Russell. The last pair out were Peter Reid and the captain Kevin Ball, who had not played due to a suspension, if you can imagine such a thing. Kevin then had the privilege of lifting that beautiful old trophy. It was presented by Gordon McKeag, who was president of the Football League at the time. Mr McKeag managed to elicit the only boos of the afternoon by virtue of being a former chairman of Newcastle United. He laughed it off. It was all part of the fun.

  Before the trophy was raised it was knocked to the ground when a swirling wind swept an advertising hoarding into the table on which it had been placed. Bally lifted the silverware, minus the pirouetting lady who is supposed to adorn its top. He denied that she was the victim of a late tackle. The stricken lady actually spent the rest of the celebrations in the top pocket of my Uncle John’s jacket. He was more than a little nervy at the responsibility.

  We took the opportunity to do all those arsing about things that footballers do when they win a trophy: wearing scarves, silly hats, curly red and white wigs, waving flags and prancing around with the trophy while the mandatory ‘We Are the Champions’ by Queen was blaring out. This was what we had all imagined when we were kids. It was a special moment; so much so that Steve Agnew even put his teeth in for the occasion.

  For locals like myself, Ordy, Craig, Martin Smith, Micky Gray and adopted Mackem Kevin Ball, it was even more special, because if we hadn’t been on the pitch disporting ourselves with the trophy, then we would have been in the crowd cheering those who were.

  Receiving a medal was great, but it was of distant secondary importance when compared to the prospect of playing in the Premier League. Only four years into its existence, it was already a global brand and where everyone desperately wanted to be, even people like Paul Bracewell and Paul Stewart, who had done it all. It was an unbelievable feeling and I was now quite easily the happiest I had been in my life. If the Premier League wasn’t/isn’t the best league in the world, then it was certainly the highest profile (Sky had seen to that) and the most exciting.

  That evening, Saturday 27 April 1996, was a rambunctious night out even by our standards. We were suited and booted while we warmed up in the Roker Park lounge for a couple of hours, although I gave my jacket and tie to my heavily pregnant wife, who drove home after dropping me off in a buoyant city centre.

  I really only remember one thing about that night. I spent about an hour and a half standing on a table outside a pub called Chaplin’s, leading a merry sing-song of about a hundred fans. The playlist consisted of every Sunderland song that we could remember between us. Every third tune was the song, partly because people were coming and going and didn’t realise that it had already been given umpteen renditions. People may have worried about upsetting me with a ditty that was so terribly abusive towards my little brother, but I managed to assuage their fears by joining in. I conducted the crowd like a pissed-up Simon Rattle. I was never a wallflower at parties, but standing on a table and rousing the natives into song was rather more extroverted than normal for me. I didn’t care. My life had been leading up to this moment – nothing else had come close.

  To this day, I am reminded by people of that night: ‘I remember when you were outside Chaplin’s…’ It would be nice if they could reminisce about some breathtaking piece of skill on the field of play rather than some piss-artistry on a pub table. But Chaplin’s is still a memory to cherish.

  The West Brom game was a joy, even if it didn’t produce any goals. I had started the match, played well and gone damn close to scoring. The rest of the day was wonderful too.

  • • •

  I had unquestionably contributed to the success of the campaign as a whole. If it had (somehow) happened the season before, I wouldn’t have felt the same sense of achievement as for various reasons I barely featured in 1994–95. Of the fifty-two league and cup games of 1995–96, I was, as a minimum, a substitute in all but six of them. I hadn’t been injury-free, but had taken tablets which enabled me to ignore my ailments. Play now, pay later. Much later.

  The day after the West Brom fixture, Sunday, was the civic parade; open-top bus and all that. It began at Roker Park and nudged gradually towards Seaburn Beach with tens of thousands lining the streets. Everyone was worse for wear, even Kevin Ball who was not usually much of a drinker. There was champagne and beer in the lounge while we waited for the bus, which was also well stocked with booze. This was clearly the last thing we needed, as opposed to the last thing we wanted. Still, a proven method for avoiding a hangover is to remain drunk. Sound medical advice for professional sportsmen.

  It was bitterly cold and I only had a shirt. But it was an incredible afternoon, with the players accompanying the crowd for a variety of off-colour chants, including several more airings of the song. Someone foolishly handed Micky Gray the microphone when we finally made it to the balcony of the Seaburn Centre, and he belted out a song or two that are not normally associated with the Sabbath. That cost him a week or two’s wages. He didn’t seem to care.

  When the event was over, we went out and had a jolly good drink.

  Charlie Hurley gave a speech that was considerably more family-friendly than Micky’s singing. Charlie was as chuffed as anyone with what we had done (on the pitch, not on the bus) and pointed out that despite all his great days and well-deserved reputation, he had never actually won a medal. On the occasion of the club’s centenary in 1979 he was named as Sunderland’s Player of the Century. But now I had a medal and he didn’t, which can only mean that he was a rubbish player compared to me. Or something.

  My happiness had still not quite peaked. On photographs of the bus journey my infant son can, in a manner of speaking, be clearly seen. Elliot would not be born for another seventeen days, 14 May 1996. But my wife was on the bus and her bump was more than a little pronounced.

  • • •

  We still had one game to pl
ay, away to Tranmere the following Sunday. The fixture was largely meaningless, but another great day out for the fans who didn’t want the carnival to end. They’re like that. The team was picked on Saturday with me pencilled in to sit on the bench. Owing to nerves, I would never eat much of a pre-match meal but would have a very substantial breakfast, a full English: toast, marmalade and everything else that the players of today will not even see until they retire.

  When I had boarded the bus, Reidy came bounding up to inform me that I would be playing at centre-back instead of Andy Melville. I don’t know what the official reason for Mel’s absence was, but I’m fairly certain of the real one. Whatever; I was always pleased to make the starting line-up, and with an entire forty-eight hours behind me without a drink I considered myself something of a health fanatic.

  For the first time in three months, we lost a game. It was another that we should have won, but Kenny Irons scored against the run of play, before John Aldridge wrung a rather dubious penalty from Martin Scott which he then put away himself. Our supporters, who comprised at least half of the attendance, which was comfortably more than double Tranmere’s average, were not particularly concerned. Most of them had drunk even more than we had in the previous week.

  I say they weren’t particularly concerned. There was one exception to this, and it seemed that one of his abiding passions in life was hating me. The ball rolled out for a throw-in beside the centre line during the first half. I ran to retrieve it and as I did so, an angry, sweating, porcine face appeared above the advertising hoarding. He looked as though he’d been marinated. Our exchange was brief.

  ‘Howey!’

  Having successfully diverted my attention, he added the epigram: ‘You’re fucking shit!’

  I thanked him for this eloquent assertion then carried on with the game.

  It was bewildering and usually I would shrug aside general abuse. Many years before, Norman, Bobby Ferguson and others had helped me to develop a thick skin. What made this particular verbal pelter stand out was that we had won the league, gone unbeaten in eighteen, given the fans and ourselves a better season than anyone had dared to hope for, restored pride and delivered Premier League football. Personally, I had played in two positions, never complained when I was left on the bench, scored a number of crucial goals, wasn’t on big money and had been signed for virtually nothing. Above all, I had never given less than my best for Sunderland, even if I hadn’t been the star of the show. At Tranmere, I had only been told at the last minute that I was playing and had actually performed pretty well against the great Aldridge (the division’s top scorer that season). What did this bloke expect from me? I was actually enjoying the game and remember Alan Durban, back at the club as chief scout, being very complimentary about me afterwards and I took Alan’s compliments seriously.

  And yet, because we were losing 1–0 at Prenton Park in an all but meaningless last game of a highly successful season, this bloke evidently felt that nothing less than a show trial in The Hague would do for me.

  Of course, everyone is entitled to express an opinion, especially a paying customer. But ask yourself: is hurling abuse at someone who is genuinely doing their best going to inspire them towards betterment, or detract from their confidence and make them perform worse? Don’t answer. It’s a rhetorical question.

  How much this diminishes your performance as a footballer depends on the circumstances. If you have just made an almighty, costly bungle then it is especially difficult to cope with. Players at all levels of the game can be seen to fall apart during games when everything they try is destined to fail; and it takes extraordinary stupidity to think that the acquisition of a huge salary can do anything to override this.

  • • •

  Further celebrations were squeezed out of the season while opportunity still availed itself. There was a pitch invasion and various demands for our shirts. Micky Gray was left with little more than a tattoo. Then there was another night out, after which the season really was all over. The only issue in the back of my mind was whether or not I would be a part of Peter Reid’s plans. My contract was about to run out.

  The following Wednesday we were all weighed so that the coaching staff would be able to tell how much we were about to look after ourselves during the close season – or not. The same day, a few of the younger players were released. Brian Atkinson, Alec Chamberlain and Phil Gray were on their way too. Some of the lads would soon be in Puerto Banús for the usual absorption of culture and history. I didn’t join them, as my wife was about to pop.

  We were finally presented with our medals. We had been given other medals from the Football League sponsors Endsleigh on ribbons around our necks after the West Brom game, but the proper articles were dished out more discreetly. They were about the size of two pence coins, in presentation boxes, with the FA’s three lions on one side and ‘First Division Winners 1995–96’ on the reverse. They were then taken away to be engraved.

  Mine was later nicked from a display cabinet in our house in Silksworth. My daughter Claudia was born on 23 May 1999 and christened shortly afterwards (both of our kids were planned so they would first see the world during the close season). We had a party at our home following the christening, with about sixty guests. I was playing for Northampton Town by then and it took me a couple of weeks to realise that my medal had gone. I have no idea who took it, less still why. Maybe Shergar ate it.

  It was certainly a strange crime. Wherever that medal is now, it is intrinsically worthless. There is a limited demand for small pieces of metal with ‘L Howey’ emblazoned on one side. There may be, as you read, master criminals in South American hideaways, wearing cravats and smoking jackets, smugly perusing their ill-gotten Van Goghs and Caravaggios. A similarly thriving black market is unlikely to exist for my old footy medals.

  • • •

  Peter Reid wanted to keep me and I was more than happy with this. From 1 August my new contract would be worth £1,100 per week, plus bonuses and a £20,000 signing-on fee. This was taxable, so the signing-on fee was reduced to about £13,000 and considered the breadline in the Premier League.

  However, it was money that most people could only dream of and, eight years after being told that I would never play again, five years after being chucked onto a bus from Belgium to Thorney Close, three years after playing for Plains Farm Club in exchange for beer money and two months after being told at Tranmere that I was ‘fucking shit!’ – this was living the dream.

  CHAPTER 11

  PREMIER LEAGUE

  Peter Reid’s pre-seasons were excellent. Facilities at the Charlie Hurley Centre were further improved in the summer of 1996 and the groundsmen there did a tremendous job.

  We would train in different ‘stations’ for forty-five minutes at a time for agility, stretching, strength and ball skills. One of the strength exercises was for two players to sit on the ground back-to-back with arms hooked. A sort of wrestling match would then take place whereby if you forced your opponent down you were the winner. Kevin Ball took this extremely seriously, if you can imagine such a thing. This was despite him being paired with an enormous Romanian goalkeeper, Bogdan Stelea; an oak tree of a man and about a foot taller than Bally, who was undeterred by this. I don’t recall who won, but I do remember wondering if Kevin’s eyes were about to leave their cavities during the struggle, so it may well have been stopped.

  Bogdan was one of a number of goalkeepers who came and went unnoticed that summer (Keith Welch was another). He went on to win ninety-one caps for his country and two years later was part of the Romania team that beat England in the World Cup. As was often the case, it is unclear why Sunderland never signed him. Perhaps it was money. Maybe he didn’t fancy playing in England. Who knows?

  The first game of pre-season was at Roker Park on 24 July. This was against Steaua Bucharest for Richard Ord’s testimonial. Then it was off to Ireland again for four games there and it was great to be back on tour. I adored my new son, but Elliot wasn’t the
easiest baby and suddenly the gentle hum of a hotel mini-bar acquired an appeal I had never known before. Besides, I had no say in the matter – it was my job.

  On tour there was the usual mixture of hard work and buffoonery, which was recalled twenty years later by our reserve goalkeeper, David Preece, in a column for the Sunderland Echo. It was in a piece with the somewhat sensationalist headline: ‘On tour with SAFC as Lee Howey tried to kill Martin Smith.’

  Mr Preece wrote: ‘It was somewhat of a baptism of fire for me.

  The matches were followed by “recreation time” which involved more than a couple of drinks that, at times, got a little out of hand.’

  He described a question-and-answer drinking game as follows:

  As I remember, Martin Smith had given three or four wrong answers in a row and was now in a position where a forfeit was his only choice. His forfeit? Three minutes’ Queensberry rules with Lee Howey out on the 18th green (we were staying at a golf resort), with all of us gathered at the window to watch.

  Now, I was under the assumption that this was just a laugh. But as it turned out, Lee took his bar games quite seriously and was just short of putting a gum-shield in and wearing a robe with his name across the back. It was at this point I feared for Martin. As Lee swung an arm towards Martin, I remember Andy Melville turning to me and saying ‘He’s only slapped him there, hasn’t he?’ I was rather hoping he had. He hadn’t, and we all ran out to stop Howey going to prison for murder of the ‘Son of Pele’.

  I read the piece with barely suppressed rage. How dare David Preece write something this accurate?

  I beg to differ on a couple of details. Martin’s choice of forfeit was either to drink another pint or, at the instigation of Melville, who was adept at loading other people’s guns, to take a single punch from me. It was by now approaching 4 a.m. and Martin could simply take no more grog, to the point where he would literally have preferred to be punched.