by Lee Howey
I reacquainted myself with an old friend from Ipswich too, Chris Kiwomya, then an Arsenal striker but not playing that day. We reminisced about punch-ups from our youth. Ah, the joys of boyish violence. I never thought that he would play for Arsenal, or that I would line up against them. We were playing them as peers too. I wasn’t there because we had been pulled out of the hat in a cup draw, which can happen to anyone. We had earned it.
I partnered Andy Melville at centre-back, where we were to take care of Ian Wright and John Hartson. What could be easier? John was only twenty-one then, but he remembered me from his days at Luton Town and politely asked me to ‘take it easy’. Their other nine starters were David Seaman, Lee Dixon, Nigel Winterburn, Steve Bould, Martin Keown, Tony Adams, David Platt, Patrick Viera and Paul Merson. Ray Parlour was a sub. They were all household names, whereas I don’t suppose there was too much Lee Howey-related chatter among the Arsenal fans before the kick-off. So what? If days like this didn’t serve to remind me why I had worked so hard, amid so much pain, for so long, then nothing would. I was ready for them.
Ian Wright was, as you know, a simply brilliant striker who rarely ceased his yap during the match. This wasn’t in a nasty way; it was just his well-founded self-confidence coming to the fore. I remember thinking: ‘I hope he goes on to host a Saturday night game show called Friends Like These. That would be great.’ A few years later I got my wish.
The match itself, played upon a flawless surface on a beautiful late September afternoon, was a very strange one. Melville and I soon settled and were passing the ball well. I made a few good challenges too. We went on a couple of dangerous attacks and Steve Agnew had a decent chance. There was nothing in the game – until the twenty-first minute.
That was when Martin Scott was shown his second yellow card in four minutes, both for late challenges on Lee Dixon, the second of which was not especially bad. In the thirty-ninth minute Martin was joined by Paul Stewart, who also collected two yellows – both for handball. Again, the second was somewhat harsh. He jumped and was pushed by Bould into the flight of the descending ball and couldn’t help but handle it. His second card was later rescinded and a one-match ban averted. But that wasn’t hugely helpful on the day of the game, which we now had to complete with nine men.
In between the two dismissals, Peter Reid was sent to the stand for a furious invective against the referee, Paul Danson (who in 1999 was removed from refereeing Sunderland’s FA Cup tie at Lincoln City as the fans were still fuming about him). Having started with a 4–5–1 formation, we now reverted to a less orthodox 4–4–bugger-all and did nothing for the remainder of the half except make clearances. It was defence versus attack, like a training exercise. Tony Coton took as much time as he could get away with when taking goal kicks, all of which were walloped crudely into the stands. It was goalless at half-time; an accomplishment in itself. It may sound odd, but Ian Wright berated Mr Danson to his face for ‘spoiling the game’. His sporting blood meant that he wanted to win as much as anyone, but against full-strength opposition.
Reidy and Bobby Saxton remained positive and, undeterred by trivialities like a two-man disadvantage, actually had a plan to win the game. We were to keep it tight for half an hour, then bring Michael Bridges or Craig Russell off the bench, catch Arsenal unawares, steal the points, then wait for poems and plays to be written about how we had done it. The plan was not so far-fetched. The longer the game progressed, the more irritated the home fans became and the more belief we gained.
Alas, t’was not to be. Hartson finally headed his team into a lead with seventeen minutes remaining. Bridges almost equalised. Had he done so, our supporters, who were in particularly magnificent form that day, would have laughed as much as celebrated. But Parlour finished us off near the end and it finished 2–0.
We had all played well and there was nothing more we could have done. Personally I had proved, if indeed it needed to be proved, that I was not intimidated by anyone and that I could compete with the best if I was on my game. Whatever misgivings people may have had about me, I like to think that a lack of gumption was not among them. If I had been asked to run through a brick wall, my only query would have been ‘Which one?’ It was the only way I could play.
Regardless of the result, Highbury is one of the great memories of my professional career, up there with lifting the First Division trophy. I had played a full Premier League game for Sunderland in a great ground against celebrated opposition and had done so adeptly. What’s more, I had earned the right to be there and it was a fixture that would be long remembered by Sunderland fans.
But I would still have preferred to win, even if that meant scraping a 1–0 win with a dodgy penalty in a tedious match. As Barry Davies said on Match of the Day that evening, ‘Arsenal won the match. Sunderland won the day.’ Thanks, Barry, but I would have preferred it the other way round.
Arsenal were managed that day by Pat Rice. Arsène Wenger had just been appointed but would not be in the dugout until their next game. It was also the first fixture back at Highbury for Tony Adams, who had been out of the game in order to deal with his much publicised alcoholism. I can’t say that the travelling Sunderland contingent was overly sympathetic, unless a rousing chorus of ‘Who drank all the beer?’ counts as sympathy.
Other compassionate comments from the visitors’ section included: ‘Fuckin’ puff! ’E probably only drinks the same as us.’
• • •
I was back on the bench for the next game because Ord was available again. This was at home to Middlesbrough, live on Sky. The crowd was pleased to see Ordy back – until he was sent off in the fifty-eighth minute when we were losing 2–1. He trod on the chest of Nick Barmby and Graham Poll gave him a straight red. However, Craig Russell equalised to give us a useful point against a very expensive side that included Ravanelli, Juninho, Emerson and Barmby. Comparatively speaking, our remaining ten men had cost about the same as a round of drinks. It was a moral, if not an actual victory and was another performance that said much for the spirit of our very small squad. It was about to become smaller.
We flew to the Dell to play Southampton – and what a peculiar little ground that was. Walking on studs from changing room to the pitch was a fraught business, down steep stairs and narrow corridors. It was an achievement to reach the dugout.
We were stuffed 3–0. It was Tony Coton’s 501st league game. It was also his last. Following an accidental collision with Egil Østenstad, he was put on a stretcher with his leg broken in five places. Lionel Pérez would play in every remaining game of 1996–97, with Phil Naisbett then David Preece promoted to the bench. But we had a critical shortage of experienced goalkeeping cover.
Lionel became an instant crowd favourite. He couldn’t do much to stop Southampton, but made some fine saves in the next game against Aston Villa at Roker Park and kept a clean sheet. Midway through the first half we were awarded a penalty, which was taken by David Kelly, who had recently returned from injury. Mark Bosnich saved it, but Paul Stewart pounced to score the rebound and the only goal of the afternoon. This was an excellent result. Villa would finish the season in fifth and their team that day included Bosnich, Dwight Yorke, Ugo Ehiogu, Gareth Southgate and Andy Townsend. We were now eleven games into the season and in thirteenth position. Mid-table. It was all going very well.
• • •
Richard Ord’s latest suspension now took effect. He had been given a three-match ban for his straight red against Middlesbrough, plus one more because he had already been sent off against Derby. I was therefore looking forward to a minimum four-game run in the side. One man’s misfortune is another man’s opportunity. Or it should have been.
I started the game against Leeds United at Elland Road on 2 November, but was destined not to finish it. Leeds were another useful side and Melville and I had to mark Brian Deane and an aging Ian Rush. A Mark Ford goal put us 1–0 down at half-time. Aggravatingly, Mark was only 5ft 7in. yet scored with his head (it was also the
only goal he ever scored for Leeds). But we were far from out of it. Deane had caused me no problems whatsoever and I had given him several clatterings. All good fun (and let’s face it, not exactly a novelty at Elland Road).
Peter Reid and Bobby Saxton did most of the talking during the interval. But another member of the backroom staff at that time was none other than Sam Allardyce, a former Sunderland player and old mucker of Reidy’s from Bolton Wanderers (Sam had recently been sacked as Blackpool manager by their chairman Owen Oyston, who issued the dismissal from his prison cell where he was doing a six-year stretch for rape). Sam followed me to the toilet in order to offer me some advice. What he said exactly was not recorded, which was just as well for him. If he had been afforded the same level of discretion when he frequented Wing’s Cantonese Restaurant in Manchester twenty years later, he might still be manager of England.
Like his former teammate Joe Bolton, Sam had been what is often referred to as a ‘no-nonsense defender’ in his day. This was reflected in his counsel to me.
‘Fuckin’ kick him, Lee! Whack ’im where it ’urts. Nut ’im. Bite ’im if you need to. Just do it! Hammer the bastard. Kick ’im. Stick a knee in his…’
Like me you probably don’t need any aspect of his speech to be explained to you. He wasn’t being what you might call cryptic.
Anyway, the expurgated version of his advice was that I should be as aggressive as possible with Brian Deane. This seemed odd as I had not exactly shirked on that front during the first half. But, pliable as ever, I took deep breaths then returned to the field to carry out Sam’s instructions. He had worked me up and I was like an angry bear, but without a legitimate reason for being angry. Brian soon got the message and knew what to do. He had come up against many a player like me and used an old trick I was familiar with from chapter two. He turned his foot slightly and I smashed my ankle against his studs as I tried to kick him; I was gulping with the pain. Not that I was about to let this show. This was a big opportunity for me and I was determined to use it. But physically I was in too much trouble and had to come off.
As I had been hurt by Brian in the course of attempting to hurt him, I could hardly lay blame at his door. However, I have to say: that’s what I got for listening to Sam Allardyce (blame him for everything; it’s fashionable). There is controlled and uncontrolled aggression and I had foolishly abandoned the former for the latter. It was my job to be tough and dish it out, even if I had to occasionally take it back. Fans love a good aggressive tackle, but not an assassin. I left Elland Road on crutches. After the Leeds game there was a fortnight off for an international break, which gave me two weeks to work on my recovery. We had a new, young, highly recommended physio called Nigel Carnell.
One of the strange things about Nigel was his reluctance to run onto the pitch during a game to treat a player. You would have thought that this was an accepted prerequisite in his job, but he would send on our other physio, Gordon Ellis, in his stead. This provided a problem for Gordon on one occasion. For fear of being seen on television, when he entered the field of play to treat Bally he did so wearing a hood to cover his face and distinctive bald head. It wasn’t that he shared Nigel’s nervousness of being seen in public; or rather he wouldn’t have done had he not been officially on the sick from his other job.
The first thing Nigel did back at the training ground was tell me that I didn’t need crutches. He then put me on a trampoline session on one of those little trampettes so beloved of small children. It was a twenty-minute session followed by a half-hour run round the perimeter of the training ground. When I returned home I was in agony.
The next day I expressed my concern that my ankle might be broken. The idea was dismissed out of hand. On seeing the running I had done at Leeds in the minutes immediately after sustaining the injury, Nigel reckoned there couldn’t have been a break and sent me back to work. After a few more bounces on the trampette, I was in greater pain than ever and spoke to Gordon, who happened to be passing. Gordon knew that I wasn’t the malingering or exaggerating type; he drove me straight to hospital, where an X-ray confirmed that the ankle bone had become detached, turned further and was generally in a condition whereby bouncing up and down on a trampoline like a giddy cocker spaniel was the last thing it needed. It ought to have been in a cast and my recovery was set back significantly. I wouldn’t return to the first team squad until March, four months away.
Tony Coton, meanwhile, was struggling with even worse wounds. His bone had healed, but had done so bent and misshapen. So his leg had to be re-broken and a rod inserted. There were other lesser injuries among the squad too. Nigel Carnell MCSP, SRP, parted ways with the club soon afterwards. He was young at the time and I understand he now has a glowing reputation.
In 1998, while still employed by Sunderland AFC as a coach, Tony Coton sued the club alleging a failure to provide suitable disability cover, negligence and breach of contract. There would be wider repercussions.
• • •
Christmas of 1996 fell during my recuperation, with the players’ night out duly arranged for some or other midweek in December. The idea was to have a jolly little soirée with a fancy dress theme. It was inconceivable that anything could go wrong. Again. For a start we decided to stay out of Newcastle this year.
I went as Batman. This was proper Batman too with latex body armour and a cool mask. None of your Fathers For Justice rubbish. I changed at home in the bedroom and when I came downstairs the two German shepherds I had at the time pounced at me. I had to whip off the mask and explain to them who I was.
The evening began in Seaham at The Phoenix where Aidy Marshall laid on some food. There was also the obligatory stripper and other entertainments. Kevin Ball was dressed as Little Bo Peep in bright yellow pigtails and a pair of rather fetching kitten heels. To borrow from Blackadder, he looked about as feminine as W. G. Grace. Tony Coton was still on crutches and therefore went for the obvious: Long John Silver. Niall Quinn was Friar Tuck, Richard Ord was a Mountie. There were three musketeers. Alex Rae came as Madonna. Several Nazis turned up including Martin Scott, who was tastefully decked out as Adolf himself.
We ended up in Sunderland city centre at a place called Idols. I was chatting at the bar with Bo Peep and a couple of Nazis, when a commotion commenced a few yards away. Soon after I was told we were all to go outside where it was ‘all kicking off’. What now?
What happened was that Ordy’s wife was in the bar when some bloke became over-friendly with her. Ordy was distinctly unhappy and decided upon immediate retribution. As you know, the Mountie always gets his man. The problem was that Mrs Ord’s unwanted friend had ten or fifteen mates with him, so a pitched battle commenced.
It was easy for partisan spectators to see who was on which team. There were quite a few spectators too; the public is seldom able to resist the combined lure of pageantry and extreme violence. Everyone was fisticuffing. Even Tony Coton was belting someone with his crutch. The fact that I was throwing punches in the epicentre of a huge fracas meant heightened significance for my Batman costume. This occurred even to me at the time. An appearance by Robin would have been most useful.
Robin never arrived, but Gill Bridge police station was only about a hundred yards away and the cops soon turned up to disperse everyone. To them it was a run-of-the-mill punch-up and they were content to send everyone packing, rather than give themselves a skip-load of paperwork by filling the cells with a load of eedjits in fancy dress. There were no arrests.
The following morning, nursing one of my more extravagant hangovers, I was to be picked up from home by Gordon Ellis and driven to Hartlepool to meet a consultant about my ankle. Gordon was late. From my bedroom I eventually saw him approaching our cul-de-sac and went to the front door, but there was no sign of him from the garden. He was hidden behind the street’s bend where his car had become stuck. Distracted by looking for my house, he had absent-mindedly mounted a neighbour’s rockery and was unable to vacate it, wheels turning impotently w
ith no terra firma beneath them. The rockery owner accepted Gordon’s apology and fortunately another neighbour had a hydraulic jack with which to return him to the highway.
Gordon had also been with us the previous night and his agitation was increased because he couldn’t find his SS officer’s cap, which would cost him a £30 deposit on his costume. He was also wearing a Hitler moustache that had been drawn on him as a jape. It wouldn’t wash off. I was still honking of drink and it’s fair to assume that the consultant wasn’t overly impressed with us. She still pencilled in my operation.
From Hartlepool we headed for Roker Park where training had finished and Niall Quinn wanted to speak to me.
‘Thank God for your dad, Lee.’
My dad?
Following the mass brawl outside Idols, Niall and Tony Coton, two of the wiser heads in the camp, had made a discreet departure. At least, it was as discreet a departure as could be expected of two famous footballers dressed as Long John Silver and Friar Tuck in a busy city centre. They sought sanctuary in a nearby Indian restaurant, but were given grief by an adjacent table of fellow diners who were shouting ‘Waste of money!’ and other insults at them, clearly keen to instigate a fight. Another one.
It is often forgotten among the idolatry to follow Niall on Wearside that he was not hugely popular there during his first year or so. The gentlemen in the restaurant were piqued that the club they supported had spent almost £2 million on Niall and Tony. The fact that Tony had then broken his leg in five places and Niall had endured agonising injuries on each knee, was something to be taken as a personal insult. This absurd ‘reasoning’ was compounded by Carlsberg plc and things were about to become nasty.