by Lee Howey
Except that it was some way short of an hour. The whole fight lasted for one minute and thirty-three seconds – including the count. Hamed jabbed and broke Billy’s nose with his first punch. Billy felt as though he’d been hit by a heavyweight, or a charging rhino.
We had arranged to meet Billy at a hotel afterwards, but he was understandably not in the mood and retired to bed. Most people will never know how he felt; years of training for that moment. But I have to say that Billy Hardy was a fine boxer. Not for no reason was he given the chance to fight Hamed in the first place. Billy was also a European and Commonwealth champion, not a mug.
We arrived home at around 7 a.m. I may have dreamed this, but I think we left Micky Gray in a fountain in Manchester. If he drowned, he didn’t mention it later.
Saturday 3 May 1997 was undoubtedly one of the big days.
• • •
Our final game of the season was at Wimbledon. There were various permutations for the statisticians to ponder. We could lose but still stay up if there were favourable results elsewhere. However, we kept ourselves to but one simple thought:
If we won, then we were still a Premier League team.
We made no assumptions. Why would we? Wimbledon were guaranteed to finish no lower than eighth, had beaten us comfortably at Roker in December and no one ever relished a trip to Selhurst Park. However, the Everton result had restored some confidence, training was fun and I was offered great encouragement in public from complete strangers. The Wimbledon game seemed to be the sole topic of conversation on Wearside. Indeed, much of Wearside would be at the game. Three weeks earlier, 7,979 were at Selhurst to see Wimbledon beat Leeds. When Sunderland came to town there were 21,338.
When we arrived at the ground, we noticed that Wimbledon were still trying that sad little trick with the loud music and were met with the same collective roll of the eye they had received in 1994. Silly people. My nerves had known easier times, but that was nothing to do with the puerile antics of the opposition; it was entirely attributable to the magnitude of the game. We just had to make sure we were OK when the whistle blew.
We were. When we stepped out of that tiny tunnel to start the match we couldn’t have been in a better frame of mind. Almost all of the noise was generated by the hordes of visiting fans. If Concorde had flown three feet above the Arthur Wait Stand you wouldn’t have heard it. I was concentrating on breathing deeply and willing the referee, Dermot Gallagher, to start the game. It would all be fine once the game was underway.
Wimbledon kicked off. I was momentarily distracted from the game a few seconds into it when a streaker came bounding onto the pitch. After Goldie the previous week, it seemed that indiscriminate appearances by naked women were becoming an accepted feature of life. She had leapt out of the Whitehorse Lane Stand, run over the centre line, inexpertly kicked the ball and was now trotting rapidly in the direction of myself and the adjacent Dean Holdsworth.
She was wearing black training shoes, white ankle socks, a thong that was pink-sequined at the front and plain white at the back – and nothing else. Her flaxen hair flowed midway down her flawless alabaster back, sumptuous, pert, natural breasts glistening in the early summer sunshine, all complemented by a bewitching smile and transfixing eyes of deepest aquamarine. Apart from that I barely noticed her.
It transpired that there was a coordinated spate of streaking models at various Premier League grounds that day as ambush marketing for something or other. Holdsworth had recently been in the papers after being caught in flagrante with a glamour model of some prominence (particularly above the navel) who was not Mrs Holdsworth. As the young lady on the pitch drew ever closer, he turned to me and said: ‘Christ. I’m in enough trouble already. I hope she’s heading for you.’
‘So do I, mate. She’s fucking beautiful.’
She went straight for Holdsworth. Once she had been escorted away by stewards, who were attempting to look as though they regarded the matter with extreme seriousness, we recommenced.
The respite from the tension was fleeting. I passed the ball to Paul Bracewell, who had an uncharacteristic rush of blood and wellied it into the stand. Yes, even Brace, with all his experience, medals and caps, was feeling it too. I was open-jawed at this and any hopes we entertained that this might not be such a difficult encounter after all were dissipated there and then. We weren’t in such a great frame of mind as we had told ourselves. It was windy, the pitch was dry and hard as oak, so the ball bobbled much of the time. It was frantic. Holdsworth and Jason Euell were difficult opponents. I was intent on doing whatever it took to stop them; easier said than done. The first half was scrappy and goalless and I was glad when it ended. On the other side of the Thames at this stage, Coventry were winning 2–1 at White Hart Lane. As usual, Tottenham could not be relied upon for anything and as things stood we would be relegated by a single goal.
Not that we players knew this. Nor did we want to. Nothing was to deflect any of our attention from the matter in hand, as opposed to matters not in our hands. We played some decent football in the second half and made a couple of chances. Waddle passed when he should have shot. Stewart should have scored with his head from Craig Russell’s cross. But the most awful moment came four minutes from time. Wimbledon booted the ball down their left. Ordinarily I would have let it float out for a throw-in. But time was running out and we were still going for victory, so I kept it in with my head. My target was Ordy, who I hoped would come away with the ball and build an attack.
Howl, howl, howl, howl!
It landed at the feet of a grateful Holdsworth, who skipped past Ordy and Micky Gray then played it inside to Euell. From twelve yards, Euell scored. At the other end I headed one backwards to Michael Bridges, who missed his volley in the six-yard box. Full-time: 1–0. We applauded the fans, which was the least they deserved, but I was desperate to get off the pitch.
Micky Gray remained optimistic that other results would save us. Coventry were still leading 2–1 but had fifteen minutes to play. For Sunderland supporters old enough to remember, this was horribly reminiscent of Jimmy Hill’s cheating in 1977, which was instrumental in Sunderland’s relegation that year – and Coventry’s survival. Although twenty years on, the delayed start was legitimate. I was alone in the dressing room while everyone else gathered optimistically around a radio. A Tottenham equaliser would be our salvation, but Coventry held on and stayed up yet again by a single point. A concerto of misery ensued.
Our forty points would have seen us safe in just about any other season. I had no faith in good fortune and the fact that I was proven correct in this did not make me any less inconsolable. That night I got as drunk as it’s possible to be without rendering yourself unconscious. Richard Ord told me later that I had ‘trashed the bus toilet’ in a drunken temper. I had no recollection of it.
I awoke the next day, still in a pit of despair. In fact, I still haven’t got over that relegation. It isn’t the Wimbledon result that I think of as much as the draw against Forest and, worse still, the defeat to Southampton. That oh-so-important victory at Middlesbrough didn’t in reality amount to much because we went down anyway. We were relegated fair and square after thirty-eight games and our demise could be attributed to any one of the twenty-eight games that we failed to win; so it is somewhat irrational of me to blame everything on the Forest and Southampton results. It’s just that I do.
• • •
Of course, there should be a sense of perspective. Relegation is not the worst experience a man will endure in his life, even if seems like it at the time. Besides, the long-term damage to Sunderland AFC was limited.
We had players who would obviously be leading lights in Division One: Rae, Gray, Johnston, Ball, Smith, Scott, Quinn. They would be joined by Jody Craddock, Lee Clark, Chris Makin, Nicky Summerbee and the sensational Kevin Phillips. The only surprise was that it took two seasons to return to the Premier League when a record 105 points was won in 1998–99. There was the added pleasure of playing in
England’s finest football venue, the new Stadium of Light.
The 1997–98 season ended in glorious failure with the play-off final defeat to Charlton at Wembley, 7–6 in a penalty shoot-out after a 4–4 draw (Clive Mendonca doing much of the damage). Ten games into that season, Peter Reid decided that Richard Ord and Andy Melville were not working out at the back and replaced them. This gave Jody Craddock his big chance, but beside him was Darren Williams, who was not really a centre-back. He was too short, for one thing (although it must be conceded that he had some very good days in that position). Promotion was followed by two successive seventh-place Premier League finishes, Sunderland’s highest since 1955. These were exciting times on Wearside.
We will never know what the butterfly effect might have been, if any. But I believe that I would have been selected ahead of Darren and I can’t stop myself from pondering the griefs and glories I could have been a part of at the club I loved. So you may wish to know: why was I not involved in this enthralling, tumultuous era? The answer is quite simple.
I got pissed and signed for Burnley.
* I was 6ft 3in. then. Today I am 6ft 4in. This is due to my knee being corrected, my back being fixed and, because I no longer force them into ill-fitting football boots, the arches of my feet are in their proper shape again. I am also a shoe size bigger. This is about as late as a growing spurt gets.
CHAPTER 13
BURNLEY: OH DEAR
The Everton match was not quite Roker Park’s final curtain, although it was the last proper fixture there. A friendly had been arranged against Liverpool to say farewell to the old ground on Tuesday 13 May. The reason for this was that Liverpool had been the first visiting team to play there, on 10 September 1898.
The idea was to have a sort of party, celebrating the old and embracing the new. Former players would be wheeled out, turf would be ceremonially dug up and there would be a fireworks display after the match. However, two days after relegation, no one was in the mood to whoop it up and the whole thing became something of a chore. For the record, John Mullin scored and Sunderland won 1–0; the same result as in 1898.
Despite the general despondency across Wearside there was a full house and, to their credit, Liverpool fielded a strong side that included Robbie Fowler, John Barnes, Mark Wright, Jason McAteer, Rob Jones and Michael Thomas.
I did not play. The day before, the screws had been removed from the ankle injury I sustained at Elland Road. Before kick-off I took my son onto the pitch for a kick-about; or the best a man on crutches could do for a kick-about. This was the day before Elliot’s first birthday and he was only just walking, but he was faring better than me in that regard. Before a packed Fulwell End he kicked a ball that just about rolled into the net. The fans behind the goal gave a good-hearted and appreciative roar, upon which he burst into tears. This drew a pantomime ‘Aaah’ that failed to placate him.
My main duty for the evening was to hang about and socialise with both teams in the bar afterwards. This wasn’t too much of an encumbrance.
For the first time in my life I arrived at work with a screwdriver. There was some souvenir hunting going on and I didn’t want certain items getting into the wrong hands, i.e. hands other than mine. There was one item in particular that Kevin Ball, who also didn’t play, was keen to stick up his jumper. All I can say is that I saved him from himself, although I denied everything.
• • •
Peter Reid’s first signing of the summer of 1997 was Lee Clark for a club record £2.75 million. This caused quite a stir (by contrast, the arrival of Kevin Phillips a few weeks later drew barely a murmur). Lee, or Nash as he was known, was not only a Newcastle United player but he was as much a fan of the Mags as I was of Sunderland. He was shown off to the press at the building site that was almost the Stadium of Light, where he said all the right things. More importantly he did all the right things on the pitch.
Having become a pivotal member of Sunderland’s promotion-winning side two years later, he was transferred soon afterwards but had in effect been sacked. His position became untenable when he was photographed in an anti-Sunderland T-shirt. He attended Newcastle’s 1999 FA Cup final defeat to Manchester United and enjoyed a few shandies. He only wore the T-shirt for a few seconds to please some Newcastle fans who had egged him on, but pictures were taken that soon made their way onto the internet, thereby making Lee Clark a very early victim of social media. It was a stupid thing for him to do; it was supposed to be a bit of fun but he really hadn’t thought it through. He still regrets it, but maintains that he wanted to leave anyway as he couldn’t bear to play for Sunderland against Newcastle. Whatever; it meant that he was off to Fulham and a player who quite clearly should have been in the Premier League would spend four seasons out of it.
I sympathised with him when it all went wrong. There was no malice in what he did. It was merely horseplay with some mates. Had I been in the reverse situation, then I would have put on an anti-Newcastle T-shirt without a blink. Lee’s was a salutary tale for footballers everywhere that they would now have to be considerably more wary in public.
I liked Lee and bear him no ill-will whatsoever. It is too often forgotten that he was superb for Sunderland during his two years there, as well as being a model professional until that fateful afternoon. I knew Lee slightly before he arrived and roomed with him on yet another pre-season tour of Ireland. I don’t think he approved of the social hours the rest of us were keeping.
Other new arrivals on that tour were Phillips, who would become a club all-time great and England international; goalkeeper Edwin Zoetebier, who would collect a UEFA Cup winner’s medal with Feyenoord in 2002; and Chris Byrne. The last I heard of him he was wanted by police in connection with some stolen boilers from a Plumb Center in Burnley. Also with us on a trial basis, although he was never signed, was Marinko Galič, an established international defender who would play for Slovenia in the 2002 World Cup – where they lost every game.
The final game of the tour was in Dublin against Shelbourne. After a 2–1 win we were given the customary instructions about pleasing ourselves afterwards, but if we weren’t on the bus at 9 a.m. the following morning we would, without exception, be left behind.
Niall Quinn had arranged for us to go to some nightclub that was apparently owned by Bono and The Edge. After a while a couple of the lads were dancing with some very attractive women; well dressed and fine figured. Niall was guffawing at the sight of this. So was I when he explained that the ladies were in fact either gentlemen, or had previously been gentlemen. John Mullin in particular took some convincing and wanted evidence.
The next morning we somehow made breakfast and then the bus. Aboard the bus, Steve Agnew was perusing the Irish Sun and couldn’t help but notice the two-page spread about one of the transsexuals who had been in the nightclub. Another member of our party, who I haven’t the heart to name, had not been seen at breakfast. However, at 8.59 a.m. he rolled up in a taxi and shambled aboard. No one said anything, but Ordy simply placed the newspaper in his lap. I don’t know what had happened to our man in the eight hours or so before that; quite possibly nothing. But he kept very quiet that day.
• • •
I didn’t play against Shelbourne. My final appearance for Sunderland was in the 2–2 draw against Portadown at Shamrock Park on 19 July 1997.
I didn’t vacate the bench during the goalless draw with Ajax; the inaugural game at the Stadium of Light. I felt certain I would not be involved in the first game of the season at Sheffield United either. Jody Craddock’s arrival meant even more competition to play centre-back and frustration was setting in again.
Several senior players had left. David Kelly was off to Tranmere, Paul Stewart to Stoke, Paul Bracewell would soon join Fulham and Dariusz Kubicki went to Wolves (who never asked me to join, funny that). But first to leave was Chris Waddle, which disappointed more than a few of the fans. He went to Burnley to replace Adrian Heath as player-manager and took Chris Woods with him.
‘Lee. We’ve just accepted an offer from Burnley for you. Let me tell you, we don’t want you to go. But I know you’ve been a bit frustrated lately, so it’s entirely up to you.’
I told him that I wouldn’t mind listening to what Waddle had to say. Four hours later I had checked into a hotel in Burnley. After dinner, in came Mr Waddle accompanied by Burnley’s reserve team manager Gordon ‘Sid’ Cowans. I had admired Sid for many years, mainly from his glory days at Aston Villa where he was a midfielder of the highest order. He was still playing now at thirty-eight, having been signed from Stockport County a few days earlier, and his presence helped to seduce me. Also in attendance were assistant manager Glenn Roeder and Chris Woods, who was a goalkeeping coach as well as a player. The agent was there too.
Chris Waddle gave me his pitch; what he planned for this grand old club and how I fitted into his plans. As more drinks went down, negotiations reached ever increasing technical levels and became intricately detailed in their content.
‘Go on, Lee. Sign. It’ll be great.’
‘I dunno.’
‘Pleeeease.’
‘Dunno.’
‘Go on. Sign. I’ll buy you another drink.’
‘I’ll think about it.’
‘Go on.’
‘Er.’
‘Go on. Go on.’
‘All right then. I’ll sign.’
By then it was 3 a.m. Oh dear. Worst decision ever.
• • •
I can’t say that I regret going to Burnley. It set me on an indirect path to meeting the woman who is now my wife and mother of my two younger sons. But in purely professional terms, it was about as bad a choice as I could have made. For a start, it meant that I had dropped down two leagues in the space of three months, as well as leaving the club that was dearest to me. Still, I was more likely to be playing first team football and I would be working with some very good people.