Massively Violent & Decidedly Average

by Lee Howey

  We looked after each other on the pitch too. Before I arrived at the club the previous season, Northampton played a goalless draw against Lincoln City. The game was only remembered because our right-back, Ian Clarkson, suffered a bad leg break which would in effect put paid to his time as a Northampton player. This was due to what was, by all accounts, an extraordinarily nasty challenge by the Lincoln striker Lee Thorpe, for which he was merely booked. Lincoln were subsequently relegated alongside us and when we played them at home the following season, Ian politely asked me if I wouldn’t mind awfully smashing the bastard if the opportunity arose.

  Anything for a friend, and Ian was a thoroughly splendid bloke. In the second half, the ball was played down the Lincoln left, over the head of our right-back Ian Hendon, with Thorpe running on to it. I went over to cover and caught the ball. I also caught just about every part of Lee Thorpe with all fifteen stone of me. With a certain balletic quality, he travelled headlong into the advertising hoardings six feet away and then struck them as though he had been shot from a cannon. The physio treated him for quite some time, but the game could continue while he was down as he was off the pitch. Result. I glanced surreptitiously at our bench and saw Mr Clarkson sitting contentedly, grinning like a lottery winner.

  Thorpe was eventually reassembled and returned groggily to the pitch, for some reason showing displeasure. He attempted a swagger, which is a tall order for someone who can’t be entirely sure where all of his limbs are. He cocked a finger gun but, realising that people tend not to be overly intimidated by mime, he switched from charades to explicitly telling me that he knew people who would shoot me up… etcetera.

  This at least got a laugh. The more ruthless associates of the criminal underworld were rarely to be found admiring the stained glass windows in Lincoln Cathedral. But this fact failed to stem the ranted yet very entertaining horseshit of an inane young braggart. He wouldn’t shut his yap, so I clattered him again and still I wasn’t booked – although he was. Eventually they substituted him, possibly to spare him from a variety of punishments. We went on to win the match 1–0. I suspect he’d had better afternoons.

  I must add that Mafioso knocks on my door remain infrequent at best. I encountered some authentically scary people on football pitches. Lee Thorpe wasn’t one of them.

  • • •

  Ian Atkins left the club in October and was replaced by Kevin Wilson. We drew at Southend on Boxing Day and were fifth in the table. I was really enjoying football again, but had injured my toe. Our physio, Dennis Casey, told me to rest it and that I should be OK to play against Darlington two days later. I was keen to be involved, as Martin Gray, Brian Atkinson, Marco Gabbiadini and Paul Heckingbottom were in their side. Unfortunately I couldn’t even get my boot on, let alone play. Darlington won 3–0.

  There was no reason to suspect as much at the time, but this was to prove the beginning of the end for me in the Football League.

  Marco was rumoured to be coming to Northampton and I discussed the matter with Brian after the game. He said he would caution against such a move, even though Gabbiadini had just scored against us twice. It seems he was not what you might call a team player, either on or off the pitch. This is a typical trait in someone who scored as many goals as Marco did. He joined the following summer.

  A couple of weeks later, I was back in training at Moulton. My toe was fine, but my right knee – ye olde wonky right knee – was hurting again. At first I ignored it and pushed myself further. Training, combined with another visit to piggy-hour at Pizza Hut, made me nod off in front of the television later that afternoon. When I awoke from this nana-nap I stood up and the pain was acute. The knee had visibly swollen up and I called Dennis, who told me to come to the ground. I could just about drive and he sent me from Sixfields to hospital, where I was referred to the highly reputable Droitwich Knee Clinic, which had treated Robbie Fowler, Jamie Redknapp and other wounded superstars of the era.

  The consultant did not present me with any welcome news. Because I hadn’t done proper rehab all those years ago at Ipswich, my knee remained bent. The cartilage had been taken out when I was nineteen. This meant that bone had been grinding against bone and was why I was told in 1988 that I would never play again. By 2000, the knee was down to the mush and the only option was micro-fracture surgery, more famously undergone by the cricketer Andrew Flintoff a few years later. This involved opening the knee and making a series of small fractures with an awl. Bone marrow then releases cells though the fractures, which rebuilds cartilage and re-calcifies the bone. It’s every bit as much fun as it sounds. I then had to wear an electronic device day and night for six weeks to continually move the knee.

  I was out for the rest of the season and most of the following one too.

  I went home to Sunderland where the same boredom and depression I had felt after sustaining the broken ankle at Elland Road in 1996 returned. Bad news for me, but another boon for The Cavalier.

  • • •

  More important than my personal tribulations was that Northampton gained automatic promotion, thanks in no small part to us winning all of our last six games. The arrival of Jamie Forrester on loan from Utrecht late in the season proved important. Most of the victories were narrow and it was similar to what had happened at Sunderland four years earlier.

  The fifth from last fixture was at Darlington and I limped down from Sunderland to offer my support. I was accompanied by Elliot, then a month away from his fourth birthday. His speech was really coming along and his vocabulary certainly expanded that day when I took him into the changing room before kick-off. We then sat in the away dugout to watch the game, but not for long. The referee, Roger Furnandiz, spotted Elliot and ordered him from the bench. I had to take him, crutches and all, into the section of Feethams where the Northampton fans stood, which they found hugely entertaining.

  The injury still got to me. The final game of the season was away to Torquay United on Saturday 6 May and I travelled to Devon to be part of it, although obviously not to play.

  Those of us who could not take part were given permission to have the Friday night out. We played pool at the team hotel with the usual drinkies. While I was playing, Roy Hunter, a midfielder who was also injured, pinched my crutches, wallet and phone for a lark. I knew my wife might ring me and, as we were not rubbing along too well at the time, I didn’t want to miss her call. At around one in the morning I thumped on Roy’s door and demanded my property back. He denied having any of it, so I barged past him and there before me were my possessions. I gave him verbals at first, but soon upgraded this to a punch in the face and grabbed my stuff. Kevin Wilson, among others, had heard the rumpus, but he waited until breakfast to ask what the hell had been going on. I still wasn’t happy and read out the charge sheet against Roy.

  Hostilities were put aside by the end of the day. A draw was needed to guarantee promotion. We went one better and won 2–1. This was succeeded by an immense party that began on the team bus and ended God knows when. I was disappointed not to have played since Boxing Day, but reminded myself that I had contributed half a season. Determination and camaraderie had got us back into the Second Division.

  • • •

  By the summer of 2000, I was off crutches and in very light rehab. At about the same time I had the honour of being best man at my old school friend Eddie Harrison’s wedding, which was held at Gretna Green. Nuptials there take months of planning, which rather goes against the original purpose of Gretna Green. It’s very popular, so Eddie and his wife-to-be had to wait their turn and while they did so the guests had a suited and booted kick-about. Someone had had the foresight to bring a ball. I joined in and soon felt a burning sensation on the back of my right kneecap, which I put down to the rehab.

  Northampton’s pre-season tour of Ireland was wonderful. When it emerged that no curfew would be in place we knew what sort of trip this was going to be; it was going to be my kind of trip. My drinking had not suffered.

  I stil
l wasn’t training properly with the rest of the squad. I would be either in a gym or on a bike. I could still feel a nip behind my kneecap, but as there was no swelling I just plodded on. Back in Northampton, Roy Hunter and I were told by Dennis Casey to make a five-mile cycle ride to the training ground; not a long cycle but mainly uphill. The bike I was given was too small for me and soon Roy was out of sight. By the time I wheeled into the training ground my knee was torturing me. I cursed the knee, cursed the pain, cursed the bike, cursed Dennis, cursed Roy, cursed football and cursed most other things within a million-mile radius. I dismounted the bike and threw the damn thing as far as possible, probably in the direction of Roy.

  I was referred to the same consultant at the Droitwich Knee Clinic, who took another scan. This was private care so the results were immediate. He shook his head as he looked at the scan – a desponding sight in itself – and told me that because my knee hadn’t healed properly, a hole had been worn in the joint behind the kneecap where the femur had been rubbing against it: for twelve years.

  The only available solution was a bone graft. A piece of my hip was plonked onto my knee (apologies for the medical jargon) and I was out for another six months. It was back to The Cavalier.

  • • •

  By the end of 2000, my marriage was only in technical existence. After the operation I was on crutches for months and, if I had to quantify such a thing, I was 80 per cent sure that my football career was over. I had moved out of the house in Silksworth for good, asked my wife for a divorce and was now residing permanently in Hunsbury, Northampton. I was injured, depressed and drinking too much. After rehab each day I would call in at the supermarket to buy eight cans and two bottles of wine. I would be out with the lads at the weekend and sometimes during the week. Life was a bit of a kitchen-sink drama at this stage and my friends were all I had; particularly Steve Howard, Richard Hope and Dave Savage. I had an emotional as well as a literal crutch. They helped me through and we remain close today.

  But it’s always darkest just before dawn and what-not. As my knee got better, so did my life. A major reason for this was that I had met Maz. She was a Northampton girl of Irish stock; her parents were from County Kerry. Cutting a long story short, Maz is now my wife and mother of my two younger sons. We were married in Northampton on 31 May 2003, Joseph was born on 30 July 2004, Christopher on 7 October 2006. To use a completely inappropriate metaphor, she put a spring back in my step. My alcohol intake descended from its quite ridiculous level and I was working hard, morning and afternoon, with Dennis Casey.

  I finally played in the first team again on 21 April 2001. It was the first time Maz had seen me play. I replaced Marco Gabbiadini in the eighty-third minute of a 2–0 home win over Colchester United. I had only been on the pitch for a couple of minutes when a long, diagonal pass came into Colchester’s penalty area. I met it on the edge of the box with one of the best headers of my career, leaving my ex-teammate Andy Woodman with no chance. I loved it. The crowd loved it. I hoped Maz loved it too.

  The referee didn’t. He imagined that I had fouled a defender when I struck the ball. I hadn’t. The record shows that the ref was one A. R. Hall, which sounds suitably akin to A. R. S. Hole, if you ask me. This buffoon prevented a magnificent goal, a topper header, from standing with his absurd decision. He should never have been allowed on a football pitch again, if not arrested and put on trial for crimes against something-or-other. What a disgrace to the game and to humanity itself. Luckily I’m not one to harbour a grievance.

  The bigger issue was playing again, even if I wasn’t fully fit. I started the next game at home to Port Vale but had to be replaced at half-time by Chris Carruthers, a seventeen-year-old making his debut. I realised how far off the pace I was. There is a difference between fit and match fit; you can train as hard as you like but you can’t replicate matches. I was an unused substitute at Bournemouth, but played the whole of our final game of 2000–01 at home to Walsall.

  I was supposed to be substitute again, but someone was injured during the warm-up. Initially, player-manager Kevin Wilson was going to pick himself. In fact he was desperate to do so, as he was one short of his 150th Football League goal. However, in addition to being forty years old, he hadn’t started a game in sixteen months, so common sense prevailed and I played up front instead. There was nothing to play for. We were safe from relegation and Walsall would finish fourth regardless of the result (they would win the play-offs).

  I was partnered by Gabbiadini and had a decent first half. I had one cleared off the line, then I went for a diving header from a corner. To my annoyance, Gabbers went for the same ball with his foot and almost dislodged my head. We contrived to lose what had actually been a very even fixture by three goals to nil. The game was goalless until a Walsall player scored on sixty-three minutes and put away his third only eighteen minutes later.

  The name of the hat-trick hero? Brett Angell. A circle had been completed. I congratulated him after the game because he was a great lad and deserved days like this; I only wished he had done it to a team other than mine.

  It was my last ever game in the Football League.

  • • •

  I moved in with Maz and had an important chat with Kevin Wilson. My contract was up on 31 July and my future needed to be sorted. He told me that if I could prove my fitness then I would be offered another contract. That would do me. I visited Elliot and Claudia a few times, had a holiday in Mexico, played in Northampton’s pre-season tour of (where else?) Ireland and trained hard. Two weeks before the start of the season Kevin told me that he would be happy to re-sign me, but that we needed to speak to the chairman first. Before that I was called by Gary Bennett, who was managing Darlington. Would I like to sign for him? I appreciated the offer but explained that I was expecting to sign a new contract and that Northampton was now my home.

  The chairman, Barry Stonhill, returned from holiday and after Monday training I went to see him, just to make sure that everything was in place. When I asked him about my new contract, his eyes widened and he appeared shocked.

  ‘I’m sorry, Lee. There’s no budget.’

  ‘What do mean, “no budget”’?

  Marco Gabbiadini had arrived a year earlier from Darlington. He was a free transfer, but his salary must have been way in excess of mine and it seems it had devoured the wage budget. I was out.

  In rather a daze I left Barry’s office and went to train, although I wasn’t sure why. There was a short-sided game across the pitch. Gabbers was on my team and was strolling, not giving his all. In little time, I lost my temper and called him a string of unpleasant names. He responded with a mouthful of his own and I began to chase him round the ground, thereby making him move faster than at any other time that morning. I was eventually restrained by some bamboozled teammates. Marco hadn’t actually done anything wrong, but my life had taken a turn for the worse again and I was taking it out on him. We’ve got along well since that day, although he remains wary.

  The same day, I was called by Nigel Spink of 1982 European Cup final fame, who had been Northampton’s goalkeeping coach. He was now manager of Forest Green Rovers in the Football Conference and asked if I would like to join. It was part-time, but still paid £400 per week. I agreed almost immediately. Here I am compelled to admit that I had muddled Forest Green with Moor Green in Solihull, perhaps because Nigel was from the West Midlands. Moor Green is a fifty-minute drive from Northampton. Forest Green’s ground is in Nailsworth, Gloucestershire, and over two hours away along umpteen ‘A’ roads.

  Tony Daley, another former Villa star, was Forest Green’s fitness coach as well as a player. He was in charge of warm-ups, among other things. I had to inform him that my warm-ups now consisted of a cup of tea and little more. When the pitches were hard, I would struggle with my knee, especially if there was more than one game in a week. Tony accepted this and I liked him a great deal. We were a middling team in a tight league and I enjoyed my time at the Lawn Ground. I made my debu
t in a draw at Scarborough (featuring Stephen Brodie). I would play seventeen games in Forest Green’s defence and scored a couple of goals. We had a mixed bag of results, but the only game of any real note was in a replay against Macclesfield, a league above us, in the first round of the FA Cup in November 2001.

  We came from behind twice at Moss Road to draw the first game 2–2. A young Rickie Lambert scored twice for them, but we should have won. The replay came eleven days later at home and the score was 1–1 after extra time. This led to what was the longest penalty shoot-out in the history of the competition. We had already taken three penalties in the tie – and only scored one of them. We also had a goal dubiously disallowed and their keeper almost punched the ball into his own net in the last seconds.

  How I managed to play the whole two hours was something I was unable to explain even to myself. The others were complaining of stiffness. I had gone beyond stiffness and began to suspect rigor mortis. I had to keep jogging to prevent myself from seizing up completely. It was either that or WD-40. I was our eighth penalty taker; each side had missed one (Lambert had failed for Macclesfield) so the score was 6–6. I could barely trot, but happily my spot-kick was a good one. I had decided twenty minutes earlier where I would place my penalty in what seemed the unlikely event of taking one: bottom left. The keeper dived the wrong way but wouldn’t have saved it anyway. It was now approaching 11 p.m. Everyone, keepers included, had taken a spot-kick, so we started again. Kevin Langan was the poor sod who put his second kick over the bar before Lee Glover won it for Macclesfield. The shoot-out finished 10–11 and a total of twenty-seven penalties had been taken over the two games. Had we won, we would have gone on to beat Arsenal in the final. I worked it out.