Sober

by Tony Adams

  When things got no better and Peter was still all over the place, I spoke to him and said that we needed to get him different help, professional help this time. We were, after all, supposed to be experts in addiction, quite apart from the fact that we had an employment process to follow and a duty of care to our staff. The help also needed to be external and independent.

  Peter was reluctant but went on a 28-day programme, to a treatment centre in Florida that we arranged for him. Sadly, it did little good and we received reports that he was abusing the medication he had been put on. When he came back – and not in any sort of proper recovery – his wife Melissa asked him to leave their house, and Peter in turn evicted his two daughters from a little flat he owned in Richmond where he could shut himself away.

  I met with him again, took him to an Azerbaijani restaurant in Sloane Street I used to frequent, Baku, for lunch. I asked him what we could do to help him more. Forget the charity and work, I said, we will make sure you are fine financially. What is it we can do to get you healthy again? He was more than my friend. We were comrades, allies. We shared loyalty. We went back a long way – 17 years of sobriety together, at that time. I wanted to do what I could to get him well, without indulging his active-again addiction.

  I outlined a plan of recovery for him, getting back to AA meetings – as by now he was also drinking – and, when he had some sober time, maybe just doing the work he enjoyed rather than the stressful stuff of actually keeping the charity together. He loved the fun of the educational seminars, was a great communicator. Just do that, I said. By now Colin Bland was doing well in the office, keeping it going, to Peter’s resentment. Peter even engaged lawyers.

  After the lunch, in the middle of me talking, Peter suddenly asked me if he could leave now. Of course, I said, he was only meeting an old buddy. It was all very informal and I wasn’t going to keep him there against his will. It had all gone in one ear and out the other. When I looked at him, his face was blank.

  A month later, on 16 September 2013, Peter was found dead in his flat by his sister Naomi. Charlie had tried to stay near to him, and Joey Barton, to whom Peter had become very close, did his best for him, but Peter ultimately proved beyond all of our help. He was just 52. The death certificate would say that he had had a heart attack, but I know that he, as many alcoholics and addicts do without it being the formal cause, died of the disease of addiction.

  It was heartbreaking. But then, active alcoholism is. I wished I could have done more, as did others around Peter, but, in the end, there is little you can do if the addict is bent on his own path. As they say in Al-Anon, the fellowship for the partners and family of addicts, there are three Cs to remember when you are in close contact with the addict: you didn’t cause it, you can’t control it and you can’t cure it.

  The funeral, at a church in Richmond, was part sombre and part joyous, mingling the sadness of Peter’s premature death with the sheer joie de vivre that he showed when in recovery for so many years. Joey spoke well of his friend, a man he called ‘The Chef’ because of Peter’s successful earlier career.

  Peter’s death shook me to the bone and made me contemplate the very nature of sobriety. I loved him deeply and I miss him to this day. I know he loved me too and would have done anything for me. ‘Hello, lovely man,’ was always his greeting. He was godfather to my son Hector and came to the christening with a first edition of a book of the children’s TV series Hector’s House that he had bought.

  I particularly miss our relationship from the early days when we were those two drifters off to see the world, setting out on the path of sobriety and discovering its fun parts. Our relationship changed down the years as he became an employee of the charity, me his boss, but we were still bosom buddies. I felt clean at the end, having tried to show him the tough love that might get him back on track, but it didn’t stop the pain of it.

  It also hit home to me just how dangerous this illness can be once activated again. I had seen it around that time with two other people I knew, one with 22 years of sobriety, the other 28, who went back out drinking. And it didn’t end well. If you stop going go AA meetings, don’t keep your work, health and relationships in balance, you will forever remain vulnerable. I know after Peter died, I went to more meetings and shared a lot.

  Peter’s legacy was – and still is – the ethos of Sporting Chance. He was a remarkable man, an influential figure in the development of the charity. He was who we needed in those days, and I hope we in return offered him a chance to fulfil his potential and achieve something really worthwhile in his life.

  Colin would take over as chief executive full time and bring an altogether different approach and mindset; again, the right person for the charity in a new chapter. With his diligence and attention to detail, Colin has ensured that Sporting Chance is financially viable and extremely professional.

  In recent years, we have extended our facility to take more sportspeople into residential care and have also established, in conjunction with the PFA, a remarkable nationwide network of counsellors who can be called upon at any time, day or night.

  Sad as things were in the aftermath of Peter’s death, gradually Sporting Chance settled into its new era. Colin brought in the Rugby Football League as a client and much good work was, and continues to be, done with their players. When the scandal of sexual abuse involving young players in football emerged, it was to us the FA turned to help victims coming forward, and we established a new department to get them access to the relevant, qualified people who could help them.

  Colin is remarkable in his ability to run the business, alongside our company secretary Shellie Heather, while referring clients to the professional experts on James’s team, who include Julian Keeling and Andrew Jordan. I have always been proud of the charity and Peter Kay could be too. These days, I am prouder than ever and proud, too, that I knew him as my friend.

  15

  Heart and Soul

  We haven’t been saved from the sea

  to be kicked to death on the beach.

  Saying in AA

  I was becoming restless and growing a little bored at home. I was not really an office person and, after sending some emails in the morning and checking up on things in Azerbaijan, maybe catching up with tracking players we were interested in, I would want to be playing with the kids by lunchtime.

  People were suggesting I had the life of Riley, working from home, being based in England. Indeed, all was good and the list of my blessings lengthened in October 2013 when I became a step-grandad. Clare, now 28, gave birth to a son she and her partner Saam named Jedi. It started as a joke when they called him their little Jedi warrior and the name stuck.

  Working as an adviser to Tale Heydarov and Gabala was also a great job, sure, but by the turn of the year, I was getting itchy for a more direct involvement with a club. It led to me joining a group of people who were trying to buy Aston Villa from Randy Lerner, headed up by the former Chelsea chief executive Paul Smith. We even sounded out Tale about coming on board, though he made it clear his priorities were in Azerbaijan. My involvement would have been to sit on the board as a sporting director responsible for hiring the head coach and recruiting players. Paul met with Randy several times, in England and in the United States, and for a while it looked promising but, in the end, the deal could just not be struck.

  Things at Gabala had taken a more unsettled turn after a good period following the appointment of Yuri Semin as head coach. With the back-up and infrastructure of the club having improved, Yuri had had a good season, finishing third in the league, to get the team into the 2014/15 Europa League qualifying stages for the first time in its mere 10-year existence. His team also reached the cup final in Baku, for which I flew out, and it was a wonderful occasion for the club with 10,000 people there, even though we lost on penalties to Neftchi.

  I stayed out for an excellent under-15 tournament that Gabala were now able to organise given their increased, improved pitches and facilities. A
2-2 draw with Liverpool showed the progress the club had made in producing young players, and Gabala lost just one match, to the eventual winners Anderlecht.

  When it came to the first team, Yuri was only on a one-year contract and, having done so well, it was inevitable he was going to get a better offer. It came from a Russian second division side, Mordovia Saransk. I warned the club that an approach was coming and Yuri would be going, and suggested that they put the academy head, Stanley Brard, in charge of preparation for the Europa League qualifying match against Siroki Brijeg of Bosnia in mid-June. I gave them a list of potential new head coaches for the coming league season.

  Instead, the vice president appointed a Romanian, Dorinel Munteanu. Dorinel had had a great playing career, his 134 caps a record for Romania, but his managerial record had been patchy and he tended not to stay anywhere for long. He came to us from the Russian club Kuban Krasnodar, where he had lasted just a few months the previous year.

  We were beaten 5-0 on aggregate by Siroki in the Europa League and, while it was a great achievement for a young club to have reached even the qualifying stage, we should have put on a better show. Then, when Gabala lost 5-0 in their first league match to Inter Baku, alarm bells began to ring. We had a decent wage bill by this time, with the football operation’s budget being US$15 million, of which $5 million was going on playing staff – five times what I’d started with. This wasn’t good enough.

  I was still mainly concentrating on off-field matters and did not really wish to interfere, although I would give my opinion if ever it was sought. I, for one, wanted to give the manager time to turn things around. Come November, though, with Dorinel having won only four of 16 games and the first team struggling near the foot of the table, I emailed the president with my concerns, seeing it as part of my job and my duty. He asked me to meet him in London in early December.

  ‘I know,’ I said, ‘that you want stability and I know if you do let Dorinel go the next man will be the fifth head coach since I left two years ago, but I really do think this has been the wrong appointment.’

  I asked Tale to trust my judgement and pointed out what had been working. I had appointed Stanley, who had been really successful and was bringing a great style of play to the age-group teams. Phil the groundsman was another tick for me, with the complex now looking fabulous. Tale listened respectfully and nodded. Perhaps he was thinking that maybe Mr Adams was right.

  Tale said that, yes, they should consider a change and that Fariz would be asked to implement it. The vice president had suggested as a replacement a man called Roman Hryhorchuk, although Robert Prosinecki, the Croatian who had played for Portsmouth and had been managing in Turkey, was also on the list. What did I think?

  I liked the idea of Roman and knew a bit about him. A Ukrainian, he had got Chornomorets Odessa into the country’s Premier League then the Europa League on a low budget. He had a good, attacking style of play. He got my thumbs-up. Robert Prosinecki, meanwhile, would soon become the manager of the Azerbaijan national team.

  I had also suggested to Tale in my November email – from my position of restlessness and boredom – that maybe I should go back out to Gabala and take a more hands-on approach. The club had moved on in the last couple of years, I said, and was probably now ready for a director of football. We had the infrastructure, after all. It was time to concentrate on the first team and to get them back towards the top of the league.

  Tale agreed and so, my Virgin ‘Flying Without Fear’ course still working, I flew out in the December and took in the last match before the winter break, meeting with the new head coach Roman Hryhorchuk to discuss my role in the scheme of things.

  I did not want to interfere, I said, but I was there if he wanted to consult with me on anything. I was not there to be the coach or to put pressure on him, but to support him. He could lean on me. My stock was high, with all my appointments working out around the club, and I think Roman realised that he needed to confer with me on a regular basis as the president trusted me. I liked him and enjoyed speaking with him.

  At the winter training camp in early January, I was even more impressed with him as I watched every training session. He had some imaginative ideas and was clearly an offensive coach. It wasn’t quite Premier League but the sessions were entertaining, fun and directive. He communicated well, speaking Russian to them.

  Once back in Baku, I realised I needed to reconnect with my AA programme, and in the list of contacts for the country that was now available was a guy called Jan, a Norwegian. I got in touch with him and soon we were setting up a meeting that would take place at his flat. As word got around more people would come, such as Scott, a Scotsman working in the oil industry, and a young Azerbaijani girl – the first native member – who kept relapsing into drink but who kept coming back and trying. The most we had was eight people, who came during the European Games held in Baku in the summer of 2015.

  Over that spring and early summer, Roman rebuilt the team and the squad, with me working alongside him. Dorinel Munteanu had brought in five poor players who were no better than the Azerbaijanis on the books. If you are going to bring in foreign players, they have to be better than domestic ones. We also had a proper academy now with young players needing to come through.

  Roman brought in a host of his own, mostly ones he was familiar with, and to his credit they were decent players. I also suggested some. He wanted a pacy winger, but I pointed out we had a good Brazilian at the club already in Dodo, who would eventually be the subject of a US$1 million bid by a Chinese club. Roman was also after a left back and Zaur recommended one that we duly recruited, a Brazilian who had played in the Champions League with Malmo, by the name of Ricardo.

  For a while Roman didn’t play him, however, as he had trouble balancing the number of Azerbaijanis in the team with the foreign players and getting them in the right positions. I said this was a player worth getting in at the expense of even one of the best local lads as it would improve the balance of the team.

  Roman duly did and it worked. We won eight games in a row at the end of the season and finished in third place, good enough for another crack at Europa League qualification the next season. It had been a good six months’ work and would be an even better one over the summer.

  Amazingly, Gabala went on to win through four qualifying rounds of the Europa League, though very nearly exited the competition at the first stage. That was against Dinamo Tbilisi and we lost 2-1 in Georgia. We levelled at 2-2 in the 88th minute of the home leg but it seemed we would go out on away goals – until three minutes into added time when the Ukrainian Oleksiy Antonov grabbed a winner to send a remarkable home crowd – for us – of 4,400 into raptures. I too went wild and in my celebrations contrived to punch the mayor of Gabala in the stomach – not long after he had had a heart attack.

  Every game after that became an epic tale. We lost 1-0 to the Serbian side Cukaricki in Belgrade in the second qualifying round but won 2-0 at home, or at least in the Bakcell Arena in Baku where we now played the European games. UEFA had decided that we should switch due to the crowd scenes after beating Tbilisi, but with 8,500 watching anyway, we would have had to move the games due to the interest.

  After that came a 1-1 draw in Limassol followed by a 1-0 win in Baku – and then a terrific two-legged win on away goals over Panathinaikos. We drew 0-0 at home and I thought that going to Greece might be a challenge too far for us but we drew 2-2, thanks to two goals by Dodo – to show we were far from as dead as one. Little Gabala had reached the group stages of the Europa League.

  In those, we were drawn against Borussia Dortmund, Krasnodar of Russia, and PAOK of Greece. I told Tale that if we got a point, we would have done well. In the end we got two, draws home and away against the Greek team, which was quite an achievement. Even if the team was struggling in the league – going 11 games without a win that autumn as the coach wrestled with having to rotate foreign and Azerbaijani players, the quota rule only applying domestically and not in E
uropean competition – Gabala were on the map.

  I would, however, miss a good deal of the campaigns, both on the domestic and European fronts, due to something that seemed like nothing at the time.

  It began in the run-up to the Dortmund game at home in October 2015. I had played a long game of tennis and started to feel pain around my right shoulder. I thought it was muscular, even when I began getting chest pains when out for my daily run and having to stop after a mile or so.

  Otherwise, when not doing any activity, I felt fine. I went out for lunch with the Dortmund president and officials on match day and was impressed by the way they conducted themselves and ran their club. I also enjoyed the game. Even though Gabala lost 3-1 to a very good side – hot property Pierre-Emerick Aubameyang scoring a hat-trick – we gave a decent account of ourselves. I was sure any physical discomfort I was feeling would be resolved when I got back to England for a visit I was planning to make in a couple of weeks’ time and could see my doctor there, maybe get some physio on the shoulder.

  As the old saying goes, though, life is what happens when you’re busy making plans.

  I was in Gabala the following Sunday for a league game and felt really unwell that night. The next morning, I went to see the club doctor, a Ukrainian named Roman Zhoolobaylyuk, who informed me that my blood pressure was going through the roof. From there, I was bundled off to the small hospital in Gabala, where I was given a stress test on a treadmill simulating walking uphill.

  My heart rate was increasing and I was getting chest pains. The doctor told me to stop. I needed to go to Baku for some tests, he said, but there was no need to panic. That panicked me. I phoned Poppy. I was due to stay on in Gabala for a midweek game but she told me to get myself to Baku, ready for tests first thing the next morning at the Medical Plaza Hospital, where I had been booked in.