by Paul Lake
‘Can I have a word, Mr Lake?’
Dad turned round to see a burly, ruddy-faced Alf Roberts lookalike wearing a black trench coat and clutching a notebook.
‘The name’s Ted Davies. I do a bit of scouting work for Manchester City. I’ve been hearing some good things about your boy, so I thought I’d better come and take a look for myself.’
The scout told Dad that he’d been watching me for the last hour and, from what he’d seen, was keen for me to come down and train with one of City’s junior teams. He scrawled his telephone number on a piece of paper, pressed it into Dad’s palm and told him to give him a call the next day should I be interested.
When I emerged from the changing rooms Dad was standing by the car, his arm raised aloft to catch my attention. I jogged over, threw my kitbag into the boot, clambered into the passenger seat and waited for Dad to kick-start the ignition. It usually took at least three wheezy attempts for the engine to splutter into action.
‘All right, Dad. What d’you reckon of the game, then?’ (I always looked forward to our little post-mortems.)
‘Good match. You played well. You just need to use your left foot more.’
Then he turned to face me, and spoke the words that would change my life for ever.
‘Manchester City are interested in you, son.’
I paused, not entirely sure that I’d heard him correctly.
‘What was that, Dad?’
‘Manchester City. They’ve been watching you. One of their scouts was here this afternoon. He collared me after the game.’
‘The Manchester City?’
‘Yes, you daft ha’porth, the Manchester City. This fella, wants to know whether you want to go down and train with one of their kids’ teams, Blue something …’
‘Blue Star …’
‘That’s the one. I said I’d ask you, so …’
‘Tell him yes, Dad. Tell him yes,’ I said, my heart thumping with excitement.
When we got home, Dad carefully pinned the telephone number to our cork notice board, in readiness to dial the next morning. I couldn’t take my eyes off it, memorising every digit just in case a freak gust of wind blew it out of the kitchen window.
*
Within a week I’d joined the ranks of Cheadle-based Blue Star, one of the many Manchester City feeder teams operating in the area. I turned up for my first evening training session with mixed feelings of excitement and apprehension. While buoyed by the thumbs-up from City’s scouting team, and delighted to have been given such an opportunity, I was acutely aware that I’d now have to move up a gear, perhaps way above my comfort zone. I’d now be vying for attention with some of the most talented players in the region, and I knew that I’d have to play consistently to the best of my ability if I was going to convince people of my potential. I was so desperate to impress it hurt. Ray Hinett, the Blue Star manager, made me feel at ease and took time to introduce me to my new team-mates.
‘Lads, this is Lakey. It’s his first night tonight, so let’s make him feel at home?’
As I shook their hands in the changing room and said a timid hello, little did I know how deep these friendships would become.
One player that I couldn’t help but notice that night was a boy called Steve Redmond. A loud and lively Scouser, he was a fantastic player with great presence and attitude. He oozed confidence and cockiness, but commanded everyone’s respect because he had the footballing talent to justify the swagger.
Completely opposite to Reddo was a shy and thoughtful lad from Sale by the name of Andy Hinchcliffe. He and I were the babes of the side – we were a year younger than the rest – but like me, Andy punched above his weight. Even at that relatively tender age he had great natural ability, possessing a sweet left foot that could have rewired the back of a television.
Dad would usually ferry me to Blue Star’s Sunday morning matches in his tan Hillman van, a vehicle so corroded with rust that, if you moved the car mats, you could see white lines and cats’ eyes whizzing beneath you. Judging by the other parents’ motors, it was clear that many of my team-mates hailed from the wealthier side of the tracks. Indeed, on the occasions when Dad was either working or watching my brothers play, it would be my team-mate Gary Yates and his dad who’d collect me, Mr Yates rolling up in his gleaming bronze Ford Cortina with its newfangled electric windows and snazzy Motorola stereo.
It didn’t take me long to realise that my football boots weren’t quite as upmarket as my contemporaries’, either. I’d always thought that my black and white Gola World Cups (paid for in instalments from Mum’s mail order catalogue) were nifty enough, but when I joined the Blue Star squad it became clear that Adidas and Puma footwear were all the rage. I happened to mention this to my friend John Clarkson’s dad, who observed that it wasn’t the bloody boots that bloody mattered but the bloody player wearing them. From then on, Mr C’s wise words would always be in the back of my mind each time I polished my Golas.
Confusingly, though, the name of this satellite team would often get changed for no apparent reason, with Blue Star evolving into Midas, and Midas becoming Pegasus (someone at City obviously had the I-Spy Book of Greek Mythology). Joining the Midas set-up was Ian Brightwell, a talented young player with an impressive Olympic pedigree. Both his parents had been medallists at the 1964 Tokyo Games, his mother, Ann Packer, winning gold in the 800 metres and his father, Robbie, bagging silver in the 400 metres relay. Ian had clearly inherited their sporting prowess and was a supreme athlete who could play effortlessly in any right-hand-side position. A Rottweiler on the pitch, Ian (or Bob, as everyone called him) was pretty mild-mannered off it, and we soon became firm friends. I got to know the Brightwell family very well, particularly Ian’s dad Robbie who would play a large part in my career further down the line.
Bob, Reddo, Andy and I were the backbone of the Midas-cum-Pegasus team, buttressed by a conveyor belt of young hopefuls. Why some lads managed to make the grade and others didn’t was something that never failed to intrigue me. Whilst I came across plenty of players who clearly hadn’t either the ability or commitment for a football career (and had ended up pursuing the route signposted Beers, Birds, Fags and Fry-ups), there was a significant minority of teenage cast-offs who were desperately unlucky not to pass muster. Fellow team-mates such as Anthony Gore, Matt McNair and Neil Smith were seriously talented, and I remember being mystified when they were released by the club.
What bothered me was not just the fact that these players were let go by City, but that they seemed to drift out of professional football altogether. I presumed that Anthony, Neil and Matt would go on to ply their trade at lower league teams, and for many years afterwards I habitually pored over the Manchester Evening News’ Pink Final, hoping to read that they’d made it elsewhere. But that never appeared to be the case, and they seemed to completely drop off the football radar.
I bumped into Neil fairly recently, and over a beer he explained his feelings of devastation after being rejected by City, and how he’d never really recovered from it. In his eyes he’d reached the pinnacle with Blue Star, and any other team was always going to be a pale imitation. Thoroughly disillusioned, he abandoned any hopes and ambitions of becoming a professional footballer and became one of the many starry-eyed youngsters to fall by the wayside. Sad, really.
With such fierce competition for places, I felt unbelievably fortunate to be taken on by City as an associated schoolboy in July 1983. Youth team coach Tony Book was with me as I signed the official forms in the head teacher’s office at St Thomas More High School, with a journalist and a snapper from the Denton Reporter in attendance.
In those days, you sometimes heard rumours of certain clubs plying families with an array of gifts and household appliances in order to secure their son’s signature. That certainly wasn’t the case with City, though. I think the most Mum and Dad received was a couple of match tickets and half a Double Diamond in the bar afterwards. But, while Mum could have done with a brand-new Hotp
oint washing machine, and Dad wouldn’t have said no to the latest Black and Decker Workmate, both of them were nonetheless delighted at how things were panning out for their youngest son. But, being the sensible and level-headed parents that they were, they made great efforts to keep my feet on the ground. No favouritism, no privileges and no preferential treatment. In fact, the first thing I was asked to do when I returned home that historic day was to put the bins out.
However, pledging my immediate future to City saw me almost immediately take my foot off the gas when it came to my schoolwork. Unlike the rest of my classmates, I felt I didn’t have to rely on a great set of academic results to determine my career path, and my studies were effectively relegated from Division One to the Conference. I still had to attend compulsory sessions with a careers adviser who, along with many of my teachers, thought I was deluded to assume that my future employment lay in football and was daft not to have another profession to fall back on.
‘You can’t put all your eggs in one basket, Paul. You’ll need a Plan B if City let you go, you know,’ she said, wagging her finger reprovingly. ‘I see from these notes that you’re good at English and History. Ever thought about becoming a librarian?’
I still came out of secondary school with eight moderately graded ‘O’ levels, but would have no doubt performed better had I focused more on Henry VIII’s six wives than lunchtime five-a-sides. I was, of course, totally naïve to assume that my academic life would come to a complete halt at the age of 16. As far as I was concerned I was going to be a footballer, full stop, end of story. I wouldn’t entertain any thoughts of alternative jobs and, thinking that I’d never have to sit another exam in my life, gleefully binned all my school books.
In common with millions of schoolkids around the UK, Top of the Pops was my main TV highlight of the week. Every Thursday night, my siblings and I would jostle for position in front of the box while Mum and Dad sat at the back of the lounge, tutting and shaking their heads.
‘Is that a bleedin’ man or a woman?’ Dad would ask as Boy George or Pete Burns preened before the cameras, lip-glossed to within an inch of their lives.
The show’s presenting duties would be given to Radio 1 DJ duos like Simon Bates and Steve Wright, or Gary Davies and Peter Powell, who, with their Farah slacks, tinted specs and inane chat, were cheesier than Switzerland. I used to love it when John Peel did a stint; I always got the impression that he’d rather have cleaned the BBC toilets with his tongue than have had to witness Dave Lee Travis doing the twist to ‘Teenage Kicks’.
It was with a slight twinge of sadness, then, that I’d had to forsake my weekly music fix in 1983. Once I’d signed schoolboy forms my Thursday night ritual had to make way for practice sessions at Platt Lane, Manchester City’s training ground located around the corner from Maine Road. The sacrifice was entirely worth it though, as these footballing masterclasses were led by Tony Book.
Known affectionately as ‘Skip’ by everyone at the club, Book had captained the side during its most successful era, a purple patch spanning the late 1960s and early 70s which embraced the League Championship, the FA Cup, the League Cup and the European Cup Winners’ Cup. He’d also managed City for six years, the pinnacle being a memorable League Cup victory over Newcastle in 1976. Dennis Tueart’s match-winning goal, an extraordinary bicycle kick, became the stuff of legend. It also became the root cause of hundreds of head injuries as City fans across Manchester recklessly attempted to recreate their hero’s acrobatics.
Skip was sacked as manager in 1980 by City chairman Peter Swales. However, he was so highly regarded that he continued working at the club in a coaching capacity for almost two decades. He became something of an institution at Maine Road, and I recall a member of staff comparing him to the much-photographed postbox on Manchester’s Corporation Street that famously survived the IRA bomb blast of 1996. Despite the chaos that City experienced throughout his tenure, Skip would invariably be the last man standing, keeping his head down, his mouth shut and getting on with the job with dignity while everything else disintegrated around him.
I relished the opportunity to learn from someone who’d been there, done that and worn the sky-blue T-shirt, but I’d heard rumours that Skip was incredibly tough, and didn’t suffer fools, fakes or, as the footballing jargon goes, fanny merchants. I spent four years under his wing, the latter two as an apprentice, and could fully understand why some people found him hard to warm to. The product of an army upbringing, Skip was a committed authoritarian whose brusque manner could be pretty intimidating. However, beneath the gruff demeanour lay a quick wit and a sense of humour drier than happy hour at the Priory.
It was widely acknowledged that Skip was one of the best coaches in the business, with a knack for spotting slackers and shirkers a mile off. And there was none of that cringe-making over-familiarity that can exist between coaches and their charges; he just got on with the serious task of making us better players. But what I most admired about him was his transparency and candour. Football is a hotbed of back-stabbers and bullshitters, but Skip was neither.
His ethos was straightforward. By doing the simple things well and nailing the fundamentals, you created a solid basis upon which to showcase your skill and flair. He advocated a brand of pared-down football in which a simple ten-yard pass dispatched at the right moment could be more effective and efficient than a flamboyant nutmeg or a showboating step-over.
Those who ignored Skip’s doctrine, those played lazily, casually or just downright badly, would be in danger of being fast-tracked to the top of his football scrap heap.
‘If you don’t buck your ideas up, you’ll be joining the queue at Aytoun Street job centre,’ was his tactful way of putting it.
I reckon the majority of City’s youngsters benefited from Skip’s autocratic approach, but it didn’t suit everyone. Chris Coleman was a prime example. A great lad and a very talented left-back, Chris didn’t cope well with Skip’s ruthlessness and took many of his criticisms to heart. He became desperately unhappy at Maine Road – the fact that he was deeply homesick for his native Wales compounded his misery – and it was agreed by all that City probably wasn’t the right club for him, and that he should be allowed to leave on compassionate grounds.
In hindsight it was probably one of the best moves that Chris ever made, as he returned to Wales and went on to have a long and distinguished career with successful spells at Swansea City, Crystal Palace and Fulham as well as his national team. He’s since made a creditable leap from player to manager, although I’m sure his coaching style is slightly mellower than that of his old City mentor.
As Chris and I found out to our cost, it was horrendous to be at the rough end of one of Skip’s volcanic eruptions. One September morning, a fellow apprentice received one of the most legendary tongue-lashings of all time. A good finisher with decent pace, this lad wasn’t the most tenacious of players, however, and would infuriate the coaching staff by shying away from tackles and going missing-in-action during matches.
Prior to an ‘A’ team game, Skip had ordered us all to wear studs, since the Platt Lane pitch had been left greasy after a heavy downpour. So, as instructed, we all donned the correct footwear. Apart from this one player, that is, who strode into the changing room wearing his usual rubbers, causing Skip to stop dead in his tracks.
‘Hey, you. What did I say about wearing f***in’ rubbers today?’ he barked, jabbing his forefinger accusingly. This was met by a casual shrug of the shoulders.
‘But these are a lot more comfy, Skip, and …’
His voice trailed off as he suddenly realised the grave implications of his insubordination. The rest of us winced and waited for the inevitable explosion. Skip didn’t disappoint.
‘Comfort? Comfort? F***in’ comfort?’ he shrieked, his face turning puce with rage.
‘But Skip, I …’
‘Well if it’s f**kin’ comfort you want, f*** off home on your f***in’ comfy bus, go and sit in front of the TV on you
r f***in’ comfy couch with your f***in’ comfy slippers and watch f***in’ Saint and Greavsie. Now f*** off.’
‘But Skip …’
‘I said f*** off.’
So he did. Back home he went, trudging dejectedly towards the bus stop with the offending boots in his kitbag. Skip was unrepentant; the boy’s attitude had been disrespectful and unprofessional and he needed to be told.
It was a very sheepish lad who turned up for training the following Monday, though I think the damage had already been done as far as our coach was concerned. Suffice to say that it wasn’t a huge surprise when he wasn’t offered another contract.
However, for every also-ran there were plenty of Skip’s protégés who achieved great success, and it was testament to him that most of his charges went on to play first team football in some capacity. Lads like me, David White and Andy Hinchcliffe stayed at City, while others went on to forge fruitful careers elsewhere, in John Beresford, Earl Barrett and Neil Lennon’s case at Newcastle United, Aston Villa and Celtic respectively.
One of the major perks of being at City was the allocation of a couple of tickets for each home game, as well as a pair of passes for one of the post-match hospitality lounges. I always took my dad, who loved being behind-the-scenes on a Saturday afternoon.
After the final whistle we’d head out of the stands towards the inconspicuous door that led to Maine Road’s inner sanctum, treading on sky blue carpets and passing through oak-panelled corridors until we reached the busy hospitality area. Sometimes Dad and I would be invited over to Chief Scout Ken Barnes’s room, a cosy bolthole facing the club kitchens. Once dubbed ‘the best wing-half never to have played for England’, Ken was a former Manchester City star who had a pivotal role in his team’s 1956 FA Cup Final victory. Extremely down to earth and incredibly funny, he also happened to be the father of one of my all-time heroes, the celebrated City and England winger Peter.