by Paul Lake
*
Fast-forward eight years, and my match-day vantage point got even better. Me and the other YTS trainees would assemble in front of the Maine Road tunnel five minutes before kick-off, standing proud in our nylon tracksuits and listening out for the padding of studs on Astroturf that signalled the emergence of the first team. After customarily applauding out the lads – back-slapping and well-wishing senior players like Neil McNab and Paul Simpson as they ran out to salute the City faithful – we’d clamber up to our plum position behind the coaching staff. I’d give Albert in H Block a quick wave before spending a few moments to take in the stadium panorama, the four tall stands and the multicoloured advertising hoardings framing a moving collage of home and away shirts.
As I sat and watched the game unfold I’d often feel like a puppy straining at the leash, dying to scamper onto the pitch for a piece of the action. Seeing lads who I trained with every day facing players such as Kevin Keegan and Glenn Hoddle served only to whet my appetite, making me more determined than ever to keep working my arse off so that I could play my own part on this magnificent stage.
The apprentices would usually turn up at Maine Road at about two o’clock on a match day, giving us just enough time for a hasty shower and shave following our morning fixtures. We relished being allowed to use the VIP entrance because the waiting City fans would often thrust their autograph books into our hands, giving us the chance to scribble the ridiculously showy signatures that we’d spent years practising in our bedrooms.
Our pre-match tasks included doling out players’ complimentary tickets, getting shirts signed and sorting out last-minute stud adjustments. True to form, Skip and Glyn would act as chief whip-crackers but, on match days, would be joined in their mission by the stadium caretaker, a little silver-haired bloke called Jimmy Rouse. Jimmy was a much-loved Mr Fix-it who’d been at City since time immemorial, although by the mid-1980s his advancing age was starting to hamper his faculties. He had his own little den next to the boiler room and, despite being a cantankerous old goat, was always treated like a king by Skip and Glyn. The late, great Brian Clough loved listening to Jimmy’s gripes and grumbles and used to slip him a £20 note each time Nottingham Forest came to play.
Jimmy was a bit absent-minded, though, and had a habit of casually leaving his false teeth lying around the caretaker’s room. This would often prove much too tempting for us mischievous trainees who would sneak in, nick his gnashers and balance them on top of an unsuspecting youth team player’s corned beef sandwich. Before long Jimmy would be on the warpath, all gums blazing.
‘There’s too much f***ing about in this place,’ he’d lisp before angrily reclaiming his teeth and stomping back to his broom cupboard.
Sometimes, on the way back from a match day errand, I’d tiptoe into a hospitality lounge known as the Blue Room to gaze in awe at the polished wooden plaque that adorned the wall. Listing all the players who’d gained international honours while at the club – idols of mine like Kaziu Deyna, Asa Hartford and Dave Watson – this roll-call served both as a reminder to me of City’s auspicious past and as an incentive for my own career and the honours that I hoped it would bring. Only a distant shout of ‘where the f***’s Lakey?’ would interrupt my trance-like state, prompting me to scamper back down to the dressing-room area to face the inevitable rollicking.
As it turned out I didn’t have to wait long to gain my first honours with City. The 1985–86 season brought with it a hat-trick of medals. Winning the Pontins League Championship with the reserves and the Lancashire League title with the ‘A’ team was fantastic, but nothing that year quite compared with the sweet victory over Manchester United on Tuesday 29 April which brought the FA Youth Cup trophy to Maine Road for the first time in its history.
As the cup campaign loomed, our teenage team was starting to create quite a buzz in football circles, with many pundits tipping the 1986 crop of players for future stardom. Underlining the tremendous potential of the side was the fact that two of the lads, Paul Moulden and Steve Redmond, had already been blooded in the first team and had acquitted themselves brilliantly, playing with a maturity that belied their youth and inexperience.
In addition to Reddo and Mouldy, there was a glut of home-grown players waiting in the wings for their own share of the spotlight and – if the Piccadilly Radio phone-ins and the Manchester Evening News letters’ page were anything to go by – this was generating much excitement among our supporters. City’s top brass were also pleased with our progress, largely because the club didn’t have a pot to piss in. Empty coffers meant that they were unable to flash any cash in the transfer market; they were quite literally banking on the youth team to make the successful transition to the senior squad and, in so doing, save them some dosh.
If you can’t buy ’em, rear ’em appeared to be the motto of a club ever more reliant on its large scouting network and its conveyor belt of young hopefuls.
Funnily enough, there was never an ounce of envy or enmity between my team-mates and I. A healthy rivalry existed among us, as you’d expect, but we genuinely enjoyed sharing in each other’s success and were pleased, not peeved, when any of us made his debut. None of us had a clue (and didn’t much care) how our wage packets compared; all that concerned us was getting picked in the morning, and bagging three points in the afternoon.
Our on-pitch telepathy – half of it drummed into us by Tony Book, half of it spontaneous – was awe-inspiring. During a match we’d find ourselves linking up effortlessly and instinctively, complementing each other’s strengths and covering for each other’s flaws. The rapport between David White and I was a case in point. Playing right-back, I’d often overlap him on the wing before getting to the by-line and crossing the ball, only for the goalkeeper to come and pluck it out of the air and throw it out to his left side. I’d never have to worry about being exposed, though, because I could guarantee that Whitey would have automatically dropped back into the right-back position in order to pick up my man.
Conversely, if things were tight on the wing, and if Dave’s heels were hugging the touchline, he’d knock the ball back to me, knowing intuitively that the resultant pass would be looped over the full-back’s head for him to run onto. Safeguarding each other became second nature.
Our team spirit always reached a peak at Christmas-time and, despite our punishing schedule of games, we made the most of the festive period. I remember us running amok through the streets of Moss Side one snowy winter’s morning, our daily jog from Maine Road to Platt Lane turning into a roving snowball fight as we yelped and hooted like a bunch of naughty schoolboys. Sometimes our missiles went astray, however, and the following day old Mrs Miggins on Lloyd Street would receive a cheque for a replacement window stapled to a sincere letter of apology from the club secretary, Bernard Halford.
An annual tradition at Maine Road was the trainees’ Twelve Days of Christmas performance. The apprentices were tasked with adapting the carol’s lyrics to name-check all the first-teamers (‘one Nixon flapping, two Reidys punching, three Powers pointing …’ and so on) and it would all be accompanied by appropriately daft actions. The players and coaching staff used to await this mini-pantomime keenly with its in-jokes and innuendo, and on the day of the show would gather in the away dressing room, eager to see what mischief the kids were going to get up to.
Some of our ditties ended up being more slanderous than others, depending on how we rated the player in question. The lads we liked and respected would get a relatively easy ride, but those who were deemed aloof, ignorant or obnoxious – especially those who ‘forgot’ to give their boot boys a Christmas bonus – would get seriously slated. I remember a trio of senior players going ballistic when we laid into them one Christmas. The training-ground battering we got next day was painful (and the bruises lasted into the New Year), but it was well worth it.
A self-confessed admirer of our youth team set-up was Alex Ferguson who, having replaced Ron Atkinson as Manchester United’s manage
r in 1986, would often come to watch our games. Openly admitting that City’s youth development system far outshone its Old Trafford counterpart, he swiftly set about the task of overhauling United’s own School of Excellence. He continued to keep tabs on his rivals’ stable of talent, though, which at that time included a certain Ryan Wilson, a nippy young winger who’d already captained England Schoolboys.
Rumour has it that, tipped off that the Blues had been slow to offer Wilson a contract, Ferguson opportunistically turned up on young Ryan’s doorstep on his 14th birthday and promptly signed him on the spot. The lad changed his surname to Giggs, scored the derby winner against City in his full senior debut (bah!) and went on to become one of the game’s greatest ever professionals.
The midway point of the 1985–86 season saw our youth team cruising through the early rounds of the FA Youth Cup, banging in seven apiece against Tranmere and Blackburn and beating Fulham 3–0 in the quarter-final at Craven Cottage. Our semi-final opponents were a much harder nut to crack, though. Arsenal were the red-hot favourites to lift the trophy, boasting a talented team which contained a couple of bright young things by the names of Michael Thomas and Paul Merson. We proved to be more than a match for them, though, narrowly losing by one goal at Highbury, winning the second leg at Maine Road 2–1 and earning our place in the final following a nerve-shredding penalty shoot-out. After that, the only obstacle between us and the trophy was the old enemy from Old Trafford.
At that time City and United’s senior sides weren’t exactly setting the league alight. City were festering in mid-table mediocrity and United weren’t posing much of a threat to the Merseyside monopoly, so for a few days the local media gladly switched focus and gave an enormous amount of coverage to the forthcoming mini-derby. The Manchester Evening News even ran a four-page supplement on the impending clash, which Mum carefully folded up and saved for posterity.
We knew we were the stronger team, having outsmarted United twice in previous ‘A’ team fixtures, yet Tony Book was keen to dampen any overconfidence. We couldn’t afford to take anything for granted, insisted Skip. We had to keep our composure, play our normal game, and not let the occasion get the better of us.
‘Because this isn’t just any old final,’ he added. ‘This is a chance for us to beat United and enter the history books.’
‘F***in’ bring ’em on,’ yelled Reddo.
The first leg at Old Trafford finished all square at 1–1, but we had plenty of decent opportunities and were unlucky not to take a lead back home with us. I scored the equaliser with a penalty rebound – United’s goalie, Gary Walsh, made an amazing save and got a hand to my initial spot-kick – but the honours remained even, despite the fact that we pretty much bossed the game.
The decider was staged at Maine Road the following week, and proved to be one of the most unforgettable experiences of my life. As we made our entrance onto the pitch that night, I remember feeling the full force of the noise, and crucially the warmth and affection that radiated from our supporters. The Kippax and Main Stands were packed to the rafters – among them the entire Lake clan and most of City’s senior squad – and the North Stand turnstiles had to be hurriedly opened to accommodate thousands more diehards thronging into the ground (there were 18,000 there according to our state-of-the-art scoreboard, although it looked more like 25,000 to me). The terraces swayed to a medley of City anthems – as well as a few choice chants aimed at the cluster of away fans – and beneath the party atmosphere ran an undercurrent of hope and anticipation.
Our team couldn’t have been more fired up, particularly David White and I. As native Mancunians, with sky blue blood coursing through our veins, just the mere mention of United got us wound up like coils. We were desperate to get one over on our cross-town rivals and the prospect of losing to them was inconceivable. There was no way we were going to let those Red whatsits ruin the party in our own backyard. No way.
The match was 90 minutes of one-way traffic, as we proceeded to tear United apart. Our opponents paid the price for failing to gain a first-leg advantage; being mentally and physically tougher, we simply bullied them out of the game. The performance of the night came courtesy of Paul Moulden. He ran United’s defence ragged and scored our second goal in the 87th minute (David Boyd had nodded in the first), boosting his already phenomenal tally of career strikes.
Mouldy had already entered football folklore by scoring 289 goals in one season for Bolton Lads’ Football Club, a magnificent achievement that was recognised in the Guinness Book of Records. He was one of the sharpest shooters that I’d ever seen, combining drive and aggression with a dazzling eye for goal. Being incredibly strong for his size – he was nicknamed Tattoo after the dwarf in Fantasy Island – meant that Mouldy was virtually impossible to mark. Not only that, he had this wonderful knack of knowing exactly when to push and shove his marker and remain undetected by the referee. Other teams no doubt saw him as a dirty little bastard, but I admired him for all his Artful Dodger-like craftiness.
Mouldy’s late goal was the hammer blow to a United side that had been totally outplayed and not allowed to get a foothold in the game. The scoreline remained 2–0, and the FA Youth Cup was ours.
The post-match dressing room was awash with cheers and tears as we celebrated our win, the lads singing tunelessly and bouncing up and down with our arms around each other’s shoulders. But what pleased me most that night was the look of sheer delight on Skip’s face. I was so chuffed for him, Ken and Glyn, as their commitment and dedication had finally paid off. After all, there’s nothing like a bit of silverware to show for your troubles, something tangible to make it all worthwhile.
Also basking in the glory of victory were chairman Peter Swales and his merry band of directors who, having been deprived of any honours for the best part of a decade, were delighted to acquire a shiny new cup to fill a gap in the trophy cabinet (no Shergar or Lord Lucan jokes, please). But not delighted enough, it seems, to put their hands in their pockets, judging by a faded copy of my YTS contract that I came across recently. All I can say is that it’s a good job that the Class of ’86 were motivated by football, not finances. Here’s a little taster of that season’s mouth-watering ‘bonus scheme’:
1985–86 YOUTH CUP BONUSES:
1st round:
£2 win, £1 draw
2nd round:
£2 win, £1 draw
3rd round:
£3 win, £1.50 draw
4th round:
£4 win, £2 draw
5th round:
£5 win, £2.50 draw
Semi-final:
£15 win, £7.50 draw
Final:
£25 win, £12.50 lose
So, totting it all up, I was £56 better off by the end of our cup run. I celebrated this bonanza by catching the 204 bus to the Manchester Arndale Centre, where I splashed out on a new pair of Arthur Ashe trainers from Allsports, a Now That’s What I Call Music 8 album, and a Terry’s Chocolate Orange for my parents. But I wasn’t complaining, I truly wasn’t. All the money in the world couldn’t have bought that cup-winning feeling.
Nevertheless, my bank balance became slightly healthier when I signed my professional forms around the time of my 18th birthday, in the autumn of 1986. Towards the end of their two-year contract all the YTS players were routinely summoned to a meeting with the chairman to discuss their future with Manchester City and, as my own day of reckoning approached, I was as nervous as the rest of them. A few weeks earlier a couple of well-regarded youth team regulars, Steve Mills and Steve Macauley, had been released by the club without a pro contract, so I wasn’t assuming anything.
I was particularly gutted to see Millsy leave Maine Road because he and I had become great pals ever since he’d moved to digs around the corner from me in Denton. On the pitch he was solid and dependable (it was probably his lack of pace that hampered his top-flight chances, sadly), yet away from football the Sheffield Stallion was a party animal extraordinaire. Highlights of our e
scapades included a sun, sea and sangria holiday in Ibiza with Reddo and Whitey in tow, as well as a scary night spent sleeping rough at Derby station when we missed the last train home to Manchester following a U2 gig at Wembley. Millsy and I were also obsessed with the Young Ones (the comedy with Rik Mayall, not the movie with Cliff Richard) and often performed entire episodes for our team-mates in the dressing room.
I waited for Mr Swales for what seemed like ages on that fateful day, perched nervously on a hard wooden seat in the boardroom, biting my nails and glancing anxiously at my Swatch. It was a pretty daunting scenario for a wet-behind-the-ears teenager, bearing in mind that in those days we didn’t have the luxury of football agents to advise or negotiate on our behalf (or at the very least sit next to us on the hard wooden seat).
The chairman eventually breezed in, firmly shaking my hand before settling himself into a gigantic velvet armchair which enabled him to peer imposingly down at me. He then folded his arms behind his head and nonchalantly rested his black Cuban-heeled boots upon the table, like Wyatt Earp in Tombstone. No doubt he was attempting to relax me with his Daddy Cool demeanour, but it actually had the opposite effect of totally freaking me out.
Swales was quite an intimidating presence to us young players. Whilst he could often be quite pally-pally, he also had a hard-hearted side to his personality, which I’d witness to my cost later on in my career. On this occasion, however, the chairman was charm personified, showering me with compliments and sliding the hallowed forms across the table for me to sign. My signature almost veered off the page when I read that my new contract would incorporate a wage increase of nearly £300 a week. I was so chuffed I could have kissed his feet – now there’s an image you may not want to dwell on – and I walked out of Maine Road feeling chipper about the future, relieved that I still had a job to go to, and grateful that my career remained on track.