by Paul Lake
By raising standards and changing mindsets, Howard had transformed us from dithering wrecks into disciplined warriors. Eager to be part of the Kendall revolution, we all began to work our socks off in training in order to catch the boss’s eye, each of us desperate to be on his team sheet and in his good books. There was, it must be said, a considerable trade-off for the daily toils at Platt Lane. The gaffer subscribed to the ‘work hard, play hard’ ethos and would organise some serious downtime in which we were encouraged to let off steam and relax. Rumours of a burgeoning drinking culture at the club certainly contained an element of truth.
It was no secret that Howard was partial to a tipple or two like many top managers at that time. The ex-Everton lads had said as much, regaling us with tales about his half-time ‘refreshments’ at Goodison Park, as well as his weekly ‘team-building exercises’ hosted in a variety of Liverpool watering holes. Not that this was particularly outlandish; alcohol was still very much part and parcel of professional football in the 1980s.
Howard’s joie de vivre was very much in evidence during the squad’s end-of-season trip to Tenerife in May 1990. His composure was unaffected by the non-stop flow of booze, and each night he’d entertain us all with a medley of football anecdotes. One evening, much to our amusement, he didn’t bat an eyelid when a mischief-making Gary Megson ordered him a neat tumbler of Bacardi from the bar, topped up with a thimbleful of Coke. Howard proceeded to take a huge gulp before licking his lips.
‘Hey, you can go again, Meggy,’ he’d smiled.
His early-morning perkiness in Tenerife put us all to shame, too. Most of us would be bedbound until noon with blinding hangovers but Howard would be up and at ’em after just a couple of hours’ kip, tucking hungrily into a full breakfast and striding purposefully to the hotel’s tennis courts, where he’d trounce a bleary-eyed Mark Ward in a three-setter.
Most afternoons would see the gaffer cracking open more champagne by the poolside and, in order to sidestep the carnage of yet another daytime session (‘I’ll be going home in a box if I try to keep up,’ moaned one team-mate), we’d do our utmost to try to avoid him. Like something out of Mission Impossible, we’d don our dark glasses and baseball caps, hiding behind strategically placed lilos or using unsuspecting families as decoys. Then, with the coast clear, we’d sneak onto the beach to top up our tans and rest our livers.
To Howard, though, alcohol was more than just about the lads glugging loopy juice and getting legless; I’m convinced that it also played a significant part in his brand of footballing psychology. He was a canny man-manager and a deep thinker – a ‘people person’ of the highest order – and he never underestimated the power and influence of team spirit. And if a squad’s solidarity had to be induced by booze, well so be it. The aftermath of our game against Charlton – our first home defeat since his arrival – was a case in point.
It was a match that we should have won comfortably and a granite-faced Howard stormed out of the ground, after the final whistle, without saying a word. We all trooped forlornly into Maine Road the following Monday, expecting a punishing training session followed by some fire and brimstone treatment from a livid manager. What we got, though, was a toothy grin from Howard, a pat on the back from our coach, Bobby Saxton, and a comically lightweight training schedule comprising head tennis in the gym under the stand and runaround ping-pong in the weights room. No mention whatsoever was made of the game. It was weird. I remember the lads looking askance at each other, thinking what the hell’s going on?
After the session Howard sat us all down.
‘Lads, you were bloody dreadful on Saturday, and I think you know how I felt after the match. You let bad habits seep back into your game and I won’t stand for it. But you’ve all had a lot to contend with since I’ve been here. Some of your mates have been sold. Some of you young lads have had to step up to the plate in trying times. You’ve all had to adapt to lots of change. And I have to admit, you’ve done fantastically well for me. So cheers for that.’
He then nodded at Bobby, who went into the gaffer’s office and brought out two crates of lager.
‘Let’s just forget Saturday’s game,’ said Howard. ‘Have a couple of beers on me, and let’s crack on till the end of the season, eh?’
He’d spectacularly wrong-footed us, turning a negative into a positive and expertly turning our dimmer switches back to full beam.
Even when it came down to disciplining players, Howard used booze as currency. The Monday following the Old Trafford derby (it had ended honours-even after Ian Brightwell’s memorable ‘I just wellied it’ equaliser) we were summoned to a meeting room at the training ground. As we walked in, I clocked half a dozen bottles of Bollinger under Howard’s chair. He’s starting early, I thought.
‘Right, then,’ he said. ‘The club has had a complaint from Greater Manchester Police that one of our players swore at some United fans on Saturday’ (cue some Muttley-like sniggering from the lads), ‘and I want whoever it is to own up now.’
Silence.
‘C’mon, lads. Whoever it is, they’re going to pay for this vintage champers out of their wages so, I’ll ask again, who’s the big mouth?’
Silence.
‘All right then, there are two more cases of Bolly in my office that also need paying for, so you can all stick your hands in your pockets if—’
And with that, a bashful Andy Hinchcliffe coyly raised his hand.
‘It was me, Gaffer. Sorry ’bout that. Just got a bit wound up, that’s all.’
After making Hinchy cough up his fine, our smiling boss cracked open the champagne and poured out the lunchtime aperitifs, using paper cups so as to conceal the drink’s identity from any passing pressmen.
Howard organised his legendary weekly ‘socials’ on Wednesday afternoons. After training, we’d pile down to a city-centre bar, hijack a couple of tables and spend the entire afternoon downing drinks and singing songs. The gaffer loved nothing more than a good, beery singalong, and would encourage a cappella karaoke sessions in which each player would have to belt out his favourite tune for everyone else’s amusement. It was an absolute blast. Adrian Heath would usually be first up with his rendition of ‘Sweet Caroline’, followed by David White’s ultra-Mancunian take on ‘American Pie’.
Much further down the running order, and after swigging a couple of Grolsch’s for Dutch courage, I’d murder a Beatles classic like ‘Ticket To Ride’ or ‘Norwegian Wood’. The lads would often bail me out by joining in with the chorus, mercifully drowning out my shaky Larry the Lamb-style vocals. Funnily enough, I was ten times more nervous doing these turns in front of my team-mates than I was playing in front of 35,000 fans.
Looking back, I can see Howard’s ulterior motives for convening these get-togethers. He was acutely aware that any problems between players were often ironed out during our alcohol-soaked afternoons and, by egging on the timid players who needed bringing out of their shell, as well as exposing the gobby players who needed putting in their place, our socials were seen as the ideal leveller.
He knew, for example, that a young player struggling with self-confidence would feel more at ease with his senior colleagues after a couple of beers, chatting freely when he may have not done so sober. This breaking down of barriers, Howard no doubt hoped, would then be transferred to the training pitch, whereupon the lad would no longer be scared to open his mouth and scream ‘man on!’ to the seasoned pro he was only laughing and joking with the previous Wednesday.
On the other hand, if a trouble-causing player was deemed to be rocking the boat, our boozy sessions would often bring matters to a head. With inhibitions loosened and tongues slackened, opinions were always more forthcoming. By taking players away from the confines of the training ground and encouraging them to relax, Howard was basically providing us with a platform upon which we could freely air our views about tactics or team-mates. This would often lead to the occasional handbags-at-dawn, but would usually have the desired effect
of a player realising the error of his ways, or a ‘bad apple’ having a strop and demanding a transfer the following week.
I remember one particular get-together going a bit haywire. Some of the long-term City lads were very suspicious of Howard’s Everton recruits – there’s no denying that it had bred some resentment – and Howard was keen to reduce any tension between the Manc and Scouse factions. With this in mind, he organised a particularly boisterous drinking session. This peace-making attempt turned pear-shaped, however, when a team-mate took the opportunity to make a few near-the-knuckle comments about the recent changes in personnel.
‘F*** me, lads, looking round the changing room these days I’m not sure what shade of blue I should be wearing. Jobs for the boys, eh …’ All hell let loose. Insults were hurled, the session was abandoned, and the player’s cards were well and truly marked.
Despite Howard’s success on the pitch, it was no secret that some club officials weren’t impressed with the behind-the-scenes approach by our maverick gaffer. But I can safely say that I never felt more connected with a manager than I did with Howard. As far as I was concerned, the guy was a coaching genius and a master communicator who performed wonders at Maine Road.
He was, without question, the best boss I ever had.
Moving On Up
MAYBE I SHOULDN’T have bothered turning up to school on Wednesday 16 June 1982.
‘Will you be joining us today, Lake?’ my biology teacher asked sarcastically, slamming down her board rubber in frustration as she’d caught me staring out of the classroom window. On any other day I’d have probably paid much more attention to her carefully chalked diagram of an amoeba, but on that particular afternoon there was only one thing on my mind.
I’d woken up thinking about it. I’d pulled on my uniform thinking about it. I’d munched on my cornflakes thinking about it. I’d dawdled to school thinking about it. I’d spent the whole of dinnertime thinking about it. Nothing else in my life mattered that day. My body may have been in Denton, Manchester, but my soul was over in Bilbao, Spain, where England were due to commence their World Cup campaign against France.
At half-past three – 45 minutes before the big kick-off – I joined the crush of kids swarming out of the school gates, before running down Town Lane towards the bus stop. There was always a short wait for the 204, so to pass the time I dug out my dog-eared World Cup ’82 Panini cards and pored over details that had been etched upon my brain for weeks.
Hans Krankl, Austria. Age: 29. Position: Striker. Club: Rapid Vienna.
Franco Causio, Italy. Age: 33. Position: Midfield. Club: Udinese.
Junior, Brazil. Age: 27. Position: Defender. Club: Flamengo.
I felt like a close personal friend of these players, so familiar were their names, faces and statistics, and the prospect of being able to watch Hans, Franco and Junior in action was almost too much to bear. I’d not been so excited about watching telly since Brian Jacks’s attempt to break the world squat thrust record on Superstars.
Soon enough the orange double-decker came around the corner, and I quickly stuffed my Paninis back into my left blazer pocket and then rummaged for the 12p fare in the right. I needn’t have bothered, as the steamy-windowed bus, packed to the gills with expectant football fans, whistled straight past without stopping.
Flamin’ Nora. I had no option but to tackle the mile-long route on foot, running as fast as my navy blue Pods would carry me. Blotting out the pain of a chafing bag-strap, I sprinted down the home straight of Bowker Avenue, reaching the finish line – our patent red front step – at exactly 4.14 p.m. I banged on the front door, barged past my mum, dumped my bag in the hall, kicked off my shoes, charged into the lounge and switched on BBC1, just in time to see Bryan Robson driving a left-footed volley past Jean-Luc Ettori.
‘Twenty-seven seconds … the fastest goal in World Cup history …’ screamed John Motson as Mum emerged from the kitchen with a celebratory beaker of orange squash. Against all odds – France were much-touted finalists – England went on to achieve a comfortable 3–1 victory, with Robson and Trevor Francis at the heart of a majestic performance (Francis was still officially a City player, though he would soon be Sampdoria-bound). Two more wins – against Czechoslovakia (2–0) and Kuwait (1–0) secured our top spot in the table and guaranteed our entry into the second group stage.
As per usual, the entire country went England-mad at the merest whiff of success. Fans from Penrith to Penzance were sent into a tizzy at the prospect of Ron Greenwood’s boys – deemed by many as the best national team in ages – hoisting aloft the World Cup trophy for the first time since 1966. I too got swept away by all this England-mania, skateboarding down to Taylor Sports in Denton and splurging my pocket money on some red and white England wristbands (my spends of £1.50 a week – earned by bottling up the Skol and Guinness at my uncle Jim’s pub – didn’t stretch to the full Admiral kit).
The shock result against France was to be the pinnacle of England’s tournament, sadly. Goalless draws against West Germany and Spain in Group B snuffed out any hopes of progression, and our World Cup came to a sad premature end. Luckily my Maine Road upbringing had primed me to cope with disappointment and underachievement and, as Captain Marvel and the lads boarded their 747 back to Blighty, I just did a Gallic shrug of the shoulders and switched my allegiances to France instead.
Les Bleus easily overcame Austria and Northern Ireland in the second stage, turning on the style and flaunting their unique brand of flair football. Theirs was a side bursting with charisma, whether it was the grace of Michel Platini, the speed of Jean Tigana, the precision of Alain Giresse or the panache of Didier Six. I followed them every step of the way to that riveting semi-final against Germany, notorious for the dramatic Battiston versus Schumacher set-to when the French defender was brutally scythed down by the opposing goalie.
‘That’s GBH, that is,’ shouted Dad, theatrically leaping out of his armchair and upending his ashtray as my brothers and I scrutinised the action replay. Whilst it was by far the most cynical foul that I’d ever seen, I secretly lapped up the heroes-and-villains drama unfolding before me. This marvellous game ended 3–3, with the Germans knocking out the French in a penalty shoot-out.
Two players particularly caught my eye that tournament. Paolo Rossi, for his golden-booted finesse and for the way he led the line in the final, helping Italy to a formidable win against the German bad guys. Also Norman Whiteside, Manchester United and Northern Ireland’s 17-year-old man-child, whose effortless transition from Old Trafford to the world stage was nothing short of inspirational.
I can trace my first World Cup memories right back to 1978, the year that Argentina memorably staged the tournament. This unexplored territory of top-class foreign players and wall-mounted fixture charts hit me like a thunderbolt. I couldn’t get enough of the fanatical crowds, the tickertape receptions and the technicolour kits, not forgetting the glamorous stars with lyrical names that begged to be said out loud. Mario Kempes. Karl-Heinz Rummenigge. Leopaldo Luque. Willy van der Kerkhof. And best of all, Daniel Passarella.
My brothers and I were transfixed by this footballing fiesta and would marvel at the slick passing, lightning-paced attacks and wonder-strikes that were beamed over from South America. It wasn’t unusual for us to watch three matches in a row, especially over the weekend. We always preferred the BBC’s coverage, though, partly due to its lack of adverts, but also because its World Cup theme was far catchier than ITV’s. This upbeat little tune – called ‘Argentine Melody’ – never failed to get me fizzing with excitement. Its jingly-jangly tune was always the cue for me to take my place on the sofa as the cameras panned in on Frank Bough and Jimmy Hill in the studio.
‘Good evening and welcome to World Cup Grandstand,’ Boughie would smile, ‘and thanks for joining us for Brazil versus Sweden …’
During these televised games I would insist on scampering upstairs to update my Shoot! wall-chart whenever a match stat needed logging.
‘Can’t you wait till after the game, son? You’re missing all the action …’ Dad would yell up as I carefully pencilled in the exact time of Reinaldo’s equaliser.
Realising how much this TV heaven meant to her boys, Mum turned a blind eye to our obsessive-compulsive viewing disorder. It was the only time she ever let us eat our tea on our laps, and we’d graze on our corned beef hash without once taking our eyes off the screen. My sisters weren’t as tolerant, though. Our month-long encampment in the lounge irritated the hell out of Sue and Tracey, who would invariably have to slope upstairs to watch their weekly dose of Dallas on the portable, fiddling with the flimsy aerial until Sue Ellen staggered into view.
This was yet another example of football ruling the roost when I was a kid. It totally dominated our household, with weekends monopolised by our fixtures, radiators draped with steaming kits and platefuls of calorie-stuffed carbs for Mum’s growing lads. Nowadays my sisters will joke about having their noses pushed out by Dave, Mike and I, but I can well imagine how niggled they must have felt. I’m the first to admit that, as I floated through childhood in my football bubble, I never really gave much thought to this state of affairs. However, as I’ve grown older, I look back at those times with some degree of guilt. Sue and Tracey’s formative years were eclipsed by football, and I can totally understand why they have no interest in the game these days.
My sisters could therefore be forgiven for not giving two hoots that England had failed to qualify for Argentina ’78. Though I mourned the absence of our lads, my ardour for the Finals wasn’t dampened in the slightest; it just meant that all my hopes now rested on Ally McLeod’s Scotland to do the business. In common with many Sassenach households, the Lakes became honorary Scots for a month. The presence in the team of City stalwarts Asa Hartford and Willie Donachie made it a complete no-brainer for me, coupled with the fact that, according to Dad, we had more than enough Celtic blood coursing through our veins to claim kinship.