I’m Not Really Here

by Paul Lake

  ‘Mr Robson has announced his provisional World Cup squad today,’ he said, ‘and I’m pleased to inform you, Paul, that you’ll be flying the flag for Manchester City.’

  I felt like screaming my glad tidings from the rooftops, but I needed to stay focused on the cup tie, so I decided to keep schtum until after the match. With an added spring in my step, I went on to have a great game, keeping the Millwall wide-men in check and scoring probably my best ever goal for City, a 20-yard volley that whistled through a crowded penalty area and soared into the top corner. My strike wasn’t enough to prevent us being booted out of the cup, though, as the home side rode out 2–1 victors.

  ‘It’s no more than you deserve, Lakey,’ said my mate Neil McNab when I revealed my good news to him on the coach back to Manchester. ‘This is your chance to really go and express yourself. And I’m not just saying this, pal, but there’s no one in the England set-up as versatile as you.’

  Lilleshall was the venue for our 48-hour get-together. I was shitting bricks as I drove down to Shropshire that cold January morning, convinced that I would somehow make a fool of myself among England’s elite. Also playing on my mind was how I would cope without the fraternal support of Bob, Reddo and the other lads in the under-21 set-up.

  I parked up, and started on the half-mile trek towards Lilleshall Hall. It needn’t have been such a schlep, had I not decided to park my little Vauxhall behind the tennis HQ so as to avoid the embarrassment of pitching it up next to a gleaming fleet of Mercs, Jags and Porsches. A month previously I’d been delighted to take delivery of my new black Astra GTE (sponsored by a local plant-hire firm), but I just didn’t feel comfortable rolling up alongside all these turbocharged mean machines.

  As I checked in at reception, I was told that I’d be rooming with the Wolverhampton Wanderers’ striker Steve Bull. I walked in to find him reclined on the bed reading a newspaper, and before long we were having a good chat over a cup of tea. He seemed a really grounded guy, expressing his excitement at being picked as well as his determination not to become overawed by the big-name players.

  ‘We’ve got as much right to be here as them,’ he stressed in his Black Country tones, ‘so let’s give a good account of ourselves. Just because they drive Jags doesn’t make them any better than us.’

  Unusually, there were to be no practice matches during our two-day meet. Instead, Bobby Robson had scheduled an intense programme of fitness sessions and skills training. With everyone desperate to make their mark, the competition and rivalry were predictably fierce. Gary Stevens, the Everton full-back, was in pole position after the final assessments, closely followed by Aston Villa’s David Platt. Despite my nerves getting the better of me I didn’t fare too badly, finishing about halfway down the pecking order.

  That evening we were treated to a luxurious meal at a nearby stately home. There were 15 of us to each banqueting table, and I was sandwiched in between Steve Bull and Mike Newell, and facing Gary Lineker, Bryan Robson and Paul Gascoigne. I was as quiet as a mouse at first, nodding politely and only speaking when I was spoken to. I felt socially inept among all these mega-famous, super-confident players and was paranoid that I was going to start blushing – or worse, stuttering – if I attempted conversation.

  Gazza – who was genuinely hilarious – held court the whole time, playing the fool with Lineker as his willing straight man. Lineker, much to my embarrassment, decided to raise the subject of the City versus Spurs game the previous August, which had seen Gazza mocking me throughout by pulling out his ears, provoking me to retaliate by mimicking a fat belly (the newspapers had been full of our spat the next day). I cringed as the whole episode was relived to all and sundry.

  ‘I’d take that as a compliment,’ grinned Bryan Robson. ‘He only does that to players who give him the runaround.’

  ‘F*** off, Robbo, no one’s got the better of me this season …’ retorted Gazza. He probably had a point.

  John Barnes and Peter Beardsley cottoned on to my shyness and went out of their way to make me feel at ease, chatting enthusiastically about Liverpool and conceding that City had given them a real run for their money when we’d visited Anfield on the opening day of the season.

  ‘You certainly kept Rushy quiet,’ said Beardsley, recalling how Liverpool’s number 9 had hardly got a sniff that afternoon.

  As the conversation (and the alcohol) started to flow I began to relax a little. I even plucked up the courage to ask them what advice they’d give someone like me at this stage in my career.

  ‘Steer clear of Gazza,’ chuckled Barnesy.

  Following dessert, Bobby Robson came over to our table to say hello. With his sunny nature and unassuming manner, he struck me as a really warm, genuine person. There were gales of laughter when he addressed Gary Stevens as Trevor – confusing players’ names was a famous trait of his – but the affection towards him was palpable. The England lads obviously thought the world of Bobby, and it was easy to see why.

  ‘So how d’you think you did at Lilleshall, then?’ asked Howard Kendall when I came back to Platt Lane.

  ‘All right, I think, Gaffer.’

  His features crinkled into a smile.

  ‘I’ve heard you did much more than all right.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Well, let’s just say I’ve had an interesting little chat with Bobby. Not only does he think you’re the best young player he’s seen for ages, Lakey, but he’s talking you up as his next England captain.’

  ‘Are you winding me up?

  ‘Nope. Marvellous feet, great attitude, he said.’

  Bloody hell.

  ‘Don’t look so surprised, son. It sounds like Bobby’s got big plans for you. You’ve been well and truly earmarked.’

  By March 1990 I’d graduated from the under-21 to the England ‘B’ squad and was selected for the friendly against the Republic of Ireland in Cork. Reporting for duty was a roll-call of England’s young elite, amongst them Matthew Le Tissier, Tony Adams, David Batty and Dalian Atkinson. I found myself sharing a room with Nottingham Forest’s Nigel Clough. We chatted briefly about how our respective seasons were going, and I asked him what it was like having Brian as a father, and how he coped with idiots like me posing very predictable questions.

  ‘I’m proud of my dad, of course I am,’ he said, ‘but I’d like to make a name for myself, if I can.’

  Nigel was quite a shy, softly spoken lad. Unlike my flight partner, Lee Dixon, who’d chattered so incessantly that I thought his emergency oxygen mask was going to drop down.

  The Ireland game, coming a couple of months before Italia ’90, was my final chance to make some kind of impression. I knew beforehand that I was going to be sitting on the bench for the first half, as Dave Sexton was keen to give us all a runout, but this didn’t overly concern me. I’d still have a good 45 minutes in which to prove my worth.

  Half an hour before the game, both teams filed onto the pitch for the customary warm-up. As I did a few heel-flicks, I was startled by a sudden, deafening cheer from the crowd. The stands erupted. And then the object of all the yelling and screaming loped towards me, having just emerged from the tunnel.

  ‘How ya doin’, Lakey?’ said my Manchester City team-mate Niall Quinn, patting me on the back.

  ‘Bloody hell, Quinny, are they always like this when you’re in town?’ I asked him as green-shirted fans loudly chanted his name.

  ‘Bit mad, isn’t it …’

  ‘You’re telling me, pal. I know what, why don’t you drive round the perimeter in a Pope-mobile next time, eh?’

  He grinned broadly, told me to go away in a distinctly unholy manner, and cantered back to his team-mates. The hero-worship continued unabated until the final whistle. In all my career, I don’t think I ever saw such an outpouring of emotion for one player. They loved him, bejaysus.

  Quinny was recovering from a thigh strain and had made himself available to the ‘B’ team in order to sharpen up his fitness. The Irish l
ads couldn’t believe their luck. His aerial threat made all the difference, enabling the home side to take a 2–1 scoreline into the interval.

  In the visitors’ dressing room I psyched myself up, convincing myself that I could play my part in turning around our fortunes in the second half. My eagerness turned to despair, though, when Dave Sexton made a point of singling me out.

  ‘We’re a goal behind, Lakey, so I need you to be playing wide left for me, son.’

  My heart sank. Wide f***in’ left? I’ve played there once in three years. I’m an in-form full-back-cum-midfielder, for f***’s sake, not a winger. My head pounded with anger. Some shop window, eh. I felt like doing a sit-down protest I was that pissed off, but ultimately I was pulling on an England shirt and had to quickly regain my composure.

  I ran out of the tunnel shaking my head, staggered that Sexton was prepared to deploy me in an unfamiliar role just because we were lagging behind in a meaningless friendly. I tried my best to approach the game professionally, getting my head down and cracking on with it, but my mind was all over the place. I’d never felt so angry and frustrated on a football pitch, and as such was never going to produce a vintage performance. We lost 4–1 in the end, Quinny’s brace sending his disciples crazy.

  I kept my mouth shut in the dressing room afterwards, but everyone knew I was absolutely steaming. I respected Dave Sexton as a coach, but I didn’t respect this decision one bit. As far as I was concerned, my trip to Cork had been a complete and utter waste of time. Meddle with a team to your heart’s content if there’s nothing at stake, Dave, by all means, but not when there’s a coveted World Cup around the corner.

  In my mind, any chances I had of making Bobby Robson’s final squad had been scuppered. It was an embittering experience that, I’m sad to say, demeaned the value of my England ‘B’ cap. I don’t think I even took it out of its envelope when it arrived in my pigeonhole a few weeks later.

  I returned to Manchester feeling utterly deflated. I sought solace in the bosom of Maine Road, though, putting any disappointment on the backburner and focusing on all things domestic. I also took time out to buy my first property, a three-bedroom townhouse in the Stockport suburb of Heaton Mersey. I’d been prompted to do so by a top football agent who’d set up a meeting in Brown’s, a chic London club, to discuss my future options. In between some serious people-watching – George Michael, Andrew Ridgeley and Pepsi ’n’ Shirlie were partying there that night – I listened to the agent as he advised me to take advantage of my ascendant career by investing my surplus cash into bricks and mortar.

  Towards the end of April, a grim-faced Howard called me into his office to inform me that Bobby Robson had decided not to include me in his World Cup squad. In hindsight, I don’t think that the Cork fiasco had much bearing on the final judgement. The fact that I was a relative newcomer to the England set-up, and was seen as something of a gamble, probably sealed my fate rather than anything else. Manchester United’s Paul Parker, who was selected in my place, was older and more experienced than me and represented a much safer bet.

  ‘I’m really sorry, Paul,’ said Mr Robson when he rang me shortly after the official squad announcement. ‘I’ve had to go for an out-and-out defender for Italy but, I’m telling you now, your time will come, son. Keep playing well, keep yourself fit, and I’ll be seeing you again, mark my words.’

  I appreciated the phone call and accepted his decision. But that didn’t mean to say that I wasn’t gutted beyond belief.

  Watching Italia ’90 on television was never going to be an easy experience for me. Being within touching distance of playing on those glorious pitches and competing with the best footballers in the world did my head in, frankly. I certainly wasn’t running upstairs to fill in a World Cup wall-chart, put it that way.

  One of the hardest aspects was having to endure New Order’s ‘World in Motion’ song. Not that I didn’t rate it – I thought both the single and the video were fantastic – but its blanket media coverage meant that it was a constant reminder of my non-attendance. The video in particular perfectly captured the spirit and character of the England squad – Gazza’s impishness, John Barnes’s style, Stuart Pearce’s passion – and only served to make me want to be there even more. And as for Pavarotti and his Nessun bloody Dorma …

  I wallowed even deeper in self-pity when my nephew Chris ran into the lounge wielding a Paul Lake Italia ’90 Panini sticker. Old Mr Panini, it seems, had cranked up his printing presses shortly after our Lilleshall get-together. On one side was a head-and-shoulders shot of me in an England shirt and on the other was printed a list of statistics next to a quote attributed to Lawrie McMenemy.

  ‘Always seemed to be injured at the time of important under-21s call-ups,’ it said. Cheers, Lawrie. Kick a man while he’s down, why don’t you.

  My disappointment evaporated as the tournament progressed. By the time England had reached the last 16, I’d really begun to enjoy the football and got wholeheartedly behind the lads, the living proof being my child-like whoop when David Platt scored his late winner against Belgium. My joy would be short-lived, unfortunately. A week later, not only did I have to witness the sight of Paul Gascoigne’s blotchy, tear-streaked face, I also had to stomach England’s semi-final defeat at the hands of Germany. Gazza’s ability on the pitch (and antics off it) had made him the star attraction of the tournament, and seeing his reaction to being yellow-carded, and potentially missing out on the final, was unbearable.

  As it happened, the German penalty machine put paid to our hopes and dreams, although I don’t think I was alone in thinking that a final without Gazza just wouldn’t have been the same.

  Rip-roaring holidays in Ibiza and Tenerife helped me to overcome my World Cup woes. Playing tennis in the sunshine and dancing until dawn did me the world of good, and by the time August came my mojo was fully restored.

  Just days after my appointment as City captain – one of the most pivotal and emotional moments of my career – Howard summoned me for a meeting to discuss a contract renewal. This came as a huge relief to me. Since my trip to Lilleshall, speculation concerning my City future had been unrelenting, with an exasperated Peter Swales constantly having to refute headlines linking me with various clubs. Liverpool was the name most bandied about, with reports circulating that Kenny Dalglish had tabled a £3 million bid. I tried to ignore the rumour mill and concentrate instead on my football, but sometimes it was hard to block out those voices from the Kippax that I heard questioning my loyalty. I often felt like stomping over to them to set the record straight.

  ‘Don’t believe all the rubbish you read in the papers, lads,’ I wished I could have said, ‘because I’m going nowhere.’

  I headed to the gaffer’s Maine Road office after training, feeling positive and upbeat. Howard reclined in his leather chair, and proceeded to offer me a five-year deal, which I gleefully signed on the spot.

  ‘However,’ he said, ‘give me ten solid games as captain, and we’ll rip that contract up and I’ll make you the highest-paid player that this football club has ever seen. You’re going places, Lakey,’ he beamed, ‘and I need you to be going places wearing a sky blue shirt.’

  This was music to my ears. Not only had Howard handed me the captaincy and secured me a new contract, he was virtually guaranteeing my long-term future at Maine Road.

  To mark this fact, the Manchester Evening News decided to organise a photoshoot the following day. I met them on the pitch after training, the snapper producing a blue and white scarf for me to hold aloft as he clicked away. After giving a couple of upbeat quotes to a local reporter I ambled out of the stadium, the scarf still round my neck, and signed a few autographs for a cluster of fans milling around the forecourt.

  I soon heard a loud shout coming from the direction of the City souvenir shop.

  ‘Over here please, Paul,’ the store manager had mouthed, gesturing in a come-hither manner.

  I remember walking into the shop, assuming he was about t
o congratulate me on my new contract, or about to ask me to sign the back of one of his home shirts for posterity.

  ‘I’ll have that scarf back, thank you very much,’ he’d snapped, leaning over the counter and wresting it from my shoulders. ‘Don’t think I didn’t see you trying to walk off with it.’

  Two weeks later we were up against Aston Villa at Maine Road, only my third outing wearing the captain’s armband. I’d been told that the new England manager, Graham Taylor, was in the crowd, apparently keeping tabs on me and David Platt. I felt in tip-top condition as I jogged onto the pitch, guiding the City mascot with one hand and saluting the City fans with the other. I let the little lad take a pot-shot at Andy Dibble (who over-dramatically leapt the other way) before steering him towards the centre circle for the perfunctory photos and toss of the coin. As the mascot dashed back to the tunnel to his proud parents, I took the opportunity to mobilise my back four in the final moments before kick-off.

  ‘Remember your jobs today, lads, especially at those set pieces. Don’t stop talking – communication’s the key, okay – and let’s try and keep ourselves switched on for 90 minutes …’

  And, after some handclaps and backslaps, we all took up our positions, ready for battle to commence.

  The first hour of the match saw us comfortably holding Villa’s attack, with the two Tonys – Cascarino and Daley – failing to make much of an impact. It was after half-time, though, that we started to get more of a grip on the game. In the 65th minute I advanced towards goal in a mazy run, skinning Cascarino and Paul McGrath, nutmegging Derek Mountfield, before having the ball nicked off my toes by a diving Nigel Spink.

  Then it happened.

  Intercepting a pass to Cascarino, I jumped in and clipped the ball to my team-mate Mark Brennan. As I did so my right boot got stuck in the turf, my body twisted awkwardly and, with an almighty crunch, I landed in a heap on the ground. As I hit the deck I felt a weird clunk in my knee, followed by a sharp, searing pain.