I’m Not Really Here

by Paul Lake

  My head wasn’t in a good place when we arrived at Ayresome Park. It was a favourite ground of mine – its traditional, earthy atmosphere was similar to Maine Road’s – but as the coach swung onto the forecourt that evening, a feeling of dread took over. My knee clearly hadn’t recovered from Monday’s game, and playing two fixtures in three days was just plain ridiculous. Instead of listening to my conscience and declaring myself unfit, I turned a blind eye and clung on to the words of my medical advisers.

  ‘You’re going to have good days and bad days, Paul …’

  ‘You’ve just got to bite the bullet and battle through it…’

  With half an hour to go before kick-off, I warmed up near the centre circle, practising some short and long passing with Steve McMahon. The City fans chanted my name incessantly but, consumed with guilt, I couldn’t bring myself to face the away end, purposely training with my back to it to avoid any eye contact. I knew I wasn’t fit for purpose that night, and I shouldn’t have been on the pitch pretending that I was. Not only was I deluding myself, I was conning all those Blues who’d put their faith in me. I felt like a fraudster.

  Overcome by a sense of foreboding, I barely took in any of Peter Reid’s pre-match team talk. I just sat there, nodding and saying ‘yes, Gaffer’ in the right places, while slathering Deep Heat on my blasted, bloated knee. I even swerved my usual massage, not wanting the physio Eamonn Salmon to suss out the full extent of my pain before shaking his head and banishing me to the bench. Eamonn hadn’t long taken over from Roy Bailey, who’d parted company with the club in the close season. He seemed a nice enough bloke and I just couldn’t face compromising him so close to kick-off.

  I had to muster up all my courage to start the game, hoping that a late surge of adrenalin would anaesthetise the pain. I became more angst-ridden with each stride and, ten minutes into the action, all my worst fears were realised. A simple pass to McMahon followed by a sharp turn to follow the play was enough for my suspect ligament to snap for the third time in my career.

  Once again, I found myself at the familiar vantage point, lying spread-eagled on the deck with a scrum of concerned faces looking down at me. As I was carried off by Skip and Eamonn, shielding my face in the crook of my elbow, I’m sure I heard a collective sigh from the away end.

  You’re not the only ones to feel let down, I felt like screaming.

  In the post-match dressing room Quinny shared my devastation, admitting that seeing me flat out on the pitch had contributed to his sending-off three minutes later, after an anger-fuelled late challenge.

  The coach trip back home was the lowest point of my lonely struggle. Sitting alone at the front with my leg strapped up, I feigned sleep all the way from Middlesbrough to Manchester. My dad was waiting to meet me off the coach when it arrived back at the depot in the early hours. We didn’t need to speak – my stricken expression said it all – and we drove home in silence. Whenever we stopped at traffic lights, Dad would glance over at me, his eyes full of sorrow.

  You’re only ever as happy as your saddest child, I think the saying goes.

  Six weeks later I found myself preparing for a trip to the United States in what was to be a last-ditch attempt to rescue my career. I was off to Los Angeles to have my knee assessed by Dr Domenick Sisto, a world-renowned expert in the field of cruciate ligament repairs who’d successfully operated on Ian Durrant and John Salako (the former, my old Lilleshall pal, was back in the Scotland squad, and the latter was continuing to shine for Crystal Palace).

  Following the Middlesbrough nightmare I’d spent a few weeks undergoing exploratory treatment in Manchester, feeling lower than a snake’s belly. I was laid up in hospital when Salako phoned me, having been urged to do so by Peter Reid.

  ‘Take my advice, Paul,’ he said. ‘Get a flight over to LA pronto, and go and see Dr Sisto. He gave me a lifeline. I can’t speak highly enough of the guy.’

  Chairman Swales wasn’t exactly cock-a-hoop about my trip to America. Loath to foot the bill, and reluctant to admit any culpability for my predicament, he sanctioned the surgery only after Peter Reid had convinced him that we’d exhausted all options in England, and that an op in the States was my last chance. I think Swales also felt under pressure from certain sections of the media, as well as some vocal supporters, who’d started to ask pointed questions as to why I hadn’t received the same treatment as Salako and Durrant in the first place.

  I believe Swales saw my injury as both an irritant and an embarrassment. He gave the distinct impression that I was the failure, and that my ongoing knee problem was somehow my fault, and nobody else’s. He’d never shown any sympathy for what I was going through, hadn’t once picked up the phone to check how I was, and habitually swanned past me at Maine Road without saying a word. I grew to despise the man, my hackles rising every time I caught sight of his Brillopad hairdo or his Bri-nylon suit. Many a time I’d felt like grabbing him by the throat and dragging him to Lilleshall to see exactly what I’d had to endure.

  My simmering resentment finally reached boiling point one Monday morning just prior to my trip to LA, when we clashed dramatically in the club’s reception area. Triggering our row was a no-holds-barred interview that I’d given to the Sunday People, in which I’d claimed that the club were treating me like a piece of meat left to hang in an abattoir. Strong words, I admit, but they’d accurately expressed my feelings at that time.

  The chairman wasn’t a happy bunny. The next day he confronted me on the stairs in the main reception, apoplectic with rage and accusing me of disrespecting the football club.

  ‘I can’t believe you’ve slagged us off like this, Paul,’ he shouted, ‘after all we’ve done for you and that knee of yours …’

  It was a proper red-rag-to-a-bull moment. In a split second, all the despair, anger and anxiety that I’d harboured over the years rose to the surface. The usually mild-mannered Manc suddenly morphed into Mad Max, and Mr Swales found himself being blasted with both barrels.

  ‘How dare you?’ I yelled, as he recoiled in shock. ‘In the last two years, you haven’t once picked up the phone to see how I am. Not f***ing once. And I’ve lost count of the times that you’ve walked past me without even a good morning or kiss my arse. You give a very good impression of somebody who doesn’t give a shit, Mr Swales, so don’t start talking to me about disrespect …’

  My rant carried on in a similar vein, as I reminded him how I’d had to read about other top players resuming their careers thanks to immediate, specialist consultation. How I’d had to spend the equivalent of a year of my life at Lilleshall, watching other players’ knee injuries getting fully rehabilitated. Lads from all over the place whose medical teams had obtained the right advice for their players from the off, rather than just going for the convenient option.

  A flustered Swales, caught on the back foot, had no response. But I didn’t stop there. Everything spilled out.

  ‘And what about Tony Adams?’ I demanded, mounting a couple of steps and squaring up to him. ‘Drink driving, smashing his car up, getting sent to prison and bringing shame on football. Yet his club still paid him his appearance money and bonuses, even when he was inside. It’s called looking after your players, Mr Swales. Showing them a bit of respect. Repaying their loyalty.’

  ‘I don’t think you’re being very fair, Paul …’

  ‘Not being fair? What’s fair about a player who strives for years to get fit, whose income is halved overnight, and whose chairman treats him like an outcast? That’s not very f***ing fair, is it?’

  Swales dismissively waved his hand in my face before storming off, probably regretting ever having opened his mouth. Had Libby the receptionist not brought me a calming cup of tea, I’d have punched the nearest wall.

  *

  In September 1992 Eamonn Salmon and I flew business class to the States, touching down on a hot, humid afternoon. The taxi ride to the hotel was unbelievable, a half-hour procession past countless LA images that I’d only ever see
n in the movies. Light-reflecting skyscrapers. Six-lane freeways. Huge, gleaming Cadillacs. WALK/DON’T WALK neon signs. Beige-suited cops weaving their way through the traffic on their monster motorcycles, evoking memories of Saturdays in Haughton Green when I used to watch CHiPs on the telly, glued to Jon and Ponch’s mobile crimebusting.

  Our cab driver spent the entire journey lazily flicking through the many radio stations on the dial, and I remember being struck by the fact that most of the songs pulsing through the speakers were by British artists. From the Beatles to Bananarama and the Cult to Kajagoogoo, Britannia certainly seemed to rule the LA airwaves. It made me feel all proud and sentimental (I’m a sucker for a homespun tune), never more so than when my favourite Beatles track came on.

  Here comes the sun, sang Paul McCartney as we cruised through the San Fernando Valley, my destiny awaiting a few miles down the highway.

  Here comes the sun

  And I say, it’s alright.

  We set up camp in a fabulous marble-floored, glass-panelled hotel on Ventura Boulevard. After freshening up, we headed straight over to the Blazina Clinic in nearby Sherman Oaks for formal introductions to the medical team. Dr Sisto, the lead surgeon, had made his name repairing the limbs of American soldiers wounded in the Vietnam War, pioneering a revolutionary cruciate ligament repair technique which involved the grafting of an Achilles tendon taken from a dead person. Gruesome as it sounded, I was prepared to give anything a go if it meant being able to kick a ball again.

  Tall, dark and with a look of M*A*S*H’s Alan Alda, Dr Sisto cut a very impressive figure, with an air of honesty and self-belief that reassured me no end. He put me through a vigorous assessment that included a succession of x-rays and scans, followed by a bizarre ‘distraction therapy’ procedure that tested the strength of my knee. I’ll never forget his response.

  ‘Whoa there, Paul, this is a loose ’un,’ he drawled. ‘Boy, have I got my work cut out here …’

  He went on to explain that, while my knee was salvageable, he’d seen quarterbacks smashed into by huge linebackers who had more stable joints than mine. He told me that I’d definitely need a double transplantation, one for my inside medial ligament and another for the cruciate, using grafts from separate donors. But what he couldn’t fathom out was why I was seeing him so late in the day.

  ‘If I’d seen you straight away you’d have been back playing soccer by now,’ he said. His words cut me like a knife. Had City’s physio not been standing there, I’d have probably responded by spouting chapter and verse about the club’s various failings, but I didn’t think it was the time or the place. I also thought it vital to maintain a positive mindset.

  ‘I’ll do the best that I can for you, Paul,’ smiled Dr Sisto, ‘and we’ll see where that takes us.’

  The operation wasn’t scheduled for another 48 hours, which allowed Eamonn and I a full day’s sightseeing. After supersizing ourselves with burgers the size of dustbin lids, we hired a Chevrolet, donned our Ray-Bans and drove over to the legendary Muscle Beach. A haven for models and bodybuilders, this open-air gym swarmed with Arnold Schwarzenegger and Brigitte Nielsen lookalikes, all honing and preening their beautiful bodies in the California sunshine. If I felt inadequate standing there, poor Eamonn – all 10 stone of him – no doubt felt worse. He looked like Supersonic Syd Little next to all these pumped-up poseurs, and his decision to keep his T-shirt on was a wise one.

  We arrived back at the hotel in time for a light supper, and I spent the rest of the evening sitting alone on my balcony, sipping weak American tea and watching Ventura Boulevard by night. Something about this technicolour union of buildings, cars and neon lights had me transfixed for hours. There was a real feeling of activity and optimism about the place. Maybe it would rub off on me, I persuaded myself, as I started the countdown to the third major operation of my life.

  I came round from the three-hour procedure to see Eamonn sitting at my bedside, poised to film my groggy awakening on his camcorder. He’d been keeping a video diary of our trip, at my behest, but on this occasion I was in no mood to face the lens.

  ‘I just want to sleep, mate, if you don’t mind …’

  He didn’t mind. Eamonn was a tolerant soul who understood my predicament, and whose post-op support I really appreciated. As things stood, however, he was only able to stay a couple more days and, conscious that someone would need to care for me after my discharge, he rang the club to ask if they could fly out my then-girlfriend, Lisa, for the remainder of my stay. The club, however, refused point blank to cough up for her flight and, since I didn’t have the money to spare, I had to resign myself to the prospect of recuperating alone, half the world away.

  My team-mates, however, were incensed when they heard about this and, mobilised by Niall Quinn and Peter Reid, promptly organised a whip-round to pay for the air fare. While I was extremely grateful for this unexpected act of generosity, it didn’t stop me from feeling like some kind of charity case.

  City’s cold-hearted attitude perplexed me. I couldn’t fathom why they were being so unhelpful, and why they seemed quite happy to let me fend for myself in a faraway country. After two years of misdiagnosis, failed operations, exhaustive rehabilitation, a diet of anti-inflammatories and enough anaesthetic to kill an elephant, I’d have thought that the club would have at least pretended to give a monkey’s. The board of directors obviously deemed it acceptable for me to ask porters, taxi drivers and chambermaids to be my legs for three days, and didn’t give any thought to any complications that could arise. From where I was standing – or limping – it seemed like I was doing my damndest to revive my career at a club that didn’t appear to give two hoots.

  Once Lisa had turned up, I was allowed to leave hospital and return to my hotel. According to Dr Sisto, the operation had gone ‘as well as it could have’, although he didn’t elaborate further. What he did do, however was state categorically that he wasn’t prepared to let me fly back to the UK until I could achieve a 90 degree bend in my knee. I was desperate to get home to Manchester, so for three days solid I worked my arse off with the physios to achieve the required range of movement, spending hours in the hospital gym before seeing out the day with ice, painkillers and bed rest.

  During one such day I received a phone call informing me that Paul Hince,Manchester Evening News’ chief City reporter, was on his way to LA to conduct an exclusive interview with me over breakfast. I can’t say I jumped for joy at the prospect of having to explain the operation and discuss my feelings, and it took all my effort to drag myself from my room and go downstairs to do the honours.

  Hincey was his usual bright and breezy self when he greeted me, although an hour spent in the company of a sullen and subdued 23-year-old soon put paid to that. Whilst I’m sure he wasn’t expecting a Q&A with one of the Chuckle Brothers, I still don’t think he’d truly foreseen the extent of my despair. Sat slumped in a sofa, my thumping knee shackled in a brace after days of rigorous physio, I couldn’t have been more antisocial if I’d tried. For all I cared, he might as well have been a local reporter who had made a five-minute cab journey, because that day, and in that mood, I didn’t give a flying fig that he’d undertaken a 10,000 mile round-trip to check on my progress. I was curt and crabby throughout the entire interview, giving terse responses to perfectly reasonable questions.

  PH:(cheerily) So, what d’you think of the hotel, Paul?

  PL:(wearily) It’s the closest one to the hospital.

  PH:(happily) You don’t get breakfasts like this in Manchester, do you, eh?

  PL:(snappily) I need fuel for my rehab, don’t I?

  After some regulation ‘I’ll be back’ chestnuts I limply shook his hand and shuffled back to my sixth-floor sanctuary.

  I wouldn’t have blamed Hincey for cursing me under his breath as he flew back to Manchester; all this bloody way for that monosyllabic, uncooperative so-and-so. My behaviour that morning is something I still regret to this day. But, as someone who played a bit himself, I�
�d like to think that he understood the mindset of a footballer bereft of football and, I hope, made allowances for my petulance.

  Six days after the operation, I was queuing at check-in awaiting my own transatlantic flight back home. Unfortunately it seemed that there was a problem with my booking, as I’d inexplicably been allocated a seat in economy class. That can’t be right, I thought, knowing that Eamonn the physio had flown back in business class only a few days earlier. Presuming that the airport staff had made a mistake, I explained that I’d just had a serious operation on my knee, and that my employers would have made the necessary arrangements to ensure that I had an extra-spacious seat.

  ‘I’m sure it’s a simple oversight,’ I said to the check-in girl, ‘so if you could sort it out I’d be really grateful …’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Mr Lake,’ she said as she scanned through the passenger list on her computer, ‘but I’ve checked the bookings and it says here that you’re definitely down for economy.’

  ‘Any chance of an upgrade?’ I asked, beginning to panic. ‘Unfortunately, all the business class seats are taken today, sir, so there’s nothing I can do, I’m afraid …’

  I was crestfallen. No, I hadn’t been mistaken and, not for the first time, I’d been left distinctly underwhelmed by my club’s idea of aftercare. Whoever had booked the ticket – the physio, the office staff or the chairman himself – had messed up big time, as it shouldn’t have taken a rocket scientist to question the wisdom of shoving a 6´ 1 guy on crutches, recovering from major surgery, into such a confined space. It made me realise just how low in status I’d sunk – the powers-that-be were clearly more concerned about the physio’s legroom than mine – and made me ask myself again why I was being put through such physical and mental torture.