by Paul Lake
‘Michael Vonk and Terry Phelan can’t make that charity Dart-a-thon because their training schedule’s been changed,’ I’d be informed with all the tact of a sledgehammer, ‘so I’ve told the organisers that we’ll send you instead …’
So off I’d trot to a suburban pub to do the usual shaking of hands, signing of beer mats and smiling for photos, before facing a barrage of well-intentioned questions about my knee, my operation, my hopes, my fears, my future. As was my wont, I’d try to make light of my shipwreck of a career.
‘So, Paul, where d’you see yourself in ten years’ time?’
‘Dunno, mate. Maybe I’ll be back at City as a car-park attendant.’ (Cue laughter.) ‘One of those grumpy old fellas hobbling around in an orthopaedic shoe and yelling at drivers, that’ll be me …’ (Cue more laughter.)
Sometimes the chat would turn to City’s on-field inconsistencies.
‘Losing at home to Sheffield Wednesday? What’s that all about?’ a fan would moan.
‘We need someone to sort that back four out, Lakey,’ another would pipe up. ‘When are you gonna be fit, mate?’
‘Should be back in six weeks, pal, all being well …’
Sometimes all the pretence would get too much and I’d find myself escaping to the toilet for five minutes’ respite. There I’d sit on the loo, holding my head in my hands, wishing I could pull a chain and flush it all away.
It was on a spring morning in 1994 that I realised my life was coming apart at the seams. I remember waking up, rolling out of bed and, for the first time in years, not whacking a CD into my hi-fi to jump-start my morning. An hour later, on my way to the ground, I broke with my usual routine of switching on the car radio, opting instead to drive to Moss Side in total silence.
It was almost as though a fuse had blown inside my head. Without warning, I suddenly found myself unable to listen to my beloved music. I could no longer cope with lyrics and tunes that served only to drain my emotions. Sad songs blackened my mood by reflecting my misery, and sunny songs made me feel like crap as I couldn’t relate to them in any way. By depriving myself of music, I was spurning something that I’d used throughout my injury troubles both as a comfort and an escape. It was like severing ties with an old friend.
I’d come to understand that this state of lockdown, this avoidance mechanism, was symptomatic of a serious medical disorder. It was a common trait of a complex mental illness that I’d shortly learn didn’t discriminate between rich or poor, male or female, young or old, footballer or non-footballer.
Depression had finally taken hold.
Sky Starts Falling
MY LONG LOVE affair with music began somewhere in between Elton John’s first hit and Elvis Presley’s last burger. One of my earliest childhood memories is of punching the air in delight when Showaddywaddy reached the top of the ‘hit parade’, as it was still called in the mid-1970s.
Listening to Radio 1’s chart rundown was a Sunday-night ritual in the Lake household. When it was announced that ‘Under the Moon of Love’ had hit the top spot I remember turning up the volume on the music centre and doing a celebratory Teddy Boy-style march around the house, with Mike, Tracey and Susan following closely behind. My parents loved the song too; Dad getting into the spirit with a spot of knee-drumming in the lounge using two fags as drumsticks, and Mum shimmying in the kitchen as she cleared up after the roast dinner, drying the dishes and closing the drawers in time with the music, just like that famous Morecambe and Wise sketch. The only person not to join in the frivolity was my brother David who sat at the dining-room table, cringing with embarrassment. Haughton Green’s resident indie kid was way too cool for Showaddywaddy.
My taste in music was heavily influenced by David. Four years my senior, he was well into guitar bands like Orange Juice, Joy Division and Aztec Camera and, when he wasn’t in the classroom or on the football pitch, he would loll around his bedroom listening to his vast record collection. Mike and I loved earwigging the heavenly sounds coming through the wall, from the mesmerising vocals of the Associates’ ‘Party Fears Two’ to the melancholic lyrics of ‘Tinseltown in the Rain’ by the Blue Nile.
Sometimes when David was out of the house, we’d craftily pick his bedroom lock with a screwdriver (our older brother fiercely guarded his privacy), home in on his record player and rifle through his neat pile of 45s and 33s. I remember us once having a sneaky listen to his brand-new Roxy Music album, Country Life. Its cover, featuring a pair of greased-up models in see-through underwear, still gives me happy flashbacks.
Our house was always filled with music, whether it was the Jimmy Young Show on the kitchen wireless or a medley of hits coming from the dining-room hi-fi. I liked playing at being the DJ, stacking the singles underneath the arm of the record player, flicking the fluff off the stylus with my fingertip and carefully lowering the needle onto the revolving vinyl. Mum liked listening to all the 50s and 60s crooners – Jim Reeves, Perry Como, Dean Martin – and would harmonise along to them while doing her household chores. I can still picture her hoovering the lounge carpet to the rhythm of ‘That’s Amore’.
‘When the moon hits the sky like a big pizza pie – legs up Paul, love, while I vac underneath – that’s amore …’
Dad was a keen country and western fan, favouring stuff by Glen Campbell and Boxcar Willie. Later in life, however (and influenced by my mate Jason), he gravitated towards reggae music – mispronouncing it ‘raggy’, bless him – and used to tap his feet to the lilting rhythms of Bob Marley and Peter Tosh while he did his odd jobs in the garden shed. I suppose it wasn’t the norm for a 60-year-old bloke with a polyester shirt ’n’ slacks combo and a Bobby Charlton comb-over to be into Rastafari music but Dad developed a real fondness for it, something that I’m always reminded of whenever I hear the strains of ‘Buffalo Soldier’ or ‘No Woman, No Cry’.
I’ve always had a knack of linking memories to melodies. I’m rubbish at matching faces to names, and am forever forgetting family birthdays, but I can effortlessly cross-reference incidents and milestones of the past with specific songs. This is particularly the case when it comes to my playing days.
I can, for example, remember exactly which Pet Shop Boys hit was playing on the coach journey to Ipswich in 1987 (‘West End Girls’), what was thumping out of the ghetto blaster when Reddo, Whitey and I lay on an Ibizan beach the year later (Narada’s ‘Divine Emotions’), and which Stone Roses track pulsed through my headphones when I jogged along Hyde Canal on a blazing hot day in 1990, just before the start of pre-season training (‘Fools Gold’). Not so long ago I heard OMD’s ‘Messages’ on the radio and was instantly transported back to a late spring day in June 1980. It was that three-minute burst of synth-pop that had been blaring out of my dad’s car as he dropped me off at Stockport station on the eve of our Smiths Crisps Trophy final at Wembley.
The older I got, the more into music I became, never missing an issue of Melody Maker or my weekly dose of The Tube on Channel 4. As I progressed through the ranks at City, I started to attend lots of gigs in and around Manchester, going to see the Pale Fountains at the International on Anson Road, Primal Scream at the International 2 in Plymouth Grove, and the Bible at Manchester University. I became friendly with a few members of the city’s buzzing music scene, notably those of a Blue leaning like the Cult’s Billy Duffy and M People’s Mike Pickering, two great guys who were as keen to discuss our latest match as I was to discuss their latest album.
I ran into Manchester’s most famous musical brothers, Oasis’ Noel and Liam Gallagher, on a fair few occasions. In fact, one of the band’s earliest Manchester gigs, just before they hit the big time, remains one of my musical high spots. A friend of mine had given me one of their demo tapes, and the following day turned up with a coveted ticket for their upcoming date at the Haçienda.
The place was packed to the rafters, crammed full of punters checking out this up-and-coming band from Burnage. Liam was in fine form, snarling at the microphone, beating the
crap out of a tambourine and theatrically goading the crowd, while Noel pointedly ignored his brother’s antics and concentrated solely on his guitar and vocals. The other three lads – Bonehead, Guigsy and Tony – seemed quite happy to do their own thing and remain in the shadows.
The highly charged atmosphere, combined with a terrific set list (imagine ‘Supersonic’ and ‘Shakermaker’ in your face at 100 decibels) made for a memorable night. The whole gig bristled with energy and attitude, the band’s blend of humour, swagger, grit and defiance embodying the spirit of Manchester.
Their fame soared after the release of their debut album, the brilliant Definitely Maybe. The band were more than generous when it came to doling out concert tickets and backstage passes to us City players, including their famous homecoming concert at Maine Road in 1996. Even at the height of their notoriety the Gallagher brothers came across as pretty grounded; they seemed as much in awe of the players as we were of them, often sporting their replica shirts with pride and asking us to sign bits and bobs of memorabilia.
Noel, sharp, witty and incredibly switched on, was always the more relaxed and approachable of the two. He’d be the first to come over, asking us if we’d enjoyed the show before discussing the goings-on at City. Liam was less chatty and more guarded than his older sibling, but seemed a decent lad to me, his dry wit and laid-back manner totally at odds with the wild man of pop image often peddled in the media.
Helping me to keep tabs with all the new music releases was a good pal of mine, Howard Johnson, a City-supporting journalist who penned reviews for magazines like Q and NME. The nature of his work meant that he’d get deluged with promotional CDs which, once they’d been listened to, would be carefully parcelled up and posted to me. I used to love receiving my box of musical freebies – I remember being completely blown away by Ocean Colour Scene’s ‘Moseley Shoals’ – and would return the favour by sorting him out with City tickets when I could.
One morning, in the midst of my injury woes, a small beige packet that I assumed to be from Howard hit the doormat. Inside, though, was an envelope containing a blank cassette and a letter that had been redirected to me by the club. A well-wishing City fan had enclosed one of his favourite songs for me to listen to, believing that its lyrics might lift my spirits and inspire my fight back.
I slotted it into my tape deck and pressed Play.
‘Hey now, hey now, don’t dream it’s over,’ sang Crowded House, filling my lounge with mournful vocals. ‘Hey now, hey now, when the world comes in …’
Unsurprisingly it didn’t have the desired effect. After a minute or so I pressed Stop, then Eject, and broke down.
*
In August 1993, despite steering City to two consecutive top-five placings, Peter Reid became the latest managerial casualty at Maine Road. Replacing him in the hot seat was the ex-Hull City and Oxford United boss, Brian Horton. Though Horton’s relatively low-key managerial pedigree didn’t seem to instil the City fans with much enthusiasm, I was quite happy to give him and his staff the benefit of the doubt.
However, without my big ally at the helm, and with a new backroom team to get accustomed to, my day-to-day life at Maine Road quickly deteriorated. The first few weeks of the new regime saw the odd pleasantry being trotted out as I ploughed my usual furrow.
‘Chin up, Lakey, we’re all rooting for you, son,’ said coach David Moss. After a few more weeks, my daily diversions to the physio room sparked thinly veiled irritation, with ‘you off for another pamper session?’ being a regular dig from Mossy. I’m sure he never meant any harm – Dave was renowned for his banter – but somehow I never saw the funny side.
It took the intervention of Robbie Brightwell, former Olympic silver medallist and father of City players Ian and David, to stop the rot. In 1994 Horton had enlisted Robbie’s services in order to boost the team’s fitness levels and to bring some fresh ideas into the camp. Known affectionately as Bullet, he was a brilliant athletics coach whose no-nonsense manner and wealth of experience commanded everyone’s respect. He worked us tirelessly, laying on intermittently paced runs (known much to our amusement as ‘fartleks’), alongside punishing 100-metre dashes, 300-metre sprints, and the occasional relay race.
I found Bullet’s structured schedule and scientific approach both interesting and innovative. But what I loved most about his training was its focus on straight-line running, with none of the twists and turns that habitually gave me problems. This meant that I could confidently train with the rest of the lads for once and escape my usual solitary confinement.
‘I can’t believe how strong you’re looking, Lakey,’ panted David Brightwell seconds after I’d trounced them all in a sprint across the pitch. ‘Seems my old man’s done the trick, eh?’
While Robbie’s input had certainly revitalised me – I always felt like I had an extra lung whenever he was around – I was under no illusions. In spite of all my efforts, my knee was only ever going to be properly tested in a match situation, something of which I was only too aware.
Sadly, for whatever reason, his stint at City was short-lived. Having thrived under Bullet’s tutelage, I was desperately keen to carry on our good work and luckily the club gave me the green light to travel to Congleton for thrice-weekly training sessions. We continued apace with the jogs, sprints and fartleks, and I loved every single minute. Not in a million years would I have thought that working with an Olympic athlete in the middle of nowhere would have brought me such contentment and renewed vigour.
It wasn’t just my physical conditioning that Robbie helped me with. He proved to be a huge emotional prop, too, becoming a close confidant and sounding board for many years. With his acute understanding of the mental burden of long-term rehab, Bullet could sense when I was having an off day and did his utmost to rev me up.
‘Come on, Lakey, if we’re going to increase that blardy lung capacity, you need to get your head up, man,’ he would say in his clipped sergeant-major tones whenever I turned up looking glum.
‘Drop your shoulders, and get those blardy arms moving. Faint heart never won fair maiden, young man …’
It was following a chilly sprint session in a snow-bound quarry that I experienced my first ever alfresco ice bath. Guiding me to a semi-frozen lake, Bullet told me to whip off my trainers and tracksuit bottoms before ordering me to wade in.
‘Trust me, Lakey, it’ll cool the knee and calm it down …’ he said.
‘Are you having a laugh?’ I whinged, convinced that he was off his rocker. As I immersed myself in the icy cold water, my body shuddering in shock, Bullet calmly explained the method to his madness, telling me how this type of therapy was the done thing in Sweden.
‘Oh, w-well that’s all right, th-then,’ I hissed through chattering teeth. ‘What’s g-good enough f-for f***in’ Bjorn and Benny is g-good enough for me …’
After the longest 20 minutes of my life I was eventually allowed to stagger back out, my face gurning in pain, watched with bemusement by a trio of woolly hatted ramblers.
I couldn’t believe how great I felt afterwards, though, and from that day onwards ice baths (albeit indoors) became an integral part of my recovery sessions. Within a few years they’d become commonplace at Premier League football clubs, with most players worth their salt taking a regular post-match dip.
Bullet, I now realise, knew best.
The thing I most dreaded during my time on the sidelines was the team photograph. This annual ritual was usually arranged for late July, just prior to the start of the new season, and it became more toe-curling as each year went by. Having to don a crisp new Umbro kit, not even knowing if I was actually going to get to wear it that season, was pure torture. And seeing my shirt squad number dropping lower and lower down the list each year, sliding from a coveted number 11 to a token number 32, didn’t do wonders for my self-esteem, either. Most demoralising of all was lining up next to 20 or so team-mates who were buzzing with excitement about the season ahead, and rightly so. I, on the other
hand, felt like a spare part, like I was gate-crashing a private function.
‘Right, lads, eyes front and centre, let’s see your pearlies,’ shouted the photographer, as Steve Lomas, Peter Beagrie, Nicky Summerbee and the rest of the class of ’95 joked around and jostled for position. I stood on the pitch, stiff and awkward, summoning yet another plastic smile as the snapper clicked away.
It suddenly struck me that I’d rather have been anywhere else on earth at that moment than on that pitch. The photographer must have noticed my expression glazing over as my thoughts drifted to happier times.
‘Over here please, Mr Lake. Are you with us or what?’
No, I felt like saying to him. I’m not really here.
Despite feeling like the club’s misfit, I continued to be surprised at the level of media interest that I still managed to attract. I can’t say that every newspaper article filled me with joy, however, especially those riddled with inaccuracies. I once read somewhere that one of my donor ligaments had come from a gunned-down LA drug dealer, for goodness sake.
But much worse were those headlines that referred to INJURY-RAVAGED PAUL LAKE or JINXED CITY STAR. I’d see such attention-grabbing back-page banners and shake my head, wondering whether these reporters truly realised the bruising impact that a clunky turn of phrase could have on a soul as over-sensitive as mine, or how a badly chosen word could affect my whole day. The worst example of this, by some distance, was the ubiquitous ‘crocked’, as in CITY WON’T GIVE UP ON CROCKED LAKE, or CROCK LAKE’S FITNESS BID. It is a word only used by tabloid journalists, and I found it both callous and insulting. Even now, my hackles still rise whenever this flippant, throwaway remark is used to describe an injured sportsperson who is doubtless hurting in more ways than one.
It was often the case that newspapers would set up photoshoots to accompany their articles and interviews, hence a succession of snapshots featuring me scowling in a rehab pool, wincing as I attempted some keepy-uppy at Platt Lane, or slumped on a seat in the Kippax Stand, staring broodingly into the distance. One particular portrait, printed next to a piece by Patrick Barclay in the Observer, still spooks me to this day. An atmospheric, black-and-white close-up of my face, it perfectly captures my deep sense of desolation. My eyes – supposedly the windows to the soul, they say – look dead.