by Paul Lake
Unlike Barlow versus Baldwin, though, the Swales versus Lee saga didn’t end in fisticuffs. Instead, they did their sparring via the press. Not a day went by without a provocative tabloid headline or a mud-slinging allegation, often coming courtesy of shadowy ‘sources close to the chairman’ or secretive ‘friends of Francis Lee’.
I remember the media going into overdrive when, at the height of the hostilities Lee unexpectedly turned up in the directors’ box for the match against Queen’s Park Rangers, the first time he’d been seen there for years. From my vantage point in one of the executive suites, I watched him brazenly take his seat only yards away from Swales, prompting a scrum of photographers to leg it over to the Main Stand to get their shot of the main protagonists. As they did so, deafening chants of ‘Swales Out, Swales Out,’ rang around the ground.
Had he not treated me so abysmally in the wake of my injury, I might have felt a modicum of sympathy for City’s beleaguered chairman – it can’t have been easy for him, and there were worrying reports of intimidation of his family – but all I felt was a cold indifference. Maybe now he knows what it’s like to be ostracised and hung out to dry, I remember thinking as I watched him sink lower and lower into his seat.
By December 1993, Swales had more or less given up the ghost and he stood down as chairman, but it wasn’t until the following February that ‘St Francis of Moss Side’ (as the fans dubbed him) finally wrested full control. The majority of fans, of course, were delighted to see the expulsion of the old guard and the heralding in of the new.
Since Brian Horton had been a Peter Swales appointment, many assumed that he would be sacked immediately by the new chairman. He wasn’t, as it happened, and was instead given the chance to prove his worth. To his credit, an uncomplaining Horton orchestrated what was probably the most entertaining season at Maine Road for years, fielding a side of go-getting crowd-pleasers like Uwe Rösler, Paul Walsh and Peter Beagrie. Their characteristic free flowing, attack-minded football, however, was tempered by an inconsistency which, for example, saw us trounce Spurs 5–2 but, four games later, suffer a crushing 5–0 defeat at Old Trafford. This haphazard form led to us finishing a mediocre 17th in the division and Horton, harshly but predictably, was given the chop at the end of the season.
Speculation was rife as to his replacement, and for a few days the talk among the players and my City-supporting pals was of nothing else. Who would the new manager be? Graeme Souness, maybe? Or what about Dave Bassett, eh? He might fancy it. And don’t rule out George Graham, either …
None of the above, as it happened. In the summer of 1995, into the breach stepped the flat-capped figure of Alan Ball, hero of 1966, erstwhile manager of Portsmouth, Stoke City, Exeter City and Southampton, and former England colleague of the chairman.
‘The ego has landed,’ announced one of my team-mates as the news broke.
‘I think I’d have a bit of a swagger if I’d won a World Cup winner’s medal,’ I replied.
In reality, though, even I was surprised at the extent of the little fella’s confidence. From day one he left the playing and coaching staff in no doubt as to what he’d achieved in his career and what, in comparison, they hadn’t. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve a deep respect for any player who’s won major honours, but I don’t think Ball, as a manager, totally grasped the difference between uplifting a squad and undermining it.
Over the next few months I witnessed at close quarters a rapid demolition of team spirit as the new gaffer set to in his, erm, unique style. Player morale slumped even lower following the arrival of Georgi Kinkladze in July 1995. ‘Kinky’ was the closest thing we’d ever seen to Diego Maradona in a City shirt (borne out by his spectacular mazy goal against Southampton) but Ball severely overstated his role. By putting the Georgian on a pedestal around which everyone else had to revolve, the manager succeeded in alienating and humiliating many first-teamers.
‘I feel like a f***ing afterthought,’ one player complained to me after a game. ‘It’s like being an extra in the Georgi Kinkladze Show …’
The spine of the team predictably crumbled as a result, even more so when the decision was made to offload such solid players as Tony Coton, Garry Flitcroft and Paul Walsh in the space of a few months. In spite of Kinky’s flashes of genius, and Rösler’s nose for goal, I knew I was watching a side doomed to fail and, as the season progressed, the spectre of relegation loomed ominously.
While Francis Lee was building his Maine Road empire off the pitch, I was having another stab at rebuilding my career on it. I’d made great strides with Robbie Brightwell – he’d got me as athletically fit as I could possibly be – and I knew it was high time to test out my knee in a proper match situation. It was agreed that I could have a few run-outs with City’s ‘B’ team, a side of 16-and 17-year-olds managed by my old pal and former team-mate Neil McNab.
In March 1994 I travelled over to the Melwood training ground to play Liverpool’s youth side. The game was only 12 minutes old when one of the full-backs inadvertently headed the ball skywards to the far side of the six-yard box. Aware that nobody seemed to be claiming ownership, I shouted ‘Lakey’s ball!’ and went up for a header with my Liverpool opponent. Unluckily for me, the numpty mistimed his jump and my face smashed into the top of his head with all the force of a Glasgow kiss.
I was unconscious for nearly five minutes. When I eventually came round I found myself in an ambulance, my mouth dripping with blood and throbbing like hell. I retched when I caught sight of my reflection in the window. All I could see were my front teeth protruding through a flapping top lip which had been split into a V-shape by the force of the collision. I looked like the monster from Predator. It was horrific.
I felt mortified as I sat in Bootle Hospital’s A&E department, waiting for a nurse to stitch me up. My comeback attempt was turning into a farce. I was a joke, a hapless, accident-prone fool, football’s very own Frank Spencer.
‘Maine Road’s Unluckiest Player’, the Manchester Evening News dubbed me the following day.
I recovered in time for a ‘B’ team game against Preston North End a few weeks later. Things seemed to be going okay until, halfway through the match, I gave away the lamest penalty of my career. What I’d intended to do was sprint across to the corner of the 18-yard box, time a tackle, win the ball cleanly, and bring the ball out of danger. Taking the play from defence to attack like this had always been a forte of mine, and I’d done it a thousand times before.
But I got nowhere near the ball, clumsily barging into the fray and taking out some poor kid at knee height. My gammy leg couldn’t keep up with the rest of my body, it seemed, and was refusing to listen to the commands from my brain that were saying ‘time it, control it, tackle him …’ As another Preston player converted the spot-kick, I stood in the centre circle, hands on hips, dazed by my own ineptitude.
Later that spring, I returned to the Blazina Clinic in LA to see Dr Sisto for a check-up. I might have had the red carpet treatment a couple of years earlier, but that certainly wasn’t the case this time. A routine exploration of the knee was followed by a debrief that took all of two minutes.
‘I’m sorry, Paul, but I’ve done all I possibly can,’ said the surgeon. ‘What you’re left with is a knee that works, but not a knee that’s necessarily going to function in professional football. How you play it from here is entirely up to you. I wish you lots of luck.’
I slung my overnight bag over my shoulder, calmly walked out of the hospital, hailed a taxi to the hotel, took my painkillers, went downstairs to the bar and drank myself stupid.
I put Dr Sisto’s sobering assessment to the back of my mind when I returned home. Helping to lift my spirits was my wedding to Lisa, at St Mary’s church in Denton in May 1995, which we followed with a relaxing honeymoon in sunny Portugal.
Back in the UK, I stubbornly carried on with my rehab as normal. For the next few months I continued apace with my daytime gym visits and evening weights sessions but overdid it one
night like a fool and badly wrenched my back. I was in agony by the time I got home – I’d never known pain like it – and ended up having to drive to the Beaumont Hospital in Bolton, where an emergency operation was performed to remove a bulging disc from my lower back.
The Beaumont was one of the best rehab hospitals in the north-west. I’d started to spend a lot of time there and got to know the staff well, particularly Tony Banks – a renowned orthopaedic surgeon and sports injury specialist – and Philippa Hopkins and Mandy Johnson, two hotshot physios.
Once I’d recovered from my back injury, I was able to resume my rehab. However, on the advice of Mr Banks, I was only allowed to train wearing a cumbersome knee brace. He’d also advised me to shelve the ‘B’ team matches for the time being and instead concentrate on non-contact, low-impact exercise. Firstly, because my body wasn’t up to any rough and tumble and, secondly, because my brace would have lacerated any player colliding with it. This unwieldy contraption weighed me down in more ways than one. Pacing up and down the pitch like Robocop, I felt I was a burden to myself and a danger to other players. I was sick and tired of the lads having to pussyfoot around me, and I think they felt the same.
In my heart of hearts I knew I couldn’t put up with this sham existence for much longer and, as Christmas 1995 approached, I made the decision to go to see Tony Banks for a do-or-die reality check. I needed to know, once and for all, whether I was fighting a losing battle, deluding myself and merely prolonging the agony. Lacking the mental strength to make the decision on my own, I needed someone with the bollocks and the backbone to grip me by the shoulders, look me in the eye and give it to me straight.
Perhaps no one at City had the heart to put me out of my misery, but breaking bad news to a player, no matter how hard it can be, should be a club’s duty and responsibility. Stringing players along and stoking their delusions is the easiest option of all, yet it can also be the most destructive. As someone once wisely said, ‘it’s not the disappointment that kills you, it’s the hope.’
I sat on the treatment bed in Mr Banks’s room, staring up at an illuminated x-ray. Even my non-medical eye could see that it didn’t look good. The glowing white areas clearly showed that the bones in both my legs were starting to bend and warp as they tried to compensate for my injuries.
Mr Banks cut to the quick, explaining that my right knee was collapsing and that in order to save the joint I’d have to undergo surgery to re-straighten my leg. Part of my shinbone would have to be sliced off, and titanium screws would then be hammered into my bone. It was a body blow in more ways than one. While I hadn’t expected to be showered with good news, I hadn’t envisaged yet another major operation.
‘The thing is, Paul, your knee can’t take much more of all this pounding,’ Tony said, shaking his head. He paused for thought and took a long deep breath.
‘I know this will be hard for you to take, but I think there’s a real danger of you being crippled for life if you carry on trying to play football.’
And then, as my mind whirred and my stomach churned, he spoke the words that so many before him had feared to utter.
‘I’m so sorry to have to tell you this, Paul, but it’s time to call it a day.’
I drove straight to Mum and Dad’s in Haughton Green, weaving my usual way through Belle Vue and Longsight, reflecting on the many ambitions that I’d harboured over the years. Since boyhood I’d dreamed of surpassing Alan Oakes’s awesome record of 676 appearances for the Blues. Added to that was a burning desire to win some kind of silverware with City – FA Cup, League Cup, I wasn’t fussy – followed by a nice little foray into Europe; Milan, Madrid, maybe. Last but not least, I’d always fantasised that I would one day become one of the finest England players of my generation, perhaps emulating Colin Bell’s tally of 48 international caps.
Time to stop dreaming, I thought as I pulled up outside the house, yanked the handbrake and jolted myself back to reality.
Mum answered the knock on the door. The look on my face told her that all was not well.
‘What on earth’s the matter, love?’
‘It’s over, Mum.’
My parents were, of course, devastated for me. They’d never contemplated a worst-case scenario, always remaining upbeat and clinging on to the hope that their youngest son’s efforts would come to something, that our Paul’s injury would never defeat him. As my tearful mum put on the kettle, my stoical dad put on a brave face.
‘You couldn’t have tried any harder, son, and we couldn’t be any prouder of you,’ he said, hugging me and ruffling my hair, just like he used to do when I was a kid.
One Day Like This
I FINALLY LAID my career to rest on Thursday 4 January 1996. After half a decade of setbacks and letdowns, the day had come for me to join the rank and file of ex-professional footballers.
I’d spent most of December trying to come to terms with my imminent retirement. Christmas in the Lake household had been anything but merry, with me in no mood for any cracker-pulling or cork-popping as the cold reality of my situation began to bite. New Year’s Eve – never a good time for your average clinical depressive with a ruined career and a mangled knee – was spent sitting in front of Jools Holland’s Hootenanny on BBC2. As the Britpop brigade raised their glasses to the chimes of Big Ben, I downed a glass of Southern Comfort and reflected on my predicament, trying to console myself with some ‘New Year: New Start’ positive thinking. At least now I could wave goodbye to those torturous match days and training sessions, and finally rid myself of all that false hope and fake optimism.
‘To 1996,’ I slurred, anaesthetising myself with another swig of bourbon as Jools & Co rang out the old and rang in the new.
Just before the festive break I’d met up with City’s general secretary, Bernard Halford, to inform him of my decision to retire. I liked Bernard a lot. One of Maine Road’s most loyal servants, he’d been at the club since the 1970s and had followed my development from shy rookie to proud captain. He seemed genuinely upset to hear my news, although I’m sure it didn’t come as a major shock to him.
‘I’m so sorry it all has to end like this, Paul, I really am.’
‘So am I, Bernard, but enough’s enough. Maybe it just wasn’t to be.’
Over tea and biscuits we discussed the media game plan – a press conference would need to be arranged – and also addressed a few pertinent financial issues. I was keener than ever to secure my future, especially now that my final player’s wage packet had dropped onto the doormat. There was talk of an insurance payout – Peter Swales had taken out a policy on all the youth team lads in the 1980s, apparently – and I also wanted to test the waters as regards the possibility of City granting me a testimonial year. Bernard promised to look into my queries.
‘And if there’s anything else I can do to help, you know where I am,’ he said, with typical kind-heartedness.
After our meeting, I nipped over to the nearby administration offices. I’d been told by a solicitor friend that I was legally entitled to access my medical notes, so I decided to request a copy. Now that I’d quit, it was as good a time as any to examine my case history and gain a better understanding of why things went so wrong. It might even be a cathartic experience, I told myself.
However, when I went to see the relevant member of staff I was breezily informed that the entire contents of my medical file had been shredded because – and I quote – ‘they didn’t make any sense.’
Words failed me then, and still do to this day.
It was with a strange sense of calm that I drove up to Platt Lane to announce my retirement to the media. Thanks in part to my morning cocktail of Seroxat and Nurofen, it was numbness, not sadness that I felt as I swung into the car park. I just needed to get this day over and done with as quickly and painlessly as possible.
All the City players had left Platt Lane by the time I arrived. A good job, really, because I don’t think I could have faced being confronted by a troupe of fighting-fit
, smiley-faced lads on this day of all days. I trudged up to the main entrance, eyes downcast, trying to avoid catching sight of my old training pitch, the scene of so many achingly happy memories. Coming at me from the opposite direction was Alan Ball.
‘Hello, Paul.’
‘All right, Alan.’
‘Listen, I’m sorry you’ve had to give up, son. It’s a real shame, that.’
‘Thanks.’
‘But life goes on, doesn’t it?’ he grinned, patting me on the back. ‘There’s no point looking backwards and dwelling on the past, eh. Time to start afresh and move on …’
I gritted my teeth. He probably thought he was saying the right things, and I’m sure he hadn’t meant to appear patronising, but the last thing I needed on a day like this was a mini-lecture from someone I barely knew. Had these words been uttered by my dad, or Tony Book, or Ken Barnes, it might have been a different matter, but coming from him they sounded a bit shallow. Ball hadn’t the first idea of what Manchester City Football Club meant to me, or the devastating impact of five years spent stagnating on the sidelines, and it grated.
‘Thanks for the advice,’ I said tartly.
Mercifully, his platitudes were cut short by the intervention of a Manchester Evening News photographer requesting a snap of us together. We posed beneath the illuminated Platt Lane sign, Ball standing there in his tracksuit and a woolly hat, and me next to him wearing a long dark coat and an even longer, darker expression.
‘Paul, could I get a shot of you hanging your boots up in the dressing room?’ the pressman asked casually as he changed his camera film.
‘Good idea,’ said Ball, ‘you can borrow a pair from—’
‘Not a chance,’ I snapped. ‘I’m not hanging any boots up for anyone, Alan. It’s the biggest cliché in the book, for God’s sake. This is the worst f***ing day of my life, and I’m damned if I’m posing for some cheesy photo just to please some bloody newspaper.’