I’m Not Really Here

by Paul Lake

  Ball just stared at me blankly, shook his head and walked off, no doubt thinking I was a complete tool. The photographer reluctantly had to settle for a far less mawkish image of me signing an autograph for a random City fan (‘try to seem really, really upset,’ I heard him say to her). After that I reeled off a couple of interviews to local TV crews, who then filmed me walking out of Platt Lane looking sad-eyed and weary.

  When I returned to my car, I paused and took stock for a moment. It was at this precise spot in the middle of the car park that my dad had dropped me off for my first training session with Tony Book. On a wet and windy Thursday evening in 1982 he’d wished me luck, waved me off and driven away in his Hillman van, leaving me standing there alone, eyes wide and knees knocking, not quite knowing which way to turn or what lay ahead. Nearly 15 years later, that same doubt and uncertainty prevailed.

  Over the next fortnight I was inundated with hundreds of kind messages. My letterbox overflowed with cards, letters and gifts from City fans and rival supporters, postmarked from Manchester and beyond. I took a steady stream of consoling phone calls from ex-City team-mates, and was also contacted by many former opponents. Robbie Earle – a long-time City fan – sent me an enormous card signed by all the Wimbledon lads, saying how much they’d respected me as a player and acknowledging how hard I’d fought to save my career. I also received a very moving letter from my Crystal Palace rival, Mark Bright, that intimated ‘there but for the grace of God go I.’

  Old acquaintances like Billy McNeill passed on their good wishes, my former boss sending me a heartfelt letter saying how sorry he was that I’d had to quit, and how much potential I’d shown. He wrote something along the lines of ‘if you use half the determination that you showed as a player, you’ll do brilliantly in life,’ which was a nice thing to say and I appreciated a lot.

  Most touching, perhaps, was a tribute that Howard Kendall gave to the Pink Final, Manchester’s weekly sports paper.

  ‘It’s a tragedy not just for Manchester City, but for England as well,’ said my former manager. ‘I haven’t the slightest doubt in my mind that, but for the injury, Paul would have been capped for the England seniors that season, and would by now be a vital part of the international team. I’ve seen a lot of brilliant young players in my career, with many of them going on to become household names. But believe me, Paul Lake was as good as anything I’ve ever seen.’

  Once everything had died down, my search for a new career began in earnest. At that time, in the mid-1990s, only a small minority of big-earners, usually those who’d had several money-spinning moves, were able to exit the game virtually set up for life. The vast majority weren’t so well-off, and had no choice but to find another job once our playing days were over.

  It was my physio friends at the Beaumont Hospital who steered me in the right direction. I’d had to undergo the dreaded leg-straightening procedure shortly after my retirement – without doubt the most traumatic, bloodcurdling operation I’ve ever had in my life – and Mandy and Philippa had spent hours with me as I recuperated, sitting at my bedside, trying valiantly to lift my spirits and distract me from the pain.

  ‘So, c’mon Paul, what are you going to do with your life?’ asked Mandy one afternoon. ‘Don’t tell me you’re going to open a flippin’ pub …’

  ‘To tell you the truth,’ I replied, ‘I’ve got absolutely no idea. Football’s been my life since I was a kid. It’s the only thing I know about.’

  ‘No it’s not,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ I replied.

  ‘Er, no it’s not,’ she countered, our exchange taking on shades of pantomime. ‘You know all about injuries. You know all about rehab. You’ve been there, done it, worn the T-shirt. No other player knows more about life on the sidelines than you.’

  ‘Maybe not,’ I said.

  ‘Only we’ve been talking,’ said Philippa, nodding conspiratorially at Mandy, ‘and we both reckon you’d make a great football physio.’

  ‘Ah, you’re just saying that to cheer me up.’

  ‘Not at all. We’ve been saying it for a while now. You’ve got the right grounding, the right attitude.’

  ‘Yeah, but I’d need a degree if I was going to do physiotherapy, wouldn’t I?’

  ‘Well get off your backside and get on a course, then,’ barked Mandy.

  Mandy and Philippa had lit the blue touch paper and, following a week or so weighing up the pros and cons, I made up my mind to look at the physio option. My pals at the Beaumont had stated a pretty good case; I had indeed developed a keen interest in sports medicine over the years – the only positive aspect of undergoing endless surgery, I suppose – and I knew that, by drawing on my own experiences, I’d be better placed than most to help other injured footballers get back on track. Having gone through the mill myself, I’d be able to both empathise and sympathise with players trying to salvage their careers.

  Moreover, carving my own niche as a physiotherapist would, perhaps, help to rebuild the pride, dignity and self-worth that had been demolished in my wilderness years. Watching my football career gurgling down the plughole had been an extremely painful experience, and a fresh challenge might just be the perfect antidote. Not only that, it would also keep some much-needed structure and direction in my life. Like most footballers, I’d been bred into a creature of habit, adhering to set training times, rigid fixture lists and regimented rehab sessions. A new vocation, I hoped, would maintain a similar sense of order and daily routine, shielding me from a life of comfy sofas, Pot Noodles and daytime television.

  The last thing I wanted was to end up bored and unfulfilled, like a former opponent of mine who found it hard to acclimatise to Civvy Street, and had gone from being household name to house-husband in a matter of months.

  ‘The only run I do now is the bloody school run,’ he said glumly when I bumped into him in the Trafford Centre one afternoon. ‘How the mighty fall, eh.’

  I was also very conscious of the fact that physiotherapy might in the long term provide me with a route back into the game I loved. Having been institutionalised within football since my youth, I had neither the self-confidence nor the social skills to function in any other walk of life. Football was my safety net, my comfort blanket, the only profession in which I was known and respected, and in which I felt I truly belonged.

  Helping me to navigate my way through this new world of opportunity was the PFA which, I discovered, attached as much importance to the welfare of former players as those still in action. Its education officer, Mickey Burns, gave me some great advice about my study options. He explained that, if I wanted a place on the PFA-funded physio degree course at Salford University, I’d have to prove my aptitude and commitment. First I’d need to get an FA Sports Therapy diploma course under my belt, followed by an ‘A’ level in human biology.

  ‘But we’ll pay for all your course fees, Paul,’ said Mickey. ‘We see it as money well spent if it means that ex-players can stay in the game.’

  So, in September 1996, clutching my shiny new leather case, I went back to school, attending my first ‘A’ level evening class at South Trafford College. Despite my relief that I wasn’t the only mature student in the class (another old goat looked like he was pushing 30), I was still beset with nerves. Having not set foot in a classroom for 12 years, I was way out of my comfort zone, a proper fish out of water.

  Luckily it didn’t take me long to get into the swing of things. I found human biology a fascinating subject, and the relaxed teaching style was light-years away from the raps on the knuckles and the flying board rubbers of old. Though my brain can’t have known what hit it, going from a decade of virtual dormancy to a sudden bombardment of facts, figures and diagrams. I threw myself into my studies, burying my head in textbooks during my spare time and burning the midnight oil in order slowly but surely to finish my homework. And when I say slowly, I mean slowly. I was a computer novice, with virtually non-existent keyboard skills, so I had no option but to writ
e everything in longhand. This was a pretty tall order for someone who’d spent half his life using pens just for scribbling autographs, signing contracts or tackling the NME crossword.

  After submitting a particularly difficult assignment, I received an urgent message to report to one of the senior course tutors. Damn, I thought, I’ve messed up my essay. Either he thinks it’s rubbish, or he can’t read my child-like scrawl. Or both, maybe. I should have known I wasn’t up to this studying lark, I berated myself as I trudged along the corridor after class. Maybe I should’ve gone and opened a pub after all.

  I knocked on his office door and gingerly walked in.

  ‘Hi, Paul. Thanks for coming over so quickly.’

  ‘No problem,’ I replied, steeling myself for a pep-talk.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind, but it’s my grandson’s birthday tomorrow,’ he said, pulling out a familiar sky blue shirt from his drawer and passing me a marker pen. ‘He’s a huge City fan and it’d make his day if you could sign this …’

  ‘Course I will,’ I said, smiling to myself as I signed.

  ‘Oh, and while you’re here you can have your essay back. Pretty impressive, considering you’re new to all this. I’ve given it a B. Well done.’

  After a long, hard slog which culminated in two terrifying written exams, I managed to scrape a C grade at ‘A’ level in May 1997. A bog-standard result to some, but the Holy Grail as far as I was concerned; a mini-victory after years of disappointment and underachievement.

  Earlier that year I’d also commenced the sports therapy diploma, which, in one of those twists of fate, had its hub at Lilleshall. This time round, though, the circumstances couldn’t have been more different. I approached the rambling old abbey with a spring in my step, rather than a knot in my stomach. For the first time in ages I felt in control of my life; for once, my destiny wasn’t in the lap of the gods.

  The morning drive from Manchester to Shropshire had given me the chance to reflect on a recent chat that I’d had with Roy Bailey. Over a coffee at Platt Lane, I’d told him all about the career path that I intended to take, explaining how keen I was to utilise my past experiences and how, ideally, I wanted to stay working in football. I didn’t go as far as a Yosser Hughes-style ‘gizza job’, but it wasn’t far off.

  My overtures must have had the desired effect, though, because, having listened to what I’d had to say, Roy went on to speak with Francis Lee, who agreed, subject to me obtaining my sports therapy diploma, that I could join the medical team as an academy physio. The club was in desperate need of another pair of hands to treat its fledgling players, and the chairman was more than happy for me to step into the breach.

  So, with a role at City resting solely on my exam results, I got my head down and worked my knackers off. I became, as Rik from The Young Ones might have said, a girly swot, sidestepping the legendary Telford pub crawls and opting instead to hole myself up in my poky room and study through the night. Previous stays had seen me bemoaning Lilleshall’s gloomy campus accommodation, but this time around I really embraced my drab surroundings. What hadn’t been conducive for a dejected footballer was ideal for a diligent student, the bare brick walls and the faulty telly providing the perfect climate for undisturbed study.

  My reclusive lifestyle paid dividends, thankfully, and I ended up passing the diploma with flying colours. As he presented me with my certificate, the FA’s Head of Sports Medicine, Alan Hodson, told me that, by finishing in the top half of the group, I’d done myself proud.

  ‘You’ve got enough skills and experience to become a decent physio, Paul,’ he said. ‘I know that nothing will ever match your playing days, but you never know, this might come close.’

  I travelled back to Manchester feeling thrilled at my achievements and flush with optimism. But, while my hard-earned diploma marked an upturn in my fortunes, I knew it was only a small step on a long journey towards my reinvention. The Seroxat in my toilet bag, the Priory appointment card in my wallet and the unplayed CDs in my glovebox told me I still had some distance to go.

  I officially joined forces with City’s medical team in the 1997 close season. I’d had to take a massive drop in salary, but far more important to me was the opportunity to forge a second career at Maine Road.

  By rights, there should have been plenty of reasons to turn my back on City and seek pastures new, but I just couldn’t bring myself to sever the ties. For the past 20 years, my life had revolved around that old stadium – it had been my home, my sanctuary, my social hub – and cutting loose seemed unthinkable. The emotional attachment to my mother-club was as strong as ever, the gravitational pull still as powerful, and I couldn’t envisage my daily commute being anything other than up Didsbury Road, down Kingsway and along Wilbraham Road towards my Moss Side mecca.

  The Manchester City Academy – my new workplace – was based at the Platt Lane complex. One of Francis Lee’s success stories, the Academy was among the best of its kind in the country, offering our fledgling players expert coaching and hi-tech facilities. I was tasked with looking after a 20-strong group of 14-to-16-year-old protégés, my general remit being the treatment of injuries and first aid cover during matches. I also devoted a couple of evenings to the under-12s and under-14s, advising them about their health and fitness, although the kids’ tender ages – allied with some Kevin the Teenager-style apathy – meant that I’d often spend as much time briefing their parents in order to get certain messages across.

  Most of the mums and dads were very cooperative, but there were always a few exceptions to the rule. I remember one fella collaring me after a training session, keen to discuss his 12-year-old lad who was going through an adolescent growth spurt. This bloke – who wasn’t the sharpest tool in the box – proceeded to voice his concerns about his son’s size seven feet, which were apparently growing far too fast for his liking. According to this football genius, not only were smaller feet better for striking a ball (‘look at Scholesy!’), but those players with bigger feet tended to be injury-prone (‘like yourself, Lakey, if you don’t mind me saying’).

  ‘What’s your point, pal?’ I said, feeling my hackles rising.

  ‘Well, I just can’t see City taking on my lad if his feet get any bigger, and I need to know if there’s anything you can do to keep them at a size seven. Special boots, maybe, or an operation or something.’

  ‘So let me get this right. You’re asking me to stunt the growth of your son’s feet.’

  ‘Yeah, I s’pose so. I need him to make the grade, see,’ he replied, deadpan, nodding in his son’s direction. ‘He’s got one chance of getting it right, and it’s down to me to make that happen.’

  My attempts to explain the importance of allowing his son’s body to develop naturally, avoiding terrible problems both now and in later life, fell on deaf ears. Mr Know-It-All wasn’t having any of it; he was the lad’s dad, and he knew best. As far as he was concerned, he told me, his next pair of boots would be a size smaller, and that was that.

  ‘You know what they say, no pain, no gain,’ he smirked, as his son timidly followed him out of the door. My heart bled for the poor boy.

  It came as no massive surprise when he was released by the club a few months later. It transpired that he’d been regularly breaking down during matches, complaining of – well, whaddya know – agonising cramps in his lower limbs.

  Unfortunately, this wasn’t to be the only case of parental pressure I’d witness. Occasionally I’d come across a Mr X or a Mrs Y who’d gaze at their golden boy with pound signs in their eyes, viewing him as more of a going concern than a growing kid. Thankfully, however, these money-obsessed parents were few.

  One of the first Academy games I oversaw was a routine friendly against an open-age Stoke City XI. Immediately catching my eye was a blue-shirted young striker called Shaun Wright-Phillips. Although he was on the lower rungs of the football ladder, the kid was head and shoulders above the rest (metaphorically speaking of course; he was the smallest player
on the pitch) and displayed the same blend of sharpness and instinct as his father, Ian. Equally impressive was the opposing left-sided midfielder, an Australian lad called Danny Tiatto who displayed remarkable power and aggression. Further down the line, of course, both Shaun and Danny would find themselves gracing Manchester City’s first team.

  As most of my academy work took place in the afternoons and evenings, I often had a couple of hours to spare earlier on in the day. Cottoning on to this, my colleagues in the medical team – as short-staffed and time-starved as ever – asked me if I could lay on some post-op fitness sessions for my former team-mate Richard Edghill. Edgy had undergone a successful cruciate ligament reconstruction by the same surgeon who’d operated on Niall Quinn, and was halfway through his rehab. I agreed without a second thought. I got on well with Richard – I’d trained with him in the latter stages of my own rehab – and I was more than happy to lend a hand.

  Or so I thought at the time. Had I perhaps given the request a little more consideration, and had I had more of my wits about me, I might have foreseen the negative ramifications. Here was I, just months after my traumatic retirement, agreeing to help out a player who’d suffered the very same injury that had defeated me. A player who, as the result of expert, immediate treatment, had an excellent prognosis and a retrievable career.

  Unsurprisingly, my psychotherapist at the Priory tried her best to dissuade me.

  ‘It’s far too soon after your own injury, Paul,’ she said during one of our weekly sessions. ‘Trust me, you’re not ready for this yet. You’ll only be reopening old wounds.’

  She was spot on, of course, but I carried on regardless. Without wanting to sound like some kind of martyr, I felt almost compelled to come to Richard’s aid. After all, I was probably the only person at Maine Road who could truly understand the fear and panic going through the head of a player with a career hanging in the balance. And I was damned if my pal was going to suffer mentally and physically like I had; I couldn’t just stand there and watch him fight the same solitary battle and face the same wall of indifference. ‘Do unto others as you would have them do unto you,’ as my old school priest used to say.