I’m Not Really Here

by Paul Lake

  For the rest of the afternoon, I managed to maintain my composure. I was so busy circulating with staff and sponsors, and checking up on family and friends, that I didn’t get to see the whole match. Though it was not as fiercely contested as your average Manchester derby (other than a few reckless tackles from City’s Michael Brown, which got Alex Ferguson hot under the collar), by all accounts it was a pretty entertaining game that ended fair and square at 2–2. United’s England contingent managed the first 20 minutes – boss Glenn Hoddle had imposed a strict time limit, apparently – and, after they jogged off, Tudor and I made a point of going down to the dressing room to thank them for their efforts.

  ‘It’s a pleasure, Paul,’ said Phil Neville. ‘Me and the lads all really wanted to play. Just sorry it wasn’t for longer, that’s all.’

  Also leaving early for international duty was Peter Schmeichel, who gave me a pat on the back with a huge, gloved hand. ‘I just hope everything goes well for you, Paul. It’s about time you had a bit of good luck.’

  Back out on the pitch, Ryan Giggs, a player whom I admired a great deal (despite being the nemesis of many a Blue) paid me the ultimate compliment by insisting on seeing out the entire 90 minutes, something that he needn’t have done. He too was a Manchester lad, a player living the dream with his local team.

  After the game I presented both teams with some cufflinks as a small token of my appreciation. Then, after toasting my hard-working committee with a glass or two of bubbly, the time came for me to gather my belongings and head out of Maine Road. This time, of course, I didn’t need to put my muddy Adidas World Cups back in the skip destined for the boot room. So, instead, I carefully wrapped them in a plastic bag, tucked them under my arm and walked out of the club towards the car park. I drove back home with my boots on the passenger seat, my thoughts see-sawing between my final farewell and my newborn son.

  The true significance of the occasion hit home a few days later. I’d been waiting to collect a takeaway from an Indian restaurant in Cheadle, when a couple in their 40s walked in and headed for their table for two. The bloke – obviously a City fan – saw me, did a double-take and came over.

  ‘Good to see you, Paul,’ he said, firmly gripping my hand. ‘How are you doing?’

  ‘Not so bad, mate, bearing up, y’know.’

  ‘This is just weird,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Me and the missus were only talking about you this morning. I was telling her how I’d once had a bet on you to become the next England captain …’

  ‘Oh, right …’

  ‘You ask any City fan, I said to her, and they’ll tell you that Paul Lake would have skippered his country for ten years had he not been injured. Didn’t I, love?’

  His wife smiled at me and nodded.

  ‘You know what, I can’t tell you how much pleasure I used to get from watching you play,’ the fella continued. ‘You and Colin Bell were my all-time heroes. Such a shame things didn’t work out for either of you. And so sad that you had to retire without being able to prove how good you were.’

  As I was about to thank him for his kind words, he put his hand on my shoulder and told me that he owed me an apology.

  ‘I didn’t go to your testimonial game the other day, y’see, and I just want to say sorry for not being there.’

  ‘It’s all right, mate, I understand,’ I shrugged. ‘Lots of people couldn’t make it, what with it being on a Sunday and all …’

  ‘It wasn’t that,’ he said, his voice starting to crack with emotion. ‘I stayed away for a reason, Paul. I just couldn’t bear the thought of saying goodbye to you.’

  ‘Takeaway for Lake,’ called a waiter from the serving hatch. I collected my curry, bid them farewell, walked to my car, rested my head on the steering wheel and dissolved into tears.

  All Possibilities

  IT WAS ON the morning of 17 February 1998, en route to a physio course at Lilleshall, that I saw my brother’s name flash up on the carphone.

  ‘Hi Mike, how are things …?’

  ‘It’s Dad,’ he said, the tremor in his voice suggesting that something was badly wrong. ‘He’s collapsed in hospital. It’s not looking good. You’d better come back.’

  I bombed up the motorway to Manchester, frantic with worry. Dad hadn’t been very well over the winter – he was recuperating in hospital after a chest infection brought on by his emphysema – but he seemed to be picking up, and there’d been nothing to indicate that anything serious was afoot. He’ll get through this, I convinced myself as I screeched into the hospital car park. My dad’s as tough as teak.

  I arrived at the main reception and breathlessly rattled out his details. A few moments later a nurse appeared, her expression grave.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Mr Lake, but your father passed away a few minutes ago.’

  My blood ran cold.

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Um, I’m afraid I’m not quite sure … I think he may have been taken away from the ward, but then again he might be, er, I can check on the system if you want to take a seat …’

  In no mood to wait, I roamed around the hospital, asking anyone in a blue uniform or a white coat if they knew the whereabouts of my dad, Ted Lake. Corridor after corridor, I was met with a succession of blank looks and head shakes. It was the longest five minutes of my life. I was about to head back to the main reception when I suddenly caught sight of my twin sister, Tracey, descending a flight of steps. I rushed towards her.

  ‘Where is he, Trace?’

  Gulping down sobs, she gestured to a side ward.

  My twin and I clung tightly to each other as we walked in. Behind a pastel green curtain, lying on the bed, was Dad. Around him sat Mum, Mike, Dave and Sue, their pale faces stained with tears and etched in pain. Mike looked up at me.

  ‘He didn’t suffer, kid. The doctor said his heart just gave up.’

  We spent the next hour taking it in turns to squeeze Dad’s hand and stroke his forehead, as if our collective warmth would somehow stoke him up and fire him back to life.

  Dad had started smoking at the age of 12, at a time when it was deemed the epitome of cool to spark up a cigarette. In the early 1940s – long before any whiff of health scares – the young Ted Lake would have been bombarded by positive images of smoking, from Humphrey Bogart puffing on a Marlboro to adverts proclaiming that ‘More Doctors Smoke Camels’. What started as a crafty pre-school fag with his Ardwick mates soon developed into a full-blown habit, and for the next 50-odd years he’d routinely get through a packet a day. When I was a kid, he’d often slip a pound note in my pocket and ask me to nip to the newsagents.

  ‘Twenty Embassy Number 6, please,’ I’d chirp up to the man behind the counter. Back in the day, it was as acceptable to pick up your dad’s fags as it was to buy your own 5p box of Barratt’s Sweet Cigarettes.

  Other than my dad, the Lake family were all strict nonsmokers. I’ve only ever had one cigarette in my life, while tanked-up at Jason Beckford’s wedding, and promptly puked down my best man’s suit. We all tolerated Dad lighting up, though. He had no other vices in life – he wasn’t a big drinker, only occasionally supping the odd bottle of Mackeson stout – and we didn’t begrudge him relaxing in front of Open All Hours with a fag and a brew after a tough day at work, wheezing with laughter as he watched Arkwright lech after Nurse Gladys Emmanuel.

  When he reached retirement age, Dad had opted to leave his job at Manchester Building College. This change in lifestyle hit him harder than he’d expected, though, and he dearly missed the craic, the company and the daily routine. His health took a dive – he developed chronic emphysema – and after one particularly severe coughing fit a concerned Mum packed him off to the doctor’s.

  ‘If you want to get better, Mr Lake, you’ll have to stop smoking,’ was the GP’s stark advice. ‘You need to get rid of all that tar in your lungs.’

  Dad did as he was told and gave up the fags overnight, trying valiantly to wean himself off his tobacco fix by using nicot
ine patches and gums. In spite of all his efforts, though, his blood pressure shot up – as did his weight – and his coughs and splutters increased. For the next few months he was in and out of Tameside Hospital, the family making regular trips armed with bottles of Lucozade and Cadbury’s Chocolate Fingers, as well as his Daily Mirror.

  I vividly remember going to visit him one frosty Saturday morning. Prompted by the sounds of a kids’ football match floating through the window – his ward backed on to some playing fields – we spent an hour or so reminiscing about the games of my youth. As I sat on the end of his bed delving into his bag of boiled sweets, we talked about our trip to Warners Holiday Camp on the Isle of Wight, when Dad had accompanied me to the island’s annual Junior Soccer Festival. Our side, Blue Star under-12s, had excelled that year, overcoming a number of feeder teams from top clubs and beating Benfleet Boys 7–0 in the final. And to cap it all, I’d ended up winning Player of the Tournament.

  ‘You’d have thought it was my birthday in the pub that night,’ said Dad, casting his mind back to Easter 1981. ‘Everywhere I turned people were patting me on the back and buying me a Guinness. I think I had about twenty pints lined up at the bar.’

  We chuckled together about how Dad had got uncharacteristically hammered that evening, as I slept soundly in our Hi-de-Hi-style chalet. By last orders he was so paralytic that he’d had to be carried to bed.

  ‘You looked so awful the next morning,’ I said, recalling how he’d clambered onto the Manchester-bound coach wearing a crumpled suit, his un-Brylcreemed hairdo looking more like a wilting Mohican than his usual comb-over.

  ‘Happy days though, eh, son,’ said Dad.

  ‘Yeah, happy days,’ I replied.

  The day after Dad died, we visited the morgue at Tameside Hospital to say our goodbyes. As we sat silently in the waiting room, lost in our own thoughts, flashbacks of my old fella kept appearing before me. I felt as though I was looking through the lens of one of those red View-Master toys that I’d had as a kid, my mind clicking through happy, frozen-in-time snapshots. Dad handing me my new City kit one Christmas Day, with its red and black diagonal stripe; Dad winning our Friday-night game of blackjack, pocketing the midget gems we used for currency; Dad twirling Mum around to Hound Dog at a family wedding reception; Dad sitting in the garden shed, making miniature cricket bats for me and my mates.

  As my family and I were slowly ushered forth, I realised that there was so much I wanted to say to my father, so many good times I wanted to recall, so many thank-yous I wanted to express. But all I could manage was ‘Bye, Dad,’ as I kissed him for the last time.

  Following my father’s funeral I sat down and took stock of things, coming to the conclusion that it was now the right time for a clean break. My subconscious – and my therapist – had been telling me for months that Maine Road, with all its bittersweet memories and unfinished business, wasn’t the healthiest of environments for me. It had become a psychological battlefield and, despite giving it my best shot, I wasn’t up to the fight. I needed a fresh start, and thus made the painful decision to leave the club that had shaped so much of my life.

  Also prompting me to take flight was City’s decision to renege on their promise of an insurance payout. The £10,000 that had been due to come my way (not a huge windfall for a player once valued at £3 million, but money I was entitled to, and money that I needed) was suddenly kyboshed by the club. No explanation was given – just a categorical ‘no-can-do’ – but it wasn’t hard to read between the lines.

  ‘You’ve got your bloody testimonial fund, haven’t you?’ they might as well have said. ‘Surely you don’t need any more …’

  Against my better judgement, I just accepted it. I simply couldn’t be bothered to argue the toss, aware that I’d only have been labelled mercenary had I kicked up a stink and pointed out that my testimonial monies had come from the pockets of thousands of generous fans, not the dusty coffers of the football club.

  It wasn’t the only parting of the ways I had to contend with, as by now my marriage was in its final throes. A miserable couple of years had sadly taken their toll with my father’s death and my traumatic retirement marking the lowest points of a hellish time. According to the PFA, 70 per cent of players get divorced within three years of quitting the game; it’s a grim statistic that doesn’t surprise me at all.

  My son, Zac, however – one of the few shining lights of a very dark period – remained a priority. I loved my browneyed boy with every fibre of my body, and vowed to play a hugely active part in his life.

  I soon heard on the grapevine that there was a vacancy for an assistant first-team physio at Burnley FC. New boss Stan Ternent and coach Sam Ellis had recently jumped ship from Bury, and were seeking some fresh faces at Turf Moor. It would be the perfect opportunity for me, I reckoned. Burnley wasn’t a million miles away – I was keen to remain in the north-west – and, like City, it was a club steeped in history that was striving to repeat past glories. I bit the bullet and rang Sam, whom I already knew from his days as Peter Reid’s assistant at Maine Road.

  ‘You’d love it here, Lakey,’ he enthused. ‘Burnley’s a cracking little club with some big plans. I reckon you’d fit in really well. I’ll have a chat with the gaffer and let you know what’s what.’

  ‘I’d appreciate that, Sam.’

  A few days later, after a quick meeting with him and Stan, I was offered the job.

  A farewell do was hastily arranged by my City colleagues once the news leaked out that I was leaving. We all traipsed into the Deansgate area of town for a night of dancing and drinking, interspersed with much bear-hugging and back-slapping. Sad though it was to bid my farewells, I felt sure I was doing the right thing.

  In August 1998, following a drizzly journey up the M65 and through the narrow streets of Burnley, I arrived at Turf Moor for the first day of pre-season training. Stan Ternent met me at the ground and spent the morning giving me a guided tour of my new workplace. It was as typical of a traditional football club as you could imagine, from the varnished wooden benches and exposed brick walls in the changing rooms (glossed in claret and blue, of course) to the padded leather swivel chair and antique walnut desk in the manager’s office.

  I was then taken down to the bowels of the stadium to check out the boot room, with its array of metal vices, wire brushes and suede dusters, and its ingrained aroma of sweat and dubbin. Next door was the laundry, swirling with steam, its huge tumble-driers adding a drumbeat to the tunes blaring from the staff radio.

  ‘Oh, and by the way, Lakey,’ Stan said matter-of-factly as he led me up the tunnel towards the treatment room, ‘there’s something I forgot to tell you. The senior physio’s buggered off, so the main job’s all yours if you want it.’

  ‘Erm, okay,’ I replied, wiping my sweaty palms on my shell suit and trying to mask my sheer panic. While my sports therapy diploma carried plenty of weight in professional football circles, I was a relative novice when all was said and done. Football’s best first-team physios boasted a physiotherapy degree, yet I was three years shy of achieving mine, having only recently embarked on my part-time course at Salford University.

  Still reeling from Stan’s bombshell, I was taken over to the training ground at nearby Gawthorpe to meet the players. The Clarets’ squad, Stan explained, comprised a blend of youth and experience, with lower league warhorses such as Peter Swan and Ronnie Jepson lining up alongside young upstarts like Paul Smith and Glen Little. My first impression of a solid, close-knit unit boded well, seeing as I’d now be spending a lot more time with the lads than I’d originally thought.

  My first impressions of the Gawthorpe gymnasium-cum-dungeon weren’t as good, though. Catching my attention as we entered the musty room was a dead mouse that had probably been flattened by the mangy leather medicine ball resting a few inches away. Across the room, situated next to an ageing multigym, was an old ‘anvil boot’. This medievallooking steel contraption had probably been at the cutting edge of re
hab when Burnley legend Jimmy Adamson had used it to strengthen his quads in the 1950s, but it had no place in the 1990s.

  ‘So where’s the ducking-stool, Stan?’ I felt like asking as I cast my eye around this chamber of horrors.

  I think he got the message. Within days he’d secured the use of a plush hotel gym, with facilities befitting a club that was intending to go places.

  The relationship between a football manager and his physiotherapist is a bit like a marriage, I suppose. If it’s going to work, it has to be based on the fundamentals of mutual trust, respect and understanding. There are bound to be tiffs along the way – one party standing their ground over a point of discipline, perhaps, or the other claiming they know how best to handle the youngsters – but a sound partnership will help them ride the storm. Too many rocky patches, however – maybe due to personality clashes or differing opinions – and it just won’t last the distance.

  The ideal gaffer, from a physio’s point of view, is a model of patience and understanding. Likely to be at the helm of a successful club with a large squad at his disposal, he’s less inclined to pressurise you to rush players back in unfeasible timescales. He’s someone who gives you and your medical team total responsibility, deferring to your scientific judgement and allowing players to return in the safest possible time without risking further injury.

  The boss from hell, on the other hand, is probably in charge of a struggling outfit with a threadbare squad, maybe with a chairman breathing down his neck and fans bashing his ear. Irrational and unreasonable, he treats the appliance of science with contempt and attempts to cheat nature by demanding that unfit players are returned in the shortest possible time, regardless of the ramifications.