I’m Not Really Here

by Paul Lake

  Confounding the many critics who’d doubted that a former Manchester United, Liverpool and Inter Milan player would acclimatise to football’s basement, Paul made an immediate impact at Macclesfield Town. He shook things up behind the scenes, ridding the dressing room and manager’s office of hangers-on, and working closely with the commercial department to raise the club’s profile and get more bums on seats. Neither too proud nor too blinkered to accept advice from the game’s elder statesmen, he wisely drafted in lower league specialist Ray Matthias as his right-hand man.

  As for matters on the pitch, Paul was confronted with a side completely lacking in leadership and morale. He set about reinstating self-belief and discipline within his young squad and signed loan players including Blackpool’s John Murphy and Simon Wiles, to inject some much-needed experience. With the aim of improving the lads’ physical condition and fitness, he also brought in a nutritionist, a sports scientist and a chiropractor, very much the norm in the higher divisions, but less so in the depths of Division Two. It was no coincidence that Macclesfield’s fortunes soon began to change: they strung together a ten-match unbeaten run and the gap at the foot of the table started to close.

  In January 2007 the Silkmen received a timely lift – and a financial windfall – when they were drawn against Chelsea in the third round of the FA Cup. The gaffer made the most of our trip down to the capital, organising a luxury coach and booking the squad into the swish Chelsea Village hotel that adjoined Stamford Bridge. On the eve of the match he invited the backroom staff out for a drink with a few of his old football pals, including Ian Wright, Mark Bright and Jamie Redknapp. I’d known Ian and Mark during my playing days, of course, but I’d never met Jamie before. It seems he knew me, though, revealing that his old man, Harry, had always spoken highly of me, and that he himself had once watched me play at White Hart Lane.

  ‘You were different class that day,’ he smiled. ‘Head and shoulders above the rest.’ It was a nice thing for him to say, particularly in such esteemed company.

  Twenty-four hours later we were on the coach heading back to Cheshire, having been beaten 6–1 by Mourinho’s boys. The scoreline flattered Chelsea, believe it or not, with the Macc minnows scoring an improbable early equaliser and playing the last 15 minutes with only nine men.

  ‘Onwards and upwards, fellas,’ yelled Incey as we made our way up the M6. ‘Let’s keep that team spirit up for the rest of the season …’

  Macclesfield’s survival hinged on the final game of the season against Notts County at Moss Rose. With just one point needed to ensure another year of league football, it was typically nail-biting stuff, especially when John Miles’ early goal was snuffed out by County’s Andy Parkinson just before the interval. Nerves continued to jangle in the second half, the bumper 4,000 crowd bellowing their support as the Silkmen did their damndest to peg back the opposition. The Macclesfield fans were probably as surprised as me when, with five minutes to go, our player-manager began peeling off his tracksuit.

  ‘I need to try and calm things down a bit,’ he said, before crossing the white line and chalking up his first appearance of the season. As the referee blew for full time, news filtered through that fellow strugglers, Boston United, had been beaten by Wrexham; final confirmation that Macclesfield were safe, and had escaped the dreaded drop.

  ‘Fair play to you, mate,’ I said to Paul amid the exultant scenes in the post-match dressing room. ‘You’ve proved a few people wrong.’

  He smiled, before taking a huge swig from the bottle of champagne he was clutching.

  The following week Paul celebrated our great escape by bussing the players and the backroom staff (as well as their wives and girlfriends) to his Wirral mansion for an end-of-season party. He and Claire couldn’t have been more hospitable – the food was top-notch, and the drink flowed all night – and I remember smiling to myself when I spotted the teenage Thomas Ince whacking a ball against a brick wall. How time had flown since he’d been the main topic of conversation in Manchester HMV.

  *

  Midway through the 2007–08 season I received a phone call from a friend of mine, Andy Barr, with whom I’d graduated at Salford University. Employed as head physio at Premier League club Bolton Wanderers, at that time managed by my old team-mate Gary Megson, Andy wanted me to come aboard as his assistant. I felt the time had come for a new challenge, so I accepted his invitation. By doing so, I finally fulfilled my ambition of working in every division of the league.

  I was immediately impressed by the superb facilities and resources at the Reebok. From gyms packed with state-of-the-art rehab equipment, to the platoon of talented physios and masseurs, it was light-years ahead of anything I’d experienced before.

  ‘Pretty impressive, eh, Lakey,’ said Andy as he showed me around the space-age cryotherapy unit, explaining how this piece of kit aided post-match recovery by exposing the body to extreme cold temperatures in short blasts.

  ‘Blimey,’ I said, ‘we only had crushed ice and witch-hazel at Macclesfield …’

  The Bolton players were a good bunch of lads. I had a lot of time for players like Kevin Nolan, Andy O’Brien, Kevin Davies and Gavin McCann; their enthusiasm and easygoing nature made them a pleasure to work with.

  I got to know Gavin particularly well, spending a week with him in Colorado where he underwent a knee operation. I remember us both getting a shock when we touched down at Denver airport, though. Having been told to expect warm weather in September, we’d packed our cases with summer clothes. However, unbeknown to us, a freak blizzard 24 hours earlier had blanketed the place with snow, and stepping off the plane felt like walking into that cryotherapy unit back in Bolton.

  ‘Are you sure we haven’t caught a flight to Alaska, Gav?’ I moaned, before heading to a Duty Free ski shop to stock up on some winter gear.

  Our hotel, based in the beautiful mountain resort of Vail, was first-rate. As it was the off-peak season for skiing, however, meant that the place was spookily empty, not unlike the hotel terrorised by Jack Nicholson in The Shining. I did toy with the idea of bursting into Gav’s room armed with a coathanger (‘Heeeeeere’s Lakey!) but decided against it, figuring that a crazed knifeman act wouldn’t be the best preparation for a player nervously awaiting surgery.

  The entire resort was like a ghost town; wherever we went that week, from cafés to shops, from bars to restaurants, we seemed to double the population.

  The Steadman Clinic, where Gavin was due to have his op, was based on the outskirts of town. It was headed by Dr Richard Steadman, a world-renowned knee specialist whose big-name clients included Tiger Woods, Martina Navratilova and Rod Stewart. His office, where we attended a pre-op consultation, was more like a museum, its walls plastered with thank-you cards and mementos sent by hundreds of celebrities.

  Having the opportunity to chat with one of the top orthopaedic surgeons on the planet was thrilling enough, but I nearly died and went to heaven when he asked me if I wanted to watch him perform the operation.

  ‘That’d be fantastic,’ I replied.

  ‘I’m assuming that you’re not squeamish, after all the ops you’ve had …’ said the doc, who was well aware of my back catalogue of knee surgery.

  It turned out to be a truly fascinating experience, and I could only marvel at the precision and expertise involved. Afterwards, Dr Steadman even took the time to give my own knee a once-over (if only he’d done so 15 years before, I lamented to myself) and told me that he’d be happy to add me to his patient list if I ever needed him in the future.

  In the summer of 2008 Andy Barr left his post at the club, taking on the role of senior physio with the New York Knicks basketball team. Not long afterwards I also bid farewell to the Reebok, having reached the conclusion that, after a medical career that had spanned a decade, it was probably time for a change. Sprinting onto the pitch with a knee that felt like a bag of bolts was becoming more painful by the week. And not only that, 10 years spent rehabilitating footballers on a da
ily basis, and witnessing them win the war that I’d lost, had finally started to chip away at me.

  So, at the ripe old age of 40, and knowing deep down that physio was no longer the right vocation for me, I arrived at a career crossroads. After talking things over with my wife, I decided to take a long-ish break in which I could recharge my batteries, consider my options and chill out with the children. By that time we’d had another addition to the family (my beautiful daughter, Hannah) and I relished the prospect of spending some quality time with my little girl as she approached that endearing walking-and-talking stage.

  So Jo went off to work in Manchester and I became Daddy Day Care, taking my toddler to Cale Green Park each day and having a fine time pushing her on swings and guiding her down slides. More often than not, being out in the fresh air would cause Hannah to doze off in her buggy, and whenever this was the case I’d grab myself a coffee and a cake and head for a shady park bench, taking full advantage of this newfound me-time to sit down and gather my thoughts. Moments of solitude had been as rare as hen’s teeth, and it felt liberating to be able to lean back and let my mind wander.

  I’d often find myself taking a trip down memory lane, analysing my football career, brooding over certain scenarios, and debating whether I could have done anything differently. It was during one such meditation that the realisation hit me that one simple question could have changed the entire course of my life.

  It hadn’t occurred to me to query a thing when a few weeks after my injury in September 1990, the details of my pending surgery were outlined to me. I remember sitting nervously in a Platt Lane meeting room and being told that a consultant in the north-west, who was pioneering a brand-new procedure, had been tasked with repairing my cruciate ligament.

  ‘Don’t worry about a thing, Paul,’ I was assured. ‘You’re safe in our hands.’

  Hindsight is a wonderful thing, but it was at this moment that I wished I’d paused for thought, raised a quizzical eyebrow, and spoken up.

  Did you get some advice from the physios at Lilleshall?

  This perfectly reasonable question might then have prompted the club to pick up the phone and speak to the expert FA physios, whose remit included recommending the best surgeons to football clubs. They’d have pointed them in the direction of the most experienced specialists in the UK who were saving the careers of other players with similar injuries. With this considered advice ringing in their ears, the club might then have weighed up the options and referred me to a consultant best-suited to my specific needs. With any luck the operation would have been a success, and who’s to say how my life might have turned out.

  But things took a different course that day. Assuming that Manchester City had my best interests at heart, and trusting that my employers had done their homework, I didn’t question their judgement or examine my options. As a consequence, that potentially critical phone call to Lilleshall never took place. No second opinion was sought, and no alternative surgeons were considered. My operation failed, my career imploded and my nightmare began.

  With this shoulda-woulda-coulda scenario weighing heavily on my mind, I slowly wheeled my slumbering daughter out of the Cale Green Park and headed homewards.

  I re-entered the workplace, albeit half-heartedly, when my springtime sabbatical came to an end. Solely to keep the wolf from the door, I flirted with some private physiotherapy work in the summer of 2009, basing myself at a small practice in Alderley Edge, a well-to-do Cheshire village popular with soap stars and footballers. Having spent my working life as a team player, I found my new one-man-band status pretty hard to adjust to, compounded by the fact that my heart was no longer in the job.

  Just as I felt my motivation starting to wane, Ian Cheeseman, BBC Radio Manchester’s City correspondent, rang me with some cheering news. His bosses, it transpired, had commissioned a new weekly radio show aimed at City fans – Blue Tuesday – and he needed to recruit an ex-player as his co-presenter. Having heard me recently being interviewed by 5 Live and talkSPORT (they occasionally asked me on air to chat about City) Ian reckoned that I’d be the ideal candidate. The BBC wouldn’t be able to cross my palm with much silver, he explained, but that didn’t bother me. The chance to pursue an exciting new career avenue – perhaps one that could eventually unshackle me from physiotherapy – was tempting enough for me, and I bit his hand off at the opportunity.

  I hoped this new collaboration with Radio Manchester, would be a little more successful than the last. A few years previously a colleague of Ian’s, Jack Dearden, had asked me to join him in the Eastlands press box to act as the match summariser for City’s game against Tottenham Hotspur (the regular pundits, Fred Eyre and Nigel Gleghorn, were unavailable). I wasn’t on physio duty at Macclesfield that particular Sunday, and so was more than happy to oblige.

  ‘Just one thing, though, Jack,’ I said. ‘I promised my little lad I’d take him to the Spurs game. Would it be okay if he sits next to me?’

  ‘Sure,’ replied Jack, ‘as long as he keeps quiet.’

  Zac, who was about six years old at the time, was duly read the riot act and I bought him a copy of the City Magazine to keep him occupied and filled his pockets with half the contents of a nearby sweet shop.

  In spite of the 0–0 scoreline, the match was full of incident. I sat next to Jack with my headphones on and my notebook ready, trying my utmost to speak clearly and concisely as I followed the action. Everything seemed to be going well until a break in play when Zac, forgetting that we were on air, tugged at my sleeve, leant towards me and opened his mouth to speak. I threw him a stern look and swiftly put my finger to my lips, but it was too late.

  ‘Dad, where’ve you put my Quavers?’ he loudly demanded, broadcasting to thousands of listeners across Greater Manchester. I sheepishly unearthed the said snack from my coat pocket and looked over to Jack, whose expression was one of abject horror. The show’s producers were none too pleased, either, and – funnily enough – Lake & Son’s Punditry Services were never re-hired.

  I was determined to redeem myself on Blue Tuesday, though, and, together with Ian and the station’s Head of Sport, Sarah Collins, I worked really hard to prepare myself for our debut broadcast on 11 August 2009. I was quaking in my boots when the red ON AIR light flashed up at 6 p.m. that Tuesday night, and I’m sure if I ever decided to listen again to that first show I’d probably cringe at my shaky delivery and the liberal sprinkling of ums, ahs and obviouslies.

  However, as the weeks passed I gradually got into the swing of things, becoming more confident at the mic and feeling more au fait with the link-ups and running orders. Our regular ‘Where Are They Now?’ slot became my favourite part of the programme, since it gave me the chance to reconnect with old pals like Steve Redmond and Neil McNab (I hadn’t spoken to the latter, who chatted to us from his home in Atlanta, for a decade) as well as more recent fans’ favourites such as Shaun Goater and Andy Morrison.

  One of the most memorable interviews we broadcast featured Tony Coleman, a former City winger from the 1960s who’d emigrated to Australia after his career had ended. TC’s caustic comments about his compatriots (Aussies, he alleged, were ‘Neanderthals’ who hated Brits and mistreated Aborigines) made headlines the next day. Similarly controversial was Rodney Marsh, who came into the studio to talk about his new autobiography and gave us a no-holds-barred account of his rough childhood and extraordinary career.

  Sometimes, though, it was the non-football chat that made for the most compelling listening. City hero Uwe Rösler spoke frankly and movingly on air about his successful fight against cancer, and former midfielder Jeff Whitley revealed his long battle with drugs and alcohol. Most memorably, Frank Swift’s grand-daughter, Kari Dodson, joined us to pay an eloquent and touching tribute to the former City keeper-cum-journalist, who tragically lost his life in the 1958 Munich air disaster along with 22 others, including eight Manchester United players.

  ‘When City fans chant about Munich they seem to forget that one of th
eir own was on the plane that night,’ she said.

  I was driving home after a show one night when another Blues’ legend, Mike Summerbee, gave me a call on my mobile with the offer of more work (thus proving the adage that you wait ages for a bus, and then two come along at once). As the newly appointed commercial ambassador at Eastlands, he’d been tasked with assembling a team of former players to meet and greet the club’s corporate sponsors on match days.

  ‘I’ve got a few from my era on board, but we could do with some younger blood around the place, Paul, a few lads from the 80s and 90s,’ he said. ‘And now that you’ve left Bolton, I was wondering whether you fancied it?’

  ‘I’d love to, Mike …’ I replied, chuffed to bits at this unexpected development.

  Had this conversation taken place in the old days of Maine Road, I’m not sure that I’d have accepted so readily. But times had changed. Not only had City settled in nicely at the new stadium, but in August 2008 the club had been taken over by the Abu Dhabi United Group, becoming the richest club in the world in an instant. The prospect of working at Manchester City Mark II, with its new location, new regime and new horizons, held much more appeal for me than it would have done a decade earlier.

  It was a real honour to don my official Manchester City suit each fortnight and work alongside such legends as Colin Bell, Tony Book and Joe Corrigan. Bell, in particular, had been a boyhood idol of mine and, in spite of his iconic status, struck me as an extremely unassuming and modest person who seemed oblivious to the reverence and adulation that followed him around the stadium.

  I also discovered how much of a contrast it was to attend a match day as a retired player in the Noughties, as opposed to a sidelined player in the 90s. With my footballing days well behind me, and no longer having to fob people off with my ‘back in six weeks’ line, I was able to happily chew the fat with sponsors and supporters, actually enjoying the chit-chat that I’d once found so excruciating.