I’m Not Really Here

by Paul Lake

  Towards the end of 2009 I had the opportunity to rekindle some more old friendships (and fill some gaping holes in my diary) by offering my physio know-how to some former City players. Keen to catch up on all their news, and happy to sort out their aches and pains, I travelled up to see Paul Moulden in Bolton, Alan Oakes in Northwich, Jason Beckford in Urmston and Ken Barnes in Macclesfield, among others.

  Having suffered a stroke, followed by a fall-induced hip fracture, Ken wasn’t in the best of health. When we heard he’d taken a turn for the worse, Jason and I went to visit our much-loved youth team mentor in hospital, and were saddened to see him looking so frail. As we were walking out of the ward, none other than the great Bert Trautmann strode in.

  ‘Hello boys,’ smiled City’s goalkeeping legend who, in contrast, seemed as fit as a fiddle. ‘How’s the old guy doing?’

  ‘Not so bad,’ we said, downplaying things a little, as you do in such circumstances, ‘but he’ll be chuffed to bits to see you, Bert …’

  A few weeks later I received an SOS call from Ken’s son Peter. His father was leading the physio staff in the outpatients department a merry dance by all accounts, rebuffing their advice and refusing point blank to do his exercises.

  ‘Dad needs someone who’ll be a bit firmer with him,’ explained Peter, ‘and I reckon he might take more notice of you, Lakey. You couldn’t go over and see him, could you?’

  I was more than willing to help, considering the huge part that Ken had played in my fledgling career at City, and I turned up at his home in Macclesfield the next day. I arrived to find him in a much more confused and cantankerous state than when I’d last seen him. He insisted on calling me Roy (I think he mistook me for Roy Bailey, City’s former physio) and when I tried to cajole him into a few gentle leg bends he brandished a crutch and let rip with a barrage of expletives.

  ‘Don’t swear at Paul, love, he’s only trying to help,’ whispered June, his doting wife. But it was water off a duck’s back for me; I was well accustomed to his industrial-strength language, and I knew, as did June, that his words were born of frustration, not malice.

  Realising it was going to be a hard sell, I decided to change tack by bundling everything into a footballing context.

  ‘Ken, just think of these exercises as pre-season training,’ I said brightly. ‘Remember what you used to yell at me all those years ago? No pain, no gain, son? The hard work starts on this pitch, right here, right now …?’

  These analogies seemed to spark him into life, and from then on I tried as much as I could to divert the conversation to football, if only to take his mind off all the pain and discomfort. Despite his physical limitations, when he spoke about the game he was as lucid as ever, his eyes flashing whenever the talk turned to a match, a goal, a player.

  ‘If only you’d seen my old pal Bobby Johnstone in action,’ he said to me one morning. ‘Now there was a player who had everything in his locker, even when he had to play on cow-fields, wearing hobnail boots to kick a bloody big leather football around.’

  But Ken’s highest praise was reserved for Bert Trautmann. He relished telling me how City’s former keeper could command an area and fill a goalmouth like no other, and how his bravery had shone through during that famous 1956 FA Cup Final.

  ‘Bert had enough courage for the whole team put together,’ said Ken. ‘You can’t tell me that anyone nowadays would play with a broken bloody neck.’

  Often the conversation would veer onto the current crop of footballers, Ken shaking his head as he talked about how the comforts and trappings of the modern game had taken the edge off some players, and had suppressed their drive to succeed, even their will to win.

  ‘In spite of all this money, son, I’m not sure if these boys enjoy it like we used to,’ he recalled. ‘There’s a pride in wearing your team’s colours, y’see, and I just hope they don’t lose that.’

  He then paused, looked down at his crutches, and tutted loudly.

  ‘And if you think I’m using these in public, Roy, you can f*** off.’

  As his old age and ill-health caught up with him, Ken’s life force gradually ebbed, and he sadly passed away in July 2010.

  ‘I can’t believe he’s gone,’ said a devastated Peter when I rang him to offer my condolences to the Barnes family. ‘He wasn’t just my dad, Lakey, he was my best mate, and I’m going to miss him so much.’

  He then asked if I’d be willing to give a eulogy at the funeral service. I agreed to it, desperately hoping that I’d be able to hold my nerve and do Ken justice.

  Hundreds of mourners turned up at Manchester Crematorium to pay their respects, a true testament to a wonderful person who’d left us with so many great memories as a player, a coach, a chief scout and a friend. The congregation was like a Who’s Who of past football stars, including City stalwarts like Glyn Pardoe and Gary Owen, as well as Manchester United’s Norman Whiteside and Paddy Crerand.

  ‘Ken was a lovely man, a true inspiration, and there will never be anyone quite like him,’ is how I ended my tribute. ‘He lit up a room, he lit up our lives, and last week a little light over Manchester went out for ever. Rest in peace, Mr Barnes.’

  Ken may be gone, but he’ll never be forgotten. A football legacy that includes two consecutive FA Cup Final appearances (in 1955 and 1956), and the scoring of three penalties against Everton in 1957, will ensure that he’ll live for ever in the hearts and minds of Manchester City fans.

  Ken is one of many ex-players whose outstanding achievements have served to secure their place in the club’s Hall of Fame, as well as its history books. Neil Young, one of the best forwards to ever pull on a sky blue shirt, will always be remembered for the trusty left foot that scored the winner in the 1969 FA Cup Final. Super-striker Dennis Tueart is still revered for his overhead kick in the 1976 League Cup Final, and Joe Corrigan’s long career between the posts is epitomised by his Man of the Match-winning performance at Wembley in 1981. A four-goal ambush of Notts County in 1995 helped to assure Uwe Rösler of his cult hero status, and Georgi Kinkladze seared himself on to the memories of the Maine Road faithful courtesy of that spectacular jinking goal against Southampton in 1996.

  Sometimes, though, I wonder how I will be remembered by City fans in years to come. Will it be for lifting the FA Youth Cup for the first time in the club’s history, or for becoming one of City’s youngest ever captains? Will it be for the spectacular volley I scored against Millwall, or for the pinpoint pass that set up David Oldfield’s goal against Manchester United? Or will I be remembered, as I suspect, for swallowing my tongue against Leicester in 1989, or for snapping my cruciate against Aston Villa a year later?

  I’m almost resigned to the fact that my career will probably be defined by my troubles, not my triumphs, and that my millstones, not my milestones will be remembered. Tellingly, the question I’m most often asked nowadays isn’t ‘what was it like being in the World Cup squad?’, or ‘what was it like playing in the 5–1?’ but ‘how’s that knee of yours, Lakey?’

  My knee, in answer to that question, is completely knackered. Riddled with osteo-arthritis, and with muscles that are gradually wasting away, it gives me grief every waking hour. I’ve lived with the pain for nearly two decades now, and the constant, pounding soreness and the sharp, stabbing twinges have become part of my daily life.

  On a good day I might not need to take any anti-inflammatory pills and be able to move around relatively freely, performing the occasional impromptu walkabout or bone-creaking stretch to prevent the joint from locking or seizing up. On a bad day, however, my knee throbs and swells and, much to my embarrassment causes me to limp like an old, lame cowboy (‘you look more like a war veteran than an ex-player,’ said my mate Billy Duffy when he recently witnessed me in the throes of a Bad Knee Day). Just to compound matters, my left leg hasn’t been in great shape, either. After years trying to compensate for my right limb, it’s recently begun to bow very badly and earlier this year I had yet more surgery to straight
en it.

  The way things are going, it’s looking likely that I’ll become one of the youngest ex-professionals to undergo a double knee replacement. I’m trying to stave off the operation for as long as I can, though, since prosthetic knees have a life span of between ten and 15 years – with a maximum of two per lifetime – and I don’t really fancy consigning my 70-year-old self to a wheelchair.

  It’s this physical hardship that has without a doubt been the most difficult thing to handle since my retirement. Hand on heart, I’ve been able to cope with missing out on all the riches and the accolades that a long stint in football could have brought, and have reconciled myself to a life without the fast cars, flash clothes and fancy houses that a sustained career would have bankrolled.

  What I’ve never come to terms with – and never will, I suspect – is being unable to practise any form of sport. I haven’t been able to play a proper game of football since 1994, simply because I can’t kick a ball without my knee ballooning to double its size, and I struggle even to jog across the road these days. Most other leisure activities are no-go areas too; years ago I used to love a game of tennis in the sun, or a canal-side run in the drizzle, but there’s not a cat in hell’s chance of that now. Sometimes I feel physically sick when I see a neighbour jogging past the house glugging a bottle of water, or I spot friends heading off to the local sports club with their racquets slung across their shoulders. Even seeing an old-age pensioner on his way to a game of bowls fills me with envy.

  Over the years I’ve tried to avoid feeling resentful about my predicament, but for someone whose life and career once revolved around activity and fitness, it’s been the bitterest pill to swallow. Not a day goes by without me craving the challenge, the achievement and the freedom that sport brings.

  Although I generally heed all the medical advice to rest my legs and take it easy, sometimes a devilish little voice in my head will urge me to throw caution to the wind. There have been occasions when I’ve seen my son’s City football in the back garden, thought bollocks to it, and, with breathtaking stupidity, have smashed it as hard as I can into his mini goal net. Then I’ve turned around in mock celebration, only to see Jo standing at the kitchen window, shaking her head, knowing as well as I do that I’ll be regretting my action for days afterwards.

  In contrast to my physical woes, however, my emotional health is in great shape. Thanks in no small part to the support of my friends and family, depression hasn’t figured in my life for over a decade, and my pill-popping and therapy sessions have hopefully been consigned to history. Whilst I’m much happier in my own skin, and feel much better equipped to deal with life’s peaks and troughs, I’m not daft enough to think I’m immune from a relapse. Depression, like ’flu, can quite easily return, and I much prefer to consider my illness as dormant, not departed.

  As I’ve embarked upon my gradual road to recovery, it’s been heartening to witness the difference in attitude towards depression in football. Players with emotional issues are now treated with compassion, not cynicism, and there exists a climate of sympathy and understanding in which lads such as Neil Lennon, Robbie Savage and Stan Collymore can openly admit to being sufferers.

  Charities such as Time To Change and Kick It Out, which both campaign for an end to mental health discrimination, are doing sterling work to help raise awareness within football and other sports. As a consequence, even the old-school managers seem to be veering away from the ‘what’s he got to be depressed about?’ mindset, and instead fostering an environment in which players with psychological problems can be identified and supported.

  Not every athlete with depression is easy to spot, however, and many aren’t comfortable with the idea of going public. The tragic death of German goalkeeper Robert Enke, who tried desperately to keep his personal demons under wraps, is a case in point, and should serve as a warning that many are still suffering in silence. Like most football fans, I was both shocked and devastated to hear the news of his suicide in November 2009, only two days after he’d turned out for Hannover FC.

  On the anniversary of his death, extracts of Enke’s diary were broadcast on Radio 5 Live. It made painful listening, and his forlorn words haunted me for some time afterwards.

  ‘There’s no way it can go on like this,’ he’d written at the height of his troubles. ‘I feel anxious, and helpless, and I haven’t left my hotel room. I’m afraid of people’s looks. If only I could live without the fear and the nervousness.’

  I hope and pray that my own dark days are behind me, but there are still instances when I see or hear things that wrench me from the present to the past, dredging up sharp memories of unhappier times.

  These trigger points often hit me when I least expect them. Take the film Billy Elliot, for example. I remember watching it at home one Sunday night with Jo, assuming that this tale of a pirouetting Geordie boy would be a syrupy, sentimental chick-flick, something that I could watch half-heartedly while reading that day’s papers. Little did I know how compelling I’d find the film, and how affected I’d be by it.

  The final scene, with its spellbinding portrayal of a young, strong athlete at the peak of his career, leaping majestically skywards as his dad watches proudly in the audience, was almost too much for me to bear. Take away the stage, the tights and the ballet shoes, and replace them with a pitch, a kit and some football boots, and it could have been my story, and as the end credits rolled, so did my tears. Never before had I been so moved by a film, its themes of boyhood hope and fatherly support touching the rawest of nerves.

  I experienced another vivid flashback a couple of years ago when, along with my mate Dominic, I went to see Simple Minds play at the MEN Arena. We were actually more bothered about the support act, OMD, although we hadn’t quite allowed for the grisly spectacle of two 40-somethings dad-dancing to ‘Enola Gay’. Once the duo had exited stage left, probably having given themselves hernias, the main act made their grand appearance. Jim Kerr and the boys, as slick as ever, performed a greatest hits medley which culminated in their most famous track, ‘Alive and Kicking’.

  However, as the lights dimmed and the keyboard intro started up, I had what I can only describe as a panic attack. It was that particular rock anthem – adopted by Sky Sports as its main theme – that had blared out of the public address system when I’d made my ill-starred comeback against QPR in 1992. As all those unpleasant feelings flooded back, my chest tightened and my heartbeat quickened. I garbled some excuse to Dominic about getting a beer, but instead hurried up the steps and barricaded myself into the nearest toilet, covering my ears until the song ended.

  Fortunately, not every blast from the past produces such negative emotions. A much nicer dose of nostalgia came my way a couple of Christmases ago, while rooting in the loft for some decorations. Jo and Hannah had gone shopping, and Edward’s attempt at dressing the tree had descended into chaos, the lounge carpet covered in crushed baubles and trampled-on fairy lights. Emergency supplies were needed, so I went upstairs to hunt some down.

  As I teetered on a stepladder, guiding out a box of silver bunting with a mop handle, I dislodged a Tesco carrier bag. Presuming it contained some long-lost Christmas knick-knacks, I loosened the tight knot and was beaten back by the familiar smell of turf and leather. Inside lay a pair of black and white Adidas World Cups, size 11, still caked in mud and with dried grass wound tightly around the studs. The last boots I’d ever worn at Maine Road. The same pair that I’d wrapped in a plastic bag after my testimonial game, and that had lain forgotten in the attic for over a decade.

  I balanced these old faithfuls on the palms of my hands, gazing at the knotted laces and the three white stripes, thinking how long it had seemed since I’d last worn them.

  They need a bloody good clean, them things … I imagined my dad saying. Go and fetch me a cloth and some Stardrops, son, and I’ll give ’em a quick scrub …

  Suddenly interrupting my daydream was my son, hollering up the stairs, puzzled as to why I was t
aking so long.

  ‘I’ll be down in a minute, Eddie,’ I replied. ‘Daddy just needs to tidy something away …’

  I carefully replaced the boots in the bag, re-tied the knot, and nestled them into a snug corner of the loft. Then, with a box of tinsel under my arm, I headed back downstairs to my giddy, glittery son, with the smell of Maine Road still lingering in the air.

  As Edward grew older, it became increasingly apparent to Jo and I that we had a unique child on our hands. By the age of three he was reading fluently and reeling off his times tables, not to mention reciting his alphabet backwards and counting to 50 in French. Our eyebrows would rise higher and higher as we watched him sketch the flags of Europe from memory, or dash off a comprehensive list of Roman numerals. Edward was like a little professor, devouring information and often exposing our knowledge gaps in the process.

  ‘Daddy, what’s the name of Saturn’s largest moon?’ he’d ask me over breakfast, expecting the answer to just trip off my tongue.

  ‘Er, give me a sec to think about that, Eddie,’ I’d reply, before sneaking out of the room, Googling on my mobile, and returning to tell him that the answer was, of course, Titan.

  The fact that he showed limited interest in other children, shunning the communal activities at toddler group and preferring to play alone, didn’t overly concern us; in our eyes he was just a fiercely independent, single-minded little boy. Neither were we hugely worried about his aversion to make-believe games, nor his preoccupation with numbers and letters. Edward was Edward, adored by all for his cute idiosyncracies.

  It was after his first day at school that his teacher took Jo and I aside, gently suggesting to us that as well as the social quirks that we’d already identified, Edward might in fact have more deep-rooted issues. Slightly taken aback by this, we nevertheless heeded her comments and agreed for him to be assessed by a psychologist and a paediatrician. Within weeks the diagnosis was confirmed: Pervasive Developmental Disorder, a mild form of autism.