Hammered

by Mark Ward

  Stan Storton, the Telford boss who had managed at Northwich in 1980-81, had done his homework. In the very first minute their left-back, Tony Turner, hit me hard and late with a disgraceful, over-thetop tackle that left my shin in a mess. A player would be banned sine die if he committed a tackle as violent as that today but it was clearly a deliberate ploy by Telford and Turner to put me out of the game. I cried out in anger at the realisation that I’d been reduced to a virtual passenger for the rest of the game.

  I was gutted not just for myself, but for all my family and friends who had travelled south to support me. I just couldn’t compete. We ended up losing the game 2-1 and I was bitterly disappointed. So much so that when the final whistle blew, I started to walk towards the tunnel. I remember an FA official trying to drag me back, saying: ‘You can’t just walk off, you’ve got to collect your medal.’

  I just ignored him and kept on walking. I honestly didn’t care about a loser’s medal. I didn’t want it.

  When I reached the quiet solitude of the dressing room, I stripped off and got in one of the big individual baths to soak and mope. It seemed an age before my valiant team-mates, who had effectively played the whole game as 10 men, joined me back in the dressing room. I felt that I’d let them down.

  Kenny Jones, Vic’s all-time leading appearance record-holder, the man who had been quick to stick up for me when that nutter from Barnet tried to end my career, handed me my medal as I lay in the bath. I appreciated his gesture but I didn’t want it and flung it to the other side of the dressing room.

  Kenny went over to pick up my medal and handed it to me again. He said: ‘If I can accept a medal, then so can you.’

  His words made me come to my senses. I had so much respect for Kenny, both as a player and as a man. He ended up playing for the club 961 times, so who was I to petulantly toss my Wembley medal away like that, as if it meant nothing?

  We drowned our sorrows late into the night after our Wembley woe. It would have been a fairytale finish to a great year for me if we’d won the FA Trophy but it wasn’t the end of the world – either for me or Vics. Just 12 months later, the club returned to Wembley and after drawing 1-1 with Bangor City in the FA Trophy final, they won the replay at Stoke City’s aptly named Victoria Ground. I was absolutely delighted for the players, supporters and everybody involved with this great, little club.

  I don’t have a great number of mementoes from my playing career but I do still have a copy of the Northwich Guardian’s souvenir cup final special and the club who gave me a route back into league football will always have a place in my heart.

  Just before the start of the 1983-84 season I received a phone call at home. It was the call I’d been waiting for – from a legendary centre-forward who I knew all about as a former Everton and England star. He was by then a young, up and coming Football League manager and he wanted to meet up for a chat in a Liverpool pub.

  His name was Joe Royle, the boss of Oldham Athletic.

  7. BAKER’S BOY LOSING DOUGH

  OUR Billy was well into boxing and I’d work out with him and the other lads at the Whiston Higherside ABC Boxing Club in my efforts to be as fit as possible before the start of the 1983-84 season.

  Their fitness regime was very gruelling and although I struggled to keep up with the others in the gym, I stuck at it because I knew it was definitely making me stronger. Billy kept himself very fit and I’d work on the pads and the bags in between some very strenuous exercises. But I’d particularly look forward to the road-run at the end of the session, knowing that none of the boxers could get near me when it came to running.

  Boxing instilled discipline in Billy and, like many of the lads at the gym who also had a reputation for getting into trouble, the art of boxing no doubt helped to keep them on the straight and narrow.

  Throughout our childhood we’d compete against each other. Being just over nine months older than Billy, I’d give him a head-start whenever we raced together. Dad would set Billy off from our house two minutes ahead of me. The usual course was over two and a half miles through the streets where we lived. We’d raced against each other many times and I’d always managed to reel my brother in before finishing back home.

  But there was one memorable occasion when he got the better of me. I was tanking along, expecting Billy to appear in his usual place on a long stretch of road about half a mile from the finish. But, to my amazement, he was nowhere in sight. Had he gone faster than ever before or had I taken it too easy?

  With so little distance left in which to catch him, I realised he’d done me for the first time. I approached our house convinced that I’d completed my fastest possible run, so how on earth had he beaten me?

  Almost breathless, I entered the house and was stunned to find Billy sat with my Dad. ‘What kept you?’ my brother asked, with a smug grin on his face. Dad joined in, laughing and ribbing me for having finally lost out in a race against my brother.

  I sat outside in the garden for a while feeling utterly devastated. Dad and Billy let me sulk for a good hour before admitting the truth. Just after Billy had left our street, he flagged down John Ashton, a lad we both knew who lived in the next road. He jumped into John’s work’s van and sped off, leaving me in hot pursuit of the Invisible Man.

  Cruelly, they followed my progress around the streets and, with great timing, passed me in the nick of time to enable Billy to arrive back at home without having expended an ounce of effort.

  I laughed when Billy owned up to his little scam and, deep down, I was happy because it confirmed that I hadn’t been beaten fairly. I’ve always hated losing at anything and any defeat would leave me feeling depressed. My tenacity and will to win at all costs was going to be a massive ingredient in my future success as a footballer.

  My earnings from the bakery in Northwich and part-time football for Northwich gave Jane and I the opportunity to buy our first home. We bought a two up, two down terraced house in Cronton Road, Whiston for what now seems the paltry sum of £15,500. She soon had the house looking spick and span and we were both very proud of it.

  However, events were to change dramatically for both of us two weeks before the start of the new season. I was watching Coronation Street at home with Jane and Melissa when the phone rang.

  ‘Hello, is that Mark?’

  ‘Yes,’ I answered.

  ‘It’s Joe Royle here, the manager of Oldham Athletic.’

  My heart started pumping faster and I nearly dropped the phone. Joe went on to explain that he’d been monitoring my progress at Northwich and would like to discuss the possibility of signing me. We arranged to meet at The Baby Elephant pub in Woolton village at 6.00pm the very next day.

  Feeling very elated, I gathered up my young wife and baby daughter and set off to tell our respective families about my possible life-changing phone call. We called first at Jane’s parents and then I walked the short distance to The Watchmaker to tell Dad the news. He felt ecstatic and gave me a hug before drinking a toast.

  That evening I spoke to John King, who confirmed that Oldham Athletic and their young manager Joe Royle would be ideal for me. He said he felt it was the right time for me to step up to the second tier of the Football League.

  I couldn’t sleep that night for thinking about my next day encounter with what could be my future manager. I’d already spoken to Roberts Bakery to agree the day off and my supervisor was very understanding and wished me all the best.

  My drive to The Baby Elephant was nerve-racking. At the time I didn’t think the rendezvous at a public house between a well-known football manager and a future signing was in any way unusual, but of course it wouldn’t happen today. I made sure I arrived early and wanted to make a good impression on the former England centre-forward, who was a legend in the eyes of all Evertonians.

  I bought myself a glass of Britvic orange juice and waited eagerly for Joe to arrive. The pub was very quiet at this time and seemed a good choice as a discreet meeting place – or so I thou
ght.

  The next minute, a group of six men sauntered in. I must have looked stupid, sat in a pub at 6.00 in the evening with an orange juice in front of me.

  ‘Hey, Wardy, what the fuck are you doing in here?’ I heard a voice shout. It was Gary Reid, a lad I knew well. He’d just finished work and was having a pint with his work-mates before heading home.

  Woolton is a posh part of Liverpool and I didn’t expect to see Reidy, or anybody else who knew me, in there. Before I could explain to him why I was looking uncomfortable supervising nothing stronger than an orange juice, Big Joe walked through the door, I stood up to greet him and then sat back down with six pairs of eyes fixed on the famous former Everton number nine. Three of Reidy’s gang politely asked Joe for his autograph and he duly obliged. Reidy had obviously cottoned on to what was happening and shouted at Joe to ‘sign him on!’

  Explaining why he wanted me to sign for him at Oldham Athletic, Joe immediately put me at ease. He said that he and his scouts had been looking at me for some time. There was a hitch, though. The Oldham board of directors were not happy about him wanting to sign a non-league player for as much as £9,500. With those doubts about my ability to make the grade, Joe said the wage he could offer me would be a miserly £130 a week.

  He seemed embarrassed by the financial offer. At first it didn’t register with me because I was willing to sign for nothing. To play full-time professional football again had been my target ever since my release from Everton and here was Joe Royle offering me that golden opportunity.

  I told him that it would mean having to take a £70 per week drop in wages to resume playing full-time. My combined earnings from the bakery and Northwich were £200 a week. A lot of players at the better non-league clubs were substantially better off if they were in full-time employment, sometimes earning far more than many full-time pros, so it was something for me to think about.

  Joe guaranteed me that if – and it was a big ‘if’ – I progressed and played for the Oldham first team on a regular basis, then I could approach him for a pay rise. That was good enough for me and I told him I’d sign.

  He looked pleased but, before he left, I made a statement that made him laugh. I promised him that I’d become his best player. He smiled and said he admired my confidence, shook my hand and told me he’d see me at Oldham’s Boundary Park ground the next day, when we would complete the transfer formalities.

  By this time, word had got round that Joe Royle was in The Baby Elephant. I passed the growing crowd clamouring for his autograph and wondered to myself if those same Everton fans would ever wait around to get my signature one day.

  8. ROYLE APPROVAL

  IT felt good to be part of a professional club again. I distinctly remember my first training session with Oldham Athletic. The 1983-84 season was just around the corner and my initial involvement as a Latics player was a practice match between ‘The Probables’ – those expected to play in the opening home game against Brighton & Hove Albion – and ‘The Possibles’. I was put in the so-called weaker ‘Possibles’ team, although I was determined to quickly make my mark.

  I was fearless. Playing with better players gave me even greater confidence and I knew from that first practice session that I was as good, if not better, than most of my new team-mates. That sounds arrogant, but I honestly found the transition from non-league to Football League Division Two quite easy.

  In the days leading up to the first game of the new season I remember thinking that I’d be disappointed if Joe Royle – who had taken over from Jimmy Frizzell the previous year – didn’t start me against newly-relegated Brighton, who had taken Manchester United to an FA Cup final replay just a few months earlier. I knew I was the best player he had available to play in my usual wide right-midfield position but would the manager take the chance to start his cheap, new non-league signing?

  I needn’t have worried. On the eve of the Brighton game Joe pulled me to one side after our last pre-season training session. He told me how I’d amazed him with my fitness levels and noted how comfortably I’d coped with the step up in class. ‘You’re in for tomorrow, son,’ he said and wished me all the best.

  I was convinced Joe had made the right decision. As far as I was concerned, it wasn’t a gamble to start me on the right wing. I was full of confidence and couldn’t wait to get back to Liverpool to tell Jane and Dad that I’d be making my league debut the following day.

  Making his Oldham Athletic bow alongside me on that afternoon of August 27, 1983 was the Manchester United and Scotland international Martin Buchan, an exceptional player and leader of men who was capped 34 times for his country. Joe had pulled off a transfer coup by persuading this cultured footballing centre-half to sign for the Latics on a free transfer from Old Trafford, having played more than 450 games for United over the previous 11 years.

  Martin immediately made a big impression on all of us. He had this tremendous presence and whatever he said, about football or anything else, made sense. Even in training he looked immaculate and proved to be everything I’d read about him over the years. To play consistently well for Manchester United and represent his country with distinction for more than a decade was an achievement in itself, so it was a privilege for me to be making my league debut alongside a player of Martin’s undoubted class.

  Joe had put together a team with a fine blend of experience and youth. There was the excellent ex-Manchester City centre-half and captain Kenny Clements, enigmatic striker Roger Palmer, up and coming future Scottish international goalkeeper Andy Goram and local youngster Darron McDonough.

  Among a crowd of 5,750 I brought along my own small entourage of Jane, Dad, brother Billy and father-in-law George. I was about eight weeks short of my 21st birthday and Dad had told me before the game not to be intimidated and to go out and enjoy the moment I’d been striving so hard for.

  Every footballer remembers his league debut. It’s a special game, an historical landmark in one’s career. Some debuts are triumphant occasions to savour while others can be disastrous. I couldn’t have planned mine any better.

  It was a typically tight early season encounter, with players still finding their fitness, touch and trying to gain an understanding with their new team-mates. I saw plenty of the ball and was feeling pleased with my contribution as the game drifted towards a goalless draw.

  We kept putting Brighton under severe pressure in the closing moments, though, and when Darron McDonough flicked on a long ball, I’d already started my run in to the penalty box. Brighton keeper Graham Moseley moved off his line and towards the ball but, out of the corner of his eye, he must have seen me diving horizontally to try and head it before he could get there. The ball seemed no more than six inches off the ground. Moseley was definitely favourite to get there before me and if he’d continued to advance off his line, there was going to be an almighty collision between us. Thankfully, he stopped and hesitated. What a mistake.

  I met the ball full on my forehead, which sent it soaring into the top corner of the net. Picking myself up, I was immediately mobbed by team-mates. It was a truly wonderful feeling – unbelievable. The whistle blew before Brighton could even attempt a comeback.

  A beaming Joe Royle was stood waiting for me at the side of the Boundary Park pitch. He knew in that dramatic final minute of the game that he’d made another very astute signing.

  Radio Piccadilly interviewed me straight after my debut. And during the drive back to Liverpool I cringed as Jane, Dad, George and I listened to my babble on the airwaves, with me struggling to put into words how great it felt to score on my debut. I don’t know if it’s a Scouse thing or what, but in between every sentence I heard myself repeating the phrase ‘you know’. I’d go: ‘Well, you know, the ball was crossed from the left …’ and … ‘you know, I just dived and got my head to the ball.’

  The Sunday papers made for satisfying reading, although I didn’t allow myself to get carried away by that headline-making start and remained keen to listen, learn
and work even harder to improve my game. I was hungry for more success and I just needed to secure my position in the team every week to achieve it. Dad kept telling me that there was more improvement to come.

  One of the conditions of my transfer was an extra £25,000 to be paid to Northwich Victoria after I’d completed 25 games in the blue of Oldham and I was delighted that the good people at Drill Field didn’t have to wait too long to benefit from the add-on clause. Although they were one of the most successful non-league teams in the country on the field, like almost all part-time clubs, they faced a constant struggle to balance the books. As their biggest asset at the time, my transfer at least did Northwich some financial good.

  Having been in the side for a couple of months, Big Joe pulled me aside after training one day and said how delighted he was by my attitude and the start I’d made. He went on to say that the £9,500 Oldham initially paid for me was the best money he’d spent on a player. With that, I seized the opportunity to remind him of the wage rise he’d promised me at our first meeting in the pub. He fully agreed that I should be on more money, saying I’d done the business on the pitch and was already worth a lot more than the club had paid for me.

  I’ll always be grateful to Joe Royle for putting his faith in me. He defied the wishes of the Oldham board to sign me and gave me the chance to prove myself again as a pro. His judgement in signing me had been well and truly vindicated, even though I’d played only about 10 games when we agreed that my pay rise was in order.

  I wanted £350 per week, and Joe was all in favour, but there was a stumbling block. He told me that chairman Ian Stott was willing to offer me only £250 per week. I was hurt and angry when I heard. I pointed out that based on the club’s valuation, I’d be only £50 per week better off for having moved from Northwich to Oldham.