Taking le Tiss

by Matt Le Tissier

  Bez made his debut for us in a 3-2 win at Liverpool, the only time in my career that we won at Anfield, and I wasn’t playing. We even got a penalty there, which was quite a rarity, but even the most biased of refs couldn’t have failed to give that one. In fact David James was lucky not to be done for GBH as he raced from his goal and cynically took out Matthew Oakley who was clean through. It was the most blatant penalty you’ll ever see and it could have seriously injured Matt who was stretchered off. But, of course, as it was a Liverpool player at Anfield he only got a yellow. David Hirst grabbed a couple of goals in a well-deserved victory and it followed hard on the heels of our now annual home win against Manchester United who were beaten 1-0 by a goal from Kevin Davies, who was carving out a big reputation for himself. He was on a terrific goal-scoring run but his season was ended by an injury in that game.

  We were looking a decent team and stayed up comfortably, finishing twelfth. I ended up with 11 goals from 25 games, which was OK considering the amount of matches I missed through injury. Seven of them came in my last nine appearances and it seemed as though I was hitting top form just at the right time for the World Cup…For France 98. But we know why I wasn’t in that.

  16

  LAST-DAY ESCAPE

  ‘LE TISS, LE TISS, MATT LE MATT LE TISS…HE GETS THE BALL

  AND TAKES THE PISS, MATT LE MATT LE TISS!’

  I was very optimistic before the 1998-99 season. We had a good young manager who brought in six new players giving us a blend of youth and experience. At the older end we signed David Howells, Stuart Ripley and Mark Hughes to complement emerging youngsters Mark Paul, Scott Marshall and a certain James Beattie. Mark was picked up from non-league football with King’s Lynn, though it was a step too far for him, while Scott came from Arsenal and played just two matches, scoring an own goal in both. But he looked a decent enough player when he was fit. However, James Beattie was an excellent signing.

  The three older players had been around the block but they were all big names and hopes were high. It was a tactic successfully used in the past by Lawrie McMenemy, who would bring in players towards the end of their careers and extract a few more good years out of them. But David Howells struggled with injuries and it was clear his best days were behind him, and the same could probably said for Stuart Ripley who didn’t really do it for us. Mark Hughes did OK but didn’t score that many from a new deeper role in midfield, and he never really threw himself heart and soul into the club, although you couldn’t question his commitment on the pitch. Just count the bookings. Refs had been ordered to clamp down and issue more cards but Hughes was too long in the tooth to change his game. He was very quiet and didn’t join in with the banter, although not in a way that made you think he was miserable. Like Francis Benali, he’d change completely the moment he stepped over the white line. He was quietly spoken and wouldn’t hurt a fly off the field but was an amazing competitor on it. I had a lot of respect for Mark and for what he achieved in the game. He had great presence and when he spoke everyone listened. You could see he’d be a good manager.

  The three experienced players were probably the biggest names the club had signed in a long while and, just before the new season, we also signed Scott Hiley on loan from Manchester City. I liked him. He was a steady player though not blessed with great pace, like myself. But he passed the ball well, made a string of fantastic and crucial goal-line clearances during the season and became a good friend.

  Even by our usual standards it was a shocking start because we lost seven and drew one of our first eight games to find ourselves marooned at the foot of the Premiership. We weren’t helped by a massive blow in our opening game when we lost John Beresford with an injury which eventually finished his career. But it did mean an early opportunity for a promising youngster by the name of Wayne Bridge, who started out as a left-winger but was moved to left-back by the manager in a stroke of genius. I still vividly recall thinking Dave Jones was talking rubbish though when he said Bridgey would go on to play left-back for England. For once, I was happy to be proved wrong.

  Having lost 2-1 at home to Liverpool, we went to newly promoted Charlton who were back at the Valley which was still being re-built as we arrived. The match was in doubt because the safety certificate was only granted just before kick-off. I wish it hadn’t been—we lost 5-0. We were woeful, and the biggest disappointment of all was that I missed out on my one and only chance to go in goal. We were 2-0 down and had just used our final sub when Paul Jones was sent off for a professional foul on Clive Mendonca. David Howells, probably realizing we were in for a hiding, pulled an old pro’s trick and immediately took the gloves before I could get there. I had always wanted to go in goal, even more so after my exploits in Franny’s testimonial. It would have made sense because whenever we went down to 10 men I was always the ‘luxury’ player to be taken off because the team needed extra energy. I’m convinced I would have saved their penalty and that would have given us the momentum to go on and win. Instead we just fell apart, and continued in the same vein by losing our next three. It was the club’s worst ever start to a season.

  P 5 L 5 F 2 A 16 Pts 0

  We got our first point in our sixth match at home to Spurs when Mark Hughes played a long pass from midfield and I volleyed it in. It should really have been the other way round. But then we lost at West Ham and you could tell things were really bad when we failed to collect our usual three points at home to Manchester United, who won 3-0. We did get a 1-1 draw at Arsenal where I set up David Howells for our equalizer. As a former Spurs man that goal meant a lot to him and us. We finally got our first victory at the tenth attempt, beating Coventry 2-1 at The Dell, but even at that early stage of the season we were being written off as relegation certainties. We still only had 10 points by December 19 when we hosted Wimbledon. Dave Jones told us we would have to win virtually all our remaining home games if we were going to stay up—so we did. In fact we won nine, drew two and lost only one of our last 12 at The Dell, starting with a 3-1 victory over the Dons with two goals from Egil Ostenstad and one from new Moroccan midfielder Hassan Kachloul, who had come on trial. In his first training session he smashed into me with a late tackle. I got up, lifted him up and said, ‘If you want a contract here, I’m not the one to start kicking.’ It was tongue-in-cheek but he got the message. He did well though, scoring four in his first six games to give us new impetus.

  It was the most remarkable revival. We spent the entire season in the bottom three until the beginning of May when we finally climbed out. We won our last three games, which was incredible because we hadn’t even won two in a row up to then. Incredibly we stayed up by five points, which had been unthinkable before that home game against Wimbledon. Even I was beginning to think that we had gone. I had felt like that at Easter under Alan Ball but this was the first time I had felt so despondent in December. Apart from the arrival of Hassan Kachloul, there were a couple of other crucial signings. First we got Chris Marsden, who was your typical journeyman footballer, a good honest, unspectacular pro who had made a solid career in the lower divisions. He was an excellent signing, someone who would roll up his sleeves and get stuck in, leading by example.

  Towards the end of the season we also got an unknown Latvian by the name of Marian Pahars who didn’t even have proper boots and didn’t speak a word of English, not even ‘Yes’ or ‘No.’ But bloody hell he could play. If he’d had as much heart as ability he’d have been a world-beater. It was a big struggle to get his work permit but once that came through he gave us a real lift with three goals in four starts. It was clear right away that he could play. He had a great ability to turn defenders. He would feint to shoot and, when a defender tried to block, he’d check back and could finish with both feet. I will always remember him nutmegging Jaap Stam to score a great goal at Old Trafford the following season. I just laughed because not many players ever did that. If only he’d stayed fit for longer. Then he began to pick up niggling injuries and wouldn’t play with th
em. He wasn’t the bravest and you do wonder how much of it was a mental problem. But when he played he gave us a real lift. We won four, drew three and lost only two of our last nine, starting with a 1-0 win at home to Sheffield Wednesday when I headed in a Matt Oakley cross. It was special because it was the first time my son Mitchell had ever seen me score.

  IT WAS SPECIAL

  BECAUSE IT WAS

  THE FIRST TIME

  MY SON

  MITCHELL HAD

  EVER SEEN ME

  SCORE.

  Towards the end of the campaign James Beattie began to emerge. When he first arrived he was fairly quiet and shy, but he came out of his shell as he began to play well and score some goals. He might now come across to some as brash and arrogant, unless you really know him. But that is a front he puts up because basically he’s quite a shy lad. And when he is full of confidence and on a roll, he is a real handful.

  Three games from the end of the season, James swept home a superb cushioned volley from a tight angle on the right of the penalty area. He swears he meant it and I’m inclined to believe him. That gave us a 2-1 win over Leicester and lifted us out of the bottom three for the first time. Then came one of the most memorable matches I ever played in, away to Wimbledon who were then playing at Selhurst Park—or Dellhurst Park as it became known that afternoon. We took more than 11,000 fans; it was incredible, they were everywhere. There was a long convoy of coaches and they took over the whole stand along one side of the pitch. They turned it into a home game and we knew there was no way we could let them down.

  I had pulled a calf muscle in the win over Leicester and normally would have had no chance of being fit but the Hampshire athlete Roger Black had recommended a muscle tear specialist to me when we did Question of Sport together. He told me that Mark Zambarda would get me fit quicker than any club physio. The treatment was very intrusive and unbelievably painful but it quickened the healing process. We had just two games left to save ourselves and I was desperate to play so I called him up. He had worked with the likes of Linford Christie, Steve Backley and Kris Akabusi as well as Roger, and was fairly confident I’d play. Dave Jones didn’t think I had a chance of being fit, but I spoke to him the night before the match and told him I knew it sounded weird but I had so much confidence in Mark that I felt I would be OK. Dave said he’d stick me on the bench and bring me on if necessary.

  He sent me on at 0-0 and I put a free kick onto the head of James Beattie to put us in front 18 minutes from time and then, with six minutes remaining, I scored direct from a corner. The idiots on the dubious goals panel put it down as an own-goal because the ball may have taken the faintest touch off Robbie Earle. The only reason they took it off me was because it was direct from a corner so they thought I couldn’t possibly have been shooting—but I was. I had a definite plan to whip it in knowing I had the ability to score direct or, failing that, get the slightest touch from a defender or forward leaving the keeper with no chance. That should have put us safe but 10-man Charlton got a last-minute winner at Villa, who never did us any favours. Blackburn lost at home to already relegated Forest and then drew in midweek, so that meant the final place was between us and Charlton on the last day. They were at home to Sheffield Wednesday and had a better goal difference than us, so if they won and we drew at home to Everton, we were down. We had to win.

  In the end it was surprisingly comfortable as Everton gave a low-key display. Chris Marsden rattled Olivier Dacourt early on and that set the tempo for a straightforward victory. There was a fantastic atmosphere. The crowd were really up for it and Marian Pahars scored twice to give us a 2-0 win. Charlton lost so we stayed up by five points. Comfortable really. I don’t know what all the fuss was about.

  17

  SAINT AND SINNER

  ‘I EVEN MANAGED TO GET BOOKED WHEN I WASN’T

  PLAYING. I WAS WARMING UP AND THOUGHT IT MY DUTY

  TO POINT OUT AN ERROR TO THE LINESMAN. BUT MAYBE

  I SHOULD HAVE PHRASED IT A LITTLE DIFFERENTLY? I WAS

  LUCKY NOT TO BE SENT OFF. AGAIN.’

  Throughout my career I was often in trouble with refs—not for tackling, obviously. But I picked up numerous bookings for dissent because I hated the feeling of being cheated, deliberately or not. If someone was blatantly being unfair I’d lose it. I’m still the same. I’ll take any criticism or decision as long as it’s fair, but if decisions went against me as a player that were blatantly unjust I couldn’t help myself. I’d let the ref have it. If there was a 50-50 decision which I lost, fine. As long as I could see why the ref came to his conclusion I’d let it go. But if he got it badly wrong…

  I agree that in most cases refs aren’t being deliberately dishonest but, the fact remains, that a lot of decisions do go in favour of the big teams, especially at Old Trafford and Anfield. Why? Are refs subconsciously swayed by their high-profile managers or the big crowds; do they want to be liked by them (and refs are human, not robots)? I don’t know. But clearly there’s a problem. Examples? How long have you got.

  IN FACT IN ALL

  THE TIME I

  PLAYED, OVER 16

  YEARS, WE

  NEVER GOT A

  SINGLE PENALTY

  AT OLD

  TRAFFORD OR AT

  ARSENAL.

  Neil Shipperley had a goal disallowed for us at Old Trafford in 1995 and to this day I have no idea why, even after watching it on countless replays. It was the most bizarre decision. The ball was crossed in from the right and Neil rose to nod in. It was a completely clean header but the ref decided it was against the rules for Southampton to score at Old Trafford, so he ruled it out. He must have been so embarrassed when he watched the replay because there was nothing wrong with it. It was a disgusting decision, one of the worst I’ve seen.

  In fact in all the time I played, over 16 years, we never got a single penalty at Old Trafford or at Arsenal. Admittedly we didn’t get in their box that often but you can’t tell me there wasn’t one single infringement in all that time. We did get one spot-kick at Liverpool, as I’ve said, but only because it was the most blatant offence I have ever seen. David James came hurtling off his line and took out Matthew Oakley. It was GBH and Oaks was carried off, and there was no way a penalty couldn’t be given, although obviously it wasn’t serious enough for a red card. Heaven forbid.

  So while it’s incredibly rare to get a marginal penalty at a big ground, the refs are very quick to spot even the slightest contact in the away team’s box. I have never looked at the stats but I’m willing to bet that over the last 10 years Manchester United, Liverpool, Arsenal and Chelsea have conceded far fewer penalties at home than any other team in the Premier League. And you’ve got to ask if refs are worried about getting on the wrong side of Fergie, who sometimes likes to make it very clear who he thinks should take charge of United’s games. Would you want to risk upsetting him? I’m certainly not criticising him for that because he’s paid to look after the interests of United—and he is very good and very clever at it—but isn’t it time the authorities told him to stop trying to interfere with their decisions?

  When I began playing there was a points system for bookings, and you’d get, say, two, three or four points depending on the seriousness of your offence. Dissent didn’t get as many points as fouls, and that suited me. It meant I could accumulate seven or eight cautions before I had to watch my tongue. I usually knew where to draw the line, and also which refs I could give some stick to. I could tell by their body language and demeanour how much they’d take before they’d get the card out, although I often over-stepped the mark. I’d push it as far as I could because to me a yellow card was neither here nor there. And I was never suspended that long.

  I remember once getting booked for dissent when I wasn’t even playing. It was at Highbury and I was warming up as sub when the linesman gave a blatantly wrong decision. I called him a cheating ****. He immediately flagged and I really thought I’d be sent off but the ref only booked me. I looked dow
n the touchline at Glenn Hoddle, who was our manager at the time. He had a face like thunder. The ref might as well have sent me off because I knew then there was no way I was going to get on the field after that. But despite my willingness to argue the toss, I was never sent off for dissent. Both my first-team red cards were for physical offences.

  The first was for violent conduct in an FA Cup quarter-final replay at Norwich in March 1992. We were 1-0 up and cruising towards a semi-final against second-tier Sunderland. We had a great chance of reaching the final that year—until I lost my head and was goaded into retaliating against Robert Fleck. I clipped the ball down the line and I felt his studs raked down my Achilles so late that neither the ref nor the linesman saw it. Stupidly, I took matters into my own hands and walked aggressively towards him. The crowd could see I had lost my head and was going to do something stupid. The ref reacted to their yells and turned round just in time to see me give Fleck a forearm smash and a right foot across his shins. I didn’t even wait for the red card, I just kept on walking.

  The second red card came in October 1995 in a live Sky game against Liverpool at The Dell. I probably only made two tackles in the whole of my career, and both were in this match. Dave Merrington came up with the brainwave of playing me as the holding midfielder. I know—it surprised me too. The theory was that I’d sit in front of the back four and spray killer passes around. The flaw was that I was required to do some tackling.

  My first yellow that night was for a foul on Ian Rush. Normally I wouldn’t have gone anywhere near him except perhaps to compare noses. On this occasion we were 1-0 up and I went to put in a tackle and mistimed it. It wasn’t vicious or nasty—I just wasn’t very good at tackling. It didn’t injure him but Dermot Gallagher felt it was worthy of a yellow card. He said I was late for the ball, and I told him I’d got there as fast as I could. In the second half we were 2-1 down and chasing the game. I decided we needed to push forward and chased the ball a bit more than necessary. I went through their centre-back just after he had got rid of the ball, Dermot Gallagher showed a second yellow and I was on my way. I met Dermot at a dinner last year and he told me he was absolutely gutted to send off the local hero and he was dreading walking through the car park afterwards. But I’ve no complaints. And to be honest, he was one of the better refs.