How NOT to be a Football Millionaire - Keith Gillespie My Autobiography (21 page)

Phil, who had stepped back from being a football agent to concentrate on his thriving construction business, paired up with Gary to buy some more horses, and they’ve still got almost a dozen. I had to step back from the game, and find a new hobby. Golf. Table quizzes. Fantasy football. Anything.

I stopped answering my phone. The few letters from Hanna Thompson which I did open all kicked off the same way.

“Dear Keith... Unfortunately we have been unable to reach you by telephone regarding various issues.”

I just didn’t see the point in talking. They presumed I had the means to sign a form and send a cheque to cover my unpaid tax. But I couldn’t and, once I slipped behind in payments, I knew that each fresh envelope or missed call meant that either another instalment was due, or there was further interest accruing on the arrears.

In the summer of 2010, I parted company with Glentoran because they didn’t have the money to keep me on. By then, my tax bill exceeded £137,000. The petition for bankruptcy was filed in August, and granted in September. Then it hit the papers, and my plight was out in the open.

With Vikki, it was all over bar even more shouting.

The final straw came that winter, when I was offered a route back to England with Darlington in the Blue Square Premier – my first taste of non league-football – on a short-term deal. I couldn’t justify the cost of renting anywhere for the family, so I bunked in with Jim in Hartlepool and left Vikki and the girls at home. I flew back when I could, but the tone of the phonecalls reflected the awkwardness of the situation. The paperwork at Darlington took ages to go through, and I was training without playing, which was hard to explain. And then when the clearance came, the North-East was brought to a standstill by heavy snowfall, so games and training were cancelled. I lined up a couple of times, but it came to nothing, and they let me go before Christmas.

I needed to get home. My head was gone.

Our marriage had reached rock bottom. As much as I tried to put on a front, I was hurting. I was in bad form most of the time, unable to show her any affection. I couldn’t put my finger on what was wrong; it was just there in the pit of my stomach the whole time, a drag that was holding me back and making me impossible to be around. I couldn’t find the motivation to do anything about our problems. It hinted at something more serious, but I didn’t grasp it at the time.

She started spending more and more time back in England visiting her family, and it was clear our futures lay apart – a conclusion that everyone around us had long since reached. I think we stretched it out for the sake of the kids but, by trying to stay together for them, we were making things worse.

Madison and Lexie deserved better than to grow up in a house with their parents arguing all the time. So we separated. Vikki relocated to London with the girls, and we set about working an arrangement where they could visit often. In the meantime, I had to find a way to support them.

Angela knew what I had to do, and where I needed to go. She came along in the car to talk me through it.

Our destination?

Bangor’s Social Security office.

The purpose of the trip?

To register for Jobseeker’s Allowance.

At the age of 35, I was going on the dole.

28

Bowing Out

FUNERALS. You know you’re getting older when you start going to more of them.

But I never expected to be saying goodbye to former teammates, to guys from my generation, at this stage in life.

I remember the last time I saw Alan McDonald. He was outside his trophy shop in Bangor and looking well, which was good news because when Big Mac left Glentoran before the end of my season there, I worried for his health. He was taking so much grief from the supporters that he just had to escape. It turned really nasty after we lost 6-0 at the Oval to Coleraine, a mediocre side, and the fans waited outside to voice their disapproval. Big Mac had to stay in the club, waiting for them to go home, so he could get out to his car. When he decided to resign in March 2010, it was the best resolution for all parties. It allowed him to get on with his life.

But he didn’t have very much time left. The League of Ireland plays through the summer months so when the rest of the football world had their eyes on the knockout stages of Euro 2012, I was in the north west of Ireland in Ballybofey, Co. Donegal, preparing for an away game with Finn Harps. As I packed the car the day before, I spotted a black tie that I’d worn to the funeral of a family friend a couple of weeks earlier. “I hope I won’t be needing that soon,” I said to myself. The stream of messages into my phone that Saturday lunchtime told me that I would. Big Mac had suffered a heart attack on Temple Park golf course, and passed away. It numbed me. He was a strong man, a fearless captain, a solid pal. That he should be taken away like that didn’t seem right.

With all that was going on off the park, people might be surprised when I say that I enjoyed my year in Glentoran, but I did, and Big Mac was a major factor. When I landed into the Northern Ireland squad as a teenager, I looked up to him as a guiding influence, and that first impression stuck. Even when results were poor, and the fans were on his back, it didn’t lesson his standing in my eyes. He was a legend. There’s a famous clip of Alan giving an interview to the BBC after the draw with England in 1985 that booked our country’s place in the World Cup in Mexico. The result suited both teams, but it was a full blooded game, and Alan looked straight into the camera and said: “Anyone who says that’s a fix, can come and see me.” I watched it again after I’d heard he died, and what struck me was that he was only 22 and winning his second cap, but he spoke with the authority of a veteran. That’s the man I would like to remember.

The abuse at Glentoran hurt him terribly. I met his assistant, George Neill, at the service, and he only had one thought on his mind. “The bastards got what they wanted, Keith.”

Big Mac made over 400 appearances for QPR and represented his country 52 times, but the mob showed no respect when the results turned. A man of his decency deserved better. Big Mac didn’t have an ego. He led by example that way.

When I came home, I was conscious of coming across like someone who thought he was too good for the Irish League, where some of the stadiums and facilities would be well below what I’d experienced in Bradford, never mind in the Premier League.

The other boys at the club told me there was a lad called Colin Coates, who played for another Belfast club Crusaders, that had been drafted in to plug the gaps for Northern Ireland on a few summer tours and used to taunt opponents by asking them how many caps they’d got. I wouldn’t mind, but all he could bloody do was head the ball. The lads were laughing about what would happen if he said it to me. I couldn’t help myself when he deliberately miscontrolled the ball to delay taking a free-kick in the 92nd minute when it was scoreless. “International, my arse,” I shouted. But otherwise, I kept my mouth shut, and received very little back in return, aside from a deliberate elbow from one chap at Cliftonville that left me requiring 14 stitches. The ref didn’t even give us a free-kick.

Naturally, some opposition supporters dished it out, especially away at Linfield, who play at Windsor Park, so there were boys on the Kop calling me a waste of money as I walked off the pitch. I responded by applauding them. The same lads were probably cheering me when I was lining up for Northern Ireland, so the last thing I wanted to do was damage my relationship with them by reacting.

For Big Mac, however, the shouts from the terraces were only the tip of the iceberg.

His own fans were the chief tormentors, and he received threatening messages and phonecalls. Collectively, the team just weren’t good enough, but he bore the brunt of it.

His funeral allowed us to reflect on better times. There was a huge turnout of my old Northern Ireland team-mates, and his colleagues from QPR. Jackie Fullerton, the popular BBC commentator, gave a brilliant speech that centred around Big Mac’s relationship with Jimmy Quinn. It’s strange, but I actually didn’t know Jimmy was a Catholic until Jackie spoke, even though I’d briefly played alongside him. Big Mac and Jimmy used to sit five or six rows apart on the bus, roaring silly abuse at each other that managed to entertain everyone else. Many more stories were recounted, and there were lots of laughs, but the mood changed as the coffin went out to the sound of the Battle Hymn of the Republic. Our fans have adapted that tune with their own words, a simple chorus of “We’re not Brazil, we’re Northern Ireland,” and when the congregation started singing that version, it really hit me. Big Mac was gone.

Nigel Worthington was at the funeral. We didn’t speak. He’d ended my international career and it hurt.

After Lawrie left for Fulham, the IFA brought Nigel in as a temporary replacement. He was a man I knew well. Following my antics in Canada back in ’95, Bryan Hamilton roomed us together, believing that our silver-haired full-back could be a calming influence. I saw the logic. Nigel was an outsider in the group, a responsible senior player who didn’t approve of the drinking. I remember him going toe to toe with Jim Magilton in the dressing room over that very topic. Nigel hailed from Ballymena, just 15 minutes away from where we used to stay, and preferred to spend time with his family or just sit in the hotel lobby with some of the backroom staff, sipping a Baileys, while the rest of us headed out on the tear. He was a bit of a mystery to us.

I welcomed his appointment though. He was a familiar face to the group and, considering we had a great chance of qualifying for Euro ’08 after our flying start under Lawrie, we didn’t want major upheaval. A handy win over Liechtenstein provided a smooth landing, but an away double header in Latvia and Iceland presented his first major test. We travelled in control of our destiny, aware that two wins would put us within touching distance, and four points would leave us in a strong position too. Nigel didn’t change very much in the preparations. There was no need seeing as Lawrie’s solid 4-4-2 had worked well. So he took a backseat on the training ground and let his likeable assistant, Glynn Snodin, run the sessions.

It was a different story on match day. Nigel baffled us in Riga. At half-time, it was 0-0 and we’d played reasonably poorly, but there was time to turn it around. Nigel burst into the dressing room, livid, and announced that if we didn’t buck up our ideas, then we wouldn’t be allowed to go for a drink that night. What kind of thing was that to say at half-time in an international? I was stunned. Maybe he’d been waiting for years to use that line.

Nigel obviously had his own views on the drinking culture, but he really didn’t understand us if he thought that was going to provide motivation at half-time in a big qualifier, especially in that campaign. We emerged for the second half none the wiser about how to escape from this situation. Chris Baird scored an own goal, and our position of strength in the group was gone. And yes, we ended up having a few drinks that night anyway, looseners before the journey to Iceland which had suddenly taken on extra relevance.

Nigel called a meeting for the next day. I’d mentioned to a few of the boys that I would stand up and state our unhappiness with the half-time speech. They agreed with the sentiment, and a few said they’d back me up. So, I raised my hand, and said my piece. “We’re not here for the jolly-up,” I said, waiting for other voices to chime in. Silence. They’d bottled it. Thanks lads. Nigel didn’t seem aggrieved. “I take your point,” he said, and later on he pulled me aside and genuinely thanked me for raising the issue. All very amicable, and pretty bloody ironic considering what happened a couple of days later. The Iceland trip turned into a fiasco which backed up the stereotypical view of our team.

Away double-headers can test the patience at the best of times, but this was particularly shit. The hotel was in the middle of nowhere. There was a horrible stench off the water (I know there’s a geographical reason for that, but try explaining it to a bunch of restless footballers). And we were simply bored off our tree. So bored, in fact, that there wasn’t even enough enthusiasm for a proper game of cards. Myself, Healy, and our mutual friend, the West Ham defender George McCartney, played a couple of hands. The rest were on their Playstations.

That frustrated vibe carried over into the game. It shouldn’t have, given the significance, but perhaps the expectation was bogging us down. Riga had checked the momentum, and we couldn’t raise the intensity to the required level in the first half. Iceland, who had nothing to lose, led at the break. Nigel spoke to us like adults this time around, and we rose from our slumber. Healy levelled from the spot – his 12th of the campaign – and, roared on by a big travelling support, we piled forward in search of the three points. But, in classic Northern Ireland style, disaster struck. With two minutes left, we gifted the Icelandics a comical winner. I should know, I bloody scored it. After an error from Steve Jones, Iceland countered, Gretar Steinsson crossed and, as I raced back to cover, the speed of the ball took me my surprise, bounced off my shin and past Maik Taylor. Another own goal, another loss.

We’d blown it.

Few words were spoken on our way back to the hotel, where we reacted in the only way we knew – by drowning our sorrows in the bar. We had time to burn until a 5am departure to the airport and lying in bed, staring at the ceiling would have killed me.

So a gang of us drank right through, in the company of some American plane engineers, finding that each sip eased the agony of defeat.

I’d had more than a couple when I boarded the coach, and I wasn’t the only one. Jonny Evans’ passport was being tossed around like a rugby ball, and by the time we’d reached the airport, it had disappeared. I stayed behind on the bus helping Jonny look for it while the first group of lads ploughed ahead and checked in. David Currie from the IFA, who was getting impatient, came back to us. “George McCartney says you have it, Keith.” Did I hell. We eventually found it stuffed down the back of a seat, but David’s accusation had pissed me off.

I stormed into the airport determined to have a row with George, who was standing at the front of the queue while I stood at the back, hurling abuse in his direction. Typical 5am stuff. “What the fuck did you say I had the passport for?”

I didn’t see him again until I boarded the plane. We always travelled on scheduled flights and IFA never booked us together in blocks, so the players were spread all over the place. On the way to my seat, I walked past the edge of the row where George was sitting.

“Why the fuck did you say that?” I repeated.

“But you fucking did have it,” he said.

Anger coursed through my veins. It was a combination of everything, the drink, the shitty result, the own goal. The red mist returned, and I went for him. He grabbed me back, and then it’s all a blur. Healy pulled us apart and led me to my seat, where I sat back and drifted into oblivion, sleeping all the way to Heathrow. I don’t remember the goodbyes. All I recall is sitting in a lounge for three hours, hungover and alone, waiting for a connecting flight up north, when Ulster Television called. The story of a fight on the plane had broken, and it was big news. And it carried on into the weekend, with a scrap developing into a brawl with every telling, like a public game of Chinese whispers. The Sunday World printed an extremely dramatic version of a fist-fight, and I tried suing them until they settled out of court. It helped that I had the testimony of Kate Hoey, a Labour MP from Belfast and a former Minister for Sport, who travelled to all our games, and wrote to me to say she was sitting a few rows back and could vouch for the truth.

But I’d been through enough controversy to know that the ‘Fight on the Flight’ tales would outlive any clarification. And, deep down, I realised that my behaviour was out of order. The IFA launched an internal investigation. Nigel and the CEO Howard Wells came to Sheffield United and told me they’d be giving my match fee to charity. I didn’t protest. They went to see George too and, rightly, decided against punishing him. There was no problem between us and it was back to normal the next time we met up. I just wanted to forget about the whole incident, the whole crappy trip. There wouldn’t have been any hassle if we’d won the game. I’m sure of that.

We’d let the fans down by passing up an unbelievable opportunity. True to form, we finished the group strongly in underdog mode. A draw in Sweden, an epic home win over Denmark and a brave 1-0 loss in Spain on the final night where we needed a victory and a couple of miraculous results elsewhere. Sweden grabbed the second automatic spot; we wound up third in the group, six points back. Iceland’s only two wins in that campaign came against us. That was the difference, and that’s before you consider Riga. Our country will never have a better chance.

On 19 November, 2008, I won my 86th, and final, cap for Northern Ireland. The occasion was a 2-0 friendly loss to Hungary at Windsor Park. As low key as it gets.

I didn’t know that was the end. Perhaps Nigel did. The strong finish to the Euros group had secured him the job on a long-term basis and I was happy with that. Iceland didn’t sour our relationship. In fact, when he came to Sheffield United that time, he’d spoken about how he wanted me to reach the 100-cap mark. So, I started the World Cup campaign in the starting XI, despite my deterioriating situation with Blackwell, and received the man of the match for a draw with the Czechs in Belfast, a game that was sandwiched between disappointing defeats in Slovakia and Slovenia. We thrashed San Marino in October, my final competitive outing, and the return was scheduled for February, with that Hungary match in between. That winter, I had other things on my mind, with the shit hitting the fan at the club. Still, San Marino were the worst team I’d ever encountered, and I presumed I’d be involved. I learned otherwise by turning on Sky Sports News, where Nigel was talking about leaving me out, and claiming he’d unsuccessfully tried to contact me for the past 12 days.