How NOT to be a Football Millionaire - Keith Gillespie My Autobiography (5 page)

7

Glory Nights

WHEN I was a young boy, the heart of Northern Irish football was the Spion Kop at Windsor Park. On international nights, the large old terrace behind the goal was a heaving mass of bodies, a wall of noise that was the backdrop to some unbelievable games. I used to stand there with my dad, in awe of the atmosphere.

It was a special time, with Billy Bingham leading a talented group of players to two World Cups. Big nations dreaded coming to Belfast. One evening stands out for me. September 12, 1984 – a qualifying match with Romania. Whiteside was in full flow. He grabbed the crucial goal, slipping the ball past their keeper right in front of the Kop. He ran towards us with his arms in the air. The noise was incredible. I imagined tasting that feeling.

Ten years later, my chance came around as the Bingham era ended and Bryan Hamilton took over. I can’t say it was a surprise when I was given the nod to start a European Championship tie with Portugal because Alex Ferguson had actually told me two weeks earlier that I’d be making my debut in the game. He called Bryan to find out if I would play before giving me the all clear to go.

Knowing that far in advance probably gave me a little too much time to think about it. This was a big deal, and the build up was nerve-wracking. Portugal were a serious international team with stars like Luis Figo, Rui Costa and Paulo Sousa in their ranks. I was a raw youngster coming in from the periphery at Manchester United with a big reputation to live up to.

Then, as now, Northern Ireland had a small pool of players to choose from, lacking the depth to compose a squad entirely of Premier League performers. Managers had to look to the second division or maybe even further down the ladder. Although I had only made a limited number of first-team appearances, all the hype was about me because I was a Manchester United player. That old George Best comparison was thrown around again. Pressure. I fretted about what the other lads expected, thinking they might view me as some kind of big shot with ideas above my station. I had nothing to worry about. The senior figures immediately took me under their wing.

From my days in the under-age set-up, I had an idea what Northern Ireland teams were about. The dressing room was a communal environment, albeit with terms and conditions attached. You had to be able to cope with the banter and the slagging. And you had to be able to drink. That was the culture. Win or lose, we were on the booze. At that point in time, it was a mantra that applied to most teams in our part of the world. We just lived it better than most.

There were plenty of experienced figures knocking around at the time, really big characters. Guys like Alan McDonald, Jimmy Quinn, Gerry Taggart, Kevin Wilson, Nigel Worthington, Iain Dowie, Jim Magilton, even Steve Lomas, who was only a year older than me but always had a bit of presence about him. It was a solid bunch and, while Bryan had big shoes to fill, he almost brought us to a major tournament in his first campaign.

My debut started with a near miss, a sign of things to come. We lost narrowly to the Portuguese. I did ok, nothing too spectacular. With so many friends and family there, it was a relief to get through it without any big mishaps. The reviews were generally positive.

A month later, we travelled to Vienna to take on a decent Austria side. That was my real initiation.

The key to those games was silencing the home crowd and, within three minutes, I turned down the volume at the Ernst Happel Stadium. Iain Dowie flicked a throw-in over his head at the edge of the box, right into my direction. I caught it on the volley, sweet as you like, and it flew into the top corner. One of my best ever goals. They equalised shortly after, but one of the lads I already knew in the camp, Phil Gray, put us back ahead before half-time and we held on for the win.

It was the prelude to an incredible night. All I remember is the lads in a bar in Vienna, up dancing on the tables and revelling in the moment. There’s no better feeling in football than heading out after a hard-fought victory. Everyone was a part of it.

From that high we slumped to a shattering low a month later when the Republic of Ireland came to Belfast. Expectations were high in the wake of the Austria win, and this game meant everything to our fans.

The Republic were a good side who had just been to the World Cup. We came in full of confidence and got wiped off the park by our neighbours. 4-0. A humiliation. I missed my flight to Manchester the next morning. Not because I was out on the beer. I’d gone home to Bangor and slept in. I didn’t want to get out of bed. One of the lads back in Manchester wondered if I’d thrown myself in a river.

We had until March, and the return in Dublin, to stew over that one. Bryan decided to have all the preparations in Dublin so we gathered there on the Saturday night ahead of a Wednesday encounter. By this time I was a more experienced player, with a higher profile and stronger stomach. After a few beverages in the hotel bar, we headed to the nightclub next door where a couple of lads decided to test my drinking resolution. Steve Morrow, then of Arsenal, was the ringleader. We worked away along the optics of the bar, going through all the spirits until we were necking Green Chartreuse, a 55 per cent strength recipe for disaster. I remained upright; Steve required assistance from the assistant manager, Gerry Armstrong, to get up the stairs. He was telling Gerry how they’d stitched me up. “Really”, said Gerry, “then why is Keith still standing at the bar then?”

Those exertions didn’t hinder the outcome. We were under the cosh for long periods at Lansdowne Road, and trailed to a Niall Quinn goal. But we had a serious resilience on our travels, and I managed to stick in a cross that Dowie converted to take away a draw.

Next up was a jaunt to Latvia, where the same toughness was evident. We were short of a few bodies and Barry Hunter and Kevin Horlock, from Wrexham and Swindon respectively, were thrown in for their debuts. Dowie got the only goal from the spot, and we celebrated in style. Kevin, who was excellent in the game, overdid it in the post-match party. He turned up for the flight the following morning still pissed and with a big yellow face. When we landed in London, they needed a wheelchair to escort him off the plane. The phrase, ‘Wheelchair for Horlock’ followed him around after that.

People are always shocked to hear of professional athletes behaving in such a way, but, in those days, it was commonplace. We felt fit enough to run off the excesses, and it really did help team bonding. If you’re in a group where there is a tense atmosphere, the prospect of a few days away together is a nightmare. But we always had better results on our travels, and that was a testament to the spirit in the camp. We enjoyed each other’s company.

The summer tours were the prime example. My first was to Canada, in the summer of 1995. That was a trip where discipline went out of the window. I was looking forward to my first, proper tour as a senior professional. The lads had been to the United States the previous summer and told me all the stories. Football-wise, we were heading to Edmonton for a three-team tournament with Canada and Chile. But it’s fair to say that we weren’t too focused on the games when we met at Heathrow.

Bryan was fighting a losing battle from the start. Myself, Phil Gray and George O’Boyle had gone for a few beers in the terminal and nearly missed the flight. On the plane, the drink was openly flowing. When we got to the other end, Bryan sent us out training straight away. He knew the majority were half-pissed and ran the hell out of us. It really kicked off a couple of nights later after we got thrashed by Canada. We were awful. The extreme humidity offered some sort of excuse but really, we shouldn’t have been losing badly to a team like that. We reacted the only way we knew by embarking on a spectacular bender. I was on the local beer, Labatt Ice, and it went straight to my head. I was hopelessly drunk when we got back to the hotel, walking around the lobby vainly looking for a bathroom when I spotted Phil Gray standing at the reception desk talking to someone. For reasons unknown, I started pissing on Phil’s leg.

There was a commotion over it, but I was ignorant to it. My focus was on extending the night so I went upstairs to persuade my room-mate, Gerry McMahon, to find a second wind and head out into town for another look. It was a huge hotel, with over 20 floors, and we were near the top. As we were going down in the lift, it stopped at the 19th floor and Bryan walked in. Someone had called him after my behaviour in the foyer.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“I’m going out.”

“No, you’re not.”

I said nothing. When the doors opened at the ground floor, I made a break for it and sprinted across the lobby. Bryan shouted at Gerry Armstrong, telling him to follow me. I burst out onto the street with a Northern Ireland legend in pursuit, a member of the 1982 World Cup side that I had watched as an excitable seven-year-old back in Islandmagee.

I knew he didn’t have the pace to catch me. I kept running. And running. The problem was that I barely had a Plan A, let alone a Plan B. Three quarters of a mile later, I was on my own in a nondescript street with absolutely no idea where I was. I stopped to a walk, and allowed Gerry to catch up. He convinced me to go back to the hotel and sleep it off.

Bryan called a big meeting with the group the next morning which concluded with him turning to me and announcing that I wouldn’t be having any more alcohol for the rest of the trip. Some chance. That night we were invited to an Irish bar and, on the coach there, the boys were putting beer in teacups for me. After we showed our faces there and made our way back towards the hotel, Bryan said that nobody was allowed out that night. Again, wishful thinking. It’s not that we didn’t respect him. But after a long season, we just wanted to kick back. There was nothing at stake on this trip.

As soon as the coach pulled up, everyone hopped out and marched to a small bar across the road. The Chile game two days later was the last thing on our minds. Bryan left it for a while and then arrived in, called over Alan McDonald, as the skipper, and said it was time to get the lads back. Big Mac ignored him, went to the bar, and ordered a round of drinks.

The manager went for a different approach. He came over to my table and ordered me to set an example by going home first. I accused him of picking on me because I was the youngest, and left for a bar down the street with Phil and George. The night finished up in a club where we walked in to find a gang of the others dancing on stage. When we belatedly got back to the hotel, the fire alarm was set off. The next morning, we found ourselves in the same meeting room for another dressing down from Bryan. Unsurprisingly, we lost to Chile. I was in the doghouse and only brought on for the last eight minutes.

Naturally I was read the riot act. It was a kick up the backside and resulted in me knuckling down for a really good pre-season, and the start to the club campaign which earned me the highest praise. So, I was flabbergasted when I came to Belfast in September for the qualifier with Latvia and found myself on the bench.

I couldn’t help but wonder if it was punishment for Canada, but kept my silence. My room-mate, Gerry, was chosen instead. He was a good player, but only a reserve with Spurs at the time whereas I was a Premier League regular. I came on in the second half when we were 2-1 down, and couldn’t turn it around. A stupid defeat and it cost us.

We went to Portugal next, where I was back in favour, and goalie Alan Fettis produced the performance of his career. Michael Hughes managed to score a deflected free-kick which was good enough for a point, to preserve our unbeaten away record. We were always better as the underdog.

Wins in Liechtenstein and at home to Austria – the latter, a thrilling 5-3 success – ultimately counted for nothing. We finished joint second with the Republic, but with an inferior goal difference. They went on to lose a play-off to Holland. All we could think about was the Latvia game, and ponder what could have been.

I loved those early years with Northern Ireland. I was always amazed by the attitude of people in England to my homeland. Other lads in club dressing rooms believed that I came from a war zone, like Afghanistan or somewhere like that. It was strange to encounter people with those perceptions.

I’d be lying if I said that political discussion was a hot topic in our dressing room. Once you moved away, it was easy to become detached from it. I knew terrible things had gone on, and was heartened by historic moves towards peace in the mid-nineties. But in a dressing room with people from both sides of the community, we didn’t get bogged down in the serious detail. What we shared in common was the experience of how our country was stereotyped in England. It made us tighter.

Our group was a working example of Protestant and Catholic lads mixing together happily.

Religion was part of the banter. The louder Protestant lads, like Alan McDonald, Phil Gray and Tommy Wright, would be taking on the vocal Catholics, fellas like Gerry Taggart, Jim Magilton, Steve Morrow and Michael Hughes.

We used to stay in the Chimney Corner Hotel, 10 minutes outside the city, and on our way to training we’d go through some fierce Unionist and Nationalist strongholds. Our bus would pass the Shankill Road, a predominantly Protestant area decorated with Union Jack flags and loyalist murals, and the Catholics would pipe up about what a shithole it was. We’d then move along and pass the Divis Flats at the bottom of the Falls Road, a Catholic area, which had the Republic of Ireland flags and republican murals, and the Protestants would hit back with their own insults.

It was all good natured. There were no cliques based on religion. Some of the boys came from areas that were heavily involved in the conflict. Phil Gray’s family hailed from the Shankill, while Jim Magilton came from the Andersonstown area, the opposite side of the tracks. And they were able to mix just fine, no problem at all. Football was the glue.

There were few boundaries in our camp. On away trips, our fans could freely roam around the team hotel gathering autographs or having a chat. With such a small travelling support, it made no sense to isolate ourselves. It was the same with the press. To be honest, after matches, we’d come back to the hotel and have a few drinks with them to start off the night. There was only a small number of them and we knew they weren’t going to screw us over. That sort of interaction would sound crazy to an English player, but they wouldn’t relate to our tight-knit environment.