I only played one game during the 1979/80 season, against Fulham, and it was another nightmare as I was injured when I went up for a header, landed awkwardly and jarred my back. I carried on the best I could but from 3–0 up we lost 3–4. Back in the dressing room, the manager started having a go but took one look at me and shut up; he could see I was in a bad way as I was walking like a zombie and could not even bend down to take my boots off. Maybe I should have asked to come off but after Fulham began to get back into the game, I didn’t want people to think I was trying to escape out of the firing line, so to speak. Maybe the manager should have clocked that I was struggling; had he subbed me, I would have gladly come off. As it was, neither of us made the decision and it was the lack of communication between us that almost blew the whistle on my football career before it had kicked off.
My condition was going down hill rapidly and I was unable to walk at all after a few minutes, so the lads carried me into the shower and washed me down, helped me to get dressed and I was taken straight to hospital where I an X-ray revealed that I had dislodged a disc from my spine. It was not a straightforward slipped disc but far more serious and, after some treatment, I was put into an upper-body cast. It was the most uncomfortable thing you could ever imagine having to wear. The contraption was heavy, hot and itched like the worst case of crabs imaginable. There was a cut-out to allow your stomach to expand but food and drink were the last thing on my mind as I shuffled about looking like something out of a horror film.
I had to stay in the cast for almost two months and stay completely still. It did my head in so I went back to London and stayed with my parents until the cast was removed and I began a long, hard road back to recovery. The doctors warned me that it would be a lengthy process as the disc could move again, as once something like that had been injured it would never be the same again. I had to take every day at a time and it was months before I could jog, let alone run or participate in any training that involved physical contact. Without me, the lads did great and we were promoted back to the top flight having finished third in the league.
Both I and the club knew that it was a serious injury, a possible career-threatening one, but I don’t think anyone thought that I would be out for nearly two seasons with it. I was a very fit young man and that helped me immensely. As it was, it took from August 1979 to April 1981 before I made my comeback as a substitute during a home game against Crystal Palace.
The problem with back injuries is that it is a truly complex part of your body. If you break your leg, the medical staff can look at the X-ray and tell you roughly within a month or two when you will return to action. With serious back injuries, they cannot do that and, although I felt about 90 per cent right, there was a niggle in the back of my mind that had me wondering whether I was ready to play again.
I discussed it with the gaffer and we agreed I’d give it a go. The ground was empty with less than 10,000 in attendance, but it could have been played before one man and his dog and it would still have felt like I was running on to the pitch before 100,000 at Wembley, such was my delight to be back on the pitch.
Those 20 months on the sidelines seemed like 20 years. It was a horrendous part of my career and, had it not been for the support of my team-mates, the management and the backroom staff at St Andrew’s, I’d probably never have played again. As it was, I played in the next couple of games and felt OK, not fully fit, just OK, but in my third game back at Leicester City the injury flared up again and I wondered if I was finished and that all the hard work had been a waste of time.
I was back in hospital and met a specialist who put my mind at rest, telling me that although the injury was connected to the original problem, once again I just needed to rest and that I would eventually regain full fitness. For once in my life, I took the advice of those who knew best and let the injury clear up until I felt no discomfort at all. I felt I was ready to start playing when we all returned to pre-season training and was frustrated when I was overlooked for the opening games. The boss was right, though, and he knew that if I was not 100 per cent match fit then I could be out for months again, so we took things nice and steady and I made my first start away at Old Trafford before 48,000 fans and played OK at right-back in a creditable 1–1 draw. I was ecstatic.
I was covering for the first-choice right-back Davie Langan who was out injured but I must have impressed Jim Smith as I secured a starting place, although it was at right-and left-back, centre-half, sweeper and even the odd cameo performance in midfield. By now, I was getting on with Jim Smith, who had seemed to have taken to me and we got on well. He was not my idea of a good man-manager, but off the field he was a superb bloke and we had some good times together so I was sad when he and the club parted company.
It was a shock when the board appointed Ron Saunders to replace Smith, as he had only just walked out on local rivals Aston Villa some two weeks earlier. His first game in charge should have been against Villa, a game scheduled for the Saturday, but either he or the club bottled it as he took over formally as manager the following Monday after we had lost 1–0. I kept my place under Saunders and, although as a team we struggled and finished just above the drop zone, I was offered a new, improved contract and signed it without hesitation, partly because I was just happy to be playing and partly to repay the people at the club for helping me recover from the dreadful injury nightmare I had been through. Saunders was a decent manager and I thought the following season could be a great one for both myself and Birmingham City.
In reality, it was a bit of a non-event and we never really improved from the previous season; there were some highs and plenty of lows. I was dropped after the first five games when we contrived to concede 17 goals in just 4 of them and also missed a few games with an injury unrelated to my back problems. On my return, I scored my only goal for the Blues in the game against Arsenal at St Andrews, although it was a pity there were only 11,276 there to see it. I was playing in midfield and found myself in space when Kevin Dillon put a superb through-ball in behind their back four. I raced on to it and was one-on-one with the ’keeper and I shit myself. I had never been in this situation before so I simply put my head down, took the ball a few paces and smashed it as hard as I could with my right foot. It flew into the bottom corner and I was as shocked as everyone else. Arsenal went up other end and equalised but Dillon then got a second and we held on for a win.
I played quite a few games in midfield after the Arsenal game, one being a home fixture against Spurs. During the first half, I went in hard on Ozzie Ardiles and he was rolling around on the ground squealing like a baby. I stood over him and told him he was a whining Argie bastard and to get up. It was a comment that years later came back and bit me on the arse big time.
After the departure of Mark Dennis in the following close-season, the number 3 shirt was given to me but, after a good pre-season, any early optimism that we would do well was blown away with a 4–0 opening-day defeat by West Ham and we were right to fear the worst – that it would be a long, hard campaign.
Most things about this season were largely forgettable. I was an ever-present and we were not a bad side but lost too many games by the odd goal – an amazing14 in total. There were definitely worse teams than us in the division; Mick Harford was a quality striker, Tony Coton a top ’keeper, but it was another false dawn for the Blues and, despite a win against the Villa and closing the season with three draws, the trap-door opened and we again dropped to Division 2. I was as gutted as the rest of the lads but, at the time, did not know that I would be back in the top division sooner than I thought.
3
CRAZY GANG WARFARE
As soon as I arrived in Birmingham, I was put in digs with Paul Ivey and we were looked after by a nice elderly couple who we nicknamed George and Mildred. Both Paul and I found it hard – we were homesick and had little spare cash, I was so skint my parents used to send me money as well as food parcels, as I was not being fed as much as I was used to either.
After training, Mark Dennis and I would meet up, have some dinner and drink endless pints of blackcurrant and lemonade while we took on all the other lads in darts competitions in Birmingham City’s sports club. We both became very good darts players and we began going into local pubs and playing regulars for money. With not drinking alcohol and practising every afternoon, we won more often than we lost before people began to suss us out and blokes stopped playing us. We had to start hanging around different pubs with a pint of beer in our hands before locals would take us on. It was a great way to top our apprentice money up.
I was a fit lad and found the training quite easy but, at times, it could get a little intimidating as there were fall-outs between so-called team-mates on a regular basis. One such occasion was when two centre-halves, Joe Gallagher and Pat Howard – whom we had just bought from Newcastle – squared up to each other. They were huge blokes compared to us kids and fell out over something or other and, as they were arguing, Joe headbutted Pat and broke his nose and they ended up having a quite serious punch-up. It wasn’t nice to see two team-mates fight like that as a young pro, but I soon got used to it.
There always seemed to be unrest where Joe Gallagher was concerned and I remember him having another fall-out with my pal Mark Dennis a few years later when Joe accused Mark of tipping off the press that Gallagher had set up a move to Aston Villa. It was a controversial topic – they were our hated rivals – and when it went pear-shaped, Joe blamed Mark for some reason. It was no surprise to anyone that when Alf Ramsey left, Gallagher was one of the players involved in the bust up.
The first two years were all about growing up and getting to know each other and then when we signed professionally we were allowed to find our own digs, so I moved in with a gentleman called Brian Rogers who was connected with the club and owned a huge house in which he let rooms to four or five of us. Unlike George and Mildred’s, which was more like a boarding school, this move gave us plenty of freedom, which was not a good thing in my case as I soon began making the most of it!
Brian was the manager of a nightclub called Faces and that was the turning point of my time at Birmingham as I began to hit the town. Most nights, I’d be in Faces and I soon got my confidence with the women as Brian knew everyone worth knowing. It was nothing mental – we used to have a few beers, chat the birds up and go for a curry, normal lads’ stuff. The problem was, I wasn’t an electrician or a student. I was now a professional footballer who had to train the following morning.
Brian was a great guy and loved the women; his wife was always in my ear trying to get me to grass him up and it was a great learning curve for me and I got to know how to duck and dive during my time with him. He sadly died from cancer when I was at the top of my game and I fondly remember him as someone who helped me along the way.
I eventually went to live with Kevin Dillon who had a house opposite one Mark Dennis had bought and, when he moved on, I bought it from him and joined Mark as a homeowner. Susan used to come up for the weekend but by now I had plenty of girls in tow in town and, more often than not, I’d leave her in Dill’s house while I went out with a local bird. Dill used to tell me I was bang out of order, which I was, but it made no difference and I carried on regardless.
I became a regular at Faces and got friendly with some lads called Alan and Peter McAteer, and another lad nicknamed Kimo, who I became best mates with. I was with some of the football lads one night at the club and, for some stupid reason, took my shirt off and was dancing around acting the fool when the bouncers came and told me to put it back on. Knowing Brian, I told them to fuck off, and they grabbed me and gave me a good old-fashioned leg and a wing, throwing me across the room head first. I landed on my chin, splitting it open.
I went home covered in blood, told the brothers, who soon assembled a small firm and we went back to the club and knocked on the door. But the doormen shit themselves and would not come out. That night, I knew that the people I was mixed up with were the proper heads and not to be messed with and, from then on, the door staff stayed away from me.
At 17 I bought my first car, a 2-litre Cortina, and used to drive it all over town without a licence. One night I got nicked for speeding so I had a court appearance coming up and was that worried I confided in Frank Worthington, who kindly agreed to drive me to court to face the music.
Before I went in front of the magistrates, he said, ‘If you want to act like a man, be a man and take your punishment.’ I was in awe of Frank and would go along with just about anything he said, so in I went and was given a hefty fine which I paid, although I did not bother getting a licence and kept on driving afterwards.
By the time I was 18, a gang of us started to frequent a very well hidden pub called the ‘Odd Spot’ where a barmaid named Jill worked. She was 34 and quite pretty and soon we started talking and getting on well. Over a few weeks, it was just me going to the pub to talk with Jill and soon we were shagging each other’s brains out. For the five months we were together, all we did was shag, including a record seven times from a Saturday night to the Sunday afternoon.
Jill used to drop me off at training and soon Jim Smith clocked that she was way older than me and began telling me I should keep away from her because I was too fucked to train on the Monday due to all the shagging we were doing. He had a point!
Frank Worthington had taken a shine to me and we began going out and usually I was driving. One night I was getting ready to go out with him to a club called Liberties when he opened a compartment in his wardrobe and took out a small pipe. He then proceeded to fill it with weed and began smoking it before telling me once again it was my turn to drive. En route, Frank asked me if I would like to take a puff from this pipe, which I did, and we eventually got to the club even though I could hardly see. Once inside Liberties, Frank went about his business regarding the birds, while I sat slumped in a seat not knowing what day it was.
I got involved with another firm called the Bagshaws and they seemed nice enough but one night I was in bed with Susan when we were awoken by the sound of someone trying to get into the house. I got hold of a replica gun that the Bagshaws had given me and caught the intruder in the garden and pointed the gun at him and said that if he moved I was going to shoot the fucker, but he just walked off laughing. A few weeks later when we went to London during the pre-season break, I asked Kimo to keep an eye on my house but when I got back it had been burgled – by the Bagshaws. I often wondered if it had been one of their firm a few weeks previously who had tried to screw the house, and knew the gun they had given me was a replica!
Before long, Susan moved in with me full time but one night she got the hump and buggered off for a week. Given my single man status back, I set about enjoying myself and Kimo brought two sisters back to my place for a private party. We were having a great time drinking and watching pornos when, out of the blue, Susan came back. I heard the front door go so I ran into the hall and slammed it on her and she bit my finger as I was trying to stop her getting into the house. During this time, my dog – a huge Doberman – escaped. When the girls eventually got out and Susan had calmed down, I went looking for the dog and, before long, found it sitting outside the pub I frequented most nights.
Soon we had our own little firm at the club who were nicknamed locally ‘The Brummie Bashers’. We were also called ‘The Magnificent Seven’ and, regardless of what other people called us, we were most certainly the original Crazy Gang – myself, Noel Blake, Mark Dennis, Robert Hopkins, Tony Coton, Mick Harford, Howard Gayle and the legendary Frank Worthington were all good mates and, although Frank was not really a member of the gang when it began to hit the local papers, he was a founder member who was always good company to
be out with and the fun and trouble we all got are indeed as legendary as Frank.
During a pre-season tour in Scandinavia, we were staying in one of those shitty complexes tucked away in the middle of nowhere. With no nightlife to speak of, the lads set me up with a bird who worked as a waitress. I got her back to my room, which contained little kiddie-style bunk beds – with Birmingham, it was never a case of no expense spared – so I climbed on to the top bunk with the waitress and just as I was about to do the deed all the lads were outside looking directly at us through the window. All the usual suspects we there laughing their heads off, so the bird got dressed, jumped off the bunk and fucked off, never to be seen again.
On the same tour we were in a pub when what I believe was a transvestite latched on to me. He or she came up to me and we had a drink and a chat and, for the life of me, I could not make my mind up if it was a bloke, a woman or a 50/50! He/she said they needed somewhere to sleep and was all over me so, before I invited him/her back to the hotel, I asked them to go to the toilets for a check out. This thing went straight into the gents, which got my alarm bells ringing. So I followed to see what was down below. Off came the knickers and, although there was no visible problem as there was not a cock in sight, I was still unsure, so binned him/her off. I was lucky that I had bumped into them early doors as, if I had been pissed, I may have not been as alert and made a big mistake.
On another tour to South America we had to wait for our connecting flight and, by the time we were due to board the plane, we were well and truly pissed. I became friendly with some girl and we got chatting but, being half pissed, I got my dick out. Unknown to me, there were casually dressed security guards patrolling the departure lounge who quickly arrested me and put me in a lock-up in the airport, saying they were going to deport me back to the UK. Jim Smith was notified and he came and spoke to the officials telling them to keep me there. Without telling me, Smith had asked an official to keep me in there to teach me a lesson, and then release me five minutes before my flight – which they did. I had to leg it to my connecting plane and boarded with my head bowed in shame as the lads chanted all sorts of obscenities about me.
Pat Van Den Hauwe Page 3
