Pat Van Den Hauwe

by Pat Van Den Hauwe

The final against our Red neighbours can only be summed up as ‘horrible’. It was a game we should have won having been one up and coasting after Lineker’s 40th goal of the season. We had other chances, and they were falling out with each other, but we let them in with some sloppy passing and then Rush, as always, did us. It was so unlike us to concede goals like we did that day; collectively and individually we were poor.

  We were comfortable when, from nothing, Gary Stevens gave the ball away and we were caught flat-footed as Rush rounded Mimms and it was all square. From coasting we were suddenly on the back foot and I remember the second goal with horror. As Molby got the ball in our box, I looked and I was marking both Dalglish and Craig Johnston. Jan hit it hard across the face of the goal and Kenny missed it, but it had too much pace for me, leaving Johnston to smash it in. We were all over the place. The third was worse; they broke, leaving us outnumbered, and the ball was played over my head to Rush who was unmarked and it was game over.

  The season before was bad, but this was so much worse. We had handed Liverpool the Double in the space of two weeks and I was numb walking around the pitch at the end of the game. For some reason, the clubs had agreed to travel home together and that was a nightmare. Who in their right mind could organise such a stupid trip? I appreciate they wanted to promote the ‘Merseyside United’ theme, but I often wondered if the same thing would have gone ahead had we been the ones carrying the Cup? We got on the plane and they were sitting at the back with the trophy smiling like Cheshire Cats while we were all gutted at the front nursing hangovers. We had been treated to a superb party the night after the game as Howard had told us to go out and enjoy ourselves as we had put so much into the season.

  I went to get in my seat but Barry Venison was in it and, at first, I politely asked him to move. I don’t know if it was a wind-up or if he had genuinely sat in the wrong seat, but there was no reason for him to sit there so, when he didn’t move, I said to him, ‘I have asked you once, now get out of my seat before I fucking throw you out of it.’ He quickly sulked off to join his team-mates at the back and that set the tone for the trip, and it was horrible having to follow them around the city centre as they had both cups and all we had was a few cases of beer.

  The year before, we had lost the final but the tour of the city was superb as we celebrated the season’s success and had the Championship trophy and Cup Winners’ Cup to parade. This time we had nothing. I remember that we drank too much and were all dying for a piss so got the driver to stop and just ran to a house, knocked on the door and the lady and gentleman who owned it laughed as half the Everton team queued to use their toilet. Reidy was that pissed off that he refused to go on the tour and I wish I had done the same. Even the drink and the reception the Blues fans gave us could not lift my spirits; if I could change the result of any game I have played in, that would be the one.

  The following season, I missed a third-round home victory over Southampton but was back for a win at Bradford when Snodds scored, and then again for the tough tie at Wimbledon in the fifth round. We went one up but were hammered 3–1 and I was taken off as the club missed out on making it a record four finals on the bounce. We were poor that day and had simply been out-fought by Wimbledon and it was disappointing as we knew we did not do ourselves justice and had let ourselves, the manager and the fans down.

  The fifth round was again as far as we went a year later, but this time we had broken records getting that far. After mammoth games with Sheffield Wednesday, including three 1–1 draws and a 5–0 away win, we beat Middlesbrough after another three games before losing once again to Liverpool. It was a great Cup run; teams often win the fucker after just six games – we had played eight and not even made the quarter-finals.

  The 1989 FA Cup Final was a sad occasion after the Hillsborough tragedy; I’m glad to have played at Wembley that day, but often wonder if the game should have gone ahead given the circumstances.

  In January that season, when the competition kicked off, we found ourselves losing at West Brom before Sheedy saved us with a late penalty and he scored again as we beat them in the replay. We came through another tricky game when we drew at Plymouth, but battered them in replay 4–0, giving us a trip to Barnsley in the fifth round. A week earlier, I’d picked up a knock and was ruled out for a few weeks and missed the game when an early Sharp goal took us through to the last eight. The three lower league teams had all given us a hard time but we came through and got an important home draw against Wimbledon and, although I missed the game again, I watched from the stands as we scraped through 1–0 thanks to a late Stuart McCall strike. Sharpy made a game of it when he missed a first-half penalty but, despite it being no classic, we were one game away from Wembley and, again, the dream was back on.

  What can you say about the events of 15 April 1989? We beat Norwich in the semi-final thanks to a Pat Nevin goal, and were back at Wembley. There was no celebrating after the game and we were all shocked and saddened when we were told about the tragedy in Sheffield.

  There was talk of the season being cancelled, but we went to Spurs on the Saturday after stopping off at Anfield in the week to pay our respects and it was an amazing sight to see so many tributes from fans all over the country. We then played Forest in the Simod Cup Final and my feelings on such competitions are well documented. We lost 4–3 and Wembley was half full – that tells you all you need to know about the worthless fixture.

  Next up came Liverpool, who had decided to complete their fixtures. Before a full house at Goodison, the chairmen of both clubs led us out and it was very emotional night. The game ended goalless and it was very difficult match to play in.

  We went into the Final on the back of three wins, including one at Old Trafford. I was fit, we were playing well and, despite Liverpool being favourites and the world wanting them to win, we were up for it and thought we could lift the Cup. Despite the sadness surrounding the event, we wanted to win it as much as ever; it was our job to go out and win it for the manager, for our fans and for ourselves.

  Most neutrals were saying that it would be fitting if Liverpool won it for those who had lost their lives, but that did not come into it. If that was the case, the FA should have cancelled the competition that season and presented the Cup in memory of those who were killed. I would not have had a problem with that and, in fact, would have probably preferred it that way. But that option was not considered and, once the game was given the go-ahead, we were not just going to turn up and let Liverpool win.

  The fairytale ending that the nation wanted was on the cards when Liverpool went ahead with an early John Aldridge goal and they held on until the last kick of the game when McCall scrambled one in for us. I was fully expecting it to be disallowed for offside, or for a foul or for anything. It would not have surprised me if, as it trickled in, the ref had blown his whistle and called full time before it hit the net, but he didn’t and it was all square. There were fans all over the pitch and it was utter chaos as the reality that the goal had stood hit home. Once again, I thought that it was going to be our day.

  I should have known better as soon as Rush came on for Aldo, as he did us again despite McCall scoring a fantastic second equaliser. Liverpool’s winner gives me nightmares as I probably had the best view of it on the pitch. Barnes put a cross in and I thought it was ours to win all day, but somehow it landed between our two centre-backs and Rush just stooped and nodded it past Neville. It was a scandalous goal to concede and I knew that they would not let us back in for a third time, and I was right.

  They saw out the remainder of the game and, when the final whistle blew, the pitch filled with fans and there were no laps of honour as things got bit out of hand. I had ‘helped’ a fan off the pitch when we had scored, but Bruce put one Liverpool fan on his arse as he tried to grab the Cup.

  After the game, I thought it would be my last Cup Final and we had lost them all. If you have three goes at something, you would bet that one of them would come off and I will take to my
grave the fact that I played in three FA Cup Finals for Everton and was not able to pick up just one winner’s medal.

  I did not know at the time but that was to be my last game for Everton. I had started my Everton career with a defeat in London and ended it with one, I know which defeat hurt the most. I would have swapped our second League Championship to have won the Cup that day. I really wanted to do that for Everton but, sadly, some things are just not meant to be.

  12

  ALL CHANGE

  After regaining the Championship and, once again, happy that it was business as usual, the bombshell news landed that Howard had resigned and gone to manage in Spain. I was shell-shocked. Had he gone a year earlier after missing out on the League and Cup in a week to Liverpool, and having sold Lineker to Barcelona, I would probably have understood it a bit more. We were champions, had a decent squad and, in all honesty, Athletic Bilbao were hardly Real Madrid or Barcelona, so I could not understand it. And as it all happened during pre-season, there were no goodbyes – he was just gone.

  Maybe Howard thought he had taken us as far as he could, given that the European ban had kicked in. Maybe he just fancied a change. Either way, it was a sad day for Everton Football Club. One positive thing to come out of it all was that Colin Harvey had agreed to stay and take over from Howard, at least meaning that we avoided bringing in some outsider with no idea how the club worked.

  All the lads respected Colin; he was a great coach and I don’t think there was a single player unhappy when he was appointed to replace Howard. The only difference for us was having to call him ‘boss’, not Colin. He never asked for that, it was mutual respect from the players, but it was something that he never really seemed comfortable with.

  His first season in charge was always going to be tough and, even though we got off to a good start when we won the Charity Shield beating Coventry at Wembley, we hardly got going in the league and never looked like we were ever in with a chance of retaining the Championship. To make the season even more depressing, Liverpool had an unbelievable campaign, going unbeaten from their opening game right through to the end of March when they equalled Leeds United’s record for the longest unbeaten run in league history from the start of a season. It was nice to beat them to stop them overtaking Leeds’ record but, in fairness, they won the league at a canter. Although we finished fourth, it was a poor season by our previous standards, made even worse by the fact they also knocked us out of the FA Cup.

  We beat them in the League Cup at Anfield, as well as the game at Goodison, but the problem was nobody else could and they only lost a further two games all season. Once again, our home form was decent – we only lost two games at Goodison – but we won just five games away from home which was diabolical, considering we were reigning champions.

  We came close to making it to Wembley again, but lost in the League Cup semis to Arsenal and, without blaming the amount of injuries we had, we rarely had a settled side. If I can put my finger on one thing that hindered us more than anything it was Kevin Ratcliffe missing half the season and, although I did OK at centre-back, quite simply we were not the same side without him in it.

  Once again, the FA threw some stupid games our way to compensate for the lack of European football and we ended up playing in one of the craziest tournaments ever organised, as about a dozen clubs played a mini knock-out competition staged over two days at Wembley. What a waste of time and money! Mickey Mouse competitions like the Mercantile Credit Football League Centenary Trophy could not replace the revenue or the importance of European football. I just wish that the people who had decided to deprive us of the opportunity of playing in either the European or UEFA Cup had the balls to admit that we did not deserve to be banned. We had done no wrong and we should have been allowed back in, but those responsible for the decisions were people in high places who don’t ever admit it when they get things wrong. Hence we were given worthless games to play and not the competitive European football we had earned and deserved.

  We flew to one such tournament in Dubai in December for an unofficial British Championship game against Rangers. I never played but, while we were over there, a group of players were sitting around the bar when Gary Stevens introduced me to an air hostess he knew. I went over and she asked me to kiss her. I did, whereupon she got hold of my hand and I made the walk of shame past the lads, took her to my room and did the business. I must have been on top form as this girl was obviously no virgin, and later told Gary that I was red-hot in the sack. I was well happy! What he never knew was when we were at it, I fell off the bed and aggravated my hamstring injury and probably missed a couple more games thanks to focussing on my libido rather than my fitness!

  It was a poor first season, not just for Colin but for us all, endorsed by the fact that my personal highlights were a top shag in Dubai and preventing Liverpool getting a record, which is sad really. I was beginning to think it was no longer business as usual.

  Things were beginning to go a bit flat and there was plenty of talk of players moving on but, in pre-season, only Gary Stevens and Derek Mountfield were sold. I was especially sad to see Gary leave as, from day one at the club, he was my room partner and we had some superb times together. Colin brought in Neil McDonald to replace Gary, Pat Nevin from Chelsea and Stuart McCall, all for good money, but the signing that excited everyone was when Tony Cottee chose us before Arsenal for a British record fee. They were all big signings so the board had certainly backed Colin and it looked like we were going to have a real go at getting the title back.

  Unfortunately, it was at this time that I had arrived back from the Welsh tour in some discomfort and went to see the doctor at Everton at once as things were not looking good. As well as my privates being a bit sore, my ankle was in a bad way, although I thought it was a totally different issue and had no idea it was connected.

  As soon as the doc saw me he sent me to a private hospital the club used and they diagnosed me with NSU – non-specific urethritis – a sexually-transmitted disease which causes inflammation of the urethra. I had all the classic symptoms of an old-fashioned dose, the pain and burning sensation when I had a piss, a bit of cloudy discharge and a feeling that I needed to pass urine frequently … but I had no idea how this affected my ankle.

  As I was diagnosed with a common STD, they carried out a few more tests and I had to stay in overnight, awaiting the results. The following morning, I could not stand up, could put no weight whatsoever on my ankle and was absolutely shitting myself. They told me that whatever this slapper in Malta had passed on to me, it had got into my blood and found its way to my ankle and that the inflammation caused by the STD could have ended my career.

  It was that serious that if I had left it for another week and I could have been finished. Luckily, I was not stupid enough to have hoped it would go away by itself, and the early diagnosis and immediate treatment helped me carry on as a footballer, albeit not a very professional one.

  I spent nearly a month in hospital and the club, never mind Mrs Van Den Hauwe, were none too impressed. There were all sorts of rumours going about that I had been stabbed, was a smack-head, or had had my leg broken by gangsters … but the fact was I had a dose, a very bad one. A nurse called Karen was given the job of looking after me and it was a little embarrassing as she knew exactly why I was there and it was not because my ankle was a bit swollen. It did not help that she was also a very good-looking young lady!

  As the weeks went by, we got quite close and, one night, she sneaked me out of the hospital to a pub owned by a former Everton winger, Gary Jones. By now she assured me that I was OK to have a drink as I was off the medication and just rehabilitating, so there I was, sitting on a bar stool with my leg all strapped up, drinking with a tasty nurse whom the club were paying to look after me! With not drinking for weeks, I was soon pissed and ended up falling off the bar stool, so Nurse Karen got me out of there having decided to look after me really well. She gave me the good news that the dose had gone and then
took me back to her place and sorted me out in every way imaginable. The following morning, she managed to sneak me back into the hospital before I was missed which was good for the both of us, for if the club would have found out, we’d have been sacked. That’s how far out of control I was; basically, I didn’t give a fuck, and that makes me feel ashamed looking back but, at the time, that’s how it was.

  So through my own stupidity, I missed the start of the season. It felt like I was jinxed but, of course, I wasn’t – I just wasn’t taking enough care of myself off the pitch. Although we hammered Newcastle 4–0 when Cottee scored a hat-trick on his début and then won at Coventry, a draw at home to Forest and then three defeats on the bounce to Millwall, Luton and Wimbledon saw us dropping well into the bottom half of the table before I was fit to start my season.

  I began to think that the lads Colin had brought in were not as good as those they had replaced. In all due respect to Neil McDonald, he was not an England international like Gary Stevens and, although Cottee seemed to get plenty of goals, was he an Everton player? Yes, he scored goals, but was he doing enough outside the opponent’s box? Tony was a lovely guy and, due to my London connections, I also became friends with his father, but I never felt he was truly at home at Goodison. Pat Nevin was an odd bod, a tricky winger, but was no Kevin Sheedy and, as much as I admired Stuart McCall, who worked his bollocks off every game, he quite simply did not have anywhere near as much class as Paul Bracewell.

  Although my ankle had cleared up, the blood disorder took its toll on my general fitness and I could not get fully fit and play enough games to nail down a position in the side, despite the fact we were hardly setting the league on fire. Inchy and Peter Reid were shipped out and the press were forever linking Trevor Steven with a move to Rangers, so it looked like ‘the boys of ’85’ were no more – and, sadly, that proved to be the case.