Sol Campbell

by Simon Astaire

  SOL

  CAMPBELL

  THE AUTHORISED BIOGRAPHY

  SIMON ASTAIRE

  Also by Simon Astaire

  Private Privilege

  And You Are…?

  Mr Coles

  The Last Photograph

  Published by Spellbinding Media 2014

  Copyright © Simon Astaire 2014

  Simon Astaire has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  First published in Great Britain in 2014 by

  Spellbinding Media Ltd.

  www.spellbindingmedia.co.uk

  twitter.com/SBMediaUK

  facebook.com/SpellbindingMedia

  Spellbinding Media Ltd Reg. No. 08482364

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978-1-9099-6404-4

  Digital ebook conversion by The Copy Devil

  www.copydevil.co.uk

  Contents

  Prologue

  Home

  Deliverance

  Lilleshall

  Tottenham

  Sky Andrew

  Farewell

  Arsenal

  Lost Weekend

  England

  Defender

  Portsmouth

  Notts County

  Arsene

  Epilogue

  Career

  Acknowledgements

  Picture credits

  ‘No wonder I sigh for the days gone by, the times that should come no more.’

  JOSÉ HERNÁNDEZ

  Prologue

  Saturday 17 November 2001, White Hart Lane

  It is different today. Even the man from the Salvation Army shouting out for donations isn’t smiling. On the corner, a street vendor is doing a roaring trade selling t-shirts with what the uneducated would perceive as the world’s biggest villain since Hitler printed on the front. Here comes a group with their teeth biting so tightly that their jawbones may crack. ‘Come on!’ shouts the tallest, ‘let’s get in there!’ He coughs one of those long phlegmy spasms that you hear in the next-door room through thin walls in cheap hotels, before a spit to the pavement.

  A crowd is huddled outside the burger stand. It is nothing more than a one-sided caravan with a stove, on which burgers and onions fry. The owner, an enthusiastic raconteur not unlike those we hear on Speakers’ Corner, has a queue of punters. He sweats a lot as he serves, his hair rather wet from the steam; each customer receiving a special quip as they hand over their cash. Although there is hate in the air, it does not seem to have spoiled the crowd’s appetite. There is nothing better than to have a full stomach before a battle.

  ‘Keep up!’ the father calls to his son, the boy’s blue and white scarf tied tightly around his neck. The father takes hold of his hand. Today, of all days, even without the bigger story hanging over them, would be one to hold firmly on to little hands. For today is the great derby match between Tottenham and Arsenal.

  It’s ten minutes to three. Time to get in. The father passes over their season tickets to a woman who tears off the paper in the booklet. ‘She’s our lucky charm!’ the father once said to his son, and since then the boy has always whispered the word ‘lucky’ into his ear. They walk through the click of the turnstiles, beyond the milling hordes and up the steep stone stairway, out into the open again, the green grass of the battleground brilliant to the eyes. It feels like the Coliseum today. The crowd is singing, no, yelling.

  Traitor! Traitor!

  There is a sense of madness spreading through the ground. A flicker in the faces of apprehension, of anticipation, of bafflement.

  Why did you do this to us?

  Yes, how quickly things can change in life. Our one-time hero has transformed himself into our everlasting villain.

  It’s five to three. The crowd jumps up and down, sways. Sections fall over each other in cascades of tribal bonding; a mass of humanity stacked so close together, even though they have their our own seats you feel you could gauge the tone of each individual breath.

  Then, in slow motion, they see a flurry of activity at the head of the tunnel. Thirty-seven thousand people inside the ground, and millions watching back home on television, rise to look in that direction. Down below on God’s turf, stewards so eager to turn round have to watch the crowd to make sure there is no trouble. Trouble? Some have never felt so close to war, to hatred. ‘Judas!’ yells the man in front; the rest of the row join in. The photographers are squeezed together, their index fingers twitching with excitement; today they know where and who their money shot is. They know what their editor wants, what the public wants. The snappers step forward. The teams are on their way: the good angels and the evil angels. Soon the reason for the home supporters’ anguish will emerge. Very soon. Here they come. Yes, I see them! The teams walking side by side. Where is he? Where is the man? ‘We Hate You Because We Loved You’ is written on one banner.

  Do you understand, do you realise that?

  It’s one of those love affairs we can never forgive because of the way it ended. The crowd release four thousand white balloons with the word ‘Judas’ etched in blue. They fill the grey sky for a moment but soon disappear from view, an act of defiance that would be completely forgotten if it wasn’t for what comes next. Finally, he’s in sight. Here he comes: Judas into the Garden of Gethsemane. He looks straight ahead and immediately picks up his pace. Spellbound or terrified? There he is, the man the crowd have been waiting for: Sol Campbell, the home team’s former skipper, in red shirt with white sleeves with a number 23 on his back. The man who said he’d stay at White Hart Lane and sign a new contact when his original deal ran out. He said that he loved Tottenham.

  Really? Did you really say that, Sol? Well then, why did you leave the club and break a thousand, no, tens of thousands of hearts? Why on earth did you do that? And why did you, to cap it all, sign for Arsenal, the North London neighbours and sworn enemy? Answer that, Sol.

  He is the seventh man out. It’s a cliché but he looks the calmest person on the field. He doesn’t give a clue that he is being threatened by the onslaught of venom. Enjoying it even? Perhaps, deep down, he is terrified. But no-one can truly tell. The crowd begins to whistle like a freight train exploding through the station. The man to the father’s right wrings his hands. ‘Booooooooo!!!’ howls his son standing on tiptoes. The father’s instinct is to scold him. Don’t do that, don’t join in the pantomime. But he doesn’t. Maybe because he is too angry. Anyway, it’s not causing much harm, is it? It’s just a game after all.

  But no, it’s more than that. For those of us who follow and appreciate its beauty, it maps our moods, shapes our days and for many adds colour to our drab uneventful lives. Such delicacy, such grace. Yes it is personal, of course it is. Watch the football. Think of all it’s given us: the tales we’ve been able to tell, the debates, why we won, why we lost, why is our life so good, why is it so shit. Post mortem on our day, on our life. ‘Loved football all his life’ should be written on our obituaries, because as football fans it’s true. Yes, it is true. Hands in the air. Praise be to God. Here’s another tale from our beautiful game: Sulzeer Jeremiah Campbell’s story, our one-time favourite son.

  Then silence. The referee puts the whistle to his mouth. The game begins.

  • • •

  Eight Years Later />
  I’m in La Delizia, my local Italian restaurant. La Delizia sits on the corner of a precinct of shops on Chelsea Manor Street, off the Kings Road in Chelsea. This unassuming place is one long thin room with chestnut-coloured walls and a dozen tables; you could easily walk by without noticing it’s a restaurant. People who find it tend to return. They like the anonymity of the place; it reflects their character.

  I sipped at a latte. There was only one other customer in the restaurant. He was someone you could not easily miss. It was Sol Campbell. He certainly looked the part of one of our finest footballers in recent years: firmly angled lantern-jawed face, body of a supreme athlete, the omnipresence of a superstar that usually sounds off a vibration that unsettles anyone who comes within reach of its aura. But I could see, or rather feel immediately, that Sol was different. He merges his presence within the walls. He was there, without being there, like someone walking across snow without leaving footprints. And I was surprised my initial reaction was one of confusion; the result, I realise now, of a flashback to the days of watching him play football, and although not understanding his actions, having a liking for single-minded ambition.

  He is talking with the owner Michele, who is opening his mouth wide and long, shoulders hunched, palms open, speaking to him like he’s answering several telephones at once. Sol is listening, not uttering a word. His smile tells me he is enjoying the tale, his entertainment for the morning. Suddenly Michele turns and calls out, ‘Simon, have you met Sol?’

  ‘No I haven’t,’ I reply. I get up and walk over to introduce myself. So much for ignoring him.

  ‘Another coffee, Sol?’ a waiter asks, interrupting the flow of our introduction. He says, ‘double espresso’ and shakes my hand with a firm grasp and a straight look into my eyes. The way Sol struck me at first with that look was that he was shy. We exchanged a few pleasantries. He seemed a little distant. Although I think he wanted to talk, he gave the impression that opening up to someone new was not easy. But we did speak briefly about football. What else? Every famous footballer has to go through the barrage of overexcited eager fan questions before any further connection can be made. I thought I would start with an easy one: ‘Why did you leave Tottenham?’ Nothing too testing, then. I half-expected him to say, ‘Leave me alone … You ask too many questions …’ But no, he was nothing like that. He was cordial, respectful even. Our conversation lasted a few minutes. Before leaving, I confessed I was a Spurs fan. When I told him, I felt sure he already knew. I think it’s obvious. I think we carry it in our eyes.

  After a few encounters, we begin to feel more comfortable in each other’s company. He asks me over to join him. He’s the one who starts the conversation, when before it was always me. He talks more freely about his mood, how he is feeling. There is still hesitation when we talk about Tottenham; I notice it is definitely there.

  ‘Good result for Spurs at the weekend. I think they’ll finish in the top four. Don’t you?’

  There is a pause. I change the subject, or rather the team. And he begins to talk more freely, until we reach the point where I can ask the question.

  ‘Can I write your book?’

  He doesn’t reply immediately and then says, ‘It’s too early.’

  ‘Too early or too painful?’

  I kept prompting him about the book each time we met. And then, four years later, things changed. He had retired from football and it seemed that he was trying to fill up his days. ‘The beginning of the season is very difficult,’ he told me at the start of 2013-14. ‘I want to be involved. Playing!’ he emphasises. ‘I mean, just watching the games is very painful. I used to be out there. Part of it.’

  He authorised me to write his biography. ‘It’s time,’ he said without hesitation. What follows is his story told through a series of text messages, talks with team-mates, managers and friends, but mainly from face-to-face conversations with Sol himself, usually held in our local Italian.

  He was nearly always late for our meetings by at least fifteen minutes but would send word by text. When he arrived he would apologise and greet me with a firm handshake. He did not once refuse to answer a question, however tough the question might be. Sometimes he would stare at me with a seriously blank expression when I asked something difficult, but he would eventually open up.

  I’ve listened carefully to Sol and although you might imagine you’ve heard it all before from a footballer, in numerous keys and orchestrations, I believe he will surprise you.

  Sometimes there may be slight discrepancies in events, but as the saying goes, if two or more people recall an incident in exactly the same way, you can be almost certain they got together and agreed to lie…

  Home

  ‘We shall let God decide.’

  Wilhelmina Campbell

  The street is plain and uninspiring with a long row of semi-detached pewter grey houses on each side. Some roofs are losing tiles. It is typical of Newham, a sprawling urban community in the backwaters of London. Tree-lined East Road is quiet in the early mornings, not even a chink of light coming from behind a drawn curtain. Cars are tightly parked, some crookedly edged onto the curb. In the Sixties everyone knew everyone else here, but things have changed. Families come and go; few have stayed over the last fifty years. Yet those who have left haven’t gone too far; once you live in Newham, it’s hard to leave. It’s as if there’s an invisible cage marking its borders.

  The Campbell family still live in the street and in the same house where Sol was brought up. Theirs is the most striking because of an unexpected splash of gold paint covering moulds over the door and windows. The local newsagent, Bill, an Asian with the warmest of smiles and the kindest of faces, is also still there, the cornerstone of the community.

  Bill has gone out of his way to talk to me. ‘I never forget a face. I have seen the children grow and now I have had the privilege to watch their children’s children grow.’ He knows the Campbell family and by the way he tells his tales assumes everyone else knows about them. Like many local shopkeepers he has the uncanny knack of being able to assess a man’s true worth after only a brief acquaintance, even at a moment’s glance. He remembers Sol’s father coming in daily to pick up his Daily Mirror and his packet of Old Holborn tobacco with red cigarette papers. He describes Sewell as a large West Indian, courteous and always having had time to share a joke. ‘I liked him,’ he says, assured that he has given me an honest take on his character and has not trivialised an enquiry with a mere guess.

  Sewell Campbell was a tall man, six feet four with a booming Jamaican accent. He was immaculately dressed, always seen in a black suit, white shirt, black tie and hat. He worked nights for London Transport, fixing signals. He punched in at 11.30pm and returned home by 7 o’clock the following morning. He worked there for twenty-seven years and not once did he discuss what his shift was like with his wife. Whatever is said about Sewell, he did work hard to earn a living for his family and provide a home. He bought his first house in Canning Town for three thousand, five hundred pounds. When he sold it in 1974, he immediately bought the house in Newham with his profit. ‘You have one chance. Grab it!’ he would repeatedly say. He is dominant in Sol’s story. His father’s memory envelops Sol like a tall building shadowing you on a hot day. If Sewell were alive today, he would be happy to know how much he’d defined his famous son’s nature and helped to create not only a world-class athlete but also a respectful and well-mannered man.

  Sulzeer Jeremiah Campbell (he changed his name to Sol when he was sixteen, after he found that people kept pronouncing Sulzeer wrong) is the youngest of twelve children, ten boys and two girls. Sewell emigrated from Jamaica in 1960 and his wife Wilhelmina came over a year later. They left five children back in Jamaica with one of Sewell’s sisters; four later came over to England, with one left behind due to the immigration laws. ‘The children we left behind say that we love the children who were born in England more than them, but it is not true,’ says Wilhelmina. ‘We love them all equally.
They also say that those born here have had a better life. That might have been true at the start of their lives, but I’m not sure it’s true anymore. It may have been more difficult for the ones born in England.’

  Wilhelmina arrived at Heathrow Airport on a British Airways flight. She planned to meet her husband there. But on landing she couldn’t find him and had to make her way by coach up to Birmingham, where she had an address for one of Sewell’s sisters. ‘He was waiting at the airport all along. Funny, I thought I had heard my name being called but I wasn’t sure, so ignored it,’ she laughs.

  When Sewell reached Birmingham, he stifled his anger and together they returned the same day by coach back to London. ‘Our first home was a small room in Forest Gate.’ However tight the accommodation was, she never had any regrets in making the move to England. ‘I don’t miss Jamaica at all, no way. I’m here and will be staying here until I go for my burial. I’ve always been at peace [here] and so was my husband. He never said it, but I know he was glad he made his life in England and that some of our children were born here.’

  Beneath Wilhelmina’s sweet and calm exterior is a woman of remarkable strength. The only outward clue is her hands. They are large and strong, and look as if they have worked every day of her adult life. It’s hardly surprising that as soon as she arrived in the country, she started work. Her first job was in Telford, in a meat factory making hamburgers for supermarkets, where she worked from 2pm until 10pm. When she had the twins, George and Gerald, she left and began work in Dagenham for Telephone Cables. She was with the company for nearly twenty-seven years, employed on the morning shift from 6am to 2pm, where she worked with cables, twisting them and stringing them up over a wheel. There were a lot of West Indian women who worked with her. ‘There were more black people than whites because it was a hard manual job and you needed to be strong,’ she pauses and chuckles. ‘I was young then.’ And although she was having children, her bosses were understanding and considerate. ‘They always treated you well. They never minded if you had to take maternity leave. They were good people. The only thing we complained about was our bonus. You never knew how much you would get. We would go to the supervisor’s office and he would sometimes be generous and sometimes not. I was first paid weekly in cash but after three years they gave me a cheque and I would deposit it into the bank. My husband and I kept our money separate. He never asked me how much I was being paid. He would pay the council rates. He paid what he wanted to pay and if we were short, I would make up the difference.’