Sol Campbell

by Simon Astaire

  Lilleshall, the Football Association’s National School of Excellence, was established in 1984 by then FA technical director, Charles Hughes. As Scott Peck, the writer of The Road Less Travelled said: ‘The best decision makers are those who are willing to suffer the most over their decisions, but still retain their ability to be decisive.’ It was set up to help produce a stream of internationals. Other than Sol, Michael Owen, Andy Cole, Joe Cole, Jermain Defoe and Gareth Barry headlined an impressive alumni from a list of 234 students. But throughout its time, there was much sniping that it was too elitist, too restrictive as the FA’s boarding school for the sixteen best players in the country aged between fourteen and sixteen, and the funding of what was reported as £500,000 a year would be better served on various regional centres of excellence around the country.

  You can approach Lilleshall Hall through the ‘Golden Gates’ (an exact replica of the gates that adorn Buckingham Palace), from the main Wolverhampton to Chester Road. For many footballers who motor up the driveway, it is not only their first sight of privilege and wealth, but also an otherworldly mixture of nature and beauty; the antithesis of their own upbringing and neighbourhood. ‘When I first saw the mile long driveway, I knew I’d arrived at a proper place,’ Sol says.

  The coach picked Sol and his parents up at the station. The train journey had been quiet. Sewell read his Daily Mirror and smoked his usual Old Holborn cigarettes, gently nodding off to sleep before suddenly waking again. Sol looked out of the window, silently in communion with how he got to this moment and what was about to happen, with Wilhelmina making the occasional comments with little if any reaction from her husband or son. She wanted this for Sol. She wanted anything that would make his life better. She wasn’t convinced that football was his future but it was giving him the chance to move away from his neighbourhood, and perhaps where he was going would help to define him. Football hadn’t happened for her older son John and people thought he had a real talent. But she knew Sol was fundamentally different, that he had inside him a seriousness and dedication John did not possess.

  The coach edges a few metres forward and Sol sees the house. He has arrived. He knows this will now be his home for two years and thinks deeply that even if it proves difficult, he believes what he was once told, that only through agonies do we grow and experience a full life. That realisation changes something inside him. He feels, without the slightest warning, a sudden peace flow through his body. He’s relaxed. He looks at the others sitting near him in the coach: the parents, wide-eyed and optimistic, the majority of boys sharing the same expression. ‘There were a few who didn’t get it; the whole place was too much for them,’ Sol says.

  The headmaster Tony Pickering and his wife are waiting on the driveway to greet the new arrivals. There were sixteen new boys. It was a warm welcome, unlike the weather, which was grey; a half drizzle clouding the beauty of the grounds. Sol remained silent. His father wanted to go off immediately to explore but held himself back. Why run? We have the whole afternoon.

  It was Pickering’s first year on the job. ‘He was kind and keen to make everyone comfortable,’ says Sol. For the first week, it would be just the sixteen boys. The year above would not be returning for another week; a chance to let the new arrivals settle. So it would be just the new boys, in a large house with furniture creaking like a ship’s rigging and voices echoing in empty corridors.

  After the welcome, Pickering led everyone upstairs to see the sleeping quarters. Sol was shown to his first. He would be sharing one room with five others. It was a large dormitory with beds made in pristine glory, with the whitest and freshest sheets anyone was ever likely to see tucked in. You could smell the cleanliness. Sol stopped. It was the first time in his life he felt his eyes nearly pop out. He looked at the single bed. It was his bed; no-one else’s. His very own bed. This would be the first time he’d sleep on his own since he was in a cot as a baby. He looked at the wardrobe. His very own wardrobe. Can you believe it? he thought. Look how big it is. And look at those chests of drawers. Again, his very own. No need to share. One, two, three large drawers. The miracle of it! What space! He wanted to call out, tell someone what this meant to him, but as always there was nobody to tell about what he saw as his good fortune. He couldn’t express it to his parents. They wouldn’t understand, or maybe they would be hurt by his overwhelming excitement. He’d only ever had one drawer to put all his clothes in. He hid his elation, hiding it again when he went to the toilet and saw the lock on the door. There was no lock to the bathroom at home. All you could do was wedge the warped door into its frame. He could be in the bath or sitting on the toilet and none of his brothers had the courtesy of even bothering to knock. They wouldn’t have even thought of it. Time and space was not conducive to common courtesy. They walked in, did what they had to do and strolled out. The only ones with privacy were his mother and any females in the house. Sol vowed that when he bought himself a house, he would take as long as he liked in the shower. Fifteen minutes, half an hour, it did not matter. No-one would take away that simple privilege.

  The boys were shown the pitches and given a guided tour of the grounds. The boys and parents then headed back to the house. Wilhelmina trailed behind the group and found herself next to Bobby Robson. She was not good at recognising people but she knew who Bobby Robson was. He had been the England manager.

  ‘Are you Sulzeer’s mum? he asks.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He’s going to be a very good footballer.’

  That must mean something if an England manager says that, she thought. It didn’t labour in her mind but she took it in and wanted to tell her husband, but he had disappeared. ‘He was probably giving himself his own guided tour. Looking around the house,’ she says.

  Soon it was time to go. The parents made their way to the coach to take them back to the station. ‘I was heavy hearted when I went up to him to say my goodbye. He was my youngest…’

  She hugged the young Sulzeer. His face tightened and he had a look that suggested he was about to cry. But he had the sort of face that not only demanded to be looked at, but which was constantly changing, especially when seen from different angles and in different lights.

  His father dithered, probably wanted to say something but didn’t, and instead gave his son a firm handshake. This was a theme of his life and had already become the same for his son.

  So many words left unsaid.

  The coach drove away from the house and Wilhelmina looked round one more time. Sol had turned and was walking back inside. She said nothing to Sewell. She wanted to but they didn’t talk much anymore. They didn’t share a word about the day; not on the train back to London, not to the family when they got back home. Nothing.

  They would visit him just once more and that would be for his passing out ceremony on his last day. ‘They couldn’t afford it,’ Sol says in a matter-of-fact tone, and with seemingly no regret. ‘Some of the other boys had money in their family; we did not.’

  He returned home every three to four weeks, just like in a proper boarding school. ‘I used to see him grow every time he returned home,’ Wilhelmina says. ‘When he had to go back on the Sunday, I used to take him to Euston to catch the train. There he was, in his Lilleshall suit looking very smart, and I noticed people staring. It made me happy that he was improving his life. I thought he was God blessed. I always did from the very beginning. Even before he was born, when I met that woman in the launderette. I knew he was a gift. He was meant to be here to share his talent.’

  Sewell would hardly say goodbye to his son as he headed back to Shropshire. If he was watching the television, he wouldn’t turn away from the screen. He behaved like he was busy and had too many things on his mind. He wouldn’t get up. Why should he? The king doesn’t have to rise. He might occasionally shake the boy’s hand, but mostly it was the dismissive gesticulation of one his hands in muted resignation.

  Sol was used to it. It was part of life. Whether it hurt, he maintains at th
e time it didn’t. They wouldn’t talk about how Lilleshall was going. As long as he looked okay and seemed well, there was little more to discuss. ‘If someone hadn’t mentioned to him in the local pub that I was captain of Spurs, he wouldn’t have known. He never discussed it with me. I never told him because I wasn’t asked.’

  Wilhelmina would hug her son goodbye at the station and give him £50. She would always say to him, ‘Don’t look into other children’s pockets; here’s your own money.’ He would then get on the train still flushed with the freshness and sense of anticipation about his new start in life. He was, and always has been, careful with money. By the end of his stay at Lilleshall, he’d saved enough to spend on his return to London.

  • • •

  That night, Sol would experience his first sky without light pollution, and his first smells of nature. There were no longer any streetlights giving a sense of protection, just a darkness hanging uneasily above. He would stare up at the night sky. He would notice things he had not noticed before. The sound of his name being called out when he was alone in the grounds but no-one was there. The time when he saw a half moon and noticed the other half being just visible. Is there a hazy moral to that? Are you likely to see things more clearly if you don’t look too closely? Are things more likely to happen if you don’t try too hard?

  No, he concluded. To succeed ‘you had to work hard, you needed to work hard’.

  Having been recognised as different, a natural talent, it becomes a part of you that you sense creates a chasm. Your friends at school are happy for you because they know you have a gift they will never possess.

  ‘We were proud of him. All of us. And wished him luck,’ says his friend Edwin. And after a few months, things get better. Your new surroundings become more comfortable. You have the space you have always dreamt of; the manicured fields just outside your front door to play the game you love. Things most of us take for granted and, because of that, don’t notice. You surrender to the cards that have been dealt.

  • • •

  For years Sol had waited for his own space and privacy. Here it was on offer in a large house in the middle of Staffordshire. He had spent the first fourteen years of his life sharing a bed with his mother in her room. Three brothers shared another bedroom, two more shared one downstairs. His father, acting as the misguided patriarch, was the only one to have his own room. It would never be questioned.

  During his first night at Lilleshall, he wasn’t sure whether it was within the context of a dream, but he had a sense of bliss; just for an instant but he certainly felt it. It was a feeling that would drift into his consciousness at different times during his two years there.

  The very next day, he walked out on his own into the deserted grounds. There was an eerie sense of solitude; the breeze seemed to sigh. The nets on the goalposts bellowed. And then quite suddenly his mood changed. He began to feel the beginning of a delicious tingling sensation that usually comes from a perfect blend of peace of mind, a slight cooling current of air and an unexpected small act of kindness on the part of someone else. It was beautiful. ‘I loved the open countryside. I loved the simple things. I didn’t really realise how much until I got there. I didn’t really know how much I needed nor what I was looking for. And when I found it, for the first time I experienced a peace I could only imagine a few months earlier.’

  He didn’t suffer from homesickness. ‘Not for a moment.’ Some of the other boys were keen to forge their future, as were their parents, calling from the touchline at their prodigy, a true genius. ‘Tackle him son!’ a father would yell and the boy, instead of keeping his position, would chase frantically to do so. That chase for success, it was not part of Sol’s make-up, at least not in that way. He’d work hard, listen to the coach but never panicked. In life, people have been known to swim hither and thither, to go to drastic mental lengths to extricate themselves from a situation; yet, the more they try, the further they end up from the goal intended. No, Sol decided if he worked hard enough, success would come in its own time.

  • • •

  Imagination and desires were growing. His ambition to buy a house had already been set for as long as he could remember. But now his vision was changing. He would delve into his local paper, the Stratford & Newham Express, for property prices. Seeing how low he could go pricewise to buy a house; dreaming of what lay ahead. Lilleshall was teaching him there was another world out there. Even though his first property might well be in a neighbourhood he knew, there was no harm in checking out other areas. He chose Richmond to explore.

  Why Richmond? No reason, other than it was the furthest station on the underground from the family home. He asked a couple of his mates if they wanted to join him. ‘They thought I was mad,’ Sol says. They cackled with laughter, ‘What do you want to do that for?’ He wanted to explain why. That he was exploring. But they wouldn’t have listened and probably wouldn’t have wanted to. For them, it would’ve been a waste of a day.

  When he reaches Richmond, he looks into the windows of each of the shops, enjoying the affluence of the area, jotting everything down in his mind to remember how comfortable he feels. It is still more like a village than the bustling high street of global brands it became later. He turns away from the main thoroughfare and walks down to the River Thames. There, he passes some of London’s most beautiful houses. He stops at one, stands back and looks up at it. He takes a black and white photograph in his mind. Of its front, the living room, the hall, the stairs, the bedroom. The black and white photo changes slowly into colour, greens, reds, yellows, and the image becomes more defined, as if this house is already his.

  • • •

  The Lilleshall boys combined their football with tuition at Idsall Comprehensive in the village of Shifnal. Says Sol, ‘I didn’t make many friends there but felt I was being properly educated for the first time.’ The boys would be woken at 7am with a knock at the door from Mr or Mrs Pickering. Some would get up immediately while others would wait until the last minute before coming down for breakfast. There was always one who had the dishevelled appearance of someone who had dressed rather more quickly than he might have wished. Sol was never like that. Even in uniform, he looked coolly dressed without effort. He would always possess that innate talent of looking good without taking the time to do it.

  Breakfast was generally eaten in silence; an early morning appetite born out of youth, fresh air, a good sleep and, for that matter, good food. There followed a twenty-five minute minibus journey to Idsall, with yawns so wide you could toss a peanut into the mouth without touching the lips. Sol felt some of the students possessed a feeling of envy. This led to compromises in conversation, backing away from confrontation and debate. A retreat into a new world of insecurity, even though security for life was within touching distance.

  The classes were smaller than the schools in Stratford and Sol had time to grasp what was being taught. Everything seemed less rushed; life moved at a gentler pace. As he attended his lessons he subconsciously thought: I want this. I want to learn. There was a breadth to his learning as well. ‘I studied Science, Design and Realisation, Geography, French and English.’ For a Design and Realisation project he designed and built an architect’s table that tilted and swivelled. ‘I remember being very proud of it.’

  They would leave Idsall by three o’clock, and as soon as they arrived back at Lilleshall, they would have a cup of tea, biscuits, change and head out for training by 4.15. In winter the floodlight would be on. There would be no excuses to miss out on a full day’s work. His coach was John Cartwright, the former footballer turned professional youth mentor who developed many of England’s best footballers including Bobby Moore. Headlined in the Daily Telegraph as The Guru, he was not afraid to upset the apple cart. ‘I liked him. He was an ex-pro who understood the game. He was always forward thinking with his football. He understood what we were going through.’ Cartwright was especially keen on encouraging the boys to play with both feet. Sol spent hours prac
tising on his weaker foot, his left, and was taught to concentrate on weaker skills, his shooting, his passing. It was drilled into them. ‘It was a great education. I started to use my left just as much. I took more time on my left. I was more controlled with my left. As the right was so natural, I didn’t think about what I was doing, I just did it. By the time I got into the first team at Tottenham, I was very comfortable with my left. I could chip the ball, drive, cross. With the long ball (thirty to forty yards), it was more controlled. I would get my body into the correct position and the ball would generally fall at my team-mate’s feet.’

  But at the time it was Craig Simons, the physio, who had the biggest influence on Sol. It was Simons who was the first to say to him that he was going to make it. ‘You have a long-term future in the game,’ he’d say. There he was at Lilleshall, chosen ahead of thousands, thought of as being one of the top sixteen in the country, chosen to play in his school team; he’d signed forms with Tottenham, played for his district – and it wasn’t until Simons said those few words that the possibility football could be his life, his living, began to be real. Before then, he was simply enjoying it. Nothing more. ‘Craig understood me. He saw where I was heading and recognised my mentality.’

  Sol played right side of midfield for Lilleshall XI. They would play games at the weekend, sometimes midweek against other clubs’ Under-15 and Under-16 sides. Tottenham came up to play. ‘It was difficult, really. Here I was, playing against my own team. I played them twice. Once at Lilleshall and then once at Mill Hill.’ Nick Rust, the former Brighton and Hove Albion goalkeeper and Arsenal schoolboy who was at Lilleshall at exactly the same time as Sol, says: ‘Out of all the boys who were signed to Tottenham, Sol would have been my last pick to make it. I felt at that time he seemed less comfortable than the others to be connected to Tottenham. The club didn’t seem to fit his character.’ At the time, Tottenham had a reputation of attracting a more brash type of personality.