Sol Campbell

by Simon Astaire

  Glenn Hoddle was keeping his team calm. Quiet words to those he felt needed them. He had worked his team well and thoroughly. His preparations were complete. There was no need to panic. No, he’d done his job. This was his moment too, as a young international manager, to show the world, and he sensed his destiny. He gave the impression he had little doubt a result could be achieved. Sol was ready; as ready as he ever had been in his still brief international career. He had the look of a man focused for the coming hours. He felt relaxed and confident. Mature beyond his years. As he finished putting his white No.2 shirt on, he once again observed his team-mates. ‘I looked at Shearer, I looked at Adams and thought, I’ve got winners here. Each one of us was ready to fight for our lives like an army going into battle. We were not going to be defeated.’ He sat there, repeating to himself the mantra instilled in his psyche by his father: ‘You have one chance. Grab it!’ Yes, this was a game to take the chance and not look back. Paul Gascoigne knew it also. He stands, then strides around the dressing room. It is difficult to keep him calm. He is the opposite to Sol. This had once been his home ground, playing for Lazio at a time when he never attained full fitness and couldn’t reach the heights he dreamed of. He could show the Italians today what they’d missed.

  As the players prepared to leave the dressing room, Hoddle shook each one firmly by the hand, followed by placing his hand onto their chest just above the heart; it was meant to be a sign of reassurance. The players slapped each other on the back and knew what had to be done. Sol’s heart was starting to pound hard. He didn’t mind Hoddle’s interest in the ethereal. He thought it fitted neatly into his character. There were others who thought it was a little weird. But there was no thought of it now. They had a job to do. To win or draw. And then off to the World Cup. It sounded so simple.

  • • •

  The England team soaked up pressure from the very beginning. They were disciplined, with each player going in hard to disrupt the rhythm of the Italians. The English were playing like the Italians. Hoddle knew his team could beat them at their own game. There was Ince, wiping his forehead, a deep cut and a shirt splattered with blood, looking as if he’d been in a street brawl; then, returning to the pitch after a long delay with a white bandage, that seemed to belong more to a World War II movie, wrapped around his head. It encapsulated the day, the spirit. He was gone from the action for eight minutes and the English support filled in the space. The noise from the English fans drowned out the Italians. Ian Wright very nearly won it at the end, when he went around the goalkeeper and hit the post but immediately the ball was at the other end, for Christian Vieri to head just wide of the goal; he should have scored. The Italian bench groaned at the miss. The game was over. England won 0-0!

  Sol met Vieri years later back in Italy, and with a shake of a hand they reminisced about the classic game. It wasn’t the miss Vieri chose to remember; it was Sol’s first tackle of the afternoon. ‘I will never forget it,’ he said, ‘it was the hardest tackle of my career.’ The compliment of a good tackle, Sol thinks, outweighs any goal.

  For the English, it was as exciting a goalless draw as was ever seen. When the final whistle blew, Hoddle jumped up and down in excitement and, of course, relief. His coaching staff joined in the celebrations. Sol embraced his team-mates. They were going to the World Cup! Glory in the draw! Hoddle walked up to Sol to congratulate him. He shook him warm-heartedly and Sol saw a smiling face he recognised so well, and yet in the excitement it looked strangely unfamiliar. ‘Yes!!’ Sol shouted, ‘we did it!!’

  Sol has praise for Hoddle. ‘His ideas were original, he was exciting to work with,’ and, in what seems like an afterthought says, ‘It’s a shame he didn’t maintain his career as an international manager. I’m convinced he could have gone a long way.’

  He ran towards the England fans packed on the terraces chanting the theme tune of ‘The Great Escape’. It was the first time the supporters had bellowed out the song from the famous war movie and its continual drone had driven the Italian fans mad; they were almost stunned into silence. ‘We won on the pitch and we won on the terraces without a fist being thrown,’ a fan who was in Rome proudly says, as if re-living that special moment. It was a memorable Saturday afternoon for the England team and its supporters. ‘We deserved it. It’s great for the nation. It’s eight years since we qualified and now the hard work starts,’ Hoddle said.

  These were good days for Sol. He was a first-team regular for both club and country and he was just twenty-three. His confidence soared to new heights. He loved his football and now felt no-one could stop him reaching the very top. He had moved forward with his life and career. Everything worked. The deftness of his play seemed to be guided by a force that shadowed him in everything he attempted. Walking without fuss in one direction, and that was upwards. He was improving, getting better, and he knew it. It was one of those defining periods in one’s life that we all crave for. ‘When I put on the England shirt, I had a collection of thoughts. It was like going into battle, fighting for your team and your country. I would think that I’m playing against the best players in the world and would love that I could master them, control them and nullify them. Yes, I would love that.’ He takes a pause and continues, ‘I think international football played at the highest level is the best. Even if you played in a friendly and it’s a mundane game, you just knew it meant a lot, not just to yourself and the team, but to the whole country.’

  Eight months later, on 29 May 1998, prior to the start of the World Cup finals in France, Campbell was asked to captain England in a friendly against Belgium. The sides drew 0-0. ‘It was a tremendous moment for me. I was the second youngest captain ever, and I was very proud.’ And then he whispered, as if entrusting someone with a big secret: ‘I was living the dream.’

  • • •

  The dream continued for Sol, and for his country. Having reached the finals in France, England’s qualification from the group stage opened up the way to the last 16 and a potentially epic clash with South American giants, Argentina. The world held its breath.

  • • •

  Argentina 2 England 2 (aet; Argentina win 4-3 on penalties), World Cup 1998 Round of 16, St Etienne, 30 June 1998

  Argentina: Roa; Vivas, Ayala, Chamot; Zanetti, Almeyda, Simeone (Berti 91); Ortega, Veron; Batistuta (Balbo 68), Lopez (Gallardo 68). Goals: Batistuta (pen 6), Zanetti (45).

  England: Seaman; G Neville, Adams, Campbell; Anderton (Batty 96), Beckham, Ince, Le Saux (Southgate 70); Scholes (Merson 78); Owen, Shearer. Sent off: Beckham (46). Goals: Shearer (pen 10), Owen (16).

  Attendance: 30,600. Referee: K M Nielsen.

  In one of the most talked-about games in the history of England internationals, Glenn Hoddle’s men come close to knocking out one of the tournament favourites despite Beckham’s infamous red card following his kick at Simeone. England find themselves trailing to an early Batistuta penalty following a Seaman foul, only for Shearer to equalise in similar fashion from the spot.

  Owen’s memorable slalom through the Argentina defence leads to a wonder goal and a 2-1 lead for the men in white, but Zanetti’s strike from a clever free-kick sees Argentina level at half-time. England put on a brave performance in the second-half with ten men to take the game into extra time and the dreaded penalties, where misses by Ince and, at the last, Batty, send Argentina through and England cursing their misfortune.

  Before the game Sol had never felt such intensity. Everything seemed louder. The stadium was full of noise, which could have been disconcerting to someone who hadn’t experienced such feral rivalry before. But Sol remained calm. He was just excited to be part of such a big game. He knew who he was about to face. He was prepared. He had learned his lesson about surprises from the Chilean striker, Marcelo Salas, who, with his two goals, had almost single-handedly led the England defence on a merry dance when the two countries played in a friendly earlier in the year; it would not be repeated.

  The ground was packed on one side with t
he flags of St George, on the other with dancing, faithful Argentinians throwing confetti in the air and passing their national flag up and down from hand to hand, each man or woman grabbing the cloth as if it will bring luck. A shadow looms over a contest between two countries formerly at war. This is when football becomes political, however hard those in government, managers and players tell you that sport and politics have nothing in common. Try telling the Argentinians that it’s simply a football match; try telling the English. ‘The Falklands is always there. We were always reminded about it, even if we wanted to forget it. It was a real grudge match, as big as Germany. We simply didn’t want to lose. It was the game that could be made into a movie. It was full of drama,’ Sol remembers.

  Before he shook the Argentinian players’ hands he had a fleeting moment of unease. Just for an instant, and he is not clear why. Probably tension. The tension between the teams was so tangible that it infiltrated everyone on the pitch, in the stadium, those watching around the world. The build up to World Cup games is different to anything. It stirred emotions that had lain dormant for years. ‘We are in the second stage of the tournament. Now anything can happen. If we beat Argentina, we play the Dutch and then …Who knows?’ The two teams pose for their photographs: Argentina in all blue, England in all white. Sol runs away in short sprints towards the box, taking small jumps, getting rid of the last remnants of nerves. He shouts out something to himself or his team-mates, or to anyone listening. There is a delay before kick-off. Deep breathing. The teams are facing up and ready to go. Television! Sol thinks. The wait goes on and on. The referee in red shirt hesitates and hesitates again, and then blows his whistle. The crescendo of noise is so great it becomes almost muffled. Sol will feel the crowd’s interminable support; more aware of it than ever, when it is most needed.

  His first touch doesn’t come until the end of the second minute. He calmly intercepts a through ball and lays on the perfect pass to full-back Graeme Le Saux to start an attack. He will continue in the same vein. He will have a good game.

  The scores are level at 2-2 after an explosive first half. Shortly after the restart, when David Beckham is sent off for a petulant kick on Diego Simeone, confetti, bottles and wrappers are flung into the sky and the lights fade from Beckham’s first World Cup. ‘We weren’t angry with him, no-one in the squad was,’ Sol says. ‘We needed to get on with it, we had to. We were down to ten men.’

  Nine minutes to go and with the scores still level, Darren Anderton sweeps in a corner. The ball flies over Shearer, and Sol meets it in full flight, heads it downwards. He watches the ball bounce off the turf and over the line. For one moment, everything comes to a standstill. Everything suddenly goes dizzy. He turns before the ball reaches the net, and runs to the English supporters in celebration. It is a team sport but he feels completely alone. He sees in the corner of his eye everyone from the bench jumping up and down. What a time to score my first goal for my country. His has to be the winner. Suddenly he sees the bench is no longer celebrating but signalling to him, hands and fingers waving to and fro. One of the substitutes yells, ‘Get back! The goal’s been disallowed.’ Alan Shearer’s flailing elbow on goalkeeper Roa is adjudged to have been a foul by the referee.

  ‘It was a goal,’ Sol says. ‘Unless you are actually holding someone down, it is fair to challenge for the ball.’ And he moves his fingers to show the position of the players: goalkeeper there, right-back there, Shearer there.

  His celebration stops. Ecstasy swept away in an instant. And now he has to run full speed to the other end as the Argentinians are attacking. It is down to the man who took the corner, Darren Anderton, who runs the length of the field to perform one of the great lung-busting diving tackles, to save the day. ‘The game would have been over if he hadn’t made that tackle. People shouldn’t forget it. It was one the greatest tackles I’ve seen on a football pitch.’

  Extra-time is to be played. The golden goal rule is in operation. The first team to score in extra-time wins. Game over.

  It had been a tough ninety minutes. One of the toughest Sol remembers. He lies on his back in the break. He drinks water, lots of it. His legs are rubbed down. Manager Glenn Hoddle is issuing instructions. He hears his assistant John Gorman trying to motivate everybody. Banging the palm of his left hand with the fist of his right. ‘Come on!’ Sol can’t get the disappointment of his disallowed goal out of his mind. If only…If only. Shearer never fouled. Come on, snap out of it! We still have thirty more minutes to play. I’m strong; I feel strong. Pass me another bottle of water. Les Ferdinand comes over and whispers words of encouragement. ‘I got stronger and stronger throughout extra-time,’ recalls Sol. ‘It was strange, I felt I could run forever.’

  The game remained level after extra-time. Penalties. ‘I wasn’t chosen in the first five to take a penalty. After that, there isn’t a set list, you are just randomly chosen. I think I would’ve been picked way down the line – probably number ten before David Seaman! So there was little fear that I’d have to take one. I’ve seen over the years some ordinary players better at taking penalties than shooting in open play. Others fall to pieces when faced with the test in a high-pressured game. If I’d taken one, I’d have kicked it as hard as possible straight down the line, into the centre of the goal. Sounds easy but I never took a penalty throughout my career.’

  England lost the shootout 4-3. The England villains could have been anyone. No-one misses a penalty on purpose and the pain of missing probably never leaves the psyche. Our heroes are, after all, mere humans. ‘We all played well. We could have won…We should have won, even with ten men,’ says Sol.

  He showers and changes in silence. He suffers pain far worse than he has felt before. He feels cheated. Come on. Relax. It will get better. It has been a spectacular match; one of the best World Cup games in recent years. Better to be part of a match like that than not being part of it at all. Really? He is gutted. Those hours after the game are difficult to face. Time to go. Time to get out of this stadium. If only we could make ourselves inconspicuous. Some hope.

  The team drift away from their dressing room, passing by people with wide smiles; faces incongruous to the England players’ mood. A ball boy in a tracksuit looks at the English stars excitedly. He is tempted to ask for autographs but something tells him to wait for the Argentinians. Sol and the players are now joined by their families as they walk slowly, like a group of mourners, towards their team coach. It’s parked next to the Argentinians’. Sol is about to experience ‘one of the worst things I saw in my time in football.’

  As the England entourage climb aboard their coach, a badly trained choir of Argentinian footballers are jeering, jumping up and down, banging the windows and swinging their shirts over their heads. If they had a wreath, they would have tossed it over. In the English players’ eyes, it was the worst form of sportsmanship. It would not be forgotten.

  ‘It was a disgusting display. I thought it was despicable. No class. Never seen it before or since. But it showed how much it meant to them.’ And now there was a slight tut in Sol’s tone. ‘I was glad they were knocked out in the next round by the Dutch.’

  • • •

  England had departed the World Cup finals in France in glorious defeat. In adversity, they had shown spirit and togetherness. But when they returned, dark clouds began to gather.

  After the World Cup, Glenn Hoddle said something stupid, which gave the press a chance to hang him. Once the Prime Minister started to criticise the England manager, the FA had no choice. Hoddle was gone within days. Sacked for nothing to do with football. The news of his sacking is followed by the name of one man. All we can see and read are pundits supporting their next sacrifice. Faces magnified, mouths opened wide as his name is repeated. This is a one-horse race.

  The clamour had started. It grew in intensity, a fire being flamed by a strong wind. The fawning was overwhelming: ‘He should always have been our England manager’…‘The man’s a winner.’

  The c
locks are ticking; spring is coming. Optimism is at its height.

  Kevin Keegan was named as England’s saviour. The former Liverpool and Hamburg star was making his name in management, and the FA called Fulham owner Mohamed Al Fayed, who graciously gave his permission for Keegan to leave Craven Cottage to manage his country. At the time, everybody won: Keegan was our new manager, the media and FA got their man, and Al Fayed got his best press for years.

  Sol respected Keegan. He was still receiving general approbation for his playing career and now he was being acclaimed as a manager. Sol was disappointed that Hoddle had left but he couldn’t have wanted for a better replacement. Players tend to get over the sacking of managers far quicker than some managers would hope. ‘Keegan could get the best out of you. He could make you feel ten feet tall. I’d never experienced that before,’ Sol says. ‘He had a passion, a desire; and, he was a legend and enthusiastic. He would always back you up. A good manager always backs you up, always, through good and bad times.’

  Sol repeats a story he was told by Keegan: ‘When Keegan was at Hamburg, the manager was not happy with his team; they were not playing well and not working hard enough. So he got the squad onto the training pitch and told his players to run until he told them to stop. But he didn’t tell them to stop; he just let them run and run until they started to groan, to falter and then the first one dropped out followed by another and then another until there were only three players left standing, or rather running, of which one was Keegan. The next season, the manager chose a team, with the three players who kept running the first on the team sheet. The rest he got rid of.’