Sol Campbell

by Simon Astaire

  And the moral of the story? ‘Hard work defines the spine of your team. You build it up from players who can tough it out,’ Sol replies. ‘Keegan believed it and so did I.’

  • • •

  After all the hoopla, Euro 2000 was a ‘washout’ as Sol puts it. England scraped through to the tournament by winning a two-leg play-off with Scotland. In the actual competition in Belgium and the Netherlands, England failed to get through their group. Losing in the first game to Portugal 3-2 in Eindhoven after being two-up, things improved in the next match with a 1-0 win against a very poor German side in Charleroi. England then played Romania in their final group game. They lost 3-2, an 89th minute penalty knocking them out of the tournament. Sol played in all the games. He moves his hand around, like he’s flaying at a wasp, when he says: ‘We needed a draw in the final game and we just didn’t get it.’ His first reaction was self-pity, then frustration, followed by, ‘We have to move on. These things happen.’

  Sol returned home with as much confidence in his manager as he did going out. He remained optimistic that Keegan and the players would turn it round. He found the manager easy to work with and the atmosphere in the camp was good. There weren’t any dramas, no back biting. Things remained upbeat even though the team was losing. Any initial negative reactions from the players had begun to recede by the time they landed back on home soil. Keegan, at the airport, seemed as positive on the outside as he did on the first day of the job. You have a good break, he told Sol, and I will see you soon. They shook hands. It will come good, he promised.

  • • •

  England had Germany in their qualifying group for the 2002 World Cup in Japan and South Korea. They were drawn to play them in their opening match. Sol was unfit for the game after his shoulder injury at Brentford in the Worthington Cup. He watched it from the stands. It was never a good experience to watch a game but that afternoon was particularly miserable. It was the last game to be played at the old Wembley stadium, a place of pilgrimage. It was going to be pulled down. Old Wembley had become a scrapyard of past glories; a relic of better days, standing on a past mourned with the help of old newsreels, technicolour film and iconic photographs. There was a lot of shouting and reams of paperwork about who should or would buy the stadium, but in the end even the journalists couldn’t muster any enthusiasm for the idea that the new owners would be the FA. Nevertheless, this was the last hurrah to our national stadium, so the anticipation was keen; and, what better way to celebrate than to beat Germany in a World Cup qualifier?

  It rained and rained. On that soggy October day in 2000, the once beautiful stadium emptied at full-time, a fan leaving a small bunch of wild flowers on a seat behind one of the goals, where once the crowd had stood in an explosion of colour and song. The gesture left a sense of loneliness in the vast expanse, but sometimes an action such as this can herald a new beginning. It needed to. It was a bad day all round. England had lost 1-0 to a Dietmar Hamann free-kick, struck well outside the box and sent skimming along the wet surface, past David Seaman. And yet it was just the beginning of the bad news.

  As soon as the final whistle went, Sol left his seat in the stand to go to the dressing room. He didn’t know why but he had a feeling of unease as he made his way down. By the time he reached the tunnel, the rumours were spreading. It was being said that Kevin Keegan had resigned. No-one was sure if it was true.

  Sol dismisses it as gossip, suspecting someone has invented the story, looking for an angle on a miserable day by making it even more miserable. Soon the news gets louder, and now the manager’s words have reached the ears of the footballing world.

  ‘I’m out of here. I’m not up to it. I can’t motivate the players. I can’t get the extra bit out of these players that I need,’ Keegan had said in typically honest fashion. He’d had enough and was going home.

  Sol was disappointed. He had tremendous respect for this passionate man. He wanted to go up to him and help change his mind. Things will work out, he thought. No need to panic. He wanted to give him the sort of shove that children do, when pushing their parents towards their favourite sideshow at the funfair. But he didn’t. He simply walked away from the stadium, head down, towards his car. The only thing comforting the fans on that day was how honourable and honest the manager was in the face of defeat. He had fallen on his sword.

  Keegan had spoken to Sol a number of times about him taking on the role of England captain. But as Sol drove away from the stadium, those thoughts were far from his mind. No, instead he thought what a solitary job it was to be England manager. He’s never given much time and is inevitably sacked, sooner rather than later. A stark but obvious realisation came to him: the only way we can keep hold of the same manager is to win a tournament. It’s possible! We had a bad day but we have good players. We have the makings of a good team. We can win the World Cup. We can certainly still gain automatic qualification from the group.

  As Wembley disappeared from view, Sol knew the press would wail at the death of their chosen manager and then begin to guess who would be the new one. A fresh surge of optimism would develop. He had seen it before. He didn’t mind who they chose as long as the incoming man was someone who could inspire the players with new ideas and, above all, that they could believe in him.

  • • •

  Sven-Goran Eriksson was one of the most respected managers in Europe. A slim man with rimmed glasses, a receding hairline and a face that gave the impression he ate too much junket, the Swede was the sort who you would imagine getting off his deathbed to straighten the bottom sheet. He tended not to look a person straight in the eye; instead, he would glance down at his shoes, as if he was trying to work out if one of his feet was longer than the other. He had a voice that was a medley of headmaster, airport announcer and librarian.

  There was a suspicion about having a foreign England manager. ‘I was intrigued,’ says Sol. ‘I had no problem with it, other than being disappointed that we didn’t have an Englishman good enough at the time to step in.’ Yet Sven carried around with him an aura that quietly intimidated and demanded respect from the English football fraternity. When he asked for something, he usually got it. People would half-acknowledge him as he walked into the room, unsure whether to go up and introduce themselves. His Italian girlfriend, Nancy Dell’Olio, with her gregarious clothing and flashbulb Hello! magazine smile, did not make the personality any easier to understand. Still, an air of invincibility shadowed him, and there was a sense that he knew it too. ‘He was always hammering on about respect,’ Sol says. ‘He showed us we needed to treat everyone with the same amount of courtesy, from the tea lady to the chairman.’

  Sven’s start was auspicious. The team began to win again. Qualification for the World Cup finals in South Korea and Japan, which had at first seemed a long way off, turned into a series of celebrations, with England eventual winners of their qualifying group. The highlight was a 5-1 win against Germany in Munich. Under an overcast sky and on a damp pitch, England humbled their once-mighty rivals, with Michael Owen scoring a hat-trick.

  We are converts now. We of little faith. Who needs an English manager? The Swedish demigod receives acclamation. Salvation! You win in football and our lives need no longer be ‘If only…If only.’

  The spirit in the camp was good. It had reached the point where the squad was beginning to overflow with confidence. ‘We had a bloody good team. It was probably the best England team I played in.’ Sol’s relationship with his manager was also good. ‘He was always charming. He wanted everyone to be included, to be involved, and wanted to get advice from his senior players, one of which I’d now become.’ Sol pauses. ‘He also had a very popular assistant.’

  That man was Tord Grip, an accordion player who had been assistant manager to Sven at Lazio. ‘He was a lovely man who I’d talk to after training. He always had time for you.’ He had a sense of humour too. When he read that Sven’s girlfriend Nancy Dell’Olio was telling the press she was a lawyer, Tord allegedly quippe
d: ‘The nearest she’s ever been to court is Wimbledon.’

  Before the tournament, the manager found himself embroiled in a ‘red top’ frenzy, when he was caught having a fling with Swedish television presenter, Ulrika Jonsson. The story was too good to be true for the tabloids, especially as Eriksson was meant to be in a monogamous relationship.

  When the England team went abroad, sometimes the morning papers would suddenly disappear. It was either the manager or the FA’s decision. ‘When I was in a tournament, I never read the sports pages. I’d avoid the television, too. Sometimes, I’d watch the football phone-in programmes on Sky for a few minutes and they would be talking about England, and when the show was finished I wouldn’t feel so good about myself, or what I’d heard about my team-mates. Criticism, or even praise, brought up an equal amount of negativity in my head. Once you believe in your own success, that’s when you’re finished. Others in the squad were addicted to the stuff and watched all the time. I’d think, what are you doing? Why do this to yourself? But I suppose we’re all different.’

  There was no sniggering or whispers when the England manager walked by at the start of the tournament. There was no feigning of reading a broadsheet newspaper with a tabloid hidden inside. None of the squad took any pleasure in the tittle-tattle of gossip. ‘Absolutely not…,’ says Sol, pausing. ‘Probably because we all thought we could be next.’

  • • •

  ‘Every time we reached the finals of a major tournament, our talisman got injured,’ Sol mourns. Japan 2002 would be no different. Before the squad set off, David Beckham, the England captain, suffered a broken metatarsal during a Manchester United Champions League match against Deportivo. Sol felt as concerned as every football fan. ‘My immediate feeling was of disappointment. I knew it was going to be difficult but I truly believed with all our best players fit, we had a good chance of winning the World Cup.’

  The England build up was consumed with the usual ‘will he or won’t he be fit for the tournament?’ saga. In the end the England captain travelled and posed with the England team, Eriksson and the FA chairman on the steps of their British Airways flight to Tokyo. Sol had done it all before. He understood the razzmatazz that goes with travelling with the England squad. ‘It’s quite funny really. Everyone pretends they don’t care how they look on the aircraft stairs, but I saw a few hankering to find the best place and checking their hair before the click of the cameras.’ He chuckles at the revelation.

  Flights bore Sol. As soon as he boards, he wants to get there. He dreads the long and seemingly slow journey to reach the other side of the world. The plane is full. There is a large team of staff travelling. The full squad flies Club Class while the FA chiefs and manager fly First. Sol spends his time watching films to pass the hours away. And then, as the plane approaches Japan and the passengers are asked to fasten their seatbelts, he meditates on what is about to happen. That perhaps he is nearing his dream. Everybody who has ever kicked a football dreams that one day they will lift the World Cup. The future is golden. He knows he is in top physical, mental and emotional condition, in order to summon up all the forces necessary to win. The unique chemistry of mind and soul is ready. He’s never been so ready.

  • • •

  It’s England v Sweden, the first game in Group F, in Saitama. After 24 minutes, David Beckham whips in a corner and Sol rises like a dolphin leaping from the sea. GOOAALLLL!!! Poetry at any time. His first international goal! A great cheer went up to the heavens.

  This time there is no question. The goal is given and Sol darts away, as if a cell door has suddenly opened. He is in intense celebration, and is followed by Rio Ferdinand clambering over his shoulders. The World Cup has truly begun. As the whistle blows to restart the game, his heart soars and he thinks not only has he scored his first goal for England but he has scored in the World Cup, the most important tournament on the planet. What makes Sol happy? This is what makes him happy! The pleasure of it lapped sweetly at his mind. His name was in the history books, and this time, no-one could take it away. ‘The relief that I had actually scored for England was so powerful. I’d been waiting for that for a long time.’

  The game eventually ended in a 1-1 draw. When he looked up at the scoreboard he felt a pang of regret that the team had not gone on to win. But in the World Cup, the cardinal rule is don’t lose your first game, so things weren’t so bad. There was a sense of relief that they were off and running. England had a great chance. Now it was on to Sapporo and a little matter of revenge.

  • • •

  Argentina 0 England 1, Group F, World Cup 2002, Sapporo Dome, 7 June 2002

  Argentina: Cavallero, Pochettino, Samuel, Placente, Zanetti, Simeone, Veron (Aimar 45), Sorin, Ortega, Batistuta (Crespo 60), Gonzalez (Lopez 64). Subs Not Used: Almeyda, Ayala, Bonano, Burgos, Caniggia, Chamot, Gallardo, Husain, Lopez.

  England: Seaman, Mills, Cole A, Ferdinand, Campbell, Beckham, Scholes, Butt, Hargreaves (Sinclair 19), Owen (Bridge 80), Heskey (Sheringham 56). Subs Not Used: Brown, Cole J, Dyer, Fowler, James, Keown, Martyn, Southgate, Vassell. Goals: Beckham (pen 44).

  Attendance: 35,927. Referee: Pierluigi Collina.

  Revenge is so sweet. England put the pain and hurt of St Etienne behind them with a stirring victory against their nemesis. And who better to score the winning goal than David Beckham? Michael Owen is tripped in the penalty area just before half-time and up steps the ‘villain’ of ’98 to shoot emphatically past Cavallero from the spot. Spirited defending by Campbell and Ferdinand and a series of outstanding saves from Seaman keep the Argentines at bay, and suddenly the so-called ‘Group of Death’ looks a lot easier.

  ‘When you put on that jersey, the name on the front is more important than the name on the back.’

  From the film Miracle, 2004

  It was on his mind, there was no denying it: the Argentines’ truculent behaviour on their team bus four years before. ‘We didn’t exactly go around talking to each other about it, but those of us who were there carried it inside; it was unspoken. There was certainly a feeling of revenge. And of course, it was Argentina that drummed up an assortment of emotions.’

  The draw in the first match made the Argentina game even more important. The Argentinians held no fear for Sol. The philosophy of facing strong opposition is simple. There is no foregone conclusion in any game of sport. There can be no competition without competitors, right? For the team to win, there must be a team to beat. Simple, right? Good, let’s get on with it.

  Sol and Rio Ferdinand were told to mark Batistuta. They did it well enough. He was substituted on the hour. Rio and Sol had forged a partnership that had grown stronger every time they played together. ‘We were both good readers of the game. Maybe it’s because we were both Londoners.’ Sol shrugs his shoulders. ‘I suppose it was,’ and goes in search of a word. ‘It was natural.’

  The game began as if it was following straight on from the match four years before. Kily Gonzales had a wonderful chance but shot just wide from an exquisite set up from a Sorin backheel, and then Michael Owen broke free from a Nicky Butt long ball but hit the post. Beckham, minutes later, was virtually sliced in half but referee Pierluigi Collina played the advantage, only for the ball to fall to Michael Owen who was brought down in the box. Penalty! The guilty Argentinian shoos the bald referee away with the shake of his index finger but to no avail; Collina ignores his plea of innocence, and the ball is placed on the penalty spot.

  Beckham steps forward for England. Who else? The captain. A world star. For God and country. These are the moments for the likes of him. He thinks about where he is going to strike the ball. So much strength and passion urging him to get it right. It comes from inside the stadium and from the other side of the world. A collective surge of spirit. He has to score and he does. Sol watches from just inside the Argentinian half, just in case the ball ricochets back and an attack is launched. ‘I watched the ball hit the middle of net.’ He then sprints over to the corner flag to join Beckham in
celebration. One-nil to England. The main protagonists from the game four years earlier celebrate, if it’s possible, more than anyone else. To all those critics with such little faith: we are England and for a beautiful moment we are the best team in the world.

  The final minutes of the game ended with the inevitable onslaught from the Argentines. England had the chance to wrap it up with a Scholes shot and a Sheringham volley but failed to do so. A last-minute clearance off the line from goalkeeper David Seaman confirmed it was England’s day. Many times that would have gone in, ruined everything, but this time it doesn’t. The final whistle goes. Sol is ecstatic. ‘We still had a chance to make the names on the pitch immortal. We were all beginning to believe.’ Dreams were merging into reality.

  England drew their next game with Nigeria 0-0 in Osaka. They only needed a point and without much trouble they got it. It was a game that seemed to be played in a half-sleep. ‘We were getting tired. It wasn’t just the weather, it was what goes on in here.’ Sol points to his head. ‘These tournaments are such a psychological grind, every part of you is tested.’

  The draw left England second in the group and into the last 16 to face Denmark. But already there were regrets, that if they had beaten Nigeria they could have avoided a potential match against Brazil in the quarter-finals – assuming the Brazilians beat the Belgians. They did, 2-0. As for England against Denmark in Niigata, Ferdinand scored early from a Beckham corner and then Owen made it two. The match commentator was delirious: ‘What an opportunity we have now!’ not quite believing that we were heading to the quarter-finals. England scored again and it was 3-0 at the final whistle. On to Brazil.