Sol Campbell

by Simon Astaire

  • • •

  Chelsea Manor Street is used to seeing expensive vehicles purring down the road, but there was something in the way this particular Mercedes seemed to barge everything out of its way that made it different. For a side street, it has a surprising amount of activity, predominantly centred around a precinct of shops such as a newsagent, dry cleaners, health store and the restaurant La Delizia. This is where Sol arranges to meet the two men from Notts County, in his local Italian.

  The black Mercedes didn’t find it immediately. Just past the newsagents, they were told, but they missed it originally and had to double back. The car slowed like a hearse until it finally stopped directly outside the restaurant. The chauffeur got out and opened the door for the two men. Sol, punctual as ever, was already there, talking on the phone at a table on the pavement. It had been reserved but there was no need, as the restaurant was quiet. The two men were both large in size and heavy in weight. First Nathan Willett and then Russell King shook Sol’s hand. Sol gagged the mouthpiece of his phone while doing so. He signalled for them to sit while he finished his call.

  Russell King had a walking stick and something of a squint; the type that makes you wonder which of the two eyes is the one looking at you. He leads the conversation but it becomes clear he has the skill of someone expert in carrying on simultaneous conversations; ordering some drink while telling Sol their dream of making the oldest club in the league the new powerhouse of football. How they bought the club from the supporters’ trust and how they planned to put a fortune into it. They were good at their job. They knew Sol was passionate about his initiative Kids Go Live; they talked about funding the project. They talked about not seeing Sol as just a player; they saw him as someone who could one day run the club, manage it, do whatever he liked with it. ‘Play for two years and in this time we can apply for your coaching badges. Then it will be for you to build the team. Don’t forget, we have the money. Not just millions but billions!’ Even Fabrizio, the Italian waiter, was salivating at the numbers being mentioned. He went into the kitchen. ‘I think Sol is going to sign for Notts County!’

  ‘Notts County?’ the chef repeats.

  ‘Yes. From the sound of it, they have more money than Real Madrid!’

  When Fabrizio returned to the table, he heard one of them say: ‘This is our dream. You and Sven are just the beginning.’

  Sol was beginning to think that each time they opened their mouths, he would doubtless be hearing the answer to a question in his mind. They were good, very good. ‘They seemed to know everything about me. They knew I wanted to play. And they ticked a lot of boxes. I liked the idea of being part of the renaissance of Notts County. I was ambitious for them. I wanted to help move them up the leagues, play a couple of years, and keep my playing days going.’ By the time the bill was paid, Sol had gone from being interested to wanting to sign. ‘I really thought they were kosher. They spoke of companies that they had been involved in.’ The men spoke of some of their deals and the extraordinary profits they made. ‘They spun the whole story – new signings, new ground, everything new and with Eriksson’s involvement. I believed them and was excited. I thought I’d help build the club.’

  Within ten days, Sol had driven up to Nottingham to meet Eriksson face to face. It was best to see the city, take in the ground that could become home for three or maybe more years. When he walked into the stadium, he was struck by the quality of the pitch and stands. The dressing rooms, though, needed work, and a lot of it, but with all the money, it would be done probably within weeks of signing. ‘The stadium on the outside was better than Fratton Park. It was Premier League standard.’ The club trained at Nottingham University but much of what he saw or heard was about its future. Sol’s, and indeed Sven’s vision was the transformation of a near non-league club into one challenging teams in the Premier League and even in Europe – a miracle to behold.

  He stayed at Hart’s Hotel overnight. His room had views of the city. It was immediately comfortable and he thought it could easily be his home for the weeks before he found somewhere more permanent. Eriksson, Willett and King, and for the first time Peter Trembling, the club’s chairman, were waiting for him, for dinner next door in the restaurant. All were standing with smiles especially wide to welcome the England international. This signing would signal their intention on the field. They were hungry, not just for the impending dinner, but also to close the deal.

  They booked a table in the far corner. Sol ordered the fish, the others ordered as if they knew the menu by heart. ‘Best in the city,’ one whispered and they gossiped briefly about the owner having a degree at Oxford, or was it Cambridge? And his charming wife. ‘I think she does the interior design,’ another said. Very good work, thought Sol. They have taste. Sol looked around the restaurant and saw eyes moving without faces. The atmosphere distracted him. The conversation at the table seemed unintelligible, his mind seeming to drift like jetsam to another place. Only hindsight recognises he already felt uncomfortable with the company; someone blew his nose and Sol’s senses were brought back to the table, to the here and now.

  They all spoke the same language of optimism: Trembling, the most quiet of the quartet; Sven popping up with the occasional thought mainly about football and the players the club were interested in, like Benjani and Roberto Carlos who had been mentioned earlier the day in all the papers. This sounds good, Sol thinks. Sol mentions he knows players, friends who were out of contract and could be picked up for no fee. He talks about a couple of names. Sven listens carefully and recites each player’s CV as if he knows them personally. Yes, let’s make an approach. They all nod in excitable agreement. Sol tells them the sort of money they would be looking for. They tittered with excitement. Titters that amounted to, ‘Is that all? We can raise that as quickly as…’ And one snaps his fingers. Willett and King spoke again about the company Munto Finance and filled in any gaps in the story with more good news, this time about Nike who were keen to sign a ten-year deal. ‘Everyone wants to be part of this extraordinary story. Well, who wouldn’t be?’ one asks. Again, they all nod in agreement. ‘We plan to be in the championship within five years, with your help of course Sol, and then the Premiership.’ They laugh at the audacity of the statement, followed by smiles, as if they had at least reached a comforting, if tacit, understanding.

  ‘Promotion and the Premiership!’ one of them toasts optimistically and they clink their glasses. Sol noticed Sven was a believer and part of the team. He raised his glass the highest. This was the key. Everything seemed too good to be true; which of course it was. There were clues all the time for anyone to expose the deception. Not least by the way the men engrossed themselves in earnest handshakes and unintelligible gabble that one should have been able to pick up on. But they chose not to, because they wanted a fortune and perhaps needed to believe that dreams can come true.

  • • •

  When Sol returned to his room, he looked out onto the city. He thought of what had been said. There was total silence except for the distant hum of the traffic. How he liked silence, he thought. He had never wanted to drop down one division let alone three, but this was different. He was egged on by the fantastic story he would be part of. He picked up his mobile to phone Fiona. He was going to sign. He had been seduced.

  The financial deal was agreed; a very good deal. A bigger payday than Arsenal, more money than he had ever been paid before. Sign here! Mr Campbell, the future is bright. He signed. A five-year contract.

  He drove back up to Nottingham a week later to face the press, to announce to the football world his signing. He shook hands with Peter Trembling with a firm grasp, and was given a warm welcome. Sol faced the press with the Notts County manager. He had been through all this before. He was not phased. This was going to be easy, compared to the day he signed for Arsenal. He outlined, with calm and clarity, his thoughts and aspirations: Notts County was the oldest club in the league and he wanted to be part of its heritage. ‘This club has got g
reat ambition,’ he said, reciting the official line.

  Press: ‘Do you think this club is a well-oiled machine?’

  Sol answers: ‘It will be.’

  Manager (interrupting): ‘No, it is. This club is a professional football club. It is run from top to bottom like a Premier League club. Does that answer your question? Thank you.’

  The manager seemed to have lost his cool. This was neither the time nor the place for this kind of emotion. They had met for the first time only minutes before and his name was hardly mentioned in any of the meetings. This guy won’t last long, Sol thinks of the Scot sitting next to him. He was right. Ian McParland, who had been with the club for two years, was sacked after twelve games into the new 2009-10 season. What Sol didn’t know at the time was that he would be leaving the club before McParland.

  Sol and the manager went outside for their customary handshakes and lifted the black and white Notts County shirt between them with the name ‘Campbell’ and the number 32 printed on its back. The smiles were wide and confident. Peter Trembling glowed with pride. This is what he envisaged. What he wanted. To be chairman of a club going places. Notts County would be playing Real Madrid in no time. We can achieve anything.

  • • •

  ‘So I got there and thought, okay, right. Where’s the money? It didn’t seem anything was going on. All was quiet, nothing moving forward.’ Within days, Sol still felt excited but also uneasy; an uncomfortable sensation. He remembered having a similar feeling many years back, when in his local park he had almost stepped on the nest of a bird and her chicks – though something told him this situation might involve a nest of vipers. ‘Several voices inside me urged: “Get out of here, leave well alone, avoid that which harms you.”’ He instinctively wanted to take the first train out of there but he stopped himself. He certainly had reason to feel a little alarmed. The big-name signings weren’t spoken of again. His suggestions had been ignored. But I don’t want to give up so quickly. A pugnacious voice was constantly pounding away inside him. He should just relax, go with the flow and get fit. Stop stressing all the time.

  There was something that Sol noticed, something that irritated him on his first visit to the ground: a broken window. A small matter, you would think, but something if you noticed it not being fixed, could get more and more irritating. When he first saw it, he looked round once, from left to right, from right to left, as if he was the guilty party. It was on the stairway, so it was difficult to miss. After the first week, it was still cracked. On this particular day it was raining and he could see the splashes of the rain falling through the crack onto the stairwell. Strange, Sol thought. They’ll spend money on a hospitality room to entertain their guests but they won’t fix a broken window…

  He was enjoying the city of Nottingham, though. He was comfortable at his hotel and even started to make plans to buy a place locally. His friend Darren Caskey, who played with Sol at Tottenham youth and with the England Under-18s, was helping him find a place. ‘The area was special. I think I would’ve been comfortable living there,’ Sol says. But every time he tried to relax, his suspicion that all was not going as planned increased. Nothing seemed to be done. The crusade was not going as fast as he had imagined. The dressing rooms remained ‘disgusting,’ but he adds, ‘still not as bad as Portsmouth.’ Still, if they have the millions, sorry billions, they say they had, there should surely be a team of people working round the clock to make the place better? Remember, he thinks, we want to attract some of the best players to drop to the lower league and he knew small details could make the difference. Sven had also mentioned in passing that a number of the owner’s investments were in North Korea. North Korea! Sol gulped. He quickly pulls himself together. He didn’t want Sven to see what he was thinking. He wasn’t ready to show his cards just yet. Remember, he is good at that. His thoughts stayed hidden until he was ready to share. Oh, God! He began to sense Notts County was not their first victim. He knew it already but was not yet able to admit that he may have made a huge mistake. And as he walked into his hotel, and this boy with wide eyes full of hope and optimism asked for his autograph, he thought: Whatever you do, don’t let them down. You can’t treat the fans like this. They believe the future is full of potential. This whole thought process was not helped by a visit to London when he ran into two friends who advised him to be careful. ‘I’ve looked into them, they aren’t honest,’ one said. Sol was slowly waking up from his dream. He never tells anyone about his dreams or his prayers. They bore people. He wonders if he will ever be able tell anyone about all this. How excruciating it all seemed. It was beginning to feel like an embarrassment. ‘It was dawning on me that I was being a mug,’ he says.

  • • •

  It was nearing his debut. He looked as if he would be fit for the Saturday away game to Morecambe at Christie Park. First he had to play a final practice game at the Nottingham University ground. When Sol first saw the pitch, he could see that it was bad. He was never happy with pitches but when he inspected closely this particular one its condition was awful and he knew the surface could jeopardise his fitness. Best to see if there was anything better around, and there was. On the far side, there was a freshly cut pitch. He was going to ask Sven, who was at training most days, to deal with it; but as he was early this particular day, he’d do it himself. He approached the groundsman. ‘Would it be possible,’ he was being extra polite, ‘to play on the pitch over there instead of this one as it seems in better condition?’ The groundsman looked at him and gave a desultory wave of his left hand and covered his forced half cough with his other. ‘Sorry Mr Campbell, but that one is for the University’s first eleven.’

  Sol swallows hard and lets the pain of what is happening disappear. Everything was becoming more and more emphasised. He tried to understand but it was becoming more and more difficult.

  ‘Thank you,’ Sol says. But the groundsman did not take a blind bit of notice. He was already deep in conversation with someone else.

  • • •

  The Lancashire coastal town of Morecambe had been in serious decline. Its West End pier had been partly washed away by a storm in 1977 and the Central Pier was demolished in 1992. There was a tragedy in 2004 when at least twenty-one Chinese cockle pickers were drowned in Morecambe Bay. It was as if the town had put its right hand over its heart: ‘Why us? Why do we deserve such bad luck?’ But Morecambe was slowly beginning to pick itself up again. Their football team was doing its best to revive morale. They got promotion to the Football League in 2007 through a play-off final at Wembley and were spending their last season at Christie Park before moving to a brand new stadium, the Globe Arena. The town was full of fresh optimism; as was Notts County, never more so than that Saturday afternoon when Sol was seen in the team’s strip for the very first time.

  Sol walked onto the pitch with a face that presaged a northern storm. This was not Highbury but he was here now. Come on! Things are good. We will win today! he thinks optimistically as photographers follow his every step and the crowd’s eyes turn unanimously in his direction. But County didn’t win. They lost 2-1. As Sol is having a shower after the game he goes into full panic mode. What am I doing here? I still haven’t been paid and I’m not sure I ever will be.

  His performance would be instantly forgotten. ‘I played average, and had a bit of muscle tightness,’ he said. It did not help his mood. The whole day had been difficult, not because of the football but because he was now beginning to feel like a mug. Even then, his last thought of the day was positive: Calm down. Tomorrow will be better.

  But it wasn’t. He drove the following morning to the club ground for the team photograph. On the faces were smiles from the older players, lips tight, cheeks sucked in from the younger ones. There was no tension, just hope. Everyone at Notts County was still devouring the story. Positive and forthright conversations dominated the place. But the enthusiasm from Sol had all but evaporated. He was convinced he had been conned. He would stand for it no longer.r />
  He called Sven early evening: ‘What’s going on? Nothing is happening!’

  Sven was still toeing the company line. ‘Give it time, Sol. Everything will be okay. I’m making headway with a few players...’

  Sol’s mood was becoming more and more obvious around the ground. His silence was becoming more acute. He was ready to have his say, not with a raised voice or the slam of fists. He would give them one more opportunity to prove their intentions and take a decision from there.

  • • •

  He didn’t know that this would be the day. But it was.

  He drove to the University grounds for training but it was clear after a few minutes that his hamstrings, after his first full game for months, were tight and he needed a massage. He walked up to the manager and Sven, asking whether he could get back to the ground to get some treatment. They agreed and Sol set off in a tracksuit for his ten-minute drive. He hardly used the dressing room at the University. It was really just a room to change into your boots. ‘To leave anything there didn’t seem like the best of ideas,’ he says cautiously.

  When he reached the ground, it seemed deserted. It was as if he was walking into his own memorial service. He thought about the lack of activity; nothing had been fixed, virtually everything was the same as when he first walked in. Damn it. I need to deal with this right now. He decided to go straight to King and Willett’s office.

  ‘Well, then,’ he said to himself before walking in, ‘why not tell me simply and quietly what is it that is happening under my nose that is so up in the air that I cannot see?’

  The office was small and a mess; half-opened files and books were piled in no particular order. The two were both on the phone leaning back in their chairs. One was moaning down the phone with more spirit than usual, while the other voice was cursing. They finished their calls simultaneously.