by Lee Howey
Ipswich won 1–0 and I scored the best goal of my entire life. Bollocks to false modesty; it was a fucking worldy.
Twenty minutes into the game I took the ball down on the left wing, just inside our half. I laid it inside to Paul, who played it back to me, upon which I smashed the ball into the top corner from about thirty-five yards. As the less original commentators say, it rocketed into the net. Mike Salmon in the Charlton goal had no chance. Their team was coached by Keith Peacock (father of the Chelsea player Gavin) and years later he told my dad that I had scored one of the best goals he had ever clapped eyes on. As I said, false modesty my arse.
Unfortunately I had to limp off with fifteen minutes remaining due to a twisted ankle. I had done enough to impress the Ipswich staff who said they would advise the club’s manager, John Lyall, to sign me. They wanted me to come down the following week to train and speak with Mr Lyall.
My reply was: ‘I can’t come down next week, because I want to play for Sunderland against Newcastle at Roker Park next week.’
• • •
It would only be a reserve game, but it meant everything to me. Ipswich understood completely and were very gracious about it, telling me to keep in touch and to let them know how it went. It would go wonderfully well.
The game took place on Wednesday 10 February 1993 (things had moved very quickly). Before almost 2,000 spectators, Sunderland won 4–0 and I scored the first goal, with Stephen Brodie, Brian Mooney and Craig Russell providing the last three. Others in the side included Richard Ord, Gary Bennett, Anton Rogan and Ian Sampson. But Newcastle didn’t put out a load of mugs either. Their line-up featured Alan Nielson, Mark Stimson, Kevin Brock, Andy Hunt, Alan Thompson, Steve Watson, Bjørn Kristensen and Tommy Wright in goal. Kristensen was marking me and I took quite some pleasure in smashing him all over the pitch (nothing personal). He was sold to Portsmouth soon afterwards.
The crowd was delighted. It may only have been a reserve game, but Sunderland and Newcastle want to beat each other at any level of football, as well as any level of rowing, darts, tossing the caber, Ker-plunk, custard eating…
However, at the full-time whistle I was not quite as joyous as you might imagine. My ankle hadn’t fully recovered from the Ipswich game and was strapped up. It became worse when I landed awkwardly after a header and I had to be replaced by Warren Hawke. I was alone in the dressing room, wondering if I had played well enough, or if my chance had gone.
This was paranoia on my part. Terry Butcher came down to see me and said that I should return to Roker Park the next day and bring a decent pen. That seemingly ill-conceived wallop I had given him as a sixteen-year-old had finally benefitted me and I was going to sign for Sunderland Association Football Club.
I was dizzy with the thrill of it all (and took specific satisfaction from telling Eddie Harrison that he was wrong). I would be contracted up to the summer of 1996 for £500 per week; modest even in those days and not significantly better than my combined wages from BT, Bishop Auckland and Plains Farm. But that definitely wasn’t an issue. I was not about to haggle; in fact Butch was lucky to get his hand back. It was all I had ever wanted. The fact that it was a three-year agreement meant he was serious too. The length of contract was presumably to make Sunderland a more attractive proposition than Ipswich, but I would have signed for six months if that was all they had offered.
My trial at Roker was common knowledge at Bishop Auckland and Plains Farm and I left both clubs on excellent terms, with good wishes and compliments ringing in my ears. Harry Dunn immediately picked up the phone to offer me his congratulations. Other verbal bouquets came from the lads at both teams (albeit they were usually accompanied by requests for match tickets). There was also good news for AS Hemptinne, because to clear up the issue of my registration, Sunderland gave them around £6,000. Louis Gemine must have been wobbling with glee at this unexpected windfall a year and a half after my departure, although he never wrote to say as much.
BT would have to manage without me. My understanding is that the company is still in existence today.
• • •
My personal joy was unalloyed, but similar elation was not prevalent at Sunderland AFC as a whole. The FA Cup final had only been nine months earlier, but it may as well have been ten years. On the day I signed we were sitting less than proudly in seventeenth place and had been long eliminated from the cups. Only Don Goodman offered much of a goal threat.
Matters were compounded for the fans by the concurrent success of Newcastle. The Magpies had been on their knees in 1991–92 when they took a punt on Kevin Keegan as manager at the back end of the season. This was a quite desperate move as he had zero managerial experience. Yet it worked. By merely turning up he almost doubled their attendances overnight. Their last home gate before he came was 15,663 and would surely have dropped further. Their first game after his arrival was watched by 29,263. Life and fervour was restored to the club and would prove crucial. They survived on spirit, narrowly but successfully averting relegation. Then they made shrewd investments, including the acquisitions of Andy Cole from Bristol City, Barry Venison from Liverpool, Rob Lee from Charlton – and Paul Bracewell from Sunderland (which was a further kick in the collective knackers of Wearside). Newcastle United appeared to win the 1992–93 First Division without breaking a sweat and their glide into the Premier League was rammed down the throats of everyone else in the North East, not least by Tyne Tees Television.
In the heart of their defence throughout all of this was one Steve Howey.
Back on the Wear there was more hope than expectation at the signing of another Howey from Bishop Auckland. Dragging a bloke from the sixth tier of English football to the second might have seemed like an act of desperation to the fans (indeed, Sunderland’s season would very nearly end in disaster). This made it prudent not to publicise the fact that I had also been playing even further down the football pyramid for Plains Farm Working Men’s Club as recently as a fortnight before signing at Roker (my trial game for Ipswich was four days after my last match for Plains Farm).
I was too happy to be downtrodden by these wider issues and just wanted to stride on to a pitch and do my utmost for Sunderland. Partly because of my ankle, this would not happen for a while. But I soon felt like part of the squad. I was part of the squad and also within sniffing distance of the substitutes’ bench (pardon the expression; I have never sniffed a substitutes’ bench in my life). This would do for now and I was soon playing again for the reserves, which was in itself a lovely novelty.
• • •
As part of the squad’s preparation for the big one, away to Newcastle on Sunday 25 April, we spent some time away at Turnberry, the posh golf resort in Ayrshire (modestly renamed the Trump Turnberry in 2014 after its bashful new owner). Terry had also arranged for us to watch his beloved Rangers play against CSKA Moscow in the Champions League at Ibrox (they were eliminated). I enjoyed the trip for the most part, but it was the first time I ever saw animosity between the players and the coaching staff. Established pros like Don Goodman, Gary Owers, Gordon Armstrong and Anton Rogan didn’t like Butcher, but could not get on with Bobby Ferguson in particular. I found this awkward because Bobby had been good to me.
I was in the squad for the Newcastle game, but still didn’t make the subs’ bench (my best realistic hope). I was, however, in the changing room and it was quite extraordinary.
The derby was played on a waterlogged pitch during a day of torrential rain. It is widely suspected that live television coverage played a part in its non-postponement. The Sunderland team was getting changed and wondering where on earth their player-manager could be when he appeared about thirty-five minutes before kick-off. Quite the lad for a grand gesture, his head had been shaved down to the wood. For some reason he seemed to think this was inspirational and the stuff of leaders, rather than what it really was – bonkers.
He bellowed: ‘We’re fucking commandoes! I’ve had this haircut because I’m a commando and yo
u’re all going to be fucking commandoes too. We’re gonna parachute in, get the victory, then fuck off out! NO SURRENDER!’
Despite looking at this precise moment like someone who was quite deranged, Butch was actually an intelligent man and knew exactly what he was saying. He was aware that several of the lads were Catholic – I was one of them – but must have thought that he would fire them up by striking a few nerves with a massively loaded two-word phrase. There were some very experienced professionals in that changing room, including England internationals Peter Davenport and Mick Harford, who was the same age as Terry. Everyone just stared at Butch in silence. It was truly bewildering.
Butch’s first touch of the game raised eyebrows even higher. Under no challenge whatsoever, a man who had played in three World Cups showed zero composure when he received the ball. He had wound himself up so much that he just smashed it with all his might, much as Peter Kay would do later in a beer commercial. No one could be sure if the ball was still within the United Kingdom and the home fans were pissing themselves laughing. My heart sank and so did Sunderland. Newcastle won 1–0 and the narrow scoreline was the only good thing about it.
• • •
During my years playing in Belgium, Bishop Auckland and Plains Farm, not to mention singlehandedly upholding the share price of BT, my brother had made accelerating progress at Newcastle United.
Steven made his debut as a seventeen-year-old in a First Division game as substitute at Manchester United on the final game of the 1988–89 season. Newcastle were already relegated and Jim Smith, their manager (known as the Bald Eagle, so presumably he had just been the Eagle when he was younger), thought he might as well try a youngster or two. Still matey with the flesh and blood at that time, I travelled to Old Trafford with Norman and a load of Mags to support Steven (if not the Mags), who played up front with Tony Lormor.
This was a big moment in Howey history. Newcastle’s starting line-up featured David McCreery, Kenny Sansom, John Anderson and Glenn Roeder. Opponents included Bryan Robson, Brian Mc-Clair, Mike Duxbury, Steve Bruce, Mark Hughes and Lee Sharpe. McClair and Robson scored in a 2–0 home win, but what a start to a teenager’s first team career before 30,000 fans. It was a good atmosphere with no animosity from the Newcastle supporters, who were resigned to their fate. Incidentally, Manchester United finished the season in eleventh place – between Millwall and Wimbledon.
Howey minor did not feature at all in Newcastle’s first team the following season, which ended with that defeat to Sunderland in the play-offs. But he made a handful of appearances in 1990–91, thirteen starts and eight sub appearances in 1991–92, before playing in almost every game of 1992–93 as they steamrollered their way to promotion under Keegan.
Steven had always been a midfielder, and an excellent one at that. He could dribble and score goals with both feet. In fact, he was exceptional. Between the ages of about fifteen and seventeen he had a rapid growth spurt and this newly acquired height led someone at St James’ Park to believe that he should be a centre-forward, which he had never been. These were more primitive times in football.
Then came the more perceptive Kevin Keegan, who was fantastic for Steven. He watched him in training and decided he was better suited to centre-half. You probably know the rest. His career took off; he spent the majority of it in the Premier League and played for England too.
My £500 per week at Sunderland was supplemented with a win bonus of around £400. Not bad, except that it wasn’t supplemented too often because we weren’t winning many and I wasn’t exactly the first name on the team sheet. Steven went from struggling along financially to a salary of four grand a week as Newcastle’s resurrection rolled spectacularly on. This was a massive wage for a 21-year-old outside the top flight, and a Howey on £200,000 a year was a novel concept.
Money may have played a part, but it was the idolatry more than the salary he was receiving that meant we ceased to occupy the same planet. He was socialising with some very famous footballers, while I continued to knock around with the same lads I had known since childhood (although it should be said that I still do and will never regret this). From then on, the Howey brothers, having never been especially close, would only drift further apart.
For the time being we were cordial enough, even if my half of our increasingly rare conversations was to say that I hoped he would play well during a 4–0 defeat. I meant this too. He was my brother, but I was a Sunderland fan, so this seemed to strike a reasonable balance. I wished him well, but not his team.
He played for Newcastle the day Terry Butcher shaved his head. Our interaction was confined to a polite nod before the game. We were both in match mode, even if I wasn’t going to play. Our parents were there and I think we all had a drink afterwards. Matters at this stage were not irreparable.
• • •
Six days after the derby, on the beautifully sunny Saturday of 1 May 1993, came the moment I had been waiting for all my life. I played for Sunderland.
It was a huge game for the club too. I was named as substitute and my chances of making it onto the pitch would surely be increased if the game was going well. In the event, it could hardly have gone any better.
The opposition was Portsmouth, who were top of the table, at that stage above even Newcastle, who had two games in hand. By 3 p.m., Pompey supporters had filled the Roker End, having arrived in their thousands to witness the formality of an away win, giving full throat to the never-irritating-at-all ‘Pompey Chimes’. It was their second last game of the season and they needed four more points to ensure promotion. It was about to go horribly wrong for them.
In the thirty-fifth minute, they were reduced to ten men when Guy Butters stopped a certain Gordon Armstrong goal with his hands. Don Goodman battered in the penalty. Early in the second half, Don put away another penalty. Eventually it was 4–1 with Pompey down to nine players after Paul Walsh had also walked. It was a stroll for Sunderland. Gordon did get a goal in the end and even Martin Gray scored (his only ever Sunderland goal).
With a few minutes of the game remaining and the result beyond doubt, I was told to get stripped. This was it. I was about to play before the largest crowd of my professional career to date. Yet, partly because it was 4–1, I wasn’t nervous. I was gagging to be on that pitch. I was brought on in place of Shaun Cunnington, given an encouraging roar from a happy crowd and from that moment, whatever happened in the rest of my life, I could say I had played for Sunderland.
Playing for the team you love is an emotion that few people get to have. I was only on the pitch for a few minutes and barely touched the ball. At twenty-four I was also something of an elderly debutant and had taken an extremely unorthodox route to reach this point. But none of that mattered and I felt a pride I had never previously known. Proud as a peacock with a new conservatory. I got to applaud the fans at the final whistle, wave at people and generally do all the things I had seen footballers do and always wanted to try myself. It did not seem real. The next day, Manchester United became the first ever winners of the new Premier League, but I can’t believe they felt any happier than I did that weekend. Mr McAuliffe, are you watching?
I had done it.
• • •
Pompey failed to be promoted. They were edged out by West Ham before losing to Leicester City in the play-offs. Portsmouth and the Hammers both finished on eighty-eight points, but there was a six-goal difference, West Ham having beaten Sunderland 6–0 earlier in the season.
They must have loved Sunderland in Portsmouth in 1993.
• • •
Portsmouth would be my only first team appearance of the season. Three days later we were at Tranmere for our penultimate game. I sat behind the visitors’ dugout for this fixture, which had been rearranged after the infamous pools panel defeat that preceded the sacking of Malcolm Crosby. Tranmere Rovers were in a play-off spot and expected to win. They did: 2–1. But we played reasonably well. Brian Atkinson gave us the lead, before Dave Martindale and Pat
Nevin took it away. Kevin Ball was sent off for Sunderland – if you can imagine such a thing.
This left us seventh from bottom with one game remaining that we needed to win to guarantee our safety. Bristol Rovers were already down and it was any two from seven for the other relegation places. The final game was at Notts County, themselves one of the seven. They started the game a point behind Sunderland, who never started the game at all.
There was nothing in our performance to suggest that we were fighting for football survival and at half-time it was 3–0 to County. Our supporters had sold out their allocation and were justifiably furious. When fans of the same team are fighting each other, then you know a club is in trouble. The atmosphere in the dressing room was poisonous too, but not in the way I expected. Let’s go back a few years (screen goes wobbly)…
I’d had personal experience of Terry Butcher as a genuine leader of men and, when required, an absolute animal. He was a fearless footballer. Playing for Ipswich in a 2–0 defeat to Chelsea at Portman Road in November 1985, he had been given a torrid time by the gifted but obnoxious David Speedie. Butch’s bad mood was distended by some awful decisions from the officials and he went to remonstrate after the final whistle, only to find the referee’s door locked. I was an apprentice hanging around and witnessed him put his considerable foot straight through it. The poor ref must have felt like he was in The Shining.
Terry played for England in a World Cup qualifier against Sweden in Stockholm in 1989; a goalless draw remembered more for a mad-eyed, grinning Butcher finishing the game with an understitched head injury, his white shirt turned crimson with his own blood (believe it or not some photographs exist to prove this little-known tale).
