Massively Violent & Decidedly Average

by Lee Howey

  Ned also confirmed to me, not that confirmation was required, that I was detested in Wolverhampton. We spoke about Geoff Thomas and John de Wolf. I was completely honest with him about both incidents, which he seemed taken aback by.

  • • •

  Wednesday 22 November saw us lose 1–0 at Stoke to an early Ray Wallace goal, pushing us down to seventh. We hadn’t played badly, but Ned had a real stinker. Whatever he tried didn’t work, so a dischuffed Peter Reid replaced him with me. I played well and hit the post. This did nothing to salvage a point, but along with a calf strain for Ned, it did see me selected to start the next game at West Bromwich Albion.

  The Hawthorns and Stoke’s old Victoria Ground being a matter of forty miles apart, we stayed in the Midlands between games. In fact, we stayed at The Belfry (things really were looking up since Reidy arrived). Ten minutes into the West Brom game, Aggers delivered a right-foot in-swinging corner that I headed in at the Smethwick End for the only goal of the game. We worked hard, but it was not a classic and Peter Reid wasn’t overly complimentary about our performance. It was a long afternoon for our supporters. We had played better against Ipswich and Stoke, but lost to both. So heigh-ho. Points over performance any day and we were up to sixth.

  Having scored that goal I was keen to celebrate it with our fulsome away following. However, in all the excitement, I momentarily forgot where our fans were, as you do, and ran to the right of the goal instead of the left. This meant that instead of absorbing the joy on the faces of a couple of thousand Mackems, I was confronted by row upon row of Albion supporters who were discernibly failing to appreciate my achievement. Each one of them was glowering and grinding their teeth, the more kindly among them wishing that I would be merely hanged. I hadn’t intended to antagonise them in this manner, but there wasn’t really the opportunity to explain what had happened.

  Two years earlier, I had scored the winner against Birmingham City. Wolves, I think, we have already covered. Now there was the hostility I had inadvertently aroused at West Bromwich, as well as scoring against them. It’s fair to say I did not cut the most popular figure in most of the West Midlands in the mid-1990s, although I was becoming a decent outside bet for Aston Villa’s player of the year.

  After another 1–0 win in a televised Sunday home game against Crystal Palace, we were up to second; an automatic promotion spot behind only Mick McCarthy’s Millwall. But I was substituted in that game and back on the bench for the next one – against Millwall at Roker Park. I was disappointed to be sub again, but in no position to quibble, as the manager would be vindicated – with bells on. Phil Gray and Craig Russell were preferred to me. David Kelly was injured. Phil scored one, Craig scored four (and also missed a prize sitter) and Peter Reid didn’t make any substitutions. We won 6–0 and went top of the league. I would have looked a bit of a berk banging on the manager’s door and demanding to hear his reasons for not picking me.

  Millwall, incidentally, parted company with Mick McCarthy two months later when he went to manage the Republic of Ireland. They only won four more matches and were eventually relegated.

  • • •

  In between the Palace and Millwall games, great excitement was instigated on Wearside when we were drawn away to Manchester United in the third round of the FA Cup.

  That, the thumping of Millwall and our league position created a stampede for half-season tickets. This was the best the atmosphere in and around the club had been in years; certainly since I had joined. In the same month that we were to play Grimsby Town and Tranmere Rovers, we would also be travelling to Old Trafford to take on one of the best sides on earth. I am obliged to say that I mean no disrespect to either Grimsby or Tranmere, but there was only one fixture that the fans were talking about.

  The big day was what is referred to in the north-west of England as ‘bitterly cold’ and in Sunderland as ‘nippy’. It was foggy too, especially travelling home on the M62. The away following was simply magnificent, the 8,000 allocation gone in a snap. It was a sell-out, although the capacity then was only 42,000 as Old Trafford was in the middle of redevelopment.

  United most certainly did not take us lightly. With two exceptions, they played their strongest starting XI; Peter Schmeichel and Paul Scholes were injured. Kevin Pilkington replaced Schmeichel and lined up alongside Gary Neville, Irwin, Pallister, Bruce, Beckham, Keane, Butt, Cole, Cantona and Giggs, with Phil Neville, Sharpe and McClair on the bench. To my lack of astonishment, I was a substitute too, which I was still pleased about as the possibility remained for me to feature in this huge fixture.

  What to do when faced with such opposition? Let’s face it: United’s worst player was probably better than our best. With the possible exception of Pilkington, everyone on their team sheet was (is) a household name. I couldn’t help but think of cup ties I had been involved in only three years previously, such as Plains Farm WMC versus Redhouse in the Pronto-Plumbers Trophy.

  All was going as generally expected at half-time when it was 1–0 to United, although we hadn’t played at all badly. Micky Gray was having a stormer, but Nicky Butt had lobbed the oncoming Alec Chamberlain from eight yards in the thirteenth minute. Kevin Ball had gone off injured too.

  However, Bally’s replacement, Steve Agnew, equalised after an hour. We were attacking the Stretford End when he received the ball from Micky in the diametric centre of their half, knocked it a few yards forward then bent it from thirty yards into the bottom right-hand corner of the net. No pressure whatsoever was placed upon Aggers, and Alex Ferguson was doing his nut. In fact his face went red and would never change colour again.

  Eight thousand Sunderland fans in the East Stand went hysterical, as did our additional Sunderland fan behind Pilkington’s goal. He could be seen distinctly on television in a beige jacket, leaping around in the fourth row and demonstrably not giving a shit about being outnumbered by 12,000 to one. Whoever that bloke was, he was obviously unable to buy a ticket for the visitors’ section and had somehow hornswoggled his way into the Stretford End.

  Things got even better. The space given to Steve Agnew was as nothing compared to the room that Craig Russell was afforded when a high pass from the busy Aggers landed beside him in almost the same position. There wasn’t a United player within 100 feet of Craig, who took the ball calmly into the penalty area to score with a left-foot shot that went across Pilkington and into the same part of the goal that Aggers had struck three minutes earlier. The delirium was repeated and Fergie went even redder, although the bloke in the beige jacket managed to be a little more restrained this time. Sunderland were on the verge of what would be perhaps our greatest victory since the 1973 final.

  But for us to beat a side like Manchester United, it would take 100 per cent physical effort and concentration – as well as some luck. We had used up all of our luck for the afternoon with the scarcely believable amount of space that their usually marvellous defenders had given us for both of our goals. In the eightieth minute, Lee Sharpe crossed the ball to the head of Eric Cantona, not long back from his famous ban for karate-kicking an arsehole. Cantona’s header went straight at Alec, who really ought to have saved it, but seemed to shove it into the roof of the net. That was really the beginning of the end for Alec Chamberlain at Sunderland.

  The final score was 2–2, and we were far more deflated by such a scoreline than we ever imagined. I did make it onto the pitch when I replaced Phil Gray with a few minutes remaining and also managed to make an impression of sorts. One of the final acts of the game was when a 50/50 ball occurred between Nicky Butt and me. Having sat through most of the game, I had a lot of pent-up energy and was not about to lose out in such an instance. I attacked the ball with everything I had and Nicky, a terrific footballer who was aware of me from reserve games, knew what was coming and began to pull out. He was a peaky-looking specimen at the best of times, but any colour he had was visibly draining from his face, as you might see in a Warner Brothers cartoon. His ensuing somersault when we made
contact was quite cartoonish too.

  The televised replay at a packed Roker Park came ten days later on a Tuesday (and just forty-eight hours after our league game against Norwich, because Sky wanted to show a one-day cricket match on the Wednesday). The unfortunate Kevin Pilkington was out on his ear (in another three weeks he would be on loan at Rochdale). But Phil Gray still scored past Peter Schmeichel midway through the first half. Scholes equalised on seventy minutes. With extra time in mind, I replaced Paul Bracewell in the eighty-ninth, but the added half-an-hour never happened. A minute after I was introduced, Andy Cole, who had missed several much easier opportunities, planted a superb header past Alec at the Fulwell End. It finished 2–1 to United, who went on to win the FA Cup as well as the Premier League.

  After both games there was absolutely no interaction between the United players and ourselves. We were all in the players’ lounge at Old Trafford, but not one of them approached any of us. They didn’t appear at all after the replay at Roker. This aloofness was unusual from another club and can only have been premeditated. His Ferginess liked to concoct a siege mentality – them-and-us – so this was presumably part of that thinking. I don’t know what benefit it gave them, but it certainly didn’t do them any harm. It just seemed unnecessarily anti-social, especially when the tie was over and as there was no animosity between players, staff or fans of both clubs that I know of. It also made me feel a little sorry for Cantona and Beckham, as it denied them the opportunity of asking for my autograph.

  • • •

  So we were disappointed twice in the third round of the FA Cup. However, there was the same consoling thought that we’d had after playing Liverpool in the League Cup: ‘If we can play like that against teams in our own league…’

  It would take us a while to make this philosophy work. After the cup draw and the annihilation of Millwall, we travelled to Reading where Martin Smith’s goal was equalised quite beautifully and late on by their player-manager Jimmy Quinn, who then hit the bar (Quinn must have been about seventy-two by then, but would still play for another nine clubs). Two days before Christmas, we were still top of the league when we endured another bad day at the Baseball Ground in a crucial fixture with Derby County, who would replace us at the top if they beat us. They did. Micky Gray gave us the lead. Marco Gabbiadini took it away a minute later. Derby went on to win 3–1 and knock us down to second. I didn’t feature at all that day.

  There was then a three-week hiatus in our league season due to the cup tie and the postponement of an away game at Oldham Athletic on New Year’s Day. We trained the day before with a view to travelling the next morning. I had been invited to a New Year’s Eve party with a few mates, which I would have to forgo. In theory.

  Judging from the weather forecast, it sounded extremely unlikely that conditions would allow the match to be played. It was going to be minus-whatever overnight, the roads would be treacherous. Boundary Park is also well above sea level and notoriously windy. But without knowing for certain that the game wouldn’t go ahead, I was facing a frustrating night in for nothing. So I rang Oldham Athletic, posing as a loyal punter who was concerned about making a long, arduous and ultimately pointless journey with his young family for a game that was likely to be called off. It stretched my acting abilities to their outer limits.

  ‘Ah, gud arfternoon. My name is Mr Jones and I need to know the likelihood that tomorrow’s association football match will take place as scheduled. Awful lot of inconvenience to travel there for no reason, don’t you know.’

  ‘Could you hold the line please? I’ll have a quick word with the groundsman.’

  I listened to Greensleeves for a couple of minutes before this very polite and helpful woman returned.

  ‘Hello, Mr Jones. Sorry to keep you waiting. I’m afraid it’s bad news. There won’t be an official announcement until tomorrow’s pitch inspection, but the groundsman says there is absolutely no chance of the game going ahead.’

  ‘Out on the lash for me then.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I mean botheration. I shall have to break the bad tidings to the little ones: what, what. Thank you for your assistance. Gudbye.’

  It was a great party, and in the morning I was called with official confirmation that the match had indeed been called off. You don’t say. I didn’t go mad on New Year’s Eve, as a contingency training session had been arranged for 1 p.m. the next day in the event of a postponement, so I was in bed by 3 a.m. I later admitted to Kevin Ball what I’d done. He gave me a look of absolute disgust, failing to give me any credit for using my initiative. No pleasing some captains.

  The bad news was that Derby County beat Norwich City on 1 January and were now eight points ahead of us. In between the Manchester United matches, we lost at home to Norwich in a Sunday televised game, a game that also saw David Kelly hobble off in the second minute. He didn’t play again that season. We were now down to eighth. We followed this with a dreary 0–0 draw with Leicester at Filbert Street, another televised treat for ITV to broadcast (although there were some very interesting aspects to that game that I shall return to). It did begin to look as though the FA Cup had been an unwelcome distraction. There was some respite with an important 1–0 home win against Grimsby. This was another dull encounter, but we prevailed thanks to a rare goal from Richard Ord, who went completely la-la with joy and ran more than half the length of the pitch to celebrate – something he had never actually achieved when the ball was in play.

  The thrills and spills continued with, yes, another goalless draw at home to Tranmere Rovers. We should have won that game too, but at least there was some fun for me when I had the pleasure of nutmegging John Aldridge at the corner of the Main Stand and Roker End. I replaced the injured Andy Melville at centre-back for that fixture, the first time I had played there since the Tottenham game a year earlier. I kept my place for the next game too, which enabled me to further bask in the warm glow of popularity that I felt every time we played against Wolverhampton Wanderers.

  I mentioned earlier that Wolves fans had made threats against my life through the post. Mainly second class, so you have to wonder if they were as angry as they claimed. Recorded delivery was only slightly more expensive, while the Royal Mail’s Express Death Threat service was only about a quid a pop.

  The threats were the subject of some verbal levity, and my teammates all reassured me that they were not to be taken seriously. However, as I also mentioned earlier, I couldn’t help but notice that none of the bastards would warm up within forty yards of me before the game at Molineux. It was to be a grim afternoon for us, even if the trained assassin was not about to ply his trade as promised.

  Mark Rankine was still there and spent much of his time informing me, with that narky whine, of his idea that I was ‘not a footballer’ and ‘just a bouncer’. Don Goodman was up front for Wolves and was also keen to give me lip for as long as we were on the pitch, although this was slightly different, as Don did this to everyone. That was fine. And of course, the near sell-out home crowd were relentless in giving me their considered opinion, which consisted of a good, round booing every time I received the ball. I must say, I rather enjoyed that part.

  What I didn’t enjoy was the result. After fifteen minutes, Wolves were awarded a contentious penalty by the referee Uriah Rennie when I was adjudged to have fouled Don in the area. I say ‘contentious’ as it is the accepted euphemism for ‘never a penalty as long as I have a hole in my arse’. I had done little more than head the ball and the contact between us would not have been sufficient to knock down a reasonably sturdy toddler, but Don went down like a shot ostrich. He knew perfectly well what he’d done, but just smirked and made faux-pious comments about if-the-referee-says-it’s-a-penalty-then-it’s-a-penalty and the like. Andy Thompson scored from the spot. Incidentally, it was the only penalty I ever conceded. Four minutes later, Don scored their second himself. Mark Atkins added another in the second half and the game finished 3–0. This was more tha
n a little harsh on us, but we had missed some good chances and paid for it.

  The handshakes at full-time were rather reluctant: arms out, head turned. That is to say nothing of the handshakes that didn’t take place at all. The abuse continued until I was back in the changing room. Even today I doubt if I shall be signing copies of this book in the Wolverhampton branch of Waterstone’s. The records show that John de Wolf was an unused substitute that day. He didn’t attempt to speak to me. In fact, I don’t even remember seeing him, although I assume he was as wolfy as ever.

  The following week saw yet another goalless draw. This time at home to Port Vale, who were struggling. ‘The Entertainers’, as we were at this stage being called by no one on God’s earth, had now only scored once in six games (but I was playing in defence, so don’t blame me). Our promotion push was visibly wilting and would not appear any more dynamic at the final whistle of our next game, which was away to Portsmouth.

  But appearances can be deceptive. The fixture at Fratton Park on 17 February 1996 was to prove pivotal for Sunderland AFC and I can truthfully say that I did more than my bit, not least when I scored the most important goal of my life.

  It was to be an odd afternoon and, again, we really ought to have won the match. We dominated, and Steve Agnew gave us an early lead. But Andy Melville then completely missed an attempted interception, which allowed Paul Hall to equalise against the run of play. One–one at half-time when it should have been about 5–1 to us. Craig Russell missed yet another penalty. Oh, the chances. We had Pompey by the throat until the eighty-sixth minute, when Carl Griffiths, almost inexplicably, gave them the lead. This was really, really, really against the run of play and was such a convolutedly bad goal defensively that I can barely describe it. I’ll have a go anyway.