by Mark Ward
I am dedicating this book to the memory of my late father, William Joseph Ward. To my mother, Irene Ward, and my daughter, Melissa.
Also, my Uncle Tommy and Auntie Helen and my brothers and sisters, Susan, Billy, Tony, Irene, Ann and Andrew.
My four grandchildren, Deri, Zach, Isabella and Frankie. I love you all.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I couldn’t have written this book without the help of the following people and I’d like to personally thank them all:
Tony McDonald and his partner Susie at Football World, for their support and encouragement and for publishing my story.
Howard Kendall for contributing the foreword.
Mick, Danny and Gary Tobyn, Nick Harris, Peter McGuinness, Tony Murphy, Paul McGrath, Richie Harrison, Paul Downes, John Blake, Duncan Ferguson, Tommy Griffiths, Kevin Hayes, Tony Gale, Alvin Martin, Tony Cottee, Alan Dickens, Billy Bonds, Liam Daish, Paul Tait, Father Giles Allen, my niece Faye Butterworth, Murray Lyall, Yvonne Lyall, Nicola Kelly, Frankie Allen, Dave Davies, Jimmy Keogh, Steve Surridge, Ian Snodin, Phil King, Phil Banks, Braddy, Dave Hunter and Dave Small, who sent me copies of the Birmingham City fanzine, The Zulu.
I’ve met hundreds of decent prisoners during the past four years, too many to mention here. With their help and friendship, it has made my stay behind bars that bit easier. Thank you, in particular, to: Paul Dunn, Jimmy Sanders, Peter Wilson, Warren Cox, Andy Rogan, Lee Bonney, Nicky Ayres, Marvin Kane, Richie Harrison Senior, Little George, Big Danny, Big Leroy, Tony Molloy, Marzy, Ian Longy and John Young.
And to the one screw who helped me out when I needed it, he is a true fan of the ‘People’s Club’.
And to Paul Hill, framework director of GB Building Solutions for having the strength and character to employ me and to give me a second chance.
My publishers and I would also like to acknowledge and says thanks to the following for their assistance:
Danny Francis, Steve Blowers, Terry Roper, Jack McDonald, Anne Walker, Alison and Darron McDonough, Danny Judge, Gerry Dignan, Mark Robertson, Dave Evans, Tony Hogg, Tim Crane, Dave Alexander, Terry Connelly and the lads at Lynhurst Press (Romford).
References: John Laidlar, webmaster at:
www.altrinchamfc.co.uk and www.lusa.u-net.com
Our thanks go to Nick Harris and The Independent for allowing us to reproduce the Barry Fry and Joe Royle quotes, plus Stuart Pearce and Headline, publishers of Stuart’s autobiography Psycho.
Finally, I would like to thank my partner Michelle Hall for her love and support.
With apologies to anybody who may have been overlooked.
CONTENTS
Title Page
Dedication
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
FOREWORD BY HOWARD KENDALL
INTRODUCTION
1 BORN IN THE ATTIC
2 JOY AND SORROW
3 SLAVES TO THE PROS
4 GOODISON HEARTBREAK
5 THE KING AND I
6 WEMBLEY WOE
7 BAKER’S BOY LOSING DOUGH
8 ROYLE APPROVAL
9 HAPPY HAMMER
10 HARD MEN
11 LONDON LIFE
12 LOW MACARI
13 ANYONE FOR TENNIS?
14 THE MIGHTY QUINN
15 THE GREATEST FEELING
16 TROUBLE WITH MO
17 FIGHTING BACK
18 SHOOTING THE POPE
19 THREATENING BEHAVIOUR
20 GOODBYE GOODISON
21 WHO’S THE JOKER?
22 FRY-UPS, FLARE-UPS AND PISS-UPS
23 OUT OF THE BLUE
24 THE BIG FELLA
25 GISSA JOB
26 FOREIGN FIELDS
27 ANGER MANAGEMENT
28 ARMAGEDDON
29 UP TO MY NECK
30 MY WORST NIGHTMARE
31 PRISONER NM6982
32 DEATH IN THE WALLS
33 PHONES 4 U
34 GOING DOWN
35 TAKING THE PISS
36 FINAL COUNTDOWN
37 JORDAN’S TITS
38 TO HELL AND BACK
Copyright
FOREWORD
By Howard Kendall
BY pure coincidence, I had just finished watching an episode of the TV police series The Bill when Mark’s publisher phoned me at home and asked if I would contribute this foreword. How timely!
I was obviously shocked when I heard that Mark had been arrested and then subsequently sentenced. I don’t want to go into what he was guilty of and why he ended up in prison for the past four years but when it happens to someone you know well and have become close to over the years, it’s obviously very disappointing.
But once I knew how long he would have to spend inside, I had no doubts whatsoever that Mark would be able to handle it. His outstanding qualities of resilience and determination that characterised his performances for me, firstly at Manchester City and then Everton, have again stood him in good stead.
Mark first came to my attention some eight years or so before I actually signed him. He was playing for Everton in a testimonial at Halifax one night in May 1981, just after he had been given a free transfer by manager Gordon Lee, who was in fact sacked later that day. I’d just been appointed as Lee’s successor when I was sat next to my assistant, Colin Harvey, at the game.
Despite being shown the door by the club he’d supported as a kid, Mark gave a typically honest performance that caught my eye at The Shay that night. I asked Colin if he thought the club was doing the right thing by letting ‘Wardy’ go and he mentioned that Lee had based his decision on Mark’s size and stature and doubted whether he had the strength to fully make the grade.
Although I accepted Lee’s verdict at the time and didn’t intervene, I made a mental note of Mark’s ability and the decision to let him go ultimately proved an expensive one for the club – I brought him back to Everton 10 years later at a cost of £1million.
After being released by Everton in the early 80s, Mark went on to show what he was all about. Instead of feeling sorry for himself and giving up on his dream, he worked hard to improve his game, kept plugging away and got his reward via a non-league spell with Northwich Victoria that took him back into pro football at Oldham Athletic and then West Ham United. For this achievement I always use him as the perfect example of a youngster who showed the hunger and determination required to bounce back from a big setback early on in his career.
For me, Mark’s best qualities were his consistency and the 100 per cent commitment he guaranteed with every game he played. Some players don’t attain that level of consistency but he always did. Add that attitude to the lad’s other abilities – his strength and willingness to get up and down the wing and a good crosser of the ball – and here was a player you wanted on your team-sheet every week.
It was those fighting qualities that made me sign him when I returned to England after managing Athletic Bilbao to take over at Man City towards the end of 1989. The team was struggling in a relegation battle and not only did I need to bring in players of quality, but ones who would fight to dig us out of that hole to ensure survival in the top flight.
One of the first games I saw on my return from Spain was Blackburn Rovers against West Ham – and I knew then that Wardy was ideally suited to help us get out of the situation we were in. I swapped him for two players, Ian Bishop and Trevor Morley – plus money – to form a central midfield partnership alongside another reliable Scouser called Peter Reid, and City eventually pulled clear of trouble.
I found myself in a similar predicament when I went back to Everton to manage there for the second time, in the summer of 1991 – and I again turned to Mark because I knew he would do the job we needed from him. This time, he was asked to play on the left of midfield, but it didn’t matter where I put him in m
idfield because I knew I’d always get the same consistent level of performance and wholehearted endeavour.
I never really liked to play with out-and-out wingers anyway. I preferred wide players who would attack and then also get back to defend when needed – and Wardy could perform both roles very well.
After he had recovered from a badly broken leg during my second spell as Everton manager, I didn’t hesitate to put him straight back in the side as soon as he was fit enough to play again. He had a winning mentality, on and off the field.
I saw more evidence of this soon after he’d joined City, when I took the lads on a mid-season break to Tenerife. I challenged Wardy to a game of tennis after we’d all spent the previous night enjoying drinks in the hotel bar. There was a £100 side-stake on the match and I managed to beat him two sets to one.
He could never stand to be beaten, though, so he insisted on a double-or-quits re-match the next day. This time he got his revenge – he must have caught me at a weak moment!
I got him back a few years later, though, on Everton’s summer trip to Mauritius. Wardy had got up to something – I can’t remember what – so I punished him by making him stand up on stage at our hotel and sing Summertime to the whole squad. It probably proved to be more a punishment for the other lads who had to listen to him perform!
These bonding tours did much to boost morale among the players. There were no cliques and they always had a positive effect. We’d invariably win our next game after a mini-break, although the players had to pay for their own fun. If any of them stepped out of line during the season I’d fine them for it and put the money into a kitty that went towards our next trip.
I’d keep a log of all the miscreants and what they had paid into the fund. Before going away I’d read out the list of contributors and the sums they had raised. The lads would all clap and cheer as I went down the list but, inevitably, Wardy’s name would be at or somewhere near the top and I’d be informing him that it was his turn to get the champagne in again!
Not that he has had any champagne to enjoy in the past four years. I visited Mark in prison, along with Duncan Ferguson and my pal Tommy Griffiths, and I didn’t know what to expect when we arrived there. But I was very pleased to see that he looked well and as fit as he did during his playing career.
It wasn’t for me to probe him about what had happened or ask how or why he got himself into such a mess. The main thing is that he has paid the price for his mistakes and done his time like a man.
I understand that Mark would now like to rebuild his life and career by getting back into football in a coaching or management capacity. My advice to him would be to apply himself fully and gain the necessary coaching qualifications, so that any prospective chairman can see that he means business and has a clear intent to progress in coaching and management. If he can show desire and commitment, the same qualities that made him an integral part of my teams at both Manchester City and Everton, then people will sit up and take notice of him.
I wish Mark good luck in the future and look forward to seeing him back at Goodison Park again soon, where he will always be made welcome by me.
Howard Kendall
Formby, Merseyside
November 2010
INTRODUCTION
THE radio in the van taking me from court to prison was tuned to the local station and it blasted out the bad news I never wanted to hear: ‘Former Everton player Mark Ward has been remanded in custody on a drugs-related charge.’
I’d obviously heard my name mentioned countless times before on radio and TV during my years in top flight football, but this was a surreal moment.
I could just manage to see out of the prison van window and recognised what was a familiar route. We had to pass Everton’s famous ground on the way to the jail and I reminisced to myself about the many carefree days when I’d driven to Goodison, eagerly looking forward to the really big games playing for my hometown team. I remembered the day I was acclaimed a hero by nearly 40,000 fellow Bluenoses for scoring twice on my debut against the mighty Arsenal. And also my goal against our big city rivals Liverpool.
Now I was on my way past Everton’s famous football ground in Walton, to HMP Liverpool Walton. To me, they were a world apart.
The dreadful enormity of what I’d got myself into hit me hard and fast. Being refused bail in the magistrates’ court that morning came as a shock and bitter disappointment. It was looking bad for me.
I was worried for my family. I’d let them down terribly. How would they cope with all this bad publicity? I knew my daughter Melissa would be devastated. I’d looked across at her and the rest of the family in court that morning and the sight of Melissa’s tears rolling down her face will haunt me forever.
Her dad, her hero, was going to prison.
As I stepped down from the dock, I heard her say, ‘I love you, Dad.’ I couldn’t look back, I was too emotional, trying as hard as I could to fight back tears. I didn’t want her to see me losing it.
So much was going on in my head. I was living out my very own nightmare.
That short journey to Walton in the confined space of the meat wagon was very uncomfortable. How on earth larger prisoners could travel any great distance in such cramped conditions was beyond me.
There were four other prisoners on my journey and the awful stench of piss was overwhelming. There are no toilets on board where prisoners can relieve themselves, so they just piss on the floor of their own tiny individual cubicle.
When the van came to a halt, a screw came aboard and handcuffed himself to me before escorting me in to Liverpool’s notorious prison. I was led to the main reception desk, where I was confronted by three screws. I could already sense some resentment towards me. The youngest of the screws said, ‘We’ve been waiting for you. You’re gonna be here for a long time.’
I didn’t react – I was still in a state of shock at being refused bail, although I knew I had to try and retain my dignity as best I could and not take any bait from prison staff trying to further humiliate me.
After confirming my name and date of birth, I was led away to an area set aside for stop-searches. I had to take off all my clothes and put them in the box set in front of me. A screw told me to turn around, spread my legs and open the cheeks of my arse. I did as I was instructed before being given back my clothes.
Undressing in front of anybody has never been a problem. As a footballer, taking off your kit in the dressing room is an everyday occurrence. But to be told to bend over, spread the cheeks of your arse and lift up your bollocks so that prison officers could check to see if I was hiding anything, was a degrading experience.
They then asked if I had any valuables on me. The only thing I had to disclose was a Gucci watch, a present from my former West Ham teammate Alan Devonshire for playing in his testimonial match in 1987. They logged it down on my property card and gave it back to me.
I was then escorted to a larger room where other prisoners were waiting to be told which wing and cell they would be allocated to. I sat down and looked around at the others – all of them looked dog-tired, restless and in need of a good feed. Some of the lads knew each other and were talking about prison and other establishments where they had stayed. Time dragged on and, having not slept properly since my arrest two days earlier and the hours of police interrogation that followed at St Helens nick, I felt shattered.
The door opened and a screw asked if we wanted a welcome pack of tobacco or sweets. Everybody asked for tobacco except me.
The screw left us and soon returned with 11 packets of Golden Virginia and a small bag of ‘goodies’ for me. A young lad asked the screw why it was taking so long sort out our cell allocations. He explained that the prison was full to the rafters.
The same kid approached me and asked if I was Mark Ward, the former Everton player, and I answered ‘Yes’. He told me he also came from Huyton and knew some of my cousins. He was quick to tell me that I’d be looking at eight-to-ten years inside. ‘Get your
self a good QC and watch yourself when you get on to the remand wing – that’s B-wing,’ he added.
As he offered me this advice the skinniest prisoner came up to me and asked for a bar of chocolate. I gave him a small Milky Way and watched him scoff it down as if he’d not seen food for weeks.
The door opened yet again and this time we were asked by a nurse if any of us wanted to see the doctor for medication. Everyone except me joined the queue to see the prison doctor. When the rest had all been given their medication I soon sussed that most of the lads – drug addicts – had been given methadone to calm them down.
The room stank of tobacco smoke and, being a non-smoker, I began to realise that I could soon be banged-up with one of these lads.
Then the youngster from Huyton started to tell everybody that we would be put on K-wing. ‘If that’s the case,’ he said, ‘tell them to fuck off.’
I asked him what was wrong with K-wing and he just laughed out loud. ‘Wardy, lad, that’s where all the nonces are. The scum all get put there.’
Another prisoner approached me for a bar of chocolate. I gave him a Snickers before the Huyton kid told me to stop giving away my bag of treats. ‘You’re gonna have to learn fast,’ he warned. ‘Some prisoners will take the eyes out of your head for a deal of smack.’
We’d been waiting around for four hours and I was feeling overwhelmed with absolute mental and physical exhaustion. Finally, a screw opened the door and my name was called out. I followed him into another room where he told me to sit down. He took my photograph and put the passport-sized picture in a plastic cover with my prison number underneath it.
I used to be proud to wear No.7 on my back in my playing days. Now I was NM6982 – a number I’ll never forget until the day I die. ‘Don’t lose that Ward and always wear it around your neck,’ he told me.
