Hammered

by Mark Ward

  I remember the look of pride and joy on Dad’s face as I signed my first Everton contract in front of Jim Greenwood, the club secretary. He was beaming – little was he to know that, just an hour later, our whole world would be turned upside down.

  I’d been full of excitement on the return bus journey and couldn’t wait to get home and tell Mum what it was like behind the scenes at Goodison, to be part of the inner sanctum. But, strangely, when we arrived back at the house, she wasn’t there to greet us.

  As Dad walked straight into the kitchen to put the kettle on, I noticed an envelope on top of the mantelpiece with ‘Billy’ written on it. I picked it up and gave it to Dad without even thinking – I assumed it was probably just a note from Mum to say that she had gone shopping.

  As I sat in front of the telly, dreaming about the future … playing in front of massive crowds and scoring in the Merseyside derby … I felt a tap on the shoulder. With tears running down his face, Dad passed me the letter. And as I read Mum’s words, I realised the enormity of what she had written.

  She was apologising for leaving him and their children. Dad and I looked at each other and we started to cry, not wanting to believe the terrible truth that the most important woman in both our lives had left us.

  Dad adored Mum but, looking back on their time together, I don’t think she could cope with him anymore. The relationship between my parents was volatile at times, due mainly to Dad’s insane jealousy. It was a terrible disease of his mind and he couldn’t control it. He was never violent towards Mum but he constantly accused her of being disloyal when, in truth, she hardly went anywhere without him. I loved the pair of them dearly.

  He was devastated by the break-up and, because of the hurt it caused him, I took Dad’s side. In fact, I never spoke to Mum again for 16 years.

  But there was never any doubt that she loved her seven kids. Just six months after moving to Wolverhampton, she decided to return to Liverpool – with another man. Dad went crazy. I remember him screaming all sorts of threats one night after he’d found out she was living back in Liverpool with a new partner. He was making verbal threats to kill Mum’s boyfriend – and he meant it.

  Even though I was just 16, Billy 15 and Tony 13, the next day we made a point of warning Mum’s boyfriend – I never did find out his name – to get out of town or else he’d definitely come to some serious harm. When we barged past Mum at her front door, her new partner sat there on the sofa. I just blurted it out: ‘Do yourself the biggest favour, mate. Get out of Liverpool before my father gets you.’

  Mum was shouting and screaming but the three of us just walked straight past her and out through the front of the house, hoping we’d done enough to convince her new man to see sense. And thankfully he did. He moved out the next day and Mum followed him to start a new life together in the Wolverhampton area, where she still lives today.

  Dad passed away in 1988, aged 52. It was a heart attack that killed him but I’ve always maintained that he really died of a broken heart, because he never got over losing Mum. I don’t blame her at all, though. That’s life, many couples divorce – I’ve been there myself – and if it hadn’t been for certain flaws in their relationship, who knows, they might still have been together today.

  I’ll never forget, though, the stark contrast of emotions Dad felt on the day his eldest son signed for his beloved Everton. How, one minute, he was the proudest man in the whole of Liverpool and, just an hour later, he found out he’d lost the only woman he ever loved. Why she chose that day of all days to leave, I’ll never know. Mum told me years later that, with Dad out of the house and on his way to Goodison with me, she had an unexpected opportunity to leave. Feeling as desperate as she did at the time, she said it was a chance she simply had to take.

  Her leaving the family home affected us all. My sisters, Susan, Irene and Ann, eventually set up home in Wolverhampton with Mum, while Billy, Tony, Andrew and myself stayed with Dad in Liverpool. From being a very close-knit family, the break-up of our parents also split us right down the middle. It knocked me for six at first.

  Dad was a broken man but he cared about my future and gave me one bit of sensible advice: ‘Just concentrate on being a winner and give it your best shot at becoming a footballer,’ he told me. An old saying of his was: ‘Quitters never win and winners never quit.’ How right he was.

  It was unbearable, at times, to hear him crying at night after coming home drunk from the pub again. I felt helpless, as most kids do when their parents split up. I think it did affect my football for a while but I was so determined to succeed in the game, I had to think of myself and try and forget about the troubles at home.

  3. SLAVES TO THE PROS

  ALTHOUGH I was at the bottom of the ladder and knew I had a mountain to climb, I was on my way. The summer of ’79 was to be one of sheer hard work. I was still very small and needed to work on building up my strength in the battle to make the grade.

  I was taken to Huyton Leisure Centre by Les Jones, my sister’s boyfriend, who worked out regularly with me and over the next eight weeks I developed muscles that appeared from nowhere. It was hard going but I was determined to give myself every possible chance of making it at Everton.

  The club took on 12 new apprentices that year. The most notable, and the two who became the biggest stars for the Toffees in later years, were Gary Stevens and Kevin Richardson. When we all got together, I was as good as, if not better, than them technically. It was just my stature that caused others to doubt whether I’d make it and it was for that reason that I didn’t get through trials for both England and Liverpool Schoolboys.

  To be fair, the FA coaches at Lilleshall encouraged me at the end of the trials by saying that I’d bypass a lot of the taller, more powerful lads during the growing process. Tommy Caton, who went on to play for Manchester City, was also at the England trials and, even at 14, he looked like a fully developed adult. The scouts and management of Liverpool Schoolboys saw what I could do when I scored the winner against their team while playing for St Helens Schoolboys.

  Gary Stevens was a big, powerful lad, the 200m, 400m and 800m champion of Cumbria. Kevin was also strong and I struck up a good relationship with this likeable Geordie. Although we were all team-mates playing in the ‘A’ and ‘B’ Central League teams, we were also competing with each other for a professional contract in the months ahead.

  Mind you, the job of an apprentice footballer in the early 80s gave you no time to rest on your laurels. Not only did we have to train and play matches, but there were a number of menial chores that had to be finished each day – as slaves to the older professionals. It was a tough regime that would either make or break you. There was no youth academy set-up like those which exists at all top clubs today. Apprentices were part of a feudal system in which young players were ritually bullied and verbally abused by senior pros.

  The apprentices and young professionals had their own dressing room and each apprentice was allocated a number of first team players to serve on demand. Among the group of players I had to care for was Andy King, the club’s star midfielder. Cockney ‘Kingy’, a fine player and a crowd favourite, took a shine to me and instead of bullying me would want me to tend to his needs.

  Everton were not a brilliant side at that time but they had some good players. Bob Latchford scored goals for fun, Dave Thomas was the winger I admired, Asa Hartford was the heartbeat in midfield and Steve McMahon, who I’d played with at Everton in the ‘A’ and ‘B’ teams, was challenging for a starting place in the first XI.

  Our duties included cleaning boots, showers, toilets, dressing rooms and anything the pros asked us to do. The senior players commanded respect and the treatment they dished out to the youngsters at their beck and call would not be tolerated today.

  At Christmas, each apprentice was stripped naked and a pair of football socks stretched over their eyes to form a blindfold. The entertainment was provided by two apprentices who were ordered to fight blindfolded in front of
the senior pros. As the fight was in progress, the pros would smear each youngster in boot polish. When the fight had ended, the blindfolds were removed and then the duo had to further entertain the first-teamers with a Christmas song.

  I remember it being a very humiliating experience but this initiation ceremony was part of becoming a footballer and had been for many years. It was regarded as a test of character. Intimidation was all part of the process.

  It was all a question of respect and knowing your place. If you disrespected a senior player, the older pros had a way of dealing with you among themselves. At the end of the training session they would capture the cheeky upstart, strip him naked and make him gather up all the balls that had been used in that morning’s training session – and there would be at least 40 to 50 footballs to collect, depending on the severity of sentence. I witnessed one of my fellow apprentices being tied to a tree, with not a stitch on, and having to suffer the pain of having a number of players fire balls at him.

  It was a question of respect. I was always mindful to knock on the door of the first team’s dressing room before entering to gather up all their sweaty kit, which was always scattered everywhere. I remember once picking up the last sock and then being set upon. In the shower area there were two huge baths, one filled with cold water that was used as a cold plunge for the players after their sauna.

  I was picked up and thrown, head-first, into the icy water, followed swiftly by all the kit I’d just collected up off the dressing room floor. Two or three of the players stood guard while I shivered in the water. My next problem was getting all the kit dry in time for the players’ afternoon training session. I always managed to survive the intimidation process, although it helped that star midfielders Andy King and Asa Hartford both took me under their wing.

  Kingy become a law unto himself at times. He was routinely late for training once or twice a week – he wouldn’t have lasted five minutes in today’s game – but he was a character as well as a great footballer. He once approached me half an hour before kick-off at Goodison. He took me outside the dressing room, stuffed £200 in my hand and told me to put it on a horse. I tried explaining to him that if I got caught leaving the ground, I’d be in big trouble. He just shrugged his shoulders and said: ‘Not to worry, I’ll sort it out.’

  I rushed across to Stanley bookmakers and, with what seemed to me like an enormous amount of money in my hand, wrote the name of his horse on the slip and pushed it towards the woman at the till. She looked at me bemused and asked: ‘Is this your money, son?’

  I told her straight: ‘No, it’s Andy King’s – the Everton player.’ There were hundreds in the betting shop at that time and at first I didn’t think she was going to accept the bet. But, thankfully, she put the slip through the machine and I took off clutching the bet receipt and managed to get back inside the stadium unnoticed just before kick-off.

  This was to become a regular occurrence but Kingy looked after me with a tenner here and there. In fact, I’d earn more for putting on a bet for him than I did as an apprentice footballer. My weekly wage was £16 per week. The club gave the household where you lived £25 towards your food and upkeep, so you were always well fed.

  Gaining the trust of the senior players made me feel good. One afternoon Scottish international Asa Hartford sent me to the passport office in Liverpool and rewarded me for the errand with £20, which was a lot of money to me at that time.

  Being close to the players and watching them train and play only made me want to become a footballer even more. It was a tough baptism, though, and my cause wasn’t helped when I picked up a back injury that put me out of action for four months. It was a massive setback, as I had to impress manager Gordon Lee and his staff by the end of the season in order to earn the full-time professional contract I craved. I had a trapped nerve – sciatica was diagnosed – and it was as if I didn’t exist anymore. When you’re injured, you are useless to the club.

  My injury eventually cleared up, though, and I travelled to Holland with the youth team to take part in the Groningen under-19s international youth tournament. I knew it would have an important bearing on my future at Everton, so I was determined to play well and put the months spent recovering from my back injury behind me.

  It was a truly big tournament featuring clubs such as FC Hamburg, Sparta Rotterdam and PSV Eindhoven, to name just a few. I loved the atmosphere and build-up to the games and was starting to believe in myself more and more as we progressed through the competition. Our team was full of future Everton stars: Gary Stevens, Graeme Sharp, Steve McMahon and Kevin Richardson. Kevin Ratcliffe was due to travel with us but had to withdraw because he had first team commitments with Everton and was also selected for Wales in the Home International Championships.

  I played on the right-wing in every game in which we achieved one draw and four victories to earn a place in the final against the mighty PSV. Despite dominating the game, we struggled to score against the Dutch, who managed to make it 1-1 with their only shot of the game. We’d played so many matches in such a short period of time that the players were very tired.

  With only a few minutes remaining in the second period of extra-time, something inside my head told me to chase what seemed like a lost cause. The PSV defender was running back towards his own goal and I was just hoping he’d make a mistake – and he did. He tried to nudge the ball back to his keeper but under-hit his pass. I seized on it in a flash and buried the ball into the net.

  I was surrounded by my jubilant team-mates and before we knew it, the whistle blew and we’d won the tournament. I’d scored the winner. How fortunes can change so quickly in football. Unbelievably, I was voted player of the tournament. I’d been picked out ahead of some brilliant players. It was quite an achievement and I thought this was just what I needed if I was to earn a full-time contract.

  That night, I remember getting drunk for the very first time and how I suffered for it afterwards. After our victory we were allowed out to celebrate and the lads ended up in a lively bar, where I drank a small glass of cold beer that I didn’t much like the taste of. Inevitably, I was pissed within the hour and, along with a couple of the other lads, was in a terrible state by the time we got back to the hotel, where I became violently sick.

  Arriving back in Liverpool the next day, somewhat hungover, it was great to hear our success being reported on radio and television. And my personal award meant I found myself in the limelight for the first time. The press came to our house and it was well documented in reports that Everton’s future was in good hands with young players of the calibre of Steve McMahon (who made his first team debut in the opening game of the following season), Gary Stevens, Graeme Sharp and Kevin Richardson – and I was being mentioned along with them.

  When Everton played Nottingham Forest at home at the start of the 1980-81 campaign, I was thrilled to be pictured on the front cover of the match day programme along with some of my team-mates from the Groningen tournament, plus youth development officer Ray Minshull and coach Graham Smith. And there, on page 3, was a photo of me holding my player of the tournament trophy alongside a decent write-up of our victory.

  As well as Ray and Graham, I should also give credit to the efforts of Ray Deakin, who became my youth coach. He gave me so much sound advice and encouragement in my first spell at Goodison, making me realise that, due to my size and weight disadvantage, I had to go into every tackle twice as hard as my opponent. I was saddened to hear that he died of cancer on Christmas Eve 2008, aged just 49.

  If it hadn’t been for my performances in the Dutch tournament in the summer of 1980, I don’t think Everton would have offered me a full-time contract as a professional. But they did and Dad was made up. Not that there was any chance of him allowing my success to go to my head. He would knock me back down by saying things like ‘don’t get carried away’ and ‘you still have such a long way to go.’

  Once again, he was dead right.

  4. GOODISON HEARTBREAK

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sp; EVERTON became a poor team under manager Gordon Lee, who came in for plenty of stick from the press. I witnessed at first hand how he had lost the dressing room and failed to control certain players. Even at that young age I realised none of the senior pros respected him. And no-one undermined Lee’s authority more than Andy King, our prolific goal scoring midfielder, who really gave the beleaguered manager the run-around towards the end of his first spell at Goodison.

  Looking back, Kingy was a total rebel and, as his apprentice and the one responsible for cleaning his boots, I had a bird’s eye view of his antics.

  The other players would be halfway through their warm-up when you’d hear the screech of Kingy’s brakes as he belted in to Bellefield – late, as usual. And then, as he emerged from his car, I’d hear that familiar voice: ‘Wardy, come here.’ I’d jog towards him as he began to undress while walking from the car park to the changing rooms.

  ‘What’s going on? What’s being said?’ he’d ask me.

  As usual, I’d ensure his kit was laid out neatly for him on arrival. Half the time he’d still be drunk from the night before but he wasn’t bothered. A very talented attacking midfielder who was once being touted for England honours, he knew that whatever he said around the club and no matter how badly he behaved by gambling and drinking too heavily, he was always going to keep his place in the first team. Everton’s squad was so small and piss-poor back then that nobody could even get near to replacing him in the side – and Lee knew it, too.

  After arriving late, Andy would often start to argue with Lee about one thing or another, even telling the manager to ‘fuck off’ before skulking off to train with the reserves and apprentices. Lee never ordered Kingy to train apart from the first team – it was the player’s choice. I can’t imagine any manager today tolerating this kind of petulance and blatant disrespect from any of his senior players.