Hammered

by Mark Ward

  I was mad and, believing that you should always stand up for yourself and what you think is right, I told Joe that I needed to see the chairman. He organised a meeting with him for the following day but warned me not to expect any change from Stott. I hadn’t been at Oldham long enough to get to know the chairman but I was determined to push all the boundaries to get the £220 per week increase that I felt I deserved.

  Stott saw me in his office after training. He was very businesslike and straight to the point. He said: ‘You’ve had a great start to your career here at Oldham but don’t get carried away. I believe that £250 is a fair wage for you at this moment in time.’

  Reminding him that I was the club’s best player, I also pointed out that Oldham had paid a pittance for me and I was earning a meagre wage. I said that I’d already proven myself and warned him that if I didn’t get the £350 I was seeking, I’d walk away from the club.

  He seemed taken aback by my stance. ‘You can’t do that – you’re under contract,’ he said with apparent alarm in his voice.

  It was a case of calling his bluff. He tried to intimidate me by saying that Oldham Athletic would retain my registration, which would effectively prevent me from joining another League club. I responded by saying that I’d just go and play Sunday morning football in a park with my mates back in Liverpool.

  I left Ian Stott’s office feeling very pleased with the solid stance I’d taken but, privately, I felt worried about the possible outcome of our strained contract talks. If I’d had an agent to look after me early on in my career I would have been on far higher wages than I was ever paid. Before players began employing agents to represent them in the late 80s, the clubs had them over a barrel.

  I drove home to tell Jane what was said in my meeting with the chairman. She was worried that I’d provoked a situation that could endanger my career and our family’s livelihood but, as it turned out, we had no cause for concern. I was about to go to bed that evening when the phone rang. It was Joe Royle – to say that the chairman had agreed to pay me what I’d wanted.

  ‘Mark, whatever you said to him changed his mind,’ said Joe, who added that he was pleased for me and thought I deserved every penny of the £350 per week.

  Ian Stott knew I was becoming a big asset for the club. For the sake of another £100 a week, it was far better for all concerned to pay me the money I deserved, because he knew he would eventually realise a substantial return on the original investment.

  * * * *

  I’d settled in really well with all the other players at Oldham. And when Joe signed Mickey Quinn from Stockport County in January 1984, I had a ready-made mucker. Mick was from the tough district of Liverpool called Cantril Farm – or ‘Cannibal Farm’, as this ’70s council estate is also known.

  Every week Mick, Joe McBride, an ex-Everton youngster who joined us from Rotherham United, and I would share the driving duties from Liverpool to Oldham and back. Joe had a brand new Volkswagen Golf convertible, Mickey had a big, white Ford Granada and I had … ‘The Pram’. It was Mick who christened my Ford Escort Mk II – a real dog of a car, it has to be said – The Pram because we were always having to push it after it had broken down.

  I thrived on training and loved every minute of it, even Tuesdays – running day. As we usually had Wednesdays off, Joe Royle and Billy Urmson, the first team coach, would make sure they got their pound of sweat from us all, sending us on a long-distance run up the hill in Oldham, followed by endless sprints. At first I really struggled and would spew up my breakfast every Tuesday after pushing myself to the limit. Joe would stand over me and say: ‘What have you had for breakfast this morning, son? Come on, let’s see it …’

  My travel arrangements to Oldham soon put a strain on my relationship with Jane. By getting a lift with either Joe McBride or Mickey Quinn, it meant I was at the mercy of them and their social itinerary. If they fancied a pint in Oldham after training, then I had to go with them or get the train home.

  A few of the players would nearly always meet at the top of Boundary Park Road for an excellent pub lunch in the White Hart. We were a right little firm of drinkers – Mickey, Joe, Andy Goram, Darron McDonough and myself. We all liked a bet too, especially Mick and Andy.

  It’s well documented that gambling is an inherent footballer’s disease. It comes with the territory. We’d study the Sporting Life as soon as we met up in the dressing room each morning before training began and decide our selections over steak and kidney pie and chips in The White Hart afterwards. Perhaps it was no surprise when, years later, Mickey – who later enjoyed cult hero status as one of Newcastle United’s famous Number Nines – appeared on TV’s Celebrity Fit Club and wrote a book titled Who Ate All The Pies!

  We’d bet in the region of £20-£40 a day. This was the time when I believe gambling took a hold on Andy Goram, who, even so, still went on to have a brilliant career with Rangers and Scotland.

  As honest as he is, it was well known that Andy was a big punter. On the other hand, after his long and distinguished playing career ended, Mickey used his brain and extensive knowledge of racehorses to forge a second career. He became a successful horse racing trainer, producing more than 40 winners from his stables at Newmarket, as well as being a respected horse and football radio pundit for TalkSPORT. Like me, Mickey has done time in jail but I really admire this great character for what he has achieved.

  Looking back, though, at the way we put away unhealthy food, drank pints of lager and gambled on the horses each day, such an undisciplined lifestyle would never be tolerated by any football club today. But in those days, none of us stopped to think that the way we conducted ourselves was wrong or damaging to our careers. And the clubs themselves did little or nothing to discourage players from indulging in their various vices.

  Whenever we played away, the fridge on board the Oldham team bus was fully stocked with beer. If we’d been playing a match in, say, London or the south, by the time we got off the bus back at Boundary Park later that evening, I would hardly be able to stand up. How the three of us then managed to drive back home to Liverpool on a regular basis, I’ll never know. But this carefree routine became the norm.

  Not that Jane would ever get used to it. She wasn’t happy about me coming home late and stinking of beer. My lame excuse, that I had no choice because I was a passenger in one of the other lad’s cars, didn’t wash with her.

  Darron McDonough would often try and keep us out in Oldham. A local lad made good, he knew all the best drinking haunts in town. But Darron was forever getting into scraps. It was a regular occurrence for him to come in for training on Monday morning sporting a black eye. Joe Royle would say to him: ‘Lost one again?’ But Darron could handle himself in a scrap, and he’d quickly answer the manager back: ‘You should see the state of the other fella!’

  There was a violent 80s cult movie out on video at the time that we played regularly on the coach to away games. It was called Class of 1984, about a punk gang inflicting terror on the teachers and pupils of a lawless inner-city high school in America. After watching it, Joe Royle started calling our little group ‘The Class of 84’.

  Much of my time at Oldham was spent in the company of fellow Scouser Mickey Quinn. We hit it off straight away and he had a wicked sense of humour. Mick’s dad, ‘Old Mick’ as we knew him, had a pub in Cannibal Farm called the Tithe Barn. I would regularly visit there with Mick to see his father. On Mondays – or ‘Mad Monday’ as it was known – the place was packed full. Many of the customers were there to spend a large chunk of their giro, while those who were lucky enough to have a job would be off work that day to recover from their weekend binge.

  Many a time Mickey and I would turn up intending to have just one or two quiet shandies. But once we stepped foot inside the Tithe Barn, we invariably stayed until the early hours of the next morning. With its karaoke and disco, Old Mick ran a great pub and his lager was always spot on. We called the Tithe Barn the ‘Bermuda Triangle’. Once inside the place
, you went missing for hours.

  These days Mick runs the popular Black Angus pub in Cannibal Farm. I took former Everton favourite Duncan Ferguson there one night in the mid-90s to introduce him to Old Mick and Mickey’s brother, Mark Quinn. I was player/coach at Birmingham City at the time and I realised the big fella needed some good people around him. They looked after Big Duncan and I’m pleased to say that he remains a good friend of the Quinns to this day.

  We did get into some scrapes at Oldham, though. One night after a game, Mick and I were in the local Brannigans nightclub with Darron McDonough. I ended up on Mickey’s shoulders, being carted around the dance floor. Suddenly he slipped and I landed on top of him. He said instantly: ‘My ankle’s fucked’.

  I even had to drive him home in his big, white Granada, which I called ‘The Ambulance’. I dropped him off and he was shitting himself because he knew he wouldn’t be fit for Oldham’s game on the following Tuesday night. Mick was our star striker and banging in the goals for fun. How was he going to explain his injury to Joe Royle? He couldn’t very well tell him the truth: ‘Wardy was on my shoulders in Brannigans and I slipped’.

  The best excuse he could come up with was that he was out walking the dog and slipped off the kerb.

  Mick and I were both very competitive and it came to a head one day in training. A young apprentice gave me a right kicking down the shin and Mick started laughing. I got my revenge as usual. I went in hard on the youngster and kicked both the ball and him into the air.

  Mick thought I was out of order and we squared up to each other. Before we knew it, we were both rolling around in the mud. It’s surprising how your emotions can sometimes boil over in a practice game and lead you to scrap with your best mate at the club. Mickey was a big, powerful man and under normal circumstances I’d be a fool to take him on, but thankfully our little skirmish was broken up before any blood was spilt.

  Trudging dejectedly back to the dressing room after it had all cooled down, I suddenly remembered that I’d travelled into training that morning in The Ambulance. I showered and heard all the lads stirring it up in the dressing room. Darron offered to drop me off at the train station, while Andy Goram said he’d bring in some boxing gloves so that we could have the second round of our bout the following day. The train looked like my best option but, just as I grabbed my bag and thought about heading for the station, Mick tapped me on the shoulder, stuck out his hand and said: ‘Let’s go for a pint, Wardy.’

  We left the ground and got pissed, never mentioning our silly little fracas again.

  I’ve always said that players don’t make friends in football because of the nature of the business. Acquaintances, yes – and many of them, because you go from club to club. But I can honestly say that Mickey Quinn and I were real buddies.

  Our gambling on the horses was not really a means of making money – of course, we all lost over a period of time – but it became part and parcel of everyday life. Much more than having a punt in the local bookies, we all loved an afternoon at Haydock Park racecourse. Once we had a real race against time to get there for the first race. Joe Royle had got word of our intentions and had deliberately prolonged the training session even more than usual. When it was finally over, the lads concerned raced off the pitch, dived into the shower and rushed to The Ambulance.

  I jumped in the back while Darron got in the passenger seat. But before Mick could reverse his car, I leapt out to go back into the dressing room to retrieve the bag I’d forgotten, leaving the rear door of the car open behind me. Even so, Mick still decided he would turn the car around to save precious time. He was in the process of reversing the big Granada just as I stepped back outside onto the pavement, only to witness the metal crunching sound of the door being crushed against a concrete lamp post.

  Mickey shot out of the driver’s seat while I apologised to him for leaving the door open. He told me to shut up and get in the back seat. But the door so badly buckled that it was impossible to close it. With all the strength he could muster, an angry Mick kicked the damaged door into submission until it was flush with the rest of the car. It still wouldn’t shut properly, though, so I was instructed to hold on to the door handle tight inside while seated in the back.

  Mick drove like a raving lunatic, flying down the M62 and breaking all sorts of speed records to try and make it to Haydock in time for the first race. I used all the strength I had to hold on to the door, hoping it wouldn’t fly open on the motorway. Mick kept saying he had a ‘certainty’ in the first and that if it won, it would pay for the damage and a new door.

  Arriving at the racecourse in record time, we were confronted by large queues to the car parks. ‘Wardy, we’re going to try and blag our way into the jockeys’ car park,’ announced Mick. ‘If anybody asks, you’re a jockey.’

  Darron burst out laughing at the thought of me trying to pass myself off as the Tony McCoy of the ’80s but I had no choice but to agree to the scam as Mick was stopped at the entrance by the first car park attendant. Typically, Mick reeled off the patter.

  ‘Sorry, Guv, we’re in a mad rush.

  ‘I’ve got a jockey in the back. We’ve had a slight accident on the way and he’s riding in the first race.’

  And off we went into the jockeys’ car park. I remember Mickey having £100 on the horse he fancied at odds of 5/1. It won pulling a train and not only did it pay for his car door to be fixed, it set us up for yet another great day of fun at Haydock Park.

  * * * *

  Although well established in the first team in my wide right position, I was still learning the game all the time. The older pros, especially Martin Buchan and Kenny Clements, looked after the younger players and would tell us to calm down if they thought we were getting out of hand. I had a lot of respect for them both.

  Captain of Manchester United’s 1977 FA Cup-winning side against Liverpool and veteran of Scotland’s 1974 and ’78 World Cup finals adventures, Martin set the highest standards in every sense. I remember him interrupting one half-time team-talk to administer a dressing down to Jon Bowden, our young central midfield player. With Joe Royle in full flow, Martin stuck up his hand and asked the manager if he could interrupt him to say something.

  Martin had noticed Jon spitting on the dressing room floor. He looked across and asked him: ‘If you were at home, would you spit on the floor?’ Jon seemed surprised by the nature and timing of this question and admitted that, of course, he wouldn’t do it at home.

  ‘Then don’t do it in here then,’ a furious Martin told him. ‘We have to walk across this floor and we don’t want to stand in your filthy mess.’

  I thought it was great of Martin to address this disgusting habit. That’s what he was like – a man of few words but whenever he did open his mouth, he spoke intelligently and for the right reasons.

  Sadly, Martin struggled with a bad thigh injury and decided to hang up his boots later that season. Before going on to briefly manage Burnley, he invited all the lads to join him for farewell drinks at his local wine bar in Manchester. I arrived with Mickey, Joe McBride, Andy Goram and Darron McDonough but all the other lads eventually turned up too.

  To our amazement, we were greeted by Martin sat on a stool holding a guitar. He could play it too. The highlight of a wonderful evening was a duet between Martin, on guitar, and Mickey, on vocals, singing the Del Shannon hit Runaway. It was such a memorable performance that everyone in the bar was cheering at the end.

  * * * *

  By the end of season 1984-85, I’d managed to play in every competitive game in my two seasons with Oldham – 84 league and 12 cup matches. There were rumours that bigger clubs wanted to sign me but I was enjoying life with the Latics and also looking forward to the pre-season break and spending time in Spain with Jane and Melissa.

  Once again, though, Joe Royle would surprise me with another phone call out of the blue before the start of the 1985-86 season.

  9. HAPPY HAMMER

  IT was early evening on Tuesday
, August 13, 1985 and Joe Royle was phoning me again. He asked if I was sitting down because he had some great news to tell me. He said that John Lyall, the West Ham United manager, would be at my house within the hour to pick me up.

  He went on to add that the Oldham Athletic board of directors had agreed a fee of £250,000 for my transfer to the Hammers.

  I was speechless for a few moments and then my heart began to race with excitement. His call had come out of the blue.

  Joe asked if I was okay and then said that he trusted John Lyall to look after me and that first division West Ham would be great for me. He mentioned their tremendous history and referred to them as a family club with tradition and values.

  I turned to Jane and told her to start packing. She was overwhelmed at first: ‘What about Melissa?’ she asked, saying that she didn’t want to move to London. Her tears started and as I tried to calm her down, I got her dad George on the phone and he was ecstatic for us. He agreed that this move would be a life-changing experience for us both and reassured his daughter that both he and Jane’s mum would collect Melissa and look after her until the signing was completed.

  I couldn’t believe that a renowned top flight manager was going out of his way to personally pick me up and drive me back to London with him. Joe Royle stressed to me that John Lyall wanted me to sign the next day, so I could make my debut on the Saturday.

  Before we had time to finish packing there was a knock on the door of our house. Jane was as nervous as me at meeting my future manager for the first time and she was still crying. I opened the door to be greeted by John and his chief scout Eddie Baily. I’m a great believer in first impressions and John and Eddie both made an instant impact on us both as men with great presence.

  Jane was still wiping her eyes dry as John told me to put the kettle on. I instantly left for the kitchen to start making tea for our two guests. By the time I returned to the living room, Jane was much happier, laughing even, and in deep conversation with John and Eddie. The whole atmosphere became much more relaxed.