by Mark Ward
John started telling me how many times Eddie had been to watch me play and why they had travelled all the way up from Essex. He wanted me to make my debut for the Hammers in the opening game of the season at Birmingham that coming Saturday.
He was absolutely brilliant. He told me that his car should be okay parked in the street because he had just given a scally a pound to look after it. We all laughed – but he wasn’t joking. As we left the house to begin our journey south, there stood by John’s gold Jaguar was a snotty-nosed kid. John ruffled his hair as he walked past him and said: ‘Thanks, son.’
I’ve always maintained that John’s gentlemanly manner and the way he treated Jane and I from the start had a massive bearing upon my success at West Ham. He was a man of great honour and integrity, the sort you automatically wanted to run through brick walls for.
I soon learnt that you could go and talk to John if ever you had a problem, no matter what it was. He ran the club from top to bottom. He oozed authority but the fact that he wanted to be addressed as ‘John’, and not ‘Boss’ or ‘Gaffer’, summed him up as a person. He quickly became a father-figure to me and always commanded my utmost respect.
John and Eddie kept us entertained with their stories on the drive to London. They informed us in detail of West Ham’s history and the different characters on the playing staff.
Eddie told me of the games he had seen me play. One, in particular, was a recent pre-season friendly for Oldham against Runcorn. He said he was impressed with my attitude and tenacity and even though I scored a couple of goals, it was my all round game that took his eye. It was only last year that I learned from John’s son, Murray, that I was the only player his father ever signed without actually having seen play before the deal was completed, which is some compliment to Eddie as well as me.
I knew I was in the presence of true professionals, although at the time I didn’t know about Eddie’s credentials. He’d been a tremendous inside-forward in his day, a star of Tottenham’s championship side of 1951 and an England international before returning to White Hart Lane as Bill Nicholson’s right-hand man. He knew his stuff.
Jane and I were dropped off at the Bell House Hotel in Epping. Joining an east London club, we had imagined that we’d end up being abandoned in the middle of a concrete jungle, but the opposite was true. Within a few hours, we were in beautiful rural Essex, surrounded by forestry and green fields – a world away from the little cobbled street we’d just left behind. After John and Eddie had made sure that we’d checked in at the hotel okay, the Hammers boss left by saying he’d pick me up in the morning and take me to Upton Park to sign my contract.
That first evening in the hotel was unreal. Everything had happened in the space of a couple of hours. One minute I was at home watching Coronation Street and an hour later I was on my way to London with the West Ham manager and one of the shrewdest tactical brains in the game. I had to pinch myself and couldn’t sleep that night. The events of the day and the anticipation of what was to come were too much for me.
Jane was coming round to the fact that we’d be spending at least the next couple of years of our lives in London, or Essex to be more precise, and I think John’s approach had calmed and reassured her. We made phone calls back home to Liverpool, where our families and friends wished us both all the luck in the world.
I started to think of the transfer fee – £250,000 (£225,000 up front and a further £25,000 after I’d played 25 games) was a lot of money for a 22-year-old youngster who had played for just two seasons in Division Two. It was only two years previously that the board at Oldham were questioning Joe Royle’s decision to pay £9,500 for me. I was being bought as a direct replacement for Paul Allen, who had left for Spurs in a £400,000 deal that summer, so I knew it was going to be a massive challenge for me but one I relished.
After breakfast in the Bell House, John arrived bang on time to pick me up. We were going first to Upton Park to sign the contract and then on to the club’s training HQ at Chadwell Heath to meet the players. When we arrived at the ground John told me he was signing another player that day. It was Frank McAvennie, from Scottish club St Mirren. I’d never heard of him, and he’d probably never heard of me, but you couldn’t miss the lad with the ginger hair, dyed blond.
Frank was already waiting outside John’s office when we were introduced. We hit it off instantly and although Frank’s broad Glaswegian accent was a struggle to comprehend at first, we were soon talking the same language – football. Like myself, he was excited about playing at the top level of English football for the first time and the little known Jock and the Scouser would be the only new faces brought to West Ham before the start of the 1985-86 season. Frank and I would become good mates on and off the pitch but the West Ham faithful didn’t have a clue who John Lyall’s new signings were and neither did most of our team-mates.
I was called into John’s office and simply signed the contract he pushed in front of me. He mentioned that if I produced the goods on the pitch, then I would be looked after financially. I had very little experience in signing contracts, although Frank mentioned he had an advisor. Very few players employed agents to represent them at the time but it didn’t concern me anyway. I trusted John to look after me and I signed without hesitation. Money was not important at that time – I just wanted to play and become successful.
My wage had crept up to £500 per week with bonuses. The bonus became a big talking point during that season after the players held a meeting to consider two options on offer to us.
We could either accept a fixed £50 per league point or link our bonuses to home attendance figures. If we did well, then crowds would increase and the players would get a cut of the gate depending on the size of the crowd.
There was a vote by the players and Tony Cottee, Frank McAvennie and myself favoured the £50 per point system. The older brigade, including Phil Parkes, Tony Gale and Alvin Martin, wanted to opt for the crowd bonus. But the points incentive system was the one that we agreed on for that season.
It seemed a wise choice as the fans, probably underwhelmed by the club’s lack of major summer signings, were slow to turn out at Upton Park in the early weeks of the season. The games against QPR (15,530), Luton Town (14,004), Leicester City (as low as 12,125) and Nottingham Forest (14,540) were poorly attended compared to the second half of the season, when crowds virtually doubled. As that memorable season unfolded and we set about attempting to win the championship for the first time in the club’s history, the senior Hammers wouldn’t let the three of us who opposed that idea forget our costly decision to force through a bonus scheme linked to attendances!
Chadwell Heath was a very impressive training ground – a world apart from the facilities we had at Oldham. John took me into his office and ordered a young apprentice to go out on to the training pitch and bring back the club captain, English international centreback Alvin Martin.
A few minutes later Alvin appeared, drenched in sweat, as John made the introductions. Alvin shook my hand and wished me all the best. Being a fellow Scouser from Bootle, the docks area of Liverpool, Alvin immediately took me under his wing and we became firm friends. Alvin and his wife Maggie became very important in helping Jane and I settle in London. Once a week we were invited over to the Martins’ Gidea Park home for a meal and a beer. Maggie would cook a delicious steak Diane and it was good for Jane to have some female company.
Alvin gave me sound advice and he’d always stressed that West Ham fans wouldn’t tolerate a player who didn’t always give 100 per cent. Over the years the fans had destroyed players’ careers with their abuse. I took everything he told me on board and I knew the fans would take to me. From what Alvin was saying, I felt confident the fans would appreciate my wholehearted approach to every game.
As you ran out at Upton Park, the opposite standing area was known as the Chicken Run. The fans were stood very close to the pitch and it was here that the most verbal supporters would congregate and give out ruthles
s stick to the opposition, or even one of their own if they thought he deserved it. I must say they never gave me a hard time and I loved playing for them.
I was looking forward to my first training session as a Hammer but I felt nervous. For the first time in my life, I felt out of my depth during that first session with much more experienced and senior players than myself. I didn’t hold back and certainly got stuck in, but I was like a fish out of water. I found the pace, accuracy and precision of the passing unbelievable. The quality was something I’d not expected.
Obviously I knew I was going to be playing with far better players than ever before but this was mesmerising. The two centre-halves, Alvin Martin and Tony Gale, had the touch and vision of a skilful forward. I didn’t get a kick. It was as if I’d been playing on another planet for Oldham. Every one of the lads moved the ball around with speed and their first touch was impeccable. Alan Devonshire, in particular, was outstanding. I realised I was going to have to improve and adapt very quickly if I was to get a run in the side.
After training I sat with the lads having lunch in the canteen and tried to suss out the dressing room characters. Straight away I identified the joker, the one who dished out the biggest stick to his team-mates. Tony Gale was nicknamed ‘Reggie’ after the notorious East End gangster Reggie Kray – not for being a hard case, but because of his brutal way with words that could cut his victims in half. But he was great company and always livened up the atmosphere of the place no matter where you were.
Frank McAvennie was initially put with me in The Bell at Epping and we hit it off instantly. On the other hand, Jane and Frank’s girlfriend, Anita Blue, didn’t get on. It didn’t stop Frank and I becoming close mates, though. We roomed together on away trips and that was an experience in itself.
Frank’s favourite pastime was to try and charm a waitress or hotel chamber maid into spending the night with him – and he was very successful at it. On one occasion he was chatting up the girl who was waiting on our table. She explained that her boyfriend would be picking her up when she finished her shift, so I told Frank to forget it and we left for our room. He wasn’t easily put off, though.
Some of the players would take a mild sleeping tablet to help them sleep better the night before a match. I took my ‘sleeper’ as soon as I got back to the room and about an hour later I was drifting in and out of sleep when I heard Frank on the phone ordering sandwiches from room service. The young girl he’d been trying to chat up brought his order to the room and, despite the effects of the sedative, I vaguely remembered the blonde waitress creeping into bed next to Frank.
The next thing, I was fast asleep but when I opened my eyes in the morning, I was greeted with a mop of blonde hair falling over the side of Frank’s bed. Nothing unusual in that – I assumed it belonged to my randy team-mate – but as I looked more closely, I noticed a pair of tits sticking upright in the air! I jumped out of bed, used the bathroom and told Frank I was going down for breakfast. Before I left the room, I suggested he got rid of his companion before first team coach Mick McGiven came knocking at the door.
Eagle-eyed Mick was one of John Lyall’s trusted lieutenants and didn’t miss a trick. I sat alone downstairs eating and thinking of Frank enjoying his ‘breakfast’ in bed. Mind you, to be fair to him, he scored on the pitch, too, that afternoon having played another blinder both on and off the field!
My debut for West Ham was against Birmingham City at St Andrews. It was a quiet start for me and we lost the game 1-0. I wasn’t happy about my contribution and couldn’t wait for my home debut against QPR on the Tuesday night. Frank and I were both eager to make a big impression on our new fans.
Frank had been bought for £340,000 as an attacking midfielder but striker Paul Goddard had picked up a nasty shoulder injury at Birmingham, so John Lyall decided to put Frank up front with Tony Cottee. It was a masterstroke that transformed our season. We outplayed QPR on the night – 3-1 – and Frank scored twice, with Alan Dickens – a replacement for the injured Goddard – getting the third from my flighted cross.
I enjoyed the derby atmosphere under the lights and even though the attendance was low, there was something special about playing at Upton Park. I felt more confident after my display against QPR and, little did we know at the time, but the crowds would get bigger week by week during this record-breaking season.
Alan Devonshire was consistently outstanding on the left side of midfield, Frank and Tony Cottee had developed a great understanding and defenders couldn’t cope with their pace. Alvin and ‘Galey’ were organised and disciplined at the back. They lacked a bit of pace but that didn’t matter because they both read the game so well, were never caught out of position or by a ball played over the top and our midfield quartet would all drop deep to help the back four.
It suited our style perfectly because we hit teams on the break, especially away from home, with slick passing and movement. We played short, neat passes started from the back by our footballing centre-halves. Or Phil Parkes – one of the finest keepers in England – would throw the ball directly to the feet of either ‘Dev’ or myself. Or, alternatively, we’d collect it from our full-back – in my case Ray Stewart and in Dev’s either Steve Walford or George Parris.
Alan Dickens was one of the most stylish, young midfielders in the country but the side had great balance, too. In the heart of midfield, it was down to our ball-winner, either Neil Orr or Geoff Pike, to win possession and feed the more creative players around them.
They reckon I was one of the first wing-backs in the English game before the phrase had even been invented but I never shirked responsibility and was happy to get up and down the right flank. If I wasn’t attacking and looking to put in crosses for Frank and Tony, I’d be back defending in front of Ray. It was a real pleasure to be part of that side.
Ronnie Boyce, John’s other coaching assistant, kept me back after training to work on my crossing. He would get a young apprentice to play up against me and I would practice taking him on and whipping low crosses into the near-post area. ‘Boycey’ had been a great player and loyal servant at West Ham for many years and he could still kick a ball. He was still good technically and showed me how it needed to be done.
With neither Frank nor Tony among the biggest target men, it was no good humping high balls into the box, so I practiced whipping crosses into the danger areas.
Cottee was exceptional in the penalty area, a deadly finisher and goal-poacher. He was so single-minded, even selfish at times, in his quest for goals but his impressive record speaks for itself.
Frank was more of an all round team player who would run his socks off for the team and look to come short and link the play. The two strikers complemented each other superbly, forging a formidable partnership that produced 46 league goals.
I only managed three goals myself, the most pleasurable coming in a 2-1 home win (Cottee got the other) at home against Manchester United in early February. It should have been four, though, because my disallowed strike in the League Cup defeat at Old Trafford should have stood. We were awarded an indirect free-kick but I let fly from about 25 yards and we were all sure United keeper Gary Bailey finger-tipped the ball on its way into the net. I’d scored from a similar distance at Oxford a few weeks earlier and was gutted that this one was ruled out.
The Sunday afternoon home win over United, played in front of the ITV cameras, was sweet revenge for that controversial cup exit earlier in the season. I was determined to make my mark in every way and apart from scoring our first after a neat set-up from Dev, I also got myself booked for slamming Kevin Moran into the Chicken Run wall.
* * * *
Living at the Bell was fun at first, an exciting new experience, but hotel life gets you down after a while. Frank had moved to a hotel in Brentwood and Jane had been struggling to settle, so she was constantly going back and forth to Liverpool with Melissa. What made it even more upsetting for her was that the house we’d left behind at Whiston was burgled and ransa
cked on the very night we’d travelled down in John Lyall’s car. Local thieves must have read about my impending move in the Liverpool Post or Echo, realised the house would be empty for a few days and just went in and caused a big mess that father-in-law George had to clear up for us. I never went back to that house but Jane did on one of her trips home and it wasn’t nice for her to discover the damage that had been caused to our former home.
To his credit, John Lyall would personally take Jane and I out after training to visit numerous estate agents in some of the best areas of Essex. What manager would do that for a new player these days?
After weeks living out of a hotel, it was becoming important to find somewhere more permanent and we eventually bought a nice threebedroom, semi-detached house in Roundmead Avenue, Loughton, on the edge of Epping Forest, ideally located within easy reach of both Chadwell Heath and the club’s main ground at Upton Park.
One day I went in The Standard pub in Loughton, put my name down for a game of pool and waited my turn. It had amazed me that the locals preferred to keep themselves to themselves and never bothered to talk to me. One lad recognised me, though, and before I knew it I had four pints lined up on the bar in front of me. It was a nice, friendly gesture on his part but it annoyed me to think that I was only accepted in the pub because I was a West Ham player, whereas if I’d been an unknown Scouser working locally as a joiner or brickie, then I would have been ignored.
I left feeling disgusted and walked over to the big pub in the village called The Crown, where I was greeted from behind the bar by a large figure of a man. This gentle giant talked with me for about half an hour and was really friendly and entertaining. It was Eddie Johnson, a well-known figure in the East End of London. I enjoyed his company and legendary tales about the Kray twins who he grew up with. I also used to go to the Lotus Club in Forest Gate, which was run by Eddie’s brother Kenny.
