by Mark Ward
One memorable boozy night out at Royal Ascot nearly ended disastrously for me, though, and it was my wife who nearly wrecked my career, if not my life.
After a great day at Ascot with Mick Tobyn and his girl Kathy, the four of us decided to have a meal at Winnigans, the nearby pub-restaurant owned by Alan Ball. We were all very drunk and for some reason Jane took offence to something I said. She stormed out of the pub and I quickly followed to see what she was up to. In seconds, she was behind the wheel of our BMW and had started the engine. I stood in front of the car and told her to get out and behave herself.
Without warning, she pressed the accelerator and before I could react I was thrown up and over the car and landed on my backside. She realised what she had done and put on the brakes, with my head resting against a rear tyre.
I heard Kathy screaming at what she had just witnessed. She thought I was dead. Amazingly, Jane put her foot down again and the tyre brushed my head as it took off on the gravel car park. She clipped the wall of the pub before blasting down the road.
Kathy and Mick came to my aid. I had no seat left in my trousers and my white shirt had a thick black rubber mark where the tyre had caught me. I couldn’t believe it and Mick was furious. Jane and I were staying locally at a hotel and the three of us went off in Mick’s car to try and find her.
She had gone back to the hotel, locked the door to our room and wouldn’t let me in. I had no option but to go back with Mick and Kathy to their place at Chadwell Heath and spend the night there. Jane and I made up in the morning, though.
Our days at the races were plentiful and they nearly always ended up with a massive piss-up. Thankfully, though, this was the one and only time I was nearly run over by my irate wife!
I’ve been asked why, in common with many footballers, I liked to gamble. I can put it down to two things. Firstly, having to run to the bookies as a young kid to put on my dad’s bets. And secondly, footballers have so much spare time to themselves after training each day that they need some form of excitement to occupy them. Horseracing – and gambling on the gee-gees – often fills that void.
I admit, my gambling got out of hand at times. Jane knew I enjoyed a bet but she didn’t know how much I was staking. It all came to a head for me in March 1989, when she decided to have a few days back home with her parents – during Cheltenham Festival week. Much against my better judgement, I withdrew £5,000 from our joint bank account to have a good wager at Cheltenham, one of the highlights of the national hunt season. I thought it would be easy to double my money and put the original £5,000 back into the account without Jane ever knowing.
Things didn’t exactly go to plan. After the first day I was £1,000 down and my losses doubled to two grand the following day. My money dwindled away until I had £1,500 left. It was Gold Cup day and I was in deep trouble. Desert Orchid, the magnificent grey, was 7-2 for the race. Jane was due back from Liverpool and I needed to recoup the money I’d lost.
So I had a grand on at 7-2, hoping to win £3,500. With the £500 I still had and the return of my original stake, it would leave me straight.
I nervously placed the bet and although I wasn’t confident, ‘Dessie’ and jockey Simon Sherwood battled up the famous hill on heavy ground to overhaul Yahoo. He won his most famous race by a length-and-a-half – and saved my arse in the process.
I quickly deposited the £5,000 back into our account and realised how lucky I was. It taught me a lesson … for a while. I was beginning to realise that I liked to live on the edge but it was unfair on Jane.
As well as getting a buzz from betting on horses, I soon discovered the thrill of riding one too. I started spending time with Jane at the stables and learnt to ride her horse, Bridie. In fact, I loved every minute of riding a massive beast that could be so unpredictable. I’d trot off on a Sunday along the tiny tracks in Epping Forest to the all-weather track and gallop the horse. I was even jumping over big poles in the indoor ménage and regularly falling off!
I was called into John Lyall’s office after training one day to explain my reckless equine antics. How he found out, I’ll never know, but I assured him it was Jane’s horse and I’d never sat on the animal. ‘If you come in here injured from a fall, I’ll have you,’ he warned me.
Alan Devonshire was known as ‘Honest Dev’ because he was our bookie. If any of the West Ham lads wanted to place a bet on anything, he’d look at the odds and, if he was happy to lay the bet, would give us a point more than what was generally on offer at the high street bookies.
One world class flat racer he liked to lay was the legendary Dancing Brave. All the lads backed it when it won the 2000 Guineas in 1986 and then, shortly afterwards, Dev laid it again to lose in the Derby. It finished a very close second (behind Sharastani), when it clearly should have won, so he was jubilant.
But Dev laid it at Royal Ascot and again in the Prix de l’Arc de Triomphe at Longchamp and history tells us that it romped those two races in ’86 with Pat Eddery on board. I think Dev was happy when Dancing Brave went out to stud. It had cost him a small fortune.
I have to admit that I felt blessed to be part of a fantastic dressing room at West Ham. Billy Bonds was the player who set the benchmark for us all even though he missed all of my first season at the club due to a serious toe injury. He rarely spoke but when he did he always talked a lot of sense and all the players had enormous respect for him.
I remember Bill playing centre-midfield against Newcastle United at home in May 1987 and he was up against a talented, young Paul Gascoigne. We drew 1-1 – I scored from a free-kick – but the game was remembered for this young man’s performance against the old warhorse Bonzo. Billy was 40, Gazza 18.
Gazza was untouchable and to try and emphasise his class he taunted Billy by calling him ‘Grandad’. I remember giving him six of my studs down his leg for disrespecting the Upton Park legend. But being the man that he is, Billy never retaliated. After the game he commented that his young Geordie opponent was going to be a fantastic talent – and he wasn’t wrong.
Talking of wind-up merchants, in September 1987 I was sent off for the first time in the Football League – at Wimbledon’s Plough Lane ground. I came to respect Dennis Wise as a born winner, but that day against the ‘Crazy Gang’ he got away with conning both me and the referee.
With about half an hour of the game gone and Wisey having just given Wimbledon the lead, we both went in hard against each other and put our heads together as we rose from the soggy pitch. Being the crafty little cockney that he is, Wisey decided to throw himself to the ground as if I’d butted him.
All hell let loose. Dennis was such a convincing actor, even his own players thought I’d butted him – and so did referee Alf Buksh, who rushed over to show me the red card. I went mad and there was a free for all involving Vinnie Jones, big John Fashanu, Lawrie Sanchez and the rest. I didn’t want to leave the pitch … especially after I looked down at Wisey, who had put the Dons ahead, and saw him winking at me with a smug grin on his face.
His hand was outstretched on the turf as I finally started to walk, so I deliberately trod on it. The referee was too busy separating Alvin and Fashanu and trying to calm other skirmishes to notice what I’d done. Tony Cottee earned us a 1-1 draw with a second-half header and it was a great result because it was so hard to get anything against the hard-working, uncompromising footballers of Wimbledon.
The trouble didn’t end at the final whistle, though. After we’d all showered, somebody told Alvin that there may be some ‘afters’ in the players’ lounge. The big fella came up to me and told me to walk behind him on entering the tiny players’ room.
As the ‘Crazy Gang’ caught sight of us, they surged towards us with Dennis, his hand bandaged, screaming insults. There was no backing down but it was more a case of bravado and threats than actual fists. I remained behind Alvin, not taking any chances. He never shied away from a fight and I felt safe behind my captain.
Alvin knew how to sort out the opposi
tion and also how to deal with anyone causing trouble within our own ranks.
Paul Ince was a cocky young kid and I liked him straight away. He was very talented and had a certain arrogance about him. He was very confident and I like that in a player. In training one day, the legendary Liam Brady was up against ‘Incey’. Liam had arrived from Italy in March ’87 and it was such an honour to play with this midfield master with a magic wand of a left foot.
Incey took the ball off Liam and rattled in a goal from 20 yards before turning round to Liam and boasting: ‘You used to be the top man, but I am now.’
All the lads were gobsmacked that this young kid was so full of himself. Later, when he signed for Manchester United, I had to laugh at the ‘Guv’nor’ label Paul decided to bestow upon himself. He was nowhere near the hard man he portrayed himself to be.
Once, after an argument over a game of cards on the team bus, Paul came to me with a bloody lip. ‘Wardy, David Kelly has just punched me in the mouth. What should I do?’ I was shocked, as Kelly was the last man you would think of punching anybody. I told Paul he should have given him a dig back.
Alvin put him in his place the old-fashioned way. We were getting beaten on the plastic pitch at Luton Town in November 1988 and Alvin barked at Incey to ‘keep it simple.’ To which the petulant, young midfielder retaliated with: ‘Fuck off, you Scouse cunt.’ I heard him say it and thought, ‘You’ve overstepped the mark there, Paul’.
The whistle blew for half-time and, 3-0 down, we trudged off for an ear-bashing from John Lyall. Paul was just in front of me walking up the tunnel at Kenilworth Road when a big hand pushed me to one side. Alvin grabbed Incey and held him up against the wall. Unbelievably, he then head-butted Incey right in the face and let him fall to the floor. ‘Don’t ever speak to me like that again,’ Alvin told him.
Paul picked himself up and we all sat waiting for John to give his half time team-talk. Incey was crying and John asked what had gone on. Alvin said: ‘Don’t worry, John, it’s sorted,’ and John went on to roast us about our poor performance. I’m sure John really knew what had happened but conveniently chose to let his captain deal with the situation in the way that he did.
Alvin scored our only goal in the second half that day but we still lost 4-1 as relegation loomed.
I just hope Paul remembers his own attitude when he was young and can become the successful manager he hopes to be.
The other young talent with an arrogant streak in him during my time at West Ham was Julian Dicks, who John had signed from Birmingham City in March ’88. As he was our left-back, I was often up against him in training but this proved a big mistake.
Our physical battles got so out of hand that John decided we always had to be on the same team. He even made us room together on away trips, to ensure we both got on well for the good of the team.
Julian was a fantastic player with an unbelievable left foot and he was as hard as nails. We soon learnt to enjoy each other’s company and we had a common interest – winning. He would make me laugh. He would eat packets of crisps on the team bus before the game and drink cans of Coke whilst burping his head off. His unorthodox diet and pre-match build-up didn’t stop him getting ‘man of the match’ most weeks, though.
Unlike Paul Ince, Julian went on to become a Hammers legend. If ‘Dicksy’ had had an extra yard of pace, he’d have been even better than Stuart Pearce.
I only ever played against Julian once and that was in the Merseyside derby. Julian had signed for Liverpool in September 1993 and he was marking me on his debut for the Reds at Goodison. We shook hands before the game and I was sure it was going to be a good contest, as we knew each other’s game inside out.
The extra pace I had enabled me to get the better of him that day with two ex-Hammers – myself and Tony Cottee – scoring in a 2-0 Everton victory.
It was May 12, 1988 when I received the news I had dreaded. Dad had suffered a heart-attack and died in his sleep. John was very sympathetic and told me to have as much time as I needed to go home and be with my family.
It was a massive shock even though we all knew my father hadn’t been too well. He was only 52 years of age – still so young – and I still miss him to this day. He never gave up on me becoming a professional, even when Everton let me go at 18.
He was a character and his old mates still speak highly of him to this day. I was always very proud of my dad for being the man he was, and I always will be. I’m certain that if he hadn’t died so young, I would not have ended up in prison. I’d have been too scared to disappoint him.
12. LOW MACARI
THE reason I left West Ham at the end of 1989 can best be summed up in two words: Lou Macari.
My reasons for wanting to leave the Hammers have never been told. I was very happy playing for West Ham and loved living in Essex. Even though we had been relegated from the top flight in May 1989, I never thought I’d play for any other club.
Then the shock news reached me that John Lyall had been sacked just days after the club had dropped into Division Two.
I was devastated. I tried phoning him immediately but it was a while before I got through at his home. I remember holding back the tears as I spoke to him. I had to tell John how sorry I was to learn of the board’s decision to sack him after 34 years’ service as man and boy at the club that became his life. John was his old self and, typically, he put others before himself, telling me not to worry and to concentrate on looking after myself, Jane and Melissa.
When I reflect on the way the West Ham directors treated John, it was disgraceful. He should have been offered a job overseeing the club – a Director of Football type role.
But John was a powerful man who dominated every aspect of the club. He’d been there that long, had the respect of all his players and maybe he would have been a thorn in the side of the people who knew nothing about the game.
All the talk was that the club were looking for a manager outside the West Ham unit and that’s exactly what they did when they recruited Lou Macari from Swindon Town in the summer of ’89.
I got to meet the next manager of West Ham quite by accident, in the bookies where I lived in Loughton. My old mate Mickey Quinn had signed for Portsmouth from Oldham Athletic. Mick has always been racing mad and had bought a horse called Town Patrol.
He’d tell me over the phone how good this horse was. I think I must have had shares in the beast, because I’d backed it every time and it had never won a race. He rang telling me this was the day for the horse to ‘go in’. Not again, I thought, but what the hell … I had to have another go at trying to recoup the pounds I’d previously lost on the nag.
I shot round to the bookies just before the off to see what price I could get on the horse. As I pushed the door of the bookies open, who should cross my path but Lou Macari. Our eyes met and he recognised me instantly. He was very friendly and introduced himself. As we stood in the doorway he started to explain that he’d just been interviewed for the manager’s job at West Ham and, if he got it, he was looking to live in Loughton.
While he continued talking to me, the race involving Mickey’s horse was off and running. Macari shook my hand and told me he’d see me again pretty soon.
My attention went straight to the big screen, where I realised the race was in progress. To my horror, Mickey’s horse surged through the final furlong and won by a length at 7-1!
I still had the £50 stake clutched in my hand that I couldn’t put on because of my unexpected meeting with Macari. I would have won £350. I was made up for Mickey, though. He has since gone on to become a successful racehorse trainer but, like I’ve always said, first impressions mean a lot to me and I wasn’t impressed by Macari in the bookies that day.
One week later he got the nod and was appointed the new manager of West Ham United. I had already informed my team-mates of my chance meeting with Macari and I remember one of the lads chirping up that he was probably having a few grand on himself to get the Upton Park job.
The general opinion among the dressing room was that we didn’t want Macari as our new manager. Billy Bonds was the natural successor to John Lyall. How can you possibly give somebody a job who has wagered £6,000 to win £4,000 on his own team to lose a match, as Macari did in his time at Swindon?
I had watched Lou Macari’s teams and knew that their direct approach would not suit the more sophisticated ball-players of West Ham – the Alan Devonshires and Liam Bradys.
The next time I saw him was at the training ground. We were all sat waiting for him in one of the dressing rooms to be introduced as our new gaffer. Macari walked nervously into the room. He had a habit of touching his face whenever he spoke and his first speech to the lads lasted just over a minute.
We were waiting for our new manager to address us in a positive manner, to give us some direction and encouragement for the forthcoming season. He told us things would ‘have to change around the club’ for us to bounce back into the big-time once again. And that was it.
He left the dressing room with the lads comparing the nervous little man with no personality to our previous manager John Lyall. I already knew he couldn’t lace John’s boots – as a manager or a man.
As captain, Alvin Martin tried to convince the rest of the squad that we should at least give Macari a chance but his demeanour and attitude towards his players would prove his downfall.
The amazing thing is that Lou Macari was a tremendous footballer, who became a big star at both Celtic and Manchester United in the ’70s. Yet the way he wanted his teams to play football was the total opposite to the way he’d played the game under the great Jock Stein at Parkhead and Tommy Docherty at Old Trafford. It didn’t make sense.
For instance, I was dumfounded the day, in training, when he told me that I could never receive the ball from our keeper Phil Parkes. Parkesy was brilliant at throwing the ball out quickly to wide positions – either left to Alan Devonshire or right to me. He was a major source of me receiving the ball early and on the run. To order Parkesy to kick everything long, with our defenders all pushed up to the halfway line, was completely alien to us. How could cultured players like Dev, Liam Brady, Tony Gale, Alvin Martin and the others adapt to this ugly style of football?
