by Mark Ward
Lou was still very fit and would take training himself in the morning. He’d run off at a good pace and bark at the players to keep up with him.
He really didn’t have a clue about how to coach the talent at his disposal. Julian Dicks would kick the fuck out of Lou whenever he joined in the training games. It was embarrassing to watch a fellow pro humiliate the manager by kicking lumps out of him.
Watching Dicksy scythe down Lou reminded me of the time I hurt John Lyall once in a training accident. I was chasing down a player in an explosive five-a-side. John was refereeing the game and unwisely turned his back on the play to give somebody a ticking off. The player side-stepped John but I went crashing into the back of him at full force, lifting him off his feet.
He picked himself up and hobbled out of the gym, leaving me totally embarrassed at having hurt the manager.
I went to see John after training but Rob Jenkins, our physio, told me he’d already gone to Upton Park for a meeting – and that he was still feeling very sore. The next morning I arrived for training early, as usual, and looked across to the table where John and his coaches Ronnie Boyce and Mick McGiven sat planning their training schedule over a cup of tea.
To my horror, John had a massive leg brace and plaster covering the whole of his leg that was propped up on a chair. I walked over to the table all red-faced and apologetic. In a serious tone, John told me the knee that had finished his playing career in the early 60s was damaged beyond repair. And he added that his wife Yvonne was going to have to drive him around for weeks until he was healed. I was gutted.
I walked slowly to the dressing room kicking myself for my stupidity and the inconvenience John would have to endure because of my clumsiness. Five minutes passed and I was sat alone thinking about what I had done. Then the door opened and John walked in, right as rain, laughing his head off. ‘Got you, you little bugger!’ he said. ‘Your face was a picture this morning when you walked in.’
The rest of his staff were all stood behind him laughing at my expense. It was a brilliant set-up – they had me hook, line and sinker. Years later, John told me that when I hit him from behind, it felt as if he’d been hit by a wild buffalo.
I never caught Macari in the way I did John, but there were times when I wish I had. For the first time in my career I felt very unhappy. The restrictions and the way the manager wanted us to play was affecting me.
It all happened 20 minutes before kick-off of a game at Upton Park. I was out of favour with Lou and so was Alan Devonshire. We were both sat in the players’ lounge talking football and watching the horse racing when a young apprentice approached me and told me the manager wanted to see me in the boot room.
I wondered what the little prick wanted, because we’d really fallen out and I couldn’t stand the sight of him. He was waiting for me in the boot room and thrust a wad of notes into my hand, telling me to back a horse called Sayyure in the 3.10 at Newton Abbot.
I was shocked and speechless that Macari had just given me £400. What other football manager would even consider placing a bet on a horse race 20 minutes before his team were about to go out and play? Where was his focus? Not fully on the team or the game, obviously.
I had 30 minutes before the ‘off’ in which to go outside, find a bookie and place the bet. I walked back into the players’ lounge to find Dev, who was as shocked as me at what I’d been asked to do so close to the start of a match, but he quickly grabbed the paper to look at the race involving Macari’s horse. Its SP was 5-2 second favourite. Dev turned to me and said that he’d lay it for me, which came as a relief because I didn’t fancy running through the crowds to put the bet on.
Dev would lose a grand if the horse won at odds of 5-2 but I thought it would be great if he could take the manager’s £400.
The game kicked off and Dev left his seat behind the dug-out after 10 minutes to find out whether the horse had won. While he was gone, I was praying it hadn’t.
Within a few minutes, Dev came back with a big smile on his face. The horse had lost. Not even in the first three. ‘Get in!’ we said.
That was the final straw. I didn’t want to play for West Ham United again. Not while Macari was in charge. I loved the club but bringing him in was a big mistake. He didn’t deserve to be the manager of such a great club. I had to leave – and quick.
Every day I took a written transfer request into Macari but he didn’t even open the letter. He just ripped the envelope in half and put it in the bin. I wanted to chin him. And I believe that’s what he wanted me to do.
Lou brought former £1m player Justin Fashanu to the club. Fashanu made his Hammers debut in a league game against Blackburn Rovers at Ewood Park at the end of November ’89. I was allowed to attend a funeral back in Liverpool and was to meet the team later at the hotel on the Friday night. I arrived at the Moat House in Blackburn a couple of hours after the team bus had arrived. I told the receptionist my name and that I was with the West Ham United team.
The receptionist passed me my key for the room and said: ‘Room 320, Mr Ward … and you’re rooming with Mr Fashanu.’
I nearly dropped the key. ‘No love, you’ve got that wrong. I room with Mr Dicks.’
She showed me a piece of paper and there, on the written list, it read: ‘Ward and Fashanu – room 320’. I shit myself.
I left the key on the reception desk and started to pace up and down looking for help. Awful thoughts came into my head. Being asleep in the bed next to Justin? No fucking way! I was panicking now, and started to look for somebody to talk to. Where the fuck was Alvin? He would sort it out.
Just at that moment I heard lots of sniggering. I turned the corner and there, pissing themselves laughing, were Alvin, Galey and Dicksy. It was a good set-up and I was so relieved to hear that big Justin was rooming on his own that night.
In May 1998, long after publicly admitting he was gay, Fashanu was found hanging in a lock-up garage in London’s East End. He’d committed suicide.
* * * *
To help me get away from Macari I decided to appoint an agent to handle things on my behalf. David Kelly got me the number for Dennis Roach, who became one of the best known football agents in the ’80s. He told me that John Toshack, who was managing Real Sociedad in Spain, was very interested in signing me.
My problem was Macari, who was reluctant to let me go. He didn’t want cash for me, he wanted to trade me for players. I was losing patience, so I had to do something drastic. We were playing away to Aston Villa in a midweek League Cup tie on October 25 and on the morning of the game I told Jane I wasn’t going to meet the squad to travel to the West Midlands. Instead, I’d go in and train with Billy Bonds and his youth team players.
I’d already told Macari numerous times that I didn’t want to play for him but he was still putting me in the squad. It was getting personal.
I arrived at Chadwell Heath and Bonzo was surprised to see me. I told him what I was doing, so Billy told me to get changed and join in. Why hadn’t the club given Billy the job? I’d never have left with him in charge.
Because of my failure to meet up with the squad, I knew I’d be in big trouble – and I was right. Macari got straight on to the PFA to complain about me. I was halfway through my training session at Chadwell Heath when I was summoned to the phone. It was Gordon Taylor, the top man at the PFA. He was brilliant, very calm and assuring. He heard my side of the story and told me that if he could agree with Lou that I would be put on the transfer list, then I would leave and attend the game at Villa Park that night.
I went home, picked Jane up and headed to Villa Park to present myself to the manager. I met Macari outside the dressing room and he told me he wanted to talk outside the ground. Jane was stood waiting to see if I was playing. He stood in front of us both and started to tell me how much he disliked me and the way I was going about trying to leave the club.
Before I could get a word in, Jane gave him a torrent of abuse. She told him what she thought of him and asked why
he’d made us travel all this way when he wasn’t going to play me? I didn’t need to say anything. My wife said it all. I just wanted to give him a dig.
Macari had a big problem. He’d agreed with Gordon Taylor that I would be put on the transfer list if I got to the game, ready to play. I kept my part of the deal but Macari had not cleared this decision with his board of directors.
It was getting very messy and a meeting at the PFA headquarters was arranged. After discussions I was told the news that I was on the transfer list. That’s all I asked for. I knew it wouldn’t be long before I was at another club.
Macari didn’t want money for me he wanted players or a player in exchange. West Ham had put a valuation of £1m on my head. He was making it difficult for me.
I really fancied going to Spain and linking up with the Liverpool legend John Toshack. What I didn’t know at this time is that Liverpool boss Kenny Dalglish had bid £1m for me. Macari had turned this down because he wanted Jan Molby and Mike Hooper in exchange. And that was a no-go from the start as far as the Anfield hierarchy were concerned.
I didn’t discover Liverpool’s offer for me until a few years later, when I met Roy Evans, the former Reds manager, in a bar in the city. He told me how close I’d been to becoming a Liverpool player.
Just as I was dreaming about a move to Spain’s La Liga, the phone rang late at night. It was after 11.00pm on Boxing Day. I answered and a Scouse voice said: ‘Hello Wardy, it’s Peter Reid. I’ve got somebody who wants to speak to you.’ The phone was passed over and a voice said to me. ‘Mark, it’s Howard Kendall. I’ve got permission to talk to you about a move to Man City. Can you come to Maine Road tomorrow to have a chat with me? I need a team full of Scousers to keep this lot up!’
I told him of my interest in going to Spain but Howard told me that he’d just come back after managing Athletic Bilbao and it was not all it was cracked up to be. Howard had taken over a poor Manchester City team languishing at the bottom of the first division. I found out from Dennis Roach that Macari wanted City’s Ian Bishop and Trevor Morley in exchange for me.
I drove Jane up to Manchester the very next day to meet Howard Kendall and his No.2 Peter Reid. Howard is a legend on Merseyside following his success as a player and manager at Everton. I never got the opportunity to play for him before I was shown the door at Goodison as a kid and was looking forward to meeting him.
When we arrived at Maine Road the day after Boxing Day the ground was deserted. The only two City employees at the club were Howard and Peter. We were taken to the boardroom, where sandwiches were waiting for us. Howard joked that he and ‘Reidy’ had been up early making the butties.
Howard turned to Jane and asked her what she would like to drink. ‘Cointreau, lime and soda,’ my wife replied. ‘Make that two of them, Reidy lad, I’ve never tried that before,’ said Howard, typifying the very relaxed atmosphere. I instantly felt comfortable among these two great football people of Merseyside. We talked about everything for a couple of hours and I agreed to sign for Howard and become a Man City player, subject to agreeing personal terms.
But with two other players involved, the transfer was never going to be straightforward. The deal had to be right for them, too. I took Jane to Liverpool to see her family and then travelled back to London to face Macari.
Two days later I was travelling back to the north-west on the train with him and agent Jerome Anderson, who was representing one of the City players. Dennis Roach was flying in to be at Maine Road for the completion of the deal. The journey on the train to Manchester was uncomfortable. I sat opposite Lou and we never spoke a word. I didn’t like the man and it was only because of him that I was leaving West Ham.
Dennis had my deal done and dusted within two hours of negotiations with Howard, while Ian Bishop and Trevor Morley were still trying to agree terms. ‘Fuck this,’ Howard said as he led me into the Maine Road restaurant for a meal and a drink. We’d finished our steak but the transfer still hadn’t been agreed four hours later.
Howard wanted to know what was holding up the deal. He was told that Morley wanted his wife’s horse to be included as part of his re-location expenses. ‘Fucking hell!’ an exasperated Howard said. ‘I can sort this out. Mark’s missus has got a horse in London and Morley’s missus has got one up here. So it’s simple … just get them to swap horses!’
There was obviously no way the two women would agree to it but I had to laugh at my new manager’s simple solution to a bizarre stumbling block.
Finally, City’s charmless chairman Peter Swales arrived at our table to tell us that the deal was done with the words ‘about bloody time’. He trudged off and never even shook my hand or welcomed me to his club.
It was then that Macari came over to Howard to wish him all the best, before turning to me and saying: ‘I hope I never see you again.’
‘Charming,’ Howard said, as Lou left Maine Road – he wasn’t impressed with him either.
I sat in Howard’s office with him, Peter Reid and Mr Man City, Tony Book. The whisky was flowing but I just wanted to get back to Liverpool to see Jane and Melissa who were waiting for me at the in-laws. It was 10.30pm and Howard turned to me and said that I was to drive him to my in-laws, where he’d drop me off and complete the rest of the journey alone to his home at Formby.
It seemed very strange to find myself driving the manager’s car, with him in the passenger seat, having just signed for my new club but I felt so at ease with Howard. As we pulled up outside Jane’s parents’ house, he asked if it was okay to come inside and meet my family.
When Jane’s dad, George, opened the door he eagerly invited Howard in. The small living room was jam-packed but George and his wife Barbara made enough room for Howard to sit down. ‘Would you like a drink?’ Barbara asked.
And there Howard sat for just on an hour, as if he was one of the family. A plate of turkey curry later, he jumped up, shook my hand and told me not to be late for training the next morning.
After he’d left I sat with Jane and her family and they were flabbergasted that a manager like Howard Kendall could be so down to earth and such great company. I realised I would be working with a special man and couldn’t wait to get started.
I was proved right about Lou Macari. He lasted only seven months in the job at West Ham. I was becoming a good judge of managers – and what it takes to be one.
13. ANYONE FOR TENNIS?
MY first day’s training with Manchester City was just like the good old days at West Ham under John Lyall – we did everything with the ball.
I couldn’t believe Howard’s enthusiasm. He was jogging around the centre-circle like a young apprentice so eager to get started. Yet only hours earlier we’d been drinking and eating turkey curry at my in-laws.
Howard’s return to English football was no surprise. He was – and still is – the most successful manager in Everton’s history and when he left them in 1987 they had just been crowned champions for the second time under his management.
He had inherited a Man City team full of potential but languishing at the bottom of the first division table when he returned from Spain, where he’d spent a year managing Athletic Bilbao and getting them into Europe.
Potentially the future looked great for City because they had some very good youngsters who had come through the ranks but they had taken some batterings prior to Howard’s appointment. A 6-0 thrashing by Derby County on November 11 signalled the end for manager Mel Machin.
Howard, who took over in mid-December after Tony Book’s three-game spell as caretaker-manager, had to bring in players he knew well and who he could rely on to do the job quickly and get City out of the mire. It wasn’t a popular move among City fans that most of his signings were of Everton blue blood but Howard knew what he was getting in the likes of his leader Peter Reid, Adrian Heath, Alan Harper and Wayne Clarke. They were all terrific players with a wealth of experience.
The quality of the young lads at City was exceptional: Paul Lake
, David White, Steve Redmond, Andy Hinchcliffe and Ian Brightwell were all first-teamers and Howard soon established a good blend.
Keeping them in the top flight, following promotion the previous May, was going to be a tall order but relegation was never even mentioned under Howard.
My debut for City was against Millwall at Maine Road on December 30, when I partnered Peter Reid in the centre of midfield. Howard told me to play to the right of centre and try to feed the flying machine, David White, with the ball as much as possible.
Walking out for the warm-up with Reidy, I heard shouts from some unhappy supporters. They weren’t at all pleased about their favourite players Ian Bishop, who had scored in their sensational 5-1 home win over Manchester United at the start of the season, and Trevor Morley, whose goal clinched promotion at Bradford the previous May, being swapped for me. They were two very good and popular players in their own right and I knew I had to perform to win over the disgruntled City fans.
Howard immediately showed confidence in me by putting me in the thick of it alongside Reidy. Up against me in midfield that day was the notorious Millwall hard-man Terry Hurlock. He had a ruthless reputation and always looked the part with his wild, straggly hair and stocky build. Hurlock tried to intimidate me in the first few minutes of the game but it didn’t work. Reidy told me to switch from left to right, and vice-versa, whenever it suited me and he’d look after Hurlock.
Whenever those two warriors clashed it was a match to savour. But Peter had too much class for Hurlock and his quick feet and short passing game had the Millwall marauder in a daze. I’d played mainly on the right wing for West Ham in the previous four and a half years but I enjoyed the battle fought out in the centre of midfield and it was an experience playing with Reid, a proper general.
