Hammered

by Mark Ward

  More important than my satisfying debut was our 2-0 victory, with David White underlining his unbelievable pace in scoring both goals.

  Even in that first week I could see the young players benefiting from the more experienced men around them.

  I’d only been at the club a couple of weeks when I learnt that Howard had apparently arranged for us to play a friendly game in Tenerife. There was a break in the fixture list, so we were off to the sun. But, much to my amazement, when we arrived we were told there was no game.

  This little excursion was a glorified piss-up, or a team-bonding exercise if you’d prefer! A time for the squad to forge the team spirit that was essential if we were to continue to pull clear of the three relegation places as 1990 dawned.

  I wasn’t the biggest of drinkers at the time but there were plenty of opportunities to practise. Being very competitive by nature, I started to drink with the lads but it took all my powers to last the distance and there were times when I ended up getting in a terrible state. I did it to be part of the team and I enjoyed the great banter along the way.

  I came to realise that Howard was brilliant at testing players’ attitudes away from the training ground and the relaxed atmosphere at the bar was his target zone, the place where he knew he could get inside a player’s head. He was very clever at it and even though you knew he’d been drinking, he always remained lucid, alert and wouldn’t forget a thing.

  He would bring up situations and provoke debates and arguments. He’d ask players outright for their views on all range of topics, but mostly it was football on the agenda.

  A good example of this came late one evening when Reidy, Heath, Harper, Clarke and myself – his five mid-season recruits with past Everton connections – visited the pub opposite our hotel for a nightcap. We knew Howard and his coaching staff would be there, too. We were all well drunk by this time and there was the usual banter before Howard started to dig me out.

  He shouted over to me that he’d seen me playing tennis that afternoon and that I was useless. He wasn’t wrong. Paul Lake, the up and coming star whose career would be sadly ended by injury the following year, had smacked my arse on court, big-time. Paul was a tremendous athlete and I couldn’t get a point off him.

  The manager must have been sat watching my humiliation, because he kept on chipping away at me, baiting me for a response. I came back at him that I’d beat him in a game of tennis – which is exactly the response he’d been waiting for.

  ‘Right,’ he said, ‘I’ll play you tomorrow at 10 o’clock in the morning for a hundred quid.’

  By this time all the coaching staff and the lads were in on the confrontation, and then Howard added the proviso: ‘If you don’t turn up, you forfeit the hundred quid.’

  Tony Book – ‘Mr Manchester City’ and Howard’s Maine Road assistant – came up behind me and whispered in my ear: ‘You’d better get to bed, Mark, as the gaffer is a good tennis player.’

  The coaching staff and the lads were placing bets with each other on who would win. I finished my drink and as I strode confidently out of the pub, I looked over my shoulder to see Howard still going strong on the wine. I honestly thought it would be him not turning up, as it had already gone three in the morning.

  I went straight to bed and awoke with the worst hangover ever and feeling absolutely dreadful. Recalling the challenge with Howard, I checked my watch and it was already 9.50am. ‘Fuck! Only 10 minutes to spare …’

  Steve Redmond, my room-mate, told me to run down the corridor and see if Howard was still in his room. I threw on my shorts, slipped on a pair of flip-flops and raced to Howard’s room, praying he was still fast asleep and feeling as bad as me.

  To my horror, when I looked in to his room, the maid was making the bed and there was no sign of Howard!

  I sprinted back to my room, switched my flip-flops for trainers, grabbed my T-shirt and ran down to the reception area. I hadn’t had a wash or had time to brush my teeth. And my hangover was getting worse by the second with all the running around.

  As I raced through the hotel I spotted Howard sat at the bar smoking a cigar and reading the paper. As I walked towards him he said: ‘Right, son, what do you want to drink?’

  I noticed he had a bottle of champagne on ice and half had already gone. ‘A bottle of water,’ I croaked through my dry throat. He passed me the water and told me that he knew that I would turn up for the game of tennis because I was a winner and that was why he’d bought me. ‘Let’s go and play,’ he said.

  Howard beat me that morning two sets to one and I was absolutely gutted. His game-plan was that he would loft the ball high into the air and wait for me to make errors by trying to smash the ball for a winner. My shots either went into the net or well wide of the target.

  After he’d secured match-point, he shook my hand and told me we were going for a drink at the pool bar. I felt very dehydrated and certainly not up for any more alcohol. But after some encouragement from Howard, I had two San Miguels and felt as right as rain.

  The lads and coaching staff started to rise following the previous night’s drinking session and they all wanted to know the outcome of the tennis match. Howard took great delight in telling everyone how he’d beaten me 2-1 and I got plenty of stick off the lads as they handed over their pesetas to the coaching staff.

  As the day progressed around the bar and pool, Howard kept asking me for his £100 winnings. Tony Book once again whispered in my ear: ‘Play him tomorrow at two in the afternoon for double or quits. He’ll have had about eight pints by then.’ So I challenged him to a return match at two o’clock the following afternoon – double or quits, £200 or nothing, just as Tony had suggested.

  The next afternoon at 2pm we both walked out on to the sunken clay tennis court at the hotel. Above us the crowd gathered to watch the re-match – as well as all the City players and staff, the viewing gallery had been boosted by the presence of waiters and hotel staff.

  I felt very under pressure. I’d prepared well by having an early night and ate breakfast with the gaffer, who, to my knowledge, had been out all night and had been on the ale again since breakfast.

  Howard’s tactics were just the same as they had been the previous day – lobbing the ball high and waiting for me to make mistakes – but I just took my time and managed to beat him two sets to one. But only just – he battled for every point and made a nonsense of our age difference.

  He shook my hand afterwards and we were clapped off the court. I realised quickly that 43-year-old Howard was different from other managers I’d worked with. He had his own way. By goading me into challenging him, he knew that I’d turn up for the tennis match even though I was feeling dog-rough. Like he said, I was a winner and that was the kind of player he needed at City.

  A good 1-1 draw at Old Trafford against United in the Manchester derby in early February, with Ian Brightwell scoring a cracker, was a result that gave us even more confidence for the rest of the season.

  In April we managed to win 2-1 at title-chasing Aston Villa with Reidy and myself – two Huyton lads – scoring. It was City’s first away league win of the season. Four consecutive victories in our last six matches, and only one defeat in our last 11 games, meant we had avoided relegation by five points. Considering the perilous position we were in when Howard Kendall took charge, the final league position of 14th was a magnificent achievement by all at the club, especially the gaffer.

  He had taken over a roller-coaster club, a team destined for the second division, and it was only his mid-winter signings that kept City in the top tier of English football that season. Reid, Heath and Harper were inspirational and given all the emerging young talent at the club, things were looking up for next season.

  14. THE MIGHTY QUINN

  ONE of Howard Kendall’s best signings for Manchester City was the capture of the tall Republic of Ireland striker Niall Quinn.

  Niall wasn’t the finished article when he arrived from Arsenal before the transfer de
adline in March 1990. He had been an in and out performer at Highbury and had never been given a decent run in the first team.

  When I was at West Ham the legendary Irish international Liam Brady kept on telling me that John Lyall should snap up big ‘Quinny’. Well, Howard did just that. He saw potential in a centre-forward who, with work to improve his touch and regular first team football, possessed enormous talent.

  All the training at City revolved around Niall, improving his touch and awareness. Howard would still join in training sessions himself and although he couldn’t run, his first touch was still immaculate. If we were working on corners or free-kicks, he’d show us exactly how he wanted the ball delivered into the right spot by whipping it in himself.

  Head tennis and small-sided games in compact areas were regular features of training. You could visibly see Quinny improve week by week and he was such a great lad, too.

  One Wednesday afternoon in April ’91 we were rooming together at our hotel a few hours before our match against Leeds United at Elland Road. Quinny was lying down with his long legs dangling over the end of the bed that was totally inadequate for a man of his height.

  He knew I liked a bet and the Channel 4 racing had just started on the television. He told me that he had an account with a bookmaker in London and asked if I wanted to go halves with him on some bets that afternoon.

  I agreed, and with that he picked up the phone and rang the bookies. ‘Hello, it’s Niall, can I have £200 on the nose on the favourite in the 2.10 at Newmarket.’

  ‘Fucking hell’, I thought, ‘he doesn’t mess around’. If the horse lost, then I’d be down £100. It lost.

  ‘Right, let’s get our dough back in the next race,’ I suggested.

  We had the same bet of £200 on the next favourite. This one also lost.

  I was already £200 down in just over half an hour. Our amazing run of losses continued all afternoon until the racing on the telly had finished. When the maths was done I totted up I owed Quinny over a grand. I told him, jokingly, it was the last time I’d room with him.

  He just laughed and asked if we should have the last £700 left in his account on one horse to get us out of trouble. We were in the process of having a shower and getting our shirts and ties on to meet the team in the hotel’s reception area to travel to the game. Niall opened up his ‘Bible’, The Sporting Life, and told me to pick the winner to save our bacon. There was a National Hunt flat race at Stratford with over 30 runners. I turned to Quinny: ‘How the fuck do I pick the winner with the size of this field?’

  ‘The bigger the field, the bigger the certainty,’ he replied. So I started to study form. We’d been backing favourites all day and I wasn’t going to change our method. The favourite in this one was trained by Martin Pipe, the best jump racing trainer, and the horse was called Edelweiss. It was priced at 7-2, so if we had Quinny’s last £700 on the nose, we we’d get back £3,150 to put us £150 in front.

  ‘Go on, Quinny … Edelweiss,’ I said, nearly cutting my throat as I shaved. He struck the bet and we stood staring at Teletext waiting anxiously for the result.

  Niall said there was a number we could dial up to listen to the commentary live from the racecourse. He got the number from the Sporting Life and dialled it quickly.

  The commentary went something like this: ‘Edelweiss leads the field heading down the back straight and goes on by two lengths’. We both started jumping up and down and then put our ears back to the receiver, which was upside down on the bed, so we could hear every word of the commentary.

  The commentator went on to say that with two furlongs to go, Edelweiss was storming clear and the rest of the field was in another county.

  We slammed the phone down and ran down to reception to meet the rest of the City team. We both sat next to each other on the team coach singing ‘Edelweiss’, the popular song from the hit musical The Sound of Music.

  Howard Kendall, Peter Reid and the rest of the squad couldn’t work out why we were singing that old classic. But the turbulent, nerve-wracking events of the afternoon’s racing didn’t stop us both playing our part in a 2-1 win – and yes, Quinny scored again.

  There was a lesson to be learnt, though. It’s too easy to get an account with a bookmaker, especially if you are a professional footballer with too much money and time on your hands. I know so many who have lost hundreds of thousands of pounds, and the amounts squandered are much higher in this day and age.

  I’ve lost too much money myself over the years gambling on horses – I rarely bet on football – but, thankfully, I’ve never had a phone account, or I’d dread to think how much more I’d have squandered. It worked out okay for Niall and me that day in Leeds but if Edelweiss hadn’t won, I’d have blown £1,500 – a lot of money to me then and even more so today.

  Niall Quinn was the best target man I ever played with and one of the nicest men you could ever wish to meet. He went on to own successful horses and it’s great to see him back in football as chairman of Sunderland, where he is a cult hero.

  * * * *

  Jane, Melissa and I had been living in the Hillcrest Hotel at Cronton, near Widnes, for six months waiting for the sale of our house in Loughton to go through. We eventually sold the property for a big loss. The recession, soaring interest rates of up to 13 per cent and the stock market crash in the late ’80s knocked the stuffing out of the housing market and we left Essex having not made a penny on the sale of our home. It was just unfortunate timing for us.

  A good start to the 1990-91 season – only two defeats in our first 16 league matches – gave everybody at Maine Road optimism for a successful campaign but big changes at the top were in the air. In mid-November it was announced out of the blue that Howard Kendall was leaving City to go back to Everton.

  A lot of people were surprised because of the quality of the side he was assembling – full-back Neil Pointon, although not a Scouser himself, strengthened the Everton connection at City when he moved across from Goodison that summer. But Howard is an Evertonian through and through and he was only being honest when he explained that he could only leave Maine Road for one club – and that was Everton, where he’d made himself a legend as both player and manager in the ’70s and ’80s. I was shocked by the announcement, or rather its timing, but not too surprised.

  The natural successor to Howard at City was Peter Reid, who – on his mentor’s recommendation – became the club’s first ever player-manager. It was a great opportunity for Peter, who, at 34, was nearing the end of his playing days, to prove that he had good management credentials.

  We had a tough trip to Anfield in one of Reidy’s first games in charge and were losing 1-0 when we were awarded a penalty. I’d already taken three penalties that season and scored each time but facing Bruce Grobbelaar at Anfield was a pressure kick. Reidy grabbed hold of me and told me to make sure I hit the target. I was always confident of hitting the target anyway and realised how important this kick was if we were to claw our way back into the game. I struck it with such power it flew past Grobbelaar and we were level.

  Liverpool went ahead again and with minutes to go we got a corner. I ran and collected the ball and knew if I put it in the right area, the big fella Quinny would get to it. We had practiced corners and free-kicks religiously using Quinny and I delivered the cross perfectly, right on to the penalty spot, where Niall rose majestically and powered an unstoppable header into the top corner.

  The 2-2 draw at Anfield was a great result for City and especially our new manager. Although we were gutted that Howard had left to return to Everton, Reidy was going to be a fine replacement in his own right.

  He gave the lads two weeks’ grace to stop calling him ‘Reidy’ because he wanted us to refer to him as either ‘Gaffer’ or ‘Boss’. I kept on calling him Reidy way beyond his fortnight deadline and he’d tell me he was going to fine me. We did have a fall-out and it cost me £500.

  We were playing Derby County at home shortly before the end of the season
. Our keeper Tony Coton had been sent off with City leading 2-1. There was only one person to go in goal and that was big Niall. He’d already scored, along with David White, and we had 20 minutes to hang on with Quinny in goal.

  During the course of the season Niall and I had a competition in training. If I scored five penalties out of five against him, he’d give me a tenner. He had to save only one for me to give him a tenner. Nine of my 11 league goals in 1990-91 came from the penalty spot but in our private competition, Quinny and I were about even with each other over the course of the season.

  Peter Reid was on the bench this day and was barking out instructions from the dug-out. With 10 minutes to go Derby were awarded a penalty and Dean Saunders stepped up to face big Quinny. I stood on the edge of the box and remember telling a Derby player that Niall would save it.

  Saunders strode up and hit a perfect penalty into the bottom right-hand corner. I knew if Niall dived the right way, he’d save it – and he did. He tipped Saunders’ shot around the post and the City faithful erupted in celebration of the big man.

  With a nervous few minutes to hold on to our 2-1 lead, Reidy was ordering me to ‘just sit tight in midfield’. I tried to nick a ball but misjudged it and Derby nearly scored.

  The manager swore at me and I told him to ‘fuck off!’ I should never have said it – it was disrespectful and out of order. Within a minute, Reidy had my number up and brought himself on for me. He put out his hand for me to shake it but, feeling angry and hard done by, I just walked straight past him.

  I trudged off up the tunnel and, on my way, stupidly kicked the plastic water bucket that was adjacent the opposing dug-out. I kicked it with such force that my foot went straight through the bucket, spraying water everywhere. The copper who stood by the players’ tunnel was soaked and so, too, was the unfortunate Tony Coton.