Hammered

by Mark Ward

  We finally sat down in his oak-panelled office to talk over a cup of tea and some sandwiches. He was very straightforward and told me that he wanted me as his player-coach at Birmingham and that I would be on the same contract I’d had at Everton – Premiership wages in the second division.

  We shook hands and I told him he had a new player-coach. Before I left, though, I asked him what Barry Fry thought about my appointment. ‘Don’t worry about Barry,’ David said, ‘he’s behind the deal too.’

  I walked out of David’s idyllic world to meet my two mates in the pub, ready to celebrate a new start at Birmingham City. I’d been talking with David for well over three hours and thought that The Egg and Mick would be well on their way to getting drunk.

  I walked into the bar to be greeted by two glum, sober-looking friends. ‘You’ll never guess what’s happened to us,’ said Mick.

  The pair of them had been basking in the sunshine, waiting for the pub to open, when three police cars suddenly screeched into the car park. Before they knew what was happening, Mick and Kevin were man-handled by several coppers and told to put their hands on their vehicle and spread their legs.

  They were being arrested on suspicion of burglary!

  The police had taken a call from a resident near the pub who gave the number plate of Kevin’s car. Obviously, it showed up as being registered to a Liverpool address, which set alarm bells ringing in this sleepy, little Essex village on the edge of Epping Forest.

  Scousers, in a pub car park, miles from home, at 11 o’clock in the morning? They were obviously up to no good.

  Mick and Kevin explained that I was being interviewed by David Sullivan in his house across the road and that they were waiting for me, but their excuses fell on deaf ears. It was only after a phone call to Sullivan’s house and confirmation from his house-keeper that the pair were allowed to go on their way.

  They were shaken up by their ordeal but I was pissing myself laughing!

  * * * *

  I signed a two-year contract for Birmingham City, who paid Everton £200,000 for me, just before the start of pre-season training. I saw it as a stepping stone, a chance to make my mark as a coach and eventually progress into management. It was a good start at a relatively big club that belonged in the top flight of English football, not the third tier. These were exciting times for Birmingham, with major ground redevelopment just getting underway and the team installed as pre-season favourites to win promotion straight back to the first division.

  On my first day in my new dual role at the club I met up with Barry and his staff – first team coach Edwin Stein, reserve team manager David Howell, chief scout Lil Fuccillo and physio Neil McDiarmid. Barry told me that he just wanted me to concentrate on playing but I was adamant that I wanted complete control of the first team coaching.

  I could feel resistance towards me from day one. My appointment as player-coach had pushed Edwin Stein’s nose out of joint but I was sticking to my guns and knew I could do a good job.

  The playing side came very easily to me but the resistance towards my involvement with the coaching was an annoyance. David Sullivan would ring me every day, asking my opinion on all the goings-on behind the scenes. I didn’t realise it at the time, but he was then reporting my comments back to his managing director Karren Brady.

  Maybe I was a bit naive, but I only told the truth and I wasn’t happy with the way things were going. Players and staff, including Barry, were turning up late sometimes two or three times a week because they had to commute from London. It was no good. In fact, it was amateurish.

  I’d go to the ground, collect the balls, cones and bibs, etc, and be at training very early to organise the massive squad that Barry had assembled. We eventually had 58 pros on the books that season. Barry’s dealings were legendary. He managed to accumulate no fewer than 22 players from his two previous clubs, Barnet and Southend United. It was like Piccadilly Circus at times and, with so many players around, it was no surprise that one or two cliques developed. I wouldn’t go as far as to say that there was a racial split in the camp, but the white lads and black lads tended to socialise apart.

  * * * *

  At this point in my marriage, Jane and I were quickly drifting apart and I was getting home to Liverpool only once or twice a week. On August 23, brother Billy, Peter McGuinness and Barry Jackson came to watch an evening match against Shrewsbury Town at St Andrew’s. It was the second leg of a League Cup tie, we won 2-0 to reach the next round and afterwards we had a great night out in Birmingham. The lads crashed out afterwards in my room back at the hotel where I was staying on the Hagley Road.

  The next morning, which was my day off, they were ready to head back to Liverpool but before they left, I said I’d take them for some breakfast in the city. I walked ahead of them and entered an Irish bar before ordering four pints of Guinness. When the lads walked in, I said to them: ‘Here’s your breakfast, drink up!’

  The truth is, I very much enjoyed their company and I didn’t want them to go back to Liverpool, so after a couple more pints they decided to spend another night with me. What a big mistake that was.

  We ended up staying out all afternoon and got back to the hotel to shower and change before heading on to a nightclub called Liberty’s, which was further along the Hagley Road. It was recommended to us by a barman who had served us that day – he said it was full of women and the best place in town.

  There was certainly plenty of ‘action’ in Liberty’s but this proved to be a night to remember for all the wrong reasons.

  Admittedly, all four of us were very drunk but we were all behaving well until Peter and Billy had a falling out over something and threw water from the champagne bucket over each other. That was the only bad behaviour I recall.

  On the way out, Billy was approached by a bouncer, who told him that he had to leave. We were leaving anyway but as Billy got to the top of a small staircase that led down to the exit, the bouncer kicked him in the back, sending him flying down the stairs. He hit his head on a pillar at the bottom and there was blood everywhere.

  I couldn’t believe it. I rushed down the stairs to my brother’s aid and his head was split in two. By this time, the other bouncers had arrived and, before we knew it, Billy and I had been ejected from the club through a fire escape door. Once outside, I looked at his head and it was an absolute mess.

  We ran round to the front of the club, which had a big glass reception area. Whatever came over us that night, I do not know, but as a clubber was leaving we darted in through the door to confront the bullying bouncers.

  Big mistake. It wasn’t so much bravery on our part as sheer stupidity, and our foolishness was rewarded with a terrible hiding. They punched and kicked us out of the door and down the steps. I literally had to drag Billy the short distance back to our hotel.

  Peter and Barry arrived a few minutes later with not a hair out of place. I couldn’t blame them for not getting involved. It was sheer madness to try and take on the bouncers but I still had to calm Billy, who wanted to go back for another go. I reminded him that I was the player-coach of Birmingham City and didn’t need the hassle or bad publicity.

  Eventually we fell asleep and I was awoken the next morning by the phone. I went to grab it with my right hand but the pain was unbearable. There was a big swelling on my hand where I’d damaged the bone in the act of punching one of the bouncers. I answered the phone with my left hand and it was Karren Brady.

  I thought I was going to get a serious bollocking from the Birmingham MD but, instead, she was sympathetic and helpful.

  ‘Mark, I believe you had some trouble last night in Liberty’s,’ said Karren. ‘We have had the press and television on to the club and think they have CCTV evidence of the trouble outside the nightclub. Leave it all to me, I’ll deal with it. Are you okay, though?’

  I immediately looked at my damaged right hand and then glanced in the mirror to discover a terrible black eye, but I told Karren that I was okay to train that
morning even though I felt awful.

  She added that she’d had trouble in the same club when she first arrived at Birmingham, and that I wasn’t to worry about a thing.

  I’d only been at the club for a few weeks and I’d already been beaten up. Not a good start. It was my fault, though, because I’d persuaded the lads to stay down for another day and we’d had a few drinks too many.

  I arrived at training that morning and was greeted by the captain Liam Daish. ‘Fucking hell, Wardy, what happened to you?’

  I did look bad. I explained what had happened and Liam told me that Liberty’s was an Aston Villa club. It was owned by Villa fans and they didn’t like Birmingham players going there.

  Barry Fry was okay about it, too. He just told me that as long as I didn’t miss any games because of my injuries, then there would be no problem.

  It turned out that I’d broken a bone in my hand and cracked my cheekbone, but I didn’t miss a game.

  After the incident, I decided to find a flat, put that unfortunate episode behind me and give the job everything I had. I rented a twobedroom flat in Edgbaston, just off the Hagley Road.

  But the internal politics at Birmingham City were never far from the surface. David Sullivan was still quizzing me every day about the running of the club and it all came to a head one day when Karren Brady came to see me before training.

  I was only six weeks into the job and the results were going fine on the pitch. She told me that there was going to be a meeting that afternoon with Barry and his staff.

  ‘Mark, he is going to accuse you of wanting his job,’ she said. ‘But David and I are right behind the decision to bring you to the club, so don’t worry.’

  I had no intention of taking Barry’s job, although I felt he was showing signs of insecurity. I’d built up a great relationship with the players and I was playing really well myself.

  I was a bit nervous going into the meeting because I knew how volatile Barry could be. But I’d seen his kind before. He was a verbal bully to the people he knew he could intimidate. Maybe he could get away with that at lower division clubs, but he wouldn’t get away with it with me.

  I walked into Karen’s office and Barry and his staff were already there waiting for me. I could instantly feel that the knives were out for me.

  ‘Right,’ said Karen, ‘who wants to start this meeting?’

  Barry stood up and pointed straight at me.

  ‘That cunt wants my fucking job!’ he said. ‘I’m not having him talking to the chairman behind my back.’

  Typical Barry, I thought, full of anger, hot air and losing the plot. I told him to sit down but he carried on ranting and raving, claiming that I’d already lined up Alan Harper, my former Man City and Everton team-mate, to help me run the club. What a joke.

  Karren told Barry to sit down and behave. I felt under pressure but was comfortable in the fact that I’d told the chairman only the truth and given my honest opinion on certain issues.

  She then looked at Edwin Stein and asked him how many games he’d played in the Premiership. ‘None,’ replied Edwin. She asked the same question to David Howell, Lil Fuccillo and even the physio. They also all had to reply ‘none’.

  She was just about to ask Barry how many games he’d played in the Premiership when he erupted. Banging the table, he screamed: ‘That’s not the fucking point!’

  Karren eventually calmed him down and said: ‘That’s exactly the point, Barry. We brought Mark here because of where he has been, for his playing ability and the experience he has. None of you have come near to what he has achieved, so just get on with the fact that he is here to coach. He doesn’t want your job.’

  And that was the end of the meeting. They couldn’t argue with the facts but it only fuelled Barry’s hostility towards me.

  The team itself was playing well, although, to be honest, we were entitled to win the title as Barry had spent far more on players than any other manager in the second division.

  Ian Bennett, in goal, was different class, big Liam Daish organised the defence, I was playing in the middle of the park and Steve Claridge was our centre-forward. It was a solid spine for the championship battle and we were strong in every department. Despite the behind the scenes rumblings, we were on course for a successful season.

  * * * *

  A week after the aggro at Liberty’s, I was still bruised and battered when I arrived back in Liverpool for the day. I was in town having some Sunday lunch when I was introduced to an Aston Villa supporter, who was intrigued at how I’d sustained my injuries.

  The guy’s name was Sean O’Toole and we hit it off straight away. He was very knowledgeable about the game and even more knowledgeable about the Birmingham nightclub scene.

  He told me to give him my address and said he would sort out the trouble I’d had at Liberty’s, as he knew Al Stevens, the top man who ran all the doors, who happened to be a Blues fan.

  I gave him my address and thought nothing more of it. Later that week, I was sitting in my flat when the doorbell rang. It was Sean. I asked him in and then we went out for a curry, to talk more about football and life in Birmingham.

  He introduced me to a club called The Hot Spot, which opened my eyes – I believe it was one of the first lap-dancing bars in the country.

  Sean and I got on really well and I never felt the need to ask him what he did for a living. He was a lively character and I enjoyed his company.

  In early December ’94 I was summoned to Liberty’s nightclub by Sean, who was in there with Al Stevens. I was just about to leave for St Andrews, where we were playing against Scunthorpe United in the FA Cup second round that Friday evening, but Sean was adamant than I met with Al there and then.

  It felt strange walking into a nightclub full of women and bouncers at 6pm. Sean led me to the back of the club where Al was waiting. He was a gentleman and told me that he’d sorted the problem. His only stipulation was that ‘the little bald fella’ – my brother Billy – wasn’t allowed in Liberty’s or any of their other nightclubs.

  I explained to him what had happened when the trouble flared but he told me that I’d be looked after while at Birmingham and it was me who had to live in the city, so therefore it was in my interests to accept his offer.

  I wasn’t happy with the fact that Billy was getting all the blame but Sean told me to look at it positively, and to shake Al’s hand, which I did before rushing off to St Andrew’s to play in the goalless draw with Scunthorpe.

  I spent a lot of time with Sean O’Toole – even leaving him the keys to my flat whenever I went back to Liverpool to see Jane and Melissa. We had a good friendship.

  Then, one day, I was asked by one of the stewards at Birmingham City if I knew that Sean had been in prison and was a major drug dealer in Birmingham. I told him I had no idea.

  I arranged to meet Sean after training for a bite to eat and I got straight to the point. I told him that somebody had marked my card about him.

  He was brutally honest and told me his story, explaining that he hadn’t told me about his background before as he was worried it would damage or alter our friendship. I told him it wouldn’t. We remained firm friends and I was glad to have known the man for the last two to three years of his life.

  We kept in touch even after I’d left Birmingham and then I heard the tragic news about him. I was visiting my brother Andrew when I noticed on Sky News that a man had died of gun shot wounds in Birmingham. I immediately said to Andrew: ‘I hope that’s not Sean.’

  Later that day they named the dead man as my friend Sean O’Toole.

  Sean, 34, was apparently shot at point-blank range while drinking with an associate in the busy PJ’s Moon and Sixpence pub in Birmingham city centre on December 21, 1997. I couldn’t believe it. I could easily have been sat in the pub with him that day, because we’d had drinks in there together numerous times in the past.

  I was really saddened by his death and it took me a while to get over it. I realised then how y
ou can meet people in this world and not know them as well as you think.

  But I still say I was glad to have known Sean. He never spoke to me about what he did for a living and never put me in any kind of awkward position or tried to involve me in his drug distribution activities.

  23. OUT OF THE BLUE

  ALTHOUGH I didn’t really see eye to eye with Barry Fry, we had one thing in common – we were both winners and wanted success.

  I started to warm to him over the course of the season. He was a complete one-off – there will never be another Barry Fry.

  He has his own unique style of management, which sometimes involves speaking and acting before he thinks. At half-time in most matches he would normally blow his top – tell everyone in the dressing-room they were shit. If we managed to win the game, everyone was brilliant when we got back in after the final whistle.

  He was the complete opposite of managers I’d played under. The discipline of John Lyall, the expertise of Howard Kendall and the enthusiasm of Joe Royle and Peter Reid all made Barry look second rate, but he had that loveable rogue way about him.

  I gave my all for Birmingham and Barry, and he couldn’t leave me out because I was his best midfield player.

  The supporters really took to me during my spell at St Andrew’s and they were a fantastic crowd to play for. As well as reaching the final of the Auto Windscreens Shield, we also faced top flight Blackburn Rovers, who knocked us out of the League Cup before going on to win the Premiership, and took Liverpool to a replay in the third round of the FA Cup.

  After drawing 0-0 at St Andrew’s no-one gave us a chance at Anfield 10 days later. I told Barry I was going to watch Liverpool before the replay to see if I could identify a way of beating them. I believed that if we could stop the supply of passes to Steve McManaman, then we’d have more than a chance of getting a decent result.