by Mark Ward
I went back to Birmingham and told Barry that we needed to mark Neil Ruddock but his response was typical: ‘What, you want me to tell Steve Claridge to mark a fucking centre-half?’
I’d noticed that Ruddock was passing a straight ball into midfield for McManaman, who was running inside from his wide position. He was therefore impossible to pick up and most of Liverpool’s attacks began this way. Beefy ‘Razor’ Ruddock was under estimated on the ball, he had a good range of passes and even though Barry was against the idea, I told Claridge to get close to Ruddock whenever possible. He had energy to burn and could stop the big defender playing his passes into midfield.
Claridge was another character at Birmingham City. We nicknamed him ‘Stig of the Dump’. He still lived in Portsmouth and would sleep in his car some nights rather than drive all the way back to the south coast. He’d turn up at training looking bedraggled and I’d send him to train with the reserves.
But he could play, and at Anfield he gave a masterly display with the rest of the team to earn a 1-1 draw in 90 minutes. We went for the win in extra-time and deserved to go through, but it went to a penalty shoot-out.
Barry had sent on the young Portuguese winger, Jose Dominguez, in extra-time. He was a very tricky little player with bags of potential and I told him to attack the Liverpool defence whenever he had the opportunity.
Unfortunately he had a terrible start, giving the ball away on numerous times, and, unbelievably, Barry’s patience snapped and he decided to replace him with Steve McGavin – just five minutes after he’d stepped onto the pitch in the first place.
I was disgusted by the manager’s decision to sub the sub but, from the middle of the park, there was nothing I could say or do in my poor team-mate’s defence. I felt for Jose, who walked past me in the direction of the tunnel with tears running down his face and his confidence shot to pieces. Yes, Dominguez had been guilty of conceding possession too often but he still had the skill to turn the game our way and we needed creative, attacking people like him on the pitch against a side as strong as Liverpool.
Birmingham got a then club record £1.5m for Dominguez when they sold him to Sporting Lisbon a year or so later, but they should have got more from this player of obvious talent with a little more encouragement. Jose would sometimes come to me for little bits of advice and although I always rated him as a player, it wasn’t easy to give any individuals too much time with 57 other pros to attend to.
Our efforts in the penalty shoot-out that night were a shambles. I took the first one at the Anfield Road end and struck it well but it shaved the wrong side of the post and I trudged wearily back to the halfway line.
Ian Rush was walking past me in the opposite direction to take Liverpool’s first penalty. He was laughing, so I told him to miss. And he did! We had a second chance but failed to convert a single one of our spot-kicks and were knocked out 2-0 on penalties.
It was a very brave attempt, and we were consoled by the fact that we still had a Wembley date to look forward to. True, it wasn’t the glamour of the FA Cup final, but the Auto Windscreens Shield final meant so much to so many at Birmingham City at that time. A 4-2 aggregate victory over Leyton Orient in the Southern Area final meant Blues were going back to Wembley to face third division promotion-chasers Carlisle United on April 23, 1995.
It was fantastic for the Birmingham faithful whose club had been on the brink of bankruptcy until David Sullivan and the Gold brothers, David and Ralph, bailed them out in 1993. It was fever pitch at the club’s ticket office as some 55,000 Brummies clamoured to book their seat for Wembley. With their rousing old anthem of ‘Keep Right On’, they would turn the national stadium into a sea of blue.
After my bitter disappointment with Northwich in 1983, when injury drastically reduced my contribution in the FA Trophy final and I petulantly refused to collect my losers’ medal, I was determined to come away from Wembley a winner this time. The 1995 final was the first game staged under the Twin Towers to be decided by the League’s experimental, new ‘golden goal’ rule. If the teams were still tied after 90 minutes, the first goal in extra-time would settle it.
As the teams lined up in the Wembley tunnel ready to walk out in front of a sell-out 76,663 crowd (bigger than the previous month’s League Cup final involving Liverpool and Bolton Wanderers), I heard a familiar Scouse voice behind me shout: ‘Do you want that second round now, Wardy?’
I turned and, to my disbelief, there stood Stan Boardman … in his football kit! Stan had been playing in a celebrity match before the main event. I said: ‘Yeah, come on then,’ and chased him down the tunnel. I was still wound up over his comments to the press following our altercation at the Moat House hotel the previous summer.
Despite Carlisle missing a great chance very early on, Birmingham should have won the game in normal time and Barry was telling us to go for it in extra-time with the sudden-death golden goal coming into play. With 13 minutes gone in the first period, I knocked the ball wide on the left to our £800,000 club record signing Ricky Otto, who floated in a perfect cross for mad Bluenose Paul Tait to glance a header into the top corner.
Paul, a second half sub, famously celebrated by ripping off his blue jersey to reveal a T-shirt with the words ‘Birmingham City Shit on the Villa’ printed on the front. As well as repeating the title of a popular chant heard regularly around St Andrew’s, it also highlighted the hatred that exists between die-hard supporters of Birmingham City and Aston Villa. The authorities were not amused by Paul’s prank. As well as receiving a club fine, his actions also brought him a FA disrepute charge.
Paul was a bit of a rough diamond who could certainly handle himself, but we got on great and I always had a lot of time for him. I guess I could easily relate to the problems he’d got himself into during his youth, which led to him dabbling in cocaine and having to attend a drug rehab clinic for tests to check that he’d kicked the habit. He’s been an avid Blues fan all his life, the local lad made good, and if he wasn’t playing in the game himself, he’d stand with his mates in the Blues Zulu crew on the terraces to watch it. Paul and I have kept in touch to this day and I’m pleased to see that he has settled down now with a family.
Whatever the people who ran the club and the FA thought of his T-shirt gesture in 1995, they couldn’t deny him Wembley hero status and a place in Blues folklore. Paul’s winning goal brought the Carlisle players to their knees, for they knew there was no way back. Blues became the first club to win the trophy twice, having beaten Tranmere in the final four years earlier.
Receiving the man-of-the-match award was the icing on the cake for me but, overall, it was a fantastic experience for everybody – from skipper Liam Daish, a strong leader of men, to all the other players, and especially the long-suffering Blues fans who finally had something to celebrate after years in the doldrums. I was delighted for Barry, who leapt on me like a little kid, and the directors of the club.
All my family were there to watch me and I met Jane after the game in the players’ lounge. She took me to one side and told me that Stan Boardman was in the lounge, before warning me that I’d better not start any trouble with him.
I had no intention of doing so in front of my family but a few minutes later I felt a tap on the shoulder and there, stood behind me, was Stan himself. He stuck out his hand to congratulate me on winning the game and earning the MOTM award. I had no alternative but to shake his hand and we made up over a beer.
Two weeks after our Wembley triumph, on May 6, Blues were crowned second division champions – four points clear of Brentford – after winning 2-1 with goals from Claridge and Tait at Huddersfield Town.
The 1994-95 campaign could hardly have gone any better … my first coaching role, winning the title at Huddersfield on the final day of the season and victory in a Wembley final. I’d done my job, played 41 league games and was already looking forward to life back in the first division.
There were celebrations, too, among my family of Evertonians back on
Merseyside, after underdogs Everton – managed by Joe Royle – had beaten Manchester United 1-0 in the FA Cup final, thanks to Paul Rideout’s winner. Many believed Joe should have been the man to succeed Howard Kendall in 1993 but his appointment didn’t come for almost another year, when the Goodison board finally came to their senses and sacked Mike Walker. The team had gone 12 games without a win at the start of the season, Walker had won only six of his 35 games in charge and, in November ’94, even new chairman Peter Johnson could see Walker was the wrong man to lead a club of Everton’s stature. Sadly, his dismissal came too late for me – my Goodison career had already ended.
And my days were also numbered at St Andrew’s. Despite all my efforts throughout Birmingham City’s successful 1994-95 campaign, I wasn’t rewarded with a new contract at the end of the following season. Barry offered all of his other staff new deals but we weren’t talking by then and he left me out.
I’d missed games through injury in 1995-96 but even when I was fit to play again, he didn’t always pick me. We barely spoke and I knew, from his attitude towards me in that heated showdown meeting in Karren Brady’s office, that I wouldn’t have a future while he was manager at Birmingham City. It was clear that Barry saw me as too much of a threat to his job and my time in the West Midlands had come to a premature and disappointing end.
I thought David Sullivan might have been more supportive of me but I didn’t go to him or Karren for reassurances about my future or to ask why I wasn’t being retained. The club always seemed to be mired in internal politics during my time there and not a lot seems to have changed over the years in that respect. It’s a shame, because the club has great support and enormous potential.
* * * *
Once again, both my professional and private life was thrown into turmoil. Jane and I were still drifting apart by this time. I wasn’t going home as often as I should have and, instead, I found myself spending more time going to the races with Eamonn Connolly.
One day we went off to Doncaster, where Eamonn was selling some yearlings for David Sullivan. The sales took place two hours after the races had finished and I was well drunk by then.
Eamonn told me to sit with all the other bidders and wait for one of David’s horses to come into the ring. I was to bid for the horse until it reached 35,000 guineas. Once it passed that number, I had to quit.
I felt like a millionaire as the auctioneer added thousands on to the price of the beautiful yearling. Once the 35,000 cut-off point had been reached, I stopped bidding – and the horse eventually went for 50,000 guineas.
I’d had a share in two racehorses over the years with the Everton lads. One was called Dome Patrol – but it ran more like a donkey than a horse. I can’t recall the name of the other horse, so it can’t have been much better than Dome Patrol. I also had a share in a horse called Robeena, with the father of jockey Martin Dwyer. I think it finished third on its debut at Haydock Park but was forced to retire due to a serious leg injury.
I’ve got so much respect for all those flat and steeplechase jockeys who are totally dedicated to their sport. It’s a very tough profession, especially considering the sacrifices they have to make in terms of maintaining their weight.
It was always my ambition to own my own horse outright but I’m not so sure now. When I look back on the lack of success I had with three horses I had shares in, and my bad experience when I bought my own bookies, I think I would have been so much better off if I’d been a jockey!
I was still determined to succeed in football but after Birmingham, it was all downhill for me from then on. It was going to be a steady decline in every way possible – in my career, my marriage and my life in general.
24. THE BIG FELLA
IT was during one of my return trips home while I was with Birmingham that I first met and got to know Everton and Scotland star Duncan Ferguson.
I’d spent the day at Haydock Park races and ended up in Liverpool city centre at an Italian restaurant called the Del Secco. I was with a couple of mates and noticed that Ian Rush was sat with some friends on a table nearby.
‘Rushy’ and I had a mutual friend, Dave Sheron, who is now a successful football agent. Back then, though, he was just one of the lads – albeit with good connections – and would get us tickets for the race meetings from jockeys and trainers, or hotel rooms whenever we needed them.
Dave had got involved with my move to Birmingham City and represented me along with a solicitor called Richard Hallows. However, we had a falling out over the payment for their services. Let’s put it this way, I ended up paying them a lot more than we’d initially agreed. It still angers me now but I learned quickly after that and had to let the matter rest. I didn’t hold Dave responsible but it did leave a bad taste in my mouth.
This particular evening, we all ended up on one table, drinking, eating and generally having a laugh. Among Rushy’s group of ‘friends’ were two birds, who were loud and clearly very drunk. They were a couple of slappers, hangers-on.
As the meal progressed, Dave Sheron stood up and said that he was popping down to The Retro Bar to see who was in there. Ten minutes later, he was back to declare: ‘You’ll never guess who’s in The Retro, absolutely bladdered, but Big Dunc.’
Duncan Ferguson had not long signed for Everton from Glasgow Rangers in a £4.4m deal that November and was staying at the Moat House hotel. I hadn’t met him yet, as I was usually down in Birmingham, but just as Dave finished telling us that he’d seen Duncan, the big fella walked into the restaurant, accompanied by Bob, a very drunk night porter from the Moat House.
Everybody turned to look at the big fella, who was more or less holding up the night porter. I pulled a chair over for Duncan, who shook my hand and told me he’d heard a lot about me. Duncan was drunk, but very much in control, and I was laughing to myself as Bob was slumped with his head on the table, completely out of it after a night on the champagne.
I was enjoying the big fella’s company but as the evening progressed, Rushy started to have a dig at Duncan. There they were at opposite ends of the table, the two opposing centre-forwards of the city. I’d met Ian Rush on a couple of occasions and played against him numerous times. He was a Liverpool legend and without doubt the best finisher I’d ever played against.
But he was having a little pop at Duncan, asking questions such as: ‘So how many goals do you think you’ll get this season?’
Duncan was a perfect gentleman and full of respect for Rushy. ‘Not as many as you, Rushy,’ he replied. Rush wouldn’t leave it there, though. ‘How many? You must have a target,’ he went on.
Again, Duncan was full of modesty and paid Ian a huge compliment by telling him he’d be happy to score half of his tally of goals that season.
I chipped in by saying that Duncan would also make plenty of goals for the team and then Rushy’s mate, an Evertonian, commented that as long as he did better than Maurice Johnston, he’d be happy.
The two female hangers-on were still loitering, getting louder and more drunk by the minute. Upon hearing mention of Mo’s name, the blonde one said: ‘Maurice Johnston? I used to see him – he’s a Charlie-head.’
As the blonde kept babbling on about Maurice, the atmosphere immediately changed. I’d spent a lot of time socialising with Maurice, and not once had I witnessed him taking drugs of any kind. I thought to myself, ‘I can’t let this slut get away with rubbishing his name.’ If he’d been present that night, she’d probably have been all over him.
‘Hey, that’s my mate you’re talking about,’ I said. ‘He’s not here, so don’t go talking like that about him,’ I told her.
She just looked at me and said: ‘Who the fuck are you?’
I was in a dilemma now. Rushy’s mates were laughing and I just wanted to knock her off her chair. She turned away, which was a good thing because I wasn’t the best at holding an argument, and I got back to talking with Duncan.
About half an hour and a few more drinks later, the blonde started spo
uting her mouth off again, trashing Maurice and directing her comments towards me. I was fuming now but, before I could respond, big Dunc stood up and leant across the table until he was just inches away from the drunken slapper.
‘Hey, you wee slag,’ he said, ‘shut the fuck up. The wee man is not here to defend himself.’
The whole of the restaurant was stunned into silence. Like myself, Duncan knew Maurice and had heard enough of her derogatory comments. He plonked himself next to me and asked: ‘Wee man, take me to The Paradox.’
We jumped up and left the restaurant with Duncan’s words still ringing in everyone’s ears – especially the blonde’s.
I’d never been to the Paradox nightclub but we made a call and the bouncers let us in. We had a great night together and got on famously.
The next day, I was in the Watchmaker pub in Whiston when the phone rang. It was Everton skipper Dave Watson, who told me that Duncan wanted to meet me for a pint. He arrived after training and we sat down for a session.
Before long, everybody on the estate got wind of Duncan being at the pub, and we had to close the doors as there were kids everywhere. But he was the perfect gentleman, signing autographs for all the Evertonians, and we became big mates from that day on.
25. GISSA JOB
AFTER my two years at Birmingham City, I badly wanted to stay in football. In fact, I became so desperate that I ended up in hospital for 10 days and nearly lost my right arm.
The 1995-96 season was an uneventful one for me and it took until March ’96 before I could get away from St Andrew’s and join Huddersfield Town, who were placed higher than the Blues in the first division table and challenging for a place in the end-of-season play-offs. It wasn’t far for me to travel across the M62 into West Yorkshire and I enjoyed the sheer enthusiasm of Terriers’ experienced manager Brian Horton. After a long career as a player, most notably with Luton Town, he’d learned his craft as a manager with Hull City, Oxford United and Manchester City (as Peter Reid’s replacement) before taking over at the McAlpine Stadium at the start of the 1995-96 season.
