Craig Bellamy - GoodFella

by Craig Bellamy

  I did very little rehab during the summer. My knee was in a brace, I kept out of trouble and I assumed everything was going to be fine. But on the first day of pre-season back up in the north-east, it still didn’t feel right. The brace was off by then but I was in quite a lot of discomfort as soon as I even started jogging. I had to go back inside straight away. I was worried.

  I wasn’t ready for the start of the new season. I missed the Champions League qualifying round ties against the Bosnian side, Željezni, which we won 5-0 on aggregate, and I had to sit out the opening Premier League games against West Ham and Manchester City, too. We had let Sylvain Distin go in the summer, which was a mistake, but we had signed a decent Portuguese kid called Hugo Viana from Sporting Lisbon and even though expectations were much higher, I thought we’d have another decent season.

  I came back on September 2. Sir Bobby brought me off the bench at Anfield when we were 2-0 down to Liverpool and I helped get us back into the game. Speedo and Shearer both scored in the last 10 minutes and we rescued a draw out of it. I played well and people were saying what a relief that I was back as good as new. But I knew I wasn’t back. I knew my knee still wasn’t feeling that great.

  I wanted to play for Wales in a European Championship qualifier in Finland the following Saturday and Newcastle said I had to prove my fitness in a midweek reserve team match against Blackburn. The whole thing turned into a saga. I played in the reserve match but then my flight to Helsinki was cancelled. I rang the Wales manager, Mark Hughes, and told him what had happened.

  Things had been a lot more professional under Sparky and he took this on as a test case. He asked the Welsh FA to charter a private plane to get me out there. He fought and fought for it and in the end they bowed to his demands. I was pleased. It showed we were getting serious at last and that we wanted to have a proper shot at qualifying. It sent a message. We won the game.

  While I was waiting for that flight, I had a call from Eric Harrison, the guy who was the youth team manager at Manchester United when they won the FA Youth Cup in 1992 with that side that included Ryan Giggs, David Beckham, Nicky Butt and Gary Neville. Eric did some work with Wales, too, and now he was ringing to say that Sir Alex Ferguson had asked him to call me.

  Eric wanted to know who my representative was so I told him and soon after, Steve Horner and Peter Robinson went to meet Ferguson at United’s training ground. Ferguson told them he wanted to sign me but didn’t think Newcastle would sell me.

  I was flattered, obviously. But I was worried, too. I was unsure about my knee. It was constantly hurting. There were times when I couldn’t do what I wanted to do when I was on the ball because the pain was getting in the way. I didn’t want to make movements or runs that increased the pain. I knew that if I went to Manchester United, I would have to make an immediate impact and I didn’t feel I was in the shape to do that.

  There was also the small matter of the fact that I was very happy at Newcastle. I had just had a great season; we were in the Champions League; I was PFA Young Player of the Year and I had a brilliant manager who loved me. Everything seemed bright. It was nice to know United were interested but I thought perhaps it would be something that happened further down the line.

  We made Newcastle fully aware that if they didn’t meet my contract demands, I would run my existing deal down and go to United. I had a meeting with Freddy Shepherd about it. He asked me how much I wanted and I told him £50,000 a week. I knew what other players were getting. It was my market value at that time.

  Freddy just got up from his seat and walked out of the room without saying a word. He didn’t even have the decency to tell me to fuck off.

  I didn’t pay much attention. It was all in the future anyway and I was more concerned with the Champions League. We had been drawn in a tough group with Dynamo Kiev, Juventus and Feyenoord but I was still confident we could go through. I was excited, too. To be playing in the Champions League was another one of the targets I had set myself.

  The first game was away in Kiev in the middle of September. Instead of playing in the Olympic Stadium, the match was at the Lobanovskiy Stadium, a beautiful old ground ringed by trees on a hill overlooking the River Dnieper. This was my first taste of the biggest stage of all. We walked out on to the pitch and the Champions League music was playing. This was football. This was where I wanted to be.

  But Dynamo were a tough team, particularly in Kiev. They played three at the back and Alan and I were both man-marked. My marker, a defender called Tiberiu Ghioane, followed me absolutely everywhere, which was a new experience for me. They were two goals up after an hour and I began to get frustrated. My knee was hurting and Ghioane was trying to rough me up.

  In the last few minutes, he cleared the ball upfield and followed through so he made sure he kicked me. The game was already lost but he was getting to me. In stoppage time, he gave me a nudge in the back and I turned around to confront him. As I squared up to him, I head-butted him. It was a pathetic thing to do but I thought I might have got away with it. The referee didn’t see it and nor did the linesman. It wasn’t the best head-butt and to the fella’s credit, he didn’t even go down.

  I played in the next match against Feyenoord at St James’ Park the following week. I hit the bar and had a shot cleared off the line by Brett Emerton but we lost 1-0 and everybody said that was the end of our chances of making it through to the next stage. Things got worse the next day when Uefa announced that they had reviewed television footage of my incident with Ghioane.

  They released a statement. It said: ‘In the 91st minute, Craig Bellamy deliberately head-butted an opponent in the face. Since the referee did not see the incident, the decision was rendered on the basis of video evidence.’ I was given a three-game ban for violent conduct, which was heartbreaking. I had worked so hard to play in the Champions League and now I was going to miss out on two games against Juventus and the return against Kiev.

  I’d be back for Feyenoord away but I thought we’d probably only have pride to play for by then. While I was suspended, we lost the next game to Juventus 2-0, courtesy of two goals from Alessandro Del Piero. We had lost our first three games. Our Champions League campaign was turning into an embarrassment.

  The only positive was that the ban gave me a chance to go back to Colorado to see Richard Steadman again. I was worried that the operation on my knee had not been a success. I needed to have a check-up. Dr Steadman said he didn’t want to operate again. The patella tendon was healing, he said, but he gave me very specific instructions about my continued rehabilitation.

  He said I needed to do less shooting and no double sessions. As far as I was concerned, they were the kind of instructions that meant I wouldn’t be able to play football again. ‘You can’t tell me to do this,’ I thought, ‘I’m a striker.’ Part of the manic drive I had stemmed from wanting to improve and training was where I did that. I always wanted to stay to the last second of every session. I loved being out there until the last kick. Now I was being told I couldn’t do that any more.

  I hated leaving training and seeing the others doing extra finishing. I resented it. I grew bitter about it. I knew I needed to improve but I couldn’t do it unless I was practising and I couldn’t practise because I would put more stress on my tendon and then feel the effects a day later. I became a miserable bastard. I was horrible to be around. This was my career on the line and I became consumed by anxiety and anger.

  I was playing off and on. I scored a few goals in the Premier League but I felt like I was getting away with it, not excelling. Some games I was brilliant but the next week I couldn’t do it again because my knee was suffering from the week before. There was one ray of light. We had beaten Juventus at St James’ Park and then we beat Kiev in the penultimate match of the group, too. That meant that if we beat Feyenoord at De Kuip and Kiev lost to Juventus, we would finish second in the group. It was an unlikely scenario but I was available for the Feyenoord game. It gave me something to aim for.

/>   I love De Kuip. I love that stadium. It’s a beautiful ground, a real proper football ground. We trained there the night before the game and it was cold and crisp. It felt like a proper European night. I could tell it was going to be a great occasion. The next day, we got on the coach to go to the ground and there were loads of Feyenoord fans around our coach, banging and shouting. It was hostile but it was great.

  Both teams had so much to play for because we could both qualify if we won. The warm-up was as hostile as anything, which is right up my street. If I need any extra motivation, that’s it. I love it when fans scream at me. It puts me right in the mood. For once, my knee felt great, too. I missed one good chance but then Alan flicked one on from a kick out by Shay Given just before half-time and I ran through and scored.

  Four minutes after the break, Hugo Viana made it 2-0. We still thought it was unlikely we’d get through to the next phase of the competition because most people expected Kiev to beat a weakened Juventus side in Ukraine. Our main focus, really, was on finishing third and getting into the Uefa Cup, rather than finishing bottom of the group and going back home with nothing.

  They sent on a big forward called Mariano Bombarda midway through the second half and he pulled one back. Then, with 20 minutes to go, they equalised. We were right under the cosh but every time we broke we looked like scoring. It was a brilliant game. A few minutes from the end, I thought it was all over. Paul Bosvelt shot from the edge of the box and I thought it was in. Time stood still, Shay didn’t even dive. But the shot flew a few inches wide.

  We were holding on but then, in the last minute, we pumped a free-kick forward towards Alan. He won it in the air and suddenly Kieron was bursting into the box. He hit his shot low and to the keeper’s left and when he palmed it out, I ran on to it. It was almost on the byline by the time I got to it but I just thought ‘hit the target’. I hit it hard and true and even though the keeper got his body behind it, he couldn’t keep it out. “Extraordinary,” the television commentator bellowed when it went in.

  It was extraordinary, too. It was a brilliant, brilliant night. I thought I’d salvaged a Uefa Cup place for us. I was delighted. The home crowd went silent. Sir Bobby was telling us to concentrate. Then the whistle went and next thing I knew someone said Juventus had beaten Kiev and we were into the next round of the Champions League. What a moment.

  To be back on that stage after missing three games felt great. And to qualify in the dramatic way we did made it even better. No one had ever done that before: lost the first three games and then won the last three to qualify. It was a great thing for the city and the club. We were all on a high. I signed a new contract with Newcastle around that time. I got what I wanted. I don’t think Sir Alex Ferguson was too happy with me but it was the best thing for my career at that time.

  The Champions League format that year meant the second round was another group stage and we were drawn with Inter Milan, Barcelona and Bayer Leverkusen. That sent the excitement soaring even higher on Tyneside. We were doing okay in the league – we were ninth in mid-November – but this season the focus was more on Europe.

  Two weeks after the drama of the victory over Feyenoord in Rotterdam, we were lining up to face Inter at St James’ Park. It felt as though it would be another special night. I was going to be up against players of the calibre of Fabio Cannavaro, Javier Zanetti and Hernan Crespo. And I was about to make history. Just not the kind I hoped for.

  I wandered down the tunnel to go out for the warm-up and Marco Materazzi was standing there with a teammate. I didn’t know that much about him then although he had already played for a season with Everton. He was later to gain notoriety for his ability to wind people up. He provoked Zinedine Zidane into head-butting him with taunts about Zidane’s sister in the 2006 World Cup final.

  Materazzi stared at me as I walked down the tunnel. He never took his eyes off me. I thought the guy realised he was in for a hell of a game against me that night. Nothing could have been further from the truth, sadly. Inter went a goal up in the second minute when Domenico Morfeo turned in a cross from Zanetti. It was a terrible start but worse was to come.

  Four minutes later, I ran after a ball down in the corner. As it went out of play, Materazzi grabbed at me and pinched me. It’s very rare in our game we get pinched. Well it is in my experience, anyway. I swung my arm round to say ‘fuck off’ and it caught him around his midriff. He hit the deck and he was rolling round. I thought ‘shit, this doesn’t look good’. I saw the linesman flagging and I knew straight away I was off. I felt sick to my stomach.

  I didn’t mean to hit him. I’m not exactly Mike Tyson. I couldn’t deck someone of his size with a punch. He had reeled me in beautifully. I suppose you have to give him credit for that. I bet he was surprised how quickly I bit. It must have been the easiest night’s winding up he’d had for a long time. The referee showed me the red card. It was the fastest sending-off in Champions League history. I was out for another three games.

  I felt terrible. I was desperately disappointed with myself. I couldn’t believe I had been so stupid. We lost the game 4-1 and I felt totally responsible. Most of the other players were brilliant with me. Alan didn’t say anything but then Alan never really did. I just felt I’d let everyone down. I walked through the mixed zone where the players speak to reporters after the game and I took the blame. Not that I had much choice.

  I wasn’t going to ask for forgiveness or make excuses. But I thought it was right for me to take the brunt of it. I didn’t want to hide because I had let everyone down. After the Inter game, I had to face up to everything. It was a tough period but it was my own fault. One of the local radio stations gave me a lot of stick, the local paper ran a page of texts about what an idiot I had been. I had to swallow it. I had had enough praise in the good times.

  My form in the league was okay and by Christmas we had crept up to sixth but I felt sick about being suspended for the Champions League game against Barcelona in the Nou Camp. What a missed opportunity that was. Again, all my own fault. We lost that match but then we beat Leverkusen home and away to give ourselves a chance of qualifying.

  I played against Inter in the San Siro and we drew 2-2. My pal Materazzi wasn’t playing this time and I managed to avoid getting sent off. I set up our first for Alan and we went into the last game at home to Barcelona with an outside chance of making it into the quarter-finals. I missed a couple of good chances early on and when I did get a shot on target, Victor Valdes pushed it on to the post.

  We pressed and pressed but Xavi and Gaizka Mendieta began to take control and Patrick Kluivert put them ahead after an hour. I missed a chance to equalise, then hit the bar before Thiago Motta put the game out of reach 15 minutes from the end. Nothing had gone my way but then perhaps I didn’t really deserve any luck. It felt like karma. I was being punished for my two red cards. The adventure was over.

  14

  Club And Country

  By the time we were knocked out of the Champions League, I had become consumed with worry about the state of my knees. Sometimes, I think people simply don’t understand how an injury can take over a player’s life and dominate everything. That’s what it did to me. It even got to the point where the pain was so bad I felt I had to make a choice between Newcastle and Wales.

  My mental state was up and down non-stop. I wasn’t sure how much time I had left in my career so I didn’t feel like I could look ahead. Tendinitis in the patella tendon is difficult to cope with. One minute you feel good and the next day you feel you can’t decelerate.

  It feels like someone is digging a needle into your knee when you run. Because I am an explosive player and I decelerate fast and twist and turn, it was the worst thing for me. Closing players down is a big part of my game but my confidence about my ability to do that was shot to pieces.

  In many ways, it happened at the worst time for me, too. For the first time since I had been involved with the Wales team, it felt as if we had a genuine chance of qualify
ing for a major tournament. Things had improved beyond measure since Mark Hughes took over from Bobby Gould in 1999 and even though we had struggled to make any impression in qualifying for the 2002 World Cup, we felt we had the players and the belief to make it to Portugal in 2004.

  Sparky went out on a limb to get me flown out to Finland for the first of those Euro 2004 qualifiers and it paid off. We won the game 2-0 and even though I only came off the bench for the last 15 minutes, the fact that I was there at all was the final proof that the days of farce and amateurism under Bobby Gould were over. We were serious now and that fed into our performances.

  A month after we won in Helsinki, we played Italy at the Millennium Stadium in front of a capacity crowd of 70,000 fans. It was an amazing atmosphere and the Italy team was every bit as impressive as it was when I had been dazzled by them a few years earlier in Bologna. It was still full of football gods: Buffon, Cannavaro, Nesta, Del Piero and Pirlo. What a team.

  But this time, we were prepared. We weren’t in chaos. Nobody had been banished from the team hotel. We didn’t play charades any more. Sparky didn’t have wrestling matches with the centre forward. We prepared well and we had good players and we set about Italy with real purpose and verve.

  We took the lead early. I made a bit of a break down the right after a nice pass from Simon Davies. I turned inside my man and slipped a ball back to Davies, who had timed his run well. He ran on to it and it sat up nicely for him. Buffon may have been expecting him to cross it but he took it early and lashed it past him into the far corner.

  The stadium went wild but they equalised after half an hour. They won a free-kick on the edge of the box and every time that happened, we knew it spelt danger because of Del Piero’s excellence with the dead ball. I was so angry about the decision to award the free-kick that I was booked for protesting. It was utterly pointless. It wasn’t a Del Piero masterpiece this time but it deflected off Mark Delaney’s head and looped over Paul Jones into the net.