Hammered Page 6

  Kenny made his point before rejoining his Northwich team-mates, while the Barnet players left our ground very quietly, with their tails between their legs.

  I’ve always maintained Kenny was one of the best I’ve ever played with. He was the Bobby Moore of non-league football – no pace but read the game impeccably.

  While I was recovering from that assault by the Barnet player, our new manager had been installed. It was John King, the 43-year-old ex-Tranmere Rovers boss who had also been a young player at Everton. It was a coup for Northwich to obtain the services of a well-respected manager of his calibre.

  At this time, I was still relying on Tony Murphy to ferry me to and from home matches at Northwich and training on Tuesday and Thursday evenings. But if Tony had to work nights at Ford’s, it meant I couldn’t get to training.

  John King’s appointment in October 1981 brought stability to the team. After three creditable draws I was fit enough to be selected. I was named substitute for an away fixture at the mighty Altrincham. I remember warming up constantly in the second half but the new boss didn’t put me on. I was fuming and feeling very frustrated. After another draw I knew I could hold the key to us getting a win, so I had to challenge the manager and let him know how I felt.

  Straight after the game I approached him and told him I should be playing. John’s words rocked me back on my heels a little: ‘I’ve heard you can play a bit, son. But how can I play somebody who can’t be bothered to turn up for training?’

  He had a very valid point. I cheekily warned him that if I did get to training on that Thursday, he’d better start me on Saturday. He just said: ‘We’ll see what happens.’

  Although I’d promised to attend training, I found out to my dismay that Tony Murphy was working nights that week. On Thursday evenings we trained on a floodlit shale pitch at the Guinness factory in Runcorn. I explained my problem to Dad but he just said that I had to make it to training one way or another.

  So I decided to run all the way there.

  I realised Runcorn was a fair way from our home, so I gave myself two hours in which to jog the full distance. It was November 5 and, therefore, not the best night of the year to be inhaling the smoky night air. I don’t know if John King honestly expected to see me at training that night, once he knew Tony Murphy wouldn’t be around to give me a lift, but I was determined not to let him down. I took it easy, jogging at a steady pace, and eventually arrived in Runcorn after one-and-three-quarter hours.

  The dressing room was full when I arrived, with the manager stood in the centre. I was soaking with sweat. ‘Well done, son,’ he said. ‘How did you get here?’

  ‘I ran,’ I replied.

  I sat down to briefly rest my legs before training started. I managed to get through the two-hour session but felt so shattered afterwards there was no way I could run all the way back home – I was spent. Much to my relief, team-mate Graham Abel was willing to go out of his way and drive me all the way home to Prescot.

  When we arrived back at my place, Graham clocked the distance in his car. It was 12 miles from door-to-door.

  As I got out of his Ford Capri I told him that Johnny King had better start me on Saturday, or else I’d be off to another club.

  Saturday arrived and Kingy was looking for his first win. We were playing A.P. Leamington, who were bottom of the league, and I was relieved to hear that I would be starting the game. We went 1-0 down but in the second half I found the net with the equaliser and then hit an unstoppable free-kick to seal the points.

  After the game, the first he’d seen me play in, the manager took me to one side with some welcome words of encouragement: ‘You did very well today. And running to training this week showed a great attitude. Don’t lose the fire in your belly and hunger to succeed,’ he said.

  Kingy was well known for his quotations and he’d talk about his great admiration for the legendary boss Bill Shankly. ‘Shanks’ had favourite sayings he would use to inspire his Liverpool players to greater heights and so did Johnny King, a real character. He used to say: ‘We are starting on a long boat trip and you all need to start rowing like fuck.’

  If you had a bad game, he’d stick with his nautical theme, point his finger at you and say: ‘You were busy being sick over the side.’ And he’d ask certain players who were off form: ‘Have you lost your oar?’ Another great quote came as we progressed further towards the FA Trophy final at Wembley in 1983. He’d keep saying: ‘We’re not far from Treasure Island!’

  He was very infectious and enthusiastic about football. I look back and realise my decision to run 12 miles to training that bonfire night in ’81 was a very important one. If I’d not bothered to jog through the dark, misty streets from Prescot to Runcorn, my football career could well have petered out or ended there and then.

  In later years, after John returned to Tranmere as manager and dragged them from the foot of the fourth division to the brink of the Premier League, he used me as an example of a young lad who ran 12 miles to training … just so that he could make the team for the next game.

  King became an inspiration to me. A Londoner who grew up on Merseyside, he’d joined Everton as an apprentice and played 48 times for them in the late ’50s. Like me, he was small and could therefore relate to me very easily. He encouraged me to train hard and push myself to the limit to compensate for my lack of inches. After each training session he took me aside and put me through hell with sit-ups and strength exercises, plus plenty of sprints.

  His interest and confidence in me fuelled my own self-belief. Before one game he told me I was playing in the centre of midfield. His instructions were to treat the game like a boxing match. He described it as a head-to-head between me and the opposing midfield player. In the first couple of minutes, he said: ‘Suss out his strengths and weaknesses and then dominate him.’ I took this advice literally.

  Kingy’s words of wisdom were so true. Within the context of any match there are individual battles to be won: Centre-half against centre-forward; full-back versus winger, etc. I adopted his simple philosophy and carried it with me all the way to the Premier League.

  The principles of sheer hard graft that I learned under John King’s shrewd man-management at Northwich Victoria in the early ’80s stood me in good stead throughout my playing career.

  My first season at Northwich ended in heartache. Although we moved up to finish fourth in the APL, Enfield beat us in the semi-final of the FA Trophy and I was gutted to just miss out on the chance to play at Wembley. But another opportunity to fulfil that dream would come along much sooner than expected …

  6. WEMBLEY WOE

  BY the time the 1982-83 season came around, Jane Spruce, my girlfriend of nearly two years, had fallen pregnant. Although we had been together, off and on, since our school days, the pregnancy came as a big shock to us both. But it became a major positive in my life. The reality of bringing a child into the world gave me that extra impetus and desire to succeed.

  The day we found out that she was definitely pregnant was one I’ll never forget. I was working with George – Jane’s father – helping him install central heating, while Jane was at home with her mother, Barbara, desperately awaiting the result of her pregnancy test. George was completely unaware that he was about to become a grandad and I knew he wouldn’t be pleased by the news.

  With Jane’s test result due from her GP at any minute, I was terrified to go back to the house with George for dinner that night. When we arrived home, Jane still hadn’t had confirmation, so she then rang the doctor’s surgery while her mum and I stood waiting on the stairs with bated breath. George was out of earshot, in the kitchen making a cup of tea.

  A few seconds later, Jane quietly put the phone down, turned to her mum and me and burst out crying. ‘It’s positive!’ she cried. Jane and I ran up the stairs together and we both shed tears of joy.

  But I was also very concerned. Neither of us seemed ready to bring a baby into the world but that wasn’t the only probl
em on my mind. I told her I’d better go downstairs and break the news to her father but Barbara stopped me, saying it would be better coming from her.

  I thought how awkward it would be going back to work with George. The next day he was working away under the floor-boards while I wondered what his reaction was going to be once his wife revealed our secret. His beloved daughter, who he idolised, was pregnant. I thought, ‘George will probably bury me under those floorboards if only he knew what I’d done to Jane!’

  Barbara broke the news to her husband while I was training with Northwich Vics. When I got back to their place later that evening we all sat around the television. Jane had mentioned to me that her father had now been told of her pregnancy and I just sat there worrying and waiting for him to say something. But he never uttered a word to me that night.

  The next morning, over breakfast, George asked me to pass him the sugar, before calmly adding the following ice-breaker: ‘What have I told you, son, about losing your ball control!’

  It was a relief to hear his joke and he went on to explain that while he wasn’t happy about his daughter’s pregnancy, he and Barbara would help us in any way possible.

  Jane wanted to be married before the baby was born, so we set our wedding date for January 14, 1983, at Prescot registry office. The financial predicament I found myself in at such a young age was the catalyst for my success as a footballer. I had a wife and a child to look after and because we were skint, every game from then on became like a cup final for me. I realised my responsibilities and wanted a better life for my wife and child. There was even more of an edge to my game now.

  George and Barbara were a great help. Jane’s dad gave me his car – a Ford Cortina Mk11 – which I drove around for months before I’d even taken my driving test. I had no insurance, the car was a horrible gold colour and it was a death-trap. It would lurch violently left if you didn’t have both hands on the steering wheel. How I passed my test I’ll never know, because I’d had no driving lessons. I can only assume that the fact that my examiner was called Mike Ward did me a favour.

  For all its flaws, though, George’s old banger was a big help to me. It gave me independence and meant I no longer had to rely on my mate Tony Murphy for transport.

  The team started to string together good results, especially in the cup competitions. We progressed through the early rounds of the FA Cup and landed a plum draw against Chester City at their Sealand Road ground – my first competitive match against Football League opposition.

  Determined to maintain Northwich’s impressive cup pedigree, we went to Chester confident and came away with a creditable draw. The evening replay at Drill Field was nearly called off – the pitch was a bog and the rain fell relentlessly throughout the game. Johnny King decided to play me up front in the replay. I was feeling much stronger and definitely a little quicker as I scored two goals in an excellent 3-1 victory.

  The second goal came from a ball over the top of their defence, which I latched on to, scampering across the ploughed field before burying a shot past their keeper. As I celebrated, I saw George and Jane standing by the corner flag, looking absolutely soaked. Jane was heavily pregnant, and I immediately dedicated those two goals to her and our unborn baby.

  The next day I made the headlines on the back of the national papers. It read ‘Dole Kid Ward Sinks Chester’ and Dad was so proud that I was getting recognition again after being shown the door by Everton.

  Unfortunately, our run in the FA Cup ended in the next round at Scunthorpe United, where we were unlucky to lose 2-1. It was after this defeat that John King told me that a number of league clubs were interested in me. But he immediately made it clear that he wouldn’t let me go just for the sake of it. He wanted me to go to a decent club, one that would look after me and help me to progress. ‘Keep the fire in your belly, Mark, and you’ll be okay,’ he’d say.

  We were still in the FA Trophy and the lads were determined to put the disappointment of the previous season’s semi-final defeat by Enfield behind them. We were due to play Kidderminster Harriers away in the first round on January 15 – the day after our wedding. Getting married the day before the game was not going to prevent me from playing, though. The way I saw it, the wedding day was an occasion for our families and friends to get drunk – I only had thoughts of playing the next day at Kidderminster.

  I wish we could have been married in different circumstances. Jane was heavily pregnant by now and she looked great on the big day. I’ve never regretted marrying her – it was the right thing to do.

  The evening reception went well. George, who sang under the name of Earl Preston as lead vocalist with his group, the TTs (later to become the Realms), in the early ’60s, got his old band together again and they helped to make a brilliant night of it with their medley of Beatles hits and other Merseybeat sounds. My father-in-law, George Spruce and his band were entertaining music lovers in Liverpool clubs such as The Cavern and earned a recording contract with Fontana before anyone had even heard of Lennon and McCartney. By early 1963, Earl Preston and the TTs were on the same bill as the Beatles, The Hollies, The Swinging Blue Jeans, The Dominoes and The Merseybeats.

  Jane and I managed to get away early and head to the Shaftesbury Hotel in the city. We left the two families partying through the night back at George and Barbara’s – and couldn’t believe it afterwards to find out that there had been no fights!

  Despite my determination to stay sober and fully focused on the cuptie, John King was adamant he would pick me up himself from the hotel on the morning of the game. It was just a short journey through the Mersey tunnel from the Wirral where he lived. Kingy had become like a father-figure to me.

  The 45-minute drive to Northwich, where our team bus was waiting to take us to Kidderminster, gave us the opportunity to have a good chat. John was well educated in the ways of football and talked common sense at all times. He had played for Everton and that was something that I, too, badly wanted to achieve.

  In the dressing room before the first round tie at Kidderminster I got terrible stick from the lads about having got married and being ‘under the thumb.’ But the match went brilliantly for me. I scored twice in a 3-0 victory, with my strike partner Colin Chesters notching the other goal. Although my natural position was wide right, Kingy used me as both a striker and midfielder and the two different roles certainly enhanced my overall understanding of the game.

  That opening round success sparked a superb run in our quest to reach Wembley. After further victories against Croydon, Bangor City (after a second replay) and a quarter-final win against Blyth Spartans, which also required a replay, we reached the semi-final again, this time against Dagenham. We were really wound up for the home-and-away tie and desperate not to experience the bitter disappointment of missing out on a trip to the Twin Towers for the second time in a year. We just edged the first leg at home – 3-2 – and although we knew the return clash at Dagenham was going to be tough, the Vics players were determined to get to fulfil our manager’s dream of reaching ‘Treasure Island’.

  Dagenham were a good side and, once again, Kingy put me up front for a game played in front of a crowd of more than 3,000. I just wanted one chance to take us to Wembley and in the second half it came my way. I pounced on a through ball played over the top of the Daggers’ defence. The pitch was hard and bobbly and as the ball bounced in front of me, it didn’t fall kindly in my stride.

  I’ll admit it now, what I did next was cheating.

  I used my hand to deliberately guide the ball forward into my path, before hitting an unstoppable right-foot shot that rocketed into the top corner of the net.

  It wasn’t blatant – nothing as obvious as Maradona’s ‘Hand of God’ – but a few of the Dagenham players appealed and I fully expected the referee to disallow the goal. But my team-mates mobbed me, screaming ‘We’re on our way to Wembley!’ And we were. My decisive, illegitimate goal was allowed to stand.

  I was 20 years old and I’d alre
ady enjoyed a great year. I‘d married my childhood sweetheart, somehow passed my driving test and I’d just found out that I’d been included in the England semi-pro squad. And, best of all, on March 30, 1983, I became a father when Jane gave birth to our beautiful daughter Melissa.

  * * * *

  I was determined to progress and make a full-time return to professional football, to resume where I’d left off at Everton. I just needed a manager to take a chance on me.

  With money tight at home, I pressurised Northwich to increase my wage to £60 a week and I also pushed the club to help me get a job. They came up trumps. One of Vics’ directors, Alan Gleave, was sales director of the local Roberts Bakery, who were the club’s main co-sponsors.

  He created a role for me at the bakery as a checker, keeping tabs on all the bread trays that left the large site at Rudheath each morning. The bakery had been losing thousands of these trays each year but I found it an easy job.

  I earned £120 a week at the bakery and, added to what I was getting as a player at Northwich, life became more manageable. I enjoyed getting up early to do a day’s work and with our Wembley date looming, I became a bit of a local celebrity at the bakery.

  The build-up to the big day – May 14, 1983 – was the most exciting time at the club since Vics reached the fourth round of the FA Cup in 1976-77, having beaten league sides Rochdale, Peterborough and Watford before going out to Oldham Athletic at Maine Road. We were rigged out with special suits for the grand occasion while the wives and girlfriends all got together to travel in their own bus to the game. There were constant rumours and reports linking me with Football League clubs before the end of the season – Crewe Alexandra and Scunthorpe United were mentioned in the press – but nothing distracted me from my burning ambition to be a Wembley winner.

  In the tunnel before kick-off it was awesome, enough to make the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I stood there, gazing up at the famous Twin Towers and kept telling myself that I wanted to be the best player on the pitch. My moment had arrived and I didn’t intend to blow it.