“Just Get it to Shearer”
My Chance to Live Out a Dream
Newcastle United 4 Leicester City 3
February 2, 1997
I lay on the pitch with a half-acre of soggy St. Jameses Park jammed up my nose and look up with my one eye to see the ball hovering tauntingly inches off the Leicester City goal-line. Set against a backdrop collage of blurry black and white home supporters, the ball hangs suspended and motionless. I plead with it to end its flight toward the inside of the far post and send over 36,000 Newcastle United supporters into ecstatic celebration. A nostril full of sod, I had no idea that this very instant, frozen as if in an Asian martial arts movie, would capture an illustrious triumph for the Magpies and a glorious moment of history for one of its most beloved and iconic players.
Very few Canadians are ever as fortunate as I to have this kind of opportunity. How rare it is for a Canadian to reach such this level and, even more, how rare for a Canadian to play in the Premiership for a team he idolized as a young boy. This is an account of February 2, 1997, the day I lay helplessly snorting St. Jameses Grass, and with one eye blindly caked in mud, watch Alan Shearer make history on a pass from me.
Three years earlier I joined the Newcastle United Youth Academy. I was over the moon when as a seventeen year old I received my official invitation to join the club that I had worshipped for so long. I sat staring at the unopened envelope on my mother’s kitchen table in suburban Vancouver Canada, paralyzed by the very real possibility of rejection and the permanent heart break it would bring. I made two feeble attempts to reach out and grasp the envelope but each time I pulled back, my mind superseding my hands. Finally, my mother who could no longer stand the anticipation grabbed the envelope and ripped it open like a two-day-old Band-aid. Prepared for disappointment by justifying that I did not want to go so far away all that much anyway, I was staggered by the smile that immediately adorned my mothers face. They wanted me. The Magpies wanted me.
My love affair with Newcastle began early in my life, initially through the influence of my soccer coach when I was just 10 years old. Jim Cooper, who hailed from Durham in the north of England, had a fondness for Newcastle that was infectious. No training session passed without reference to how the Magpies train. No game was complete until he had compared our performance to one of United’s more glorious or more disappointing outings, depending of course on our result.
Without deliberate intent, I became a Geordie – a Newcastle United supporter - ever so gradually adopting a fondness for all things related to the Magpies. I sought out Newcastle jerseys in sporting goods stores and stole peeks at English football magazines hoping to find an action shot of the familiar black and white strip. I waited with anticipation for each televised English league game in the hope that the broadcast would include a Magpies match. So few did but when was televised, I sat transfixed to the screen for the entire match.
At team training sessions and after school kick-abouts I would invariably bore my friends with detailed descriptions of the exploits of my favourite United players and their recent matches. When choosing sides for pick-up games I would insist that my team be called the “Magpies”. If I was overruled I would attempt to trade myself to the other team and then immediately begin lobbying all over again. I would push just as hard for the “Magpies” name when playing baseball, basketball, road-hockey, or Monopoly, as I would when playing soccer.
Every Christmas, from the age of eleven on, I received in my stocking a subscription renewal to “The Mag”, the unofficial supporter’s magazine of Newcastle United. For hours following its arrival in my mailbox each month I would sit alone and pour through the magazine without taking a break until I had devoured it in its entirety. I would read every word printed, from the credits on the first page to the advertisement on the last. I would examine every photograph until I had committed each one fully to memory.
I knew of no-one else in my neighbourhood who owned a subscription to The Mag (frankly, I doubt if anyone else in Canada did) so I believed it to be my responsibility to enlighten my friends with as many stories as I could remember and in as much detail as they could stand. I knew they enjoyed these recitations even though they pretended to be bored. I was highly protective of my Mags. I refused to take them out of the house for fear of being a target of the marauding bands of Mag thieves who roamed the streets of Vancouver looking for unsuspecting young boys with copies to pinch.
I bravely defended the honour of my Toon Army heroes whenever they were challenged. The ignorance of my little friends was no excuse for avoiding my wrath on those occasions when one dared to disrespect the Magpies. No one was spared my slashing sharp wit once I was pushed.
“Newcastle sucks.”
“The Magpies are the best team in the world.” I would counter, ever so convincingly.
“Who says so?”
“Everyone knows it – no one has to say it”
“If no one says it, how do you know it’s true? Magpies suck.”
“Cause it’s written down stupid. You suck!”
“Where is it written down?”
“Everywhere?”
“Where?
“Everywhere.” I repeated for extra emphasis.
“Give me one place you read it.”
“In The Mag!”
“In The Mag? That’s a Newcastle magazine, you idiot.”
“Ya but it’s critically claimed.” I had heard my mother use that expression many times about books that she read.
“It’s what?”
“Critically claimed. It means that it’s the truth. Don’t y’know anything?”
“Prove it”
“I don’t need to. Just read it yourself”
“You’re such an idiot.”
“You’re such a gay.”
My wit was unassailable. Once I had launched the big gun – the three letter challenge to a ten-year olds gallantry – any form of retort from that moment on was futile. It was over. The winner and still champion!
Teachers too, were not immune from my obsession. I wasted immeasurable hours of classroom time drawing pictures in my note-books of great United goals and spectacular saves when I should have been listening to explanations of the Pythagorean Theory or Champlain’s travels across Canada. Every school writing assignment was to me an opportunity to impart Magpie knowledge on the unfortunate ignorant masses. My book-reports were invariably summaries of one or another United-related paperback that I had ordered out of the back pages of the Mag. On one occasion, I boldly wrote a book-report on a United match-day program that I had fortuitously stumbled upon in a used bookstore my mother dragged me through. I was shocked and not a little insulted when my teacher chastised my work and tagged it as “trivial” and “without relevance”.
During every match I played as a youngster I would imagine myself as my favourite Newcastle player. In 1989 I was usually Glenn Roeder because that year I was a central midfielder. The next season I was moved up to striker so my favourite player became Micky Quinn. In 1991 my favourite player to emulate became Chris Waddle because I played mostly as a wide midfielder. But my hero, once he left the Blackburn Rovers in favour of my Magpies, was the illustrious Alan Shearer, the most proficient scorer ever to play in the English Premiership.
Whether because of my Newcastle fascination or just a devotion to the sport, I worked hard on my game. I played rough and scrappy as I read the combative Hughie Gallacher always did with the Magpies in the 1920s. I discovered that Jackie Milburn, the inimitable United center forward of the 1940s went largely unnoticed by professional football clubs until he walked uninvited into a Newcastle trial in 1943 and impressed club management so much they offered him a contract on the spot. This inspired me to find a way to work harder during those days when I was frustrated with myself.
I became a strong player. I soon started dominating local leagues and as I got older, I was picked for regional and all-star teams. I moved progressively to stronger club teams in the interest of playing at the highest possible level. One of my biggest disappointments as a young player was when I was not picked to play for my provincial team. I believed I was good enough but when the final team selections were posted on the locker-room wall, my name was absent. I was of course devastated. But rather than lose hope, I took comfort in a basketball tale that my father told me. He enlightened me of the now-legendary account of how Michael Jordan, in his freshman year of high school, was not selected for his school basketball team. I knew that if Jordan, the worlds best-ever basketball player, did not give up hope, nor would I. I pushed myself beyond where I thought I could go. Instead of training five days a week, I trained for six. Instead of staying an hour after practice to work on my finishing, I stayed for two. Instead of whining to my parents for a new pair of cleats, I whined extra hard for the top of the line pair.
When I was sixteen I was given the opportunity to play once a week on a men’s team. I learned many valuable lessons from that experience including that my survival demanded I play with my head up. Playing with and against men, many with British, European or Latin American roots, also gave me first hand exposure to the passion that is so uniquely characteristic of football. An Italian central back and player-coach on that team, Rocco Foggia, once told me while holding my face in both his hands: “If iz notta inna yo hot, little man, iza justa mechanics and datsa no way to play dissa game.” He punctuated the word “game” with a double Italian-grandmother slap on my cheeks. I tried hard not to grimace, not from the pain of the slap but from the smell of nicotine on his hands.
We had nine different nationalities on that team. Nine different views of the game, each one convinced it was the only way the game should be played. There were arguments. Boy, were there arguments. Everything was debated – How to warm up? Which end to take if we won the coin toss? Attack down the middle or attack down the flank? Who should take the free kicks? What formation to play? Who was pulling their weight and who was not? Who should play and who should sit on the bench? And, who should take a free-kick? That was a big one. But the joy shared after we scored a goal made all the squabbles seem petty by comparison and were easily forgotten. Regardless of how much bickering and yelling occurred during the game, when it ended, teammates and opponents alike unwound, hugged and laughed together like old friends.
From these expatriates, I learned that passion is the active ingredient of football. Passion gives an individual player the fuel he needs to overcome stronger opponents. But, passion can also bring opponents together. It is the emotion that is shared amongst those specially blessed with a true love of the game. From the sharing of this passion, a bond of mutual respect between opponents forms while the match is being played, and then becomes clearly evident at the games end. It is almost as if players who have it, recognize it in each other and seek out others with it after the match. It forges an unspoken union that transcends team loyalties.
That same year I convinced my old coach Mr. Cooper to contact Newcastle United on my behalf. I was initially disappointed in his response. I expected he would say something like “Newcastle needs a player like you” or “They will be so happy you chose them”. Instead he said simply “Let me see what I can do.”
But, Mr. Cooper had an important connection from years earlier that would prove very worthwhile to me. For a brief period of time in 1981-82, renowned footballer Peter Beardsley played for the Vancouver Whitecaps in the old North American Soccer League (NASL). When Beardsley left Vancouver he headed back to renew his playing career in the U.K and in 1993 ended up in his home town Newcastle-Upon-Tyne playing for the Magpies. Mr. Cooper had apparently met Beardsley during his brief stay in Vancouver and had made a point of staying in touch with him even after Beardsley returned to England.
Mr. Cooper called me just two weeks after I had first approached him. He explained that he had contacted Beardsley and talked to him about me. A week later Mr. Cooper called me again and told that he had received a phone call from Alan Irvine, Director of Newcastle United Football Club Academy. Apparently Irvine had said: “We might be interested in having a look.”
Early that summer, after many months and many letters, e-mails, phone calls and hours of parental convincing, I set off on a six-week trial to Newcastle. Arriving in Tyne-side, I was warmly welcomed and provided with a United training kit and a place to stay. Even before settling in – or catching up on the sleep I had missed by flying overnight – I put on my United warm-up jacket and wandered around the grounds hoping for a glimpse of a Magpie. Maybe Alan Shearer would drop by my room and welcome me. This would give me a chance to explain how I thought he and I had similar styles. We were both rugged players who scored lots of goals. For some reason I thought he would want to know this.
But Shearer didn’t drop by my room to welcome me. I soon discovered this was because it was the middle of their summer break and the senior players would not resume their training until after I had returned to Vancouver. Oh well. At least he wasn’t ignoring me. I don’t think I could have handled that.
For the next six weeks, I was treated like a Magpie and I felt like a Magpie. I was proud to wear the black and white training kit they gave me. I worked harder than I think I ever have before. I was determined to make the most out of this opportunity. I must have done reasonably well because only two days before my flight back to Vancouver, Mr. Irvine pulled me aside and said he wanted me to come back in the winter for a return two-week trial. I was elated. I said my goodbyes to Mr. Irvine much quicker than I think he expected, mostly out of fear that the front of my white training shorts was starting to turn a slightly different hue from the excitement of his news.
Upon returning home after the long flight I told my parents of the newest invitation but their reaction was not what I expected. My mother did not fall on her knees and thank the heavens for such a talented son. My father did not whimper with pride that his inborn athleticism had indeed been passed through his genes to an offspring capable of putting it to good use. Instead, they each looked emotionless at me and then at each other. They did not sanction my return trip.
My parents spent the next three weeks telling me about the facts of life. Not sex. I already learned all I needed to know about sex from teammate stories and a few woodland adventures with Suzanne Miles. The life-fact my parents imparted on me was the reality that life was largely filled with unfulfilled promises and broken dreams. Consequently, I had pretty much resigned myself to the inevitability of being forced to turn down the Newcastle trial. Then, quite by surprise, it was announced over one memorable Sunday dinner, a meal fittingly enough of roast beef, boiled potatoes, and mushy green peas, that my parents agreed to one further foray to the U.K.
At the time, I assumed that three weeks of steady pouting and melancholy had worn down my parents so that they had finally realized the misguided nature of their original objections. It was only while on the plane back to Great Britain, a full three months later that I realized the true purpose of their lectures. They did not dislike soccer, as I had thought. They were not lacking in confidence in their son’s abilities, as I had thought. They were simply giving me a valuable life tool - the ability to protect myself against the possibility – not the inevitability, as I had thought - of disappointment.
My second trial with Newcastle went as well as the longer first trial. I continued to follow a strategy of working hard and openly displaying my affection for Newcastle. For this, I was teased relentlessly by other players. I was called a “suck up”, a “kiss up”, and other “ups”, but I didn’t care. I listened intently to instructions and advice from the coaches and I tried very hard to remember every word they said to me and struggled to put into practice every little thing that was suggested to me. I received very positive feedback throughout the two-week trial. Although I thought it went well, I could not forget the life-facts my parents had imparted on me so vigorously before I left.
After opening up my acceptance letter in my mothers kitchen, my life had become a blur as I busily wrapped up one phase of my young life and prepared for a new life abroad. Before I knew it, it was mid-August and I was once again Tyne-side. This time I was an accepted Academy player so I was given a new room with a roommate.
My roommates name was Nigel Fotheringham, a 17 year old keeper from Hexham. This was his third year in the Academy and as he explained his last if he was not at least picked up for “the Reserves”.
Our routine was a grind, heavily structured, busy and unwavering. But, I had never expected it to be a holiday. From Monday to Thursday the entire day was set from early in the morning until late in the evening. Friday was the same but without the evening training. Since Saturday was usually match day, Friday evening’s agenda usually involved a team get-together to plan out the next day’s match or to watch a recent game video of ourselves or our upcoming opposition.
But Saturday was my favourite day because on Saturdays we would usually play a match in the morning and then spend the afternoon watching the senior team either at St. Jameses Park or on the “telly”. Those Saturdays when the seniors played at home were especially sweet for me because this was what it was all about - playing in front of 40-50,000 singing, flag waving Toon-army supporters. After returning from our own Saturday match, we would quickly shower, grab a bag lunch from the cafeteria and head over to St. Jameses. There was an assigned section in the stands for the Academy players and we would usually arrive an hour or so before kick off so we had plenty of time to swap stories of how the morning game went and exchange meaningless banter about the upcoming fortunes of the Magpies that afternoon.
Sunday was a day off for the Academy players, a day that I would usually spend hiking through the many northern countryside walking paths or along the rugged seashore near Newcastle-Upon-Tyne. I would often take a bus to some remote area of the Yorkshire Dales and spend the day wandering aimlessly through the rolling paths of the Pennine Way. On these long walks I hoped to find a person or couple, or even an attentive pet, who I could engage in conversation just for the opportunity to tell them I was a Magpie.
What I enjoyed the most about walking the Yorkshire Dales however, was the smell of burning coal that permeates through the entire region during the fall and winter. I am not sure why I find it to be so spiritual but the pungent odour is for me so uniquely tied to the Dales that it seems to have the ability to transform the attractive into beautiful and the memorable into unforgettable.
My first sighting of Alan Shearer was just a week after arriving in the Academy. Our Academy coach Vince Hutton took us to Darsley Park, the senior teams training pitch, to watch the team prepare for a particularly important upcoming match against Liverpool. There were only five or six players on the pitch when we arrived. I immediately recognized Robbie Elliott who was leaning up against the player bench stretching and talking to my Vancouver connection, Peter Beardsley who sat on the bench lacing up his boots. I could not see Shearer. I gazed endlessly at the door to the locker-room, hoping that each time it would open, it would be him. After the third or fourth opening, out he walked. He immediately looked up at where we had gathered as if he was looking for me. He sent a smile toward us and raised a welcoming hand. Seeing my favourite football hero attired in the same training kit that I wore every day, seemed just a little surreal to me - as if I had somehow hijacked another person’s existence.
As soon as time permitted, I telephoned my father and told him that I had seen Shearer for the first time. My father was not a particularly informed football supporter although he would always try hard to show interest in the sport when we talked about it or on the few occasions we watched a match together. But, from the moment of this phone that memorable day he would forever proudly describe to anyone who would listen, the story of how his son at Newcastle phoned him immediately after seeing his hero - Alan “Sheringham” for the first time.
A few weeks later we were once again taken to a Darsley Park session but this time, Vince had something more planned. At the end of the session, instead of heading for the exits we were herded onto the pitch to greet and mingle with the players. While some of my new friends were too shy to approach one of these legends, I was not, at least not at that moment, so inhibited. I immediately jumped toward Shearer and apparently with no forethought and very little obvious intelligence, blurted out: ”How does it feel scoring so many goals in the EPL?” He smiled at me and for a second or two I was afraid that he might break out laughing and just walk away. Instead, he tilted his head slightly and said: “You know, at times I feel like I’m the luckiest guy in the world”.
Wow! That’s gott be how I would feel. I once again felt I had a kinship with Alan Shearer. As quickly as he answered my question though, other Academy players following my lead, jumped in with stupid questions of their own and my brief relationship with Shearer ended abruptly.
I telephoned my father again. With a notably shakey voice, I recounted my meeting with Shearer. My father showed great interest in my news and before saying goodbye, made a point of saying: “Please say hello to Mr. Sheringham for your mother and I”. And then he added: “...and wish him good luck this weekend against those Land Rovers.” He meant well.
Just one year after joining the Academy I achieved one of my ambitions when I was selected as a full-time member of United’s reserve squad. A reserve squad is a team of players that a club considers promising but not strong enough to get playing time on the senior team. The reserve team serves two purposes – to provide regular competition for up and coming players so that they become more valuable assets to the club, and to ease injured senior players back into competition without subjecting them to the physical demands of top level play.
I was by no means the strongest player on the reserve squad but I was probably our hardest working player. Not flashy or particularly brilliant with the ball but I made few mistakes. Even though I did not score as often I would have liked, my hard work seemed to impress management. I think what impressed upon them the most however was my obvious passion for the Magpies.
After three months with the reserves, I was shocked when, although an inexperienced 19 year-old, I was invited by team manager Kevin Keegan to train with the senior team. The first time I stepped onto the same field with Shearer and the other members of this legendary squad, I was so overcome by the moment that I had to immediately return to the clubhouse and jettison some obnoxious fluids.
Every Wednesday afternoon I had the honour of lacing up my boots, vomiting and training alongside greats like Shearer, Les Ferdinand, David Ginola, Peter Beardsley, and David Batty - usually in that order. Clearly, if I was going to have any kind of a future at Newcastle I was going to have to exercise better control of my bodily fluids.
After just two sessions with the senior team the dream seemed to come to a crashing end. Kevin Keegan, surprised everyone and announced that he was quitting as Newcastle United manager. He had decided to leave United because he felt that he had taken the club as far as he could. When he first took the job, almost five years earlier, Newcastle was languishing at the bottom of the table in the old Second Division and headed for probable relegation. Not only did he help the Magpies avoid relegation that season but during the next he won the league championship of the renamed Division One and as a result earned the Magpies promotion into the newly labeled “Premier League”. In the first three years of his reign in the Premiership, Keegan helped the club finish third, sixth and second respectively. But now, as the team was challenging for the league title, he abruptly and unexpectedly throws in the towel.
I was devastated. What would become of me? I felt enormous guilt when, while the entire Geordie community mourned the departure of Keegan and agonized over how it might affect the team’s chance at the title, my biggest concern was what it would mean for me. Had my storybook dream of training with the best team in the world now come to a nightmarish end just weeks after it had begun?
Kenny Dalgleish was soon introduced as the new Newcastle manager and I waited anxiously for any announcement pertaining to reserve squad players being included in training with the senior team. But when the first Wednesday morning following his appointment arrived and there was still no indication that I should not attend the afternoon session, I took one of the boldest step I had ever taken in my life and decided to show up anyway.
When I stepped onto the Darsley Park training pitch I half expected to be swiftly escorted off the pitch by a beefy man in light green shirt, undersized pants, and a walkie-talkie on his hip and asked never to return. But when our eyes met, Dalgleish, instead of pointing his finger toward the exit, extended his hand in a warm greeting and said: “Hi there mate. I’m Ken Dalgleish - I hear you’re quite a footballer.” It looked my dream might carry on a bit longer.
I continued to train with the senior team every Wednesday that they trained. I never expected to dress for a game. That was an honour that was typically reserved for big contract big name players. My room-mate Nigel once explained to me though that every now and then clubs were known to give one of their Academy players a brief appearance in a top-level match just to keep the hopes alive amongst the club’s younger members. This thought gave me some unfortunate hope.
When I returned to Newcastle after my Christmas break, I was told that Kenny Dalgleish wanted to speak with me. My heart racing, I entered his office and within minutes learned that over the next few weeks he would be dressing three or four different reserve squad players in upcoming senior team games. Even though Christmas was a holiday for youth players, it was a particularly busy time in the Premiership, and a number of senior Magpies had come down with minor injuries. Going into Christmas, already decimated with injuries, Dalgleish was now in a bind. I was likely to be on the roster for at least one of those matches he told me. I picked up the phone to call my parents but decided instead to wait until after I had received an official call-up.
After four games had been played and four of my teammates had been called to the senior team, I started to doubt that my chance would come. As the end of January approached and I still had not received my call-up I grew almost certain that the window of opportunity had closed for me. But then in the Magpies January 29th home match against Everton, two more players dropped with injuries that would leave them out of the line-up for a game or two. The next morning, our phone rang at 6:30 am and Nigel, whose suspicious girlfriend had a habit of calling at odd times , sleepily grabbed it. He then grudgingly passed it over to me saying “It’s Dalgleish.”
“Hello kid. Sorry for calling so early but we need you at our training session this afternoon – you’re dressing for Sunday’s match against Leicester City.” I do not really know if I answered him properly. He may have had to wait until the afternoon session before he knew for certain that I would be there. I returned the headset and fell back onto my bed with my hands over my face desperately trying to avoid the embarrassment of Fotheringham seeing me cry.
Fotheringham who had grown particularly jealous and cantankerous watching my latest good fortunes wasted no time in giving me his wise opinion. “You know, there’s no chance at all that you will get into the game.” I agreed with him even though it contradicted what he had told me earlier. But Fotheringham contradicted himself quite often. He then continued with advice. “But if you do, don’t do try anything spectacular.” Sequentially tapping the fingers of this left hand with his right index finger, he began listing what I should not do if I made it onto the pitch, which of course would never happen. “Don’t hold the ball. Don’t run with it. Don’t be a hero. Just get the ball to Shearer - Just get it to Shearer!” Finally, he added, “And, for Gods sake, don’t smile! You're a right nut-case when you smile.”
Everyone I spoke with over the next few days offered versions of the same advice - Just get it to Shearer. Just get it to Shearer. Just get it to Shearer. Even my father when I called him the day before the match offered up his own account of the same advise: “Just pass the ball to Sheringham!” he said. My mother on the extension however, saw if quite differently: “Who is this Sheringham fellow? Why should he get the ball all the time? Maybe he should pass it to you. I think that’s a much better idea.”
Sunday seemed to take forever to arrive but when it did I was ill prepared to accept it. The anxiety was unbearable. An hour before kick-off I walk onto the pitch and look up at the colossal St. Jameses Park structure towering above me. Gallowgate End (also known as Newcastle Brown Ale Stand), the Leazes End, the Milburn Stand (called “Shearers Stand” by some), and the East Stand, all reach up into the bright blue heavens over northern England. Four stands link together and become an impenetrable barricade to protect the pitch and the many Geordies inside her fortified walls from the outside world, justifying its nickname as “The Castle”.
The Castle has a seating capacity of 52,394 but only a handful of supporters have gathered in her so far. I spot my fellow reserve squad teammates in their usual seats, gathered to watch the warm up and discussing the game to come. I knew that I must be a topic of at least a few of their conversations. I wave to them like an eight year old in a school play waving to his mother in the auditorium. But my teammates, much cooler and less harried than I, acknowledge my presence not with a returned wave but with a few almost imperceptible nods and winks, but in most cases, with absolute disregard. For a second or two, I wanted desperately to change places with one of them. They were relaxed and cheerful while I was an emotional wreck.
The Magpies starting eleven – Albert, Peacock, Hislop, Asprilla, Gillespie, Watson, Lee, Batty, Elliott, Ferdinand and of course, Shearer – are being put through an organized group warm up while the rest of us – Ginola, Clark, Beardsley, Barton, back-up keeper Pavel Srnicek, and myself - are left on our own. I run through the same pre-game routine the reserves use while my fellow subs fill their time in conversation and demonstrations of their favourite ball tricks. Fourty minutes or so later and it is time to leave the pitch and return to the locker room. While walking off the playing surface, I notice that a much larger crowd has now gathered with about one-third of the seats in The Castle now occupied.
Dalgleish offers us a few last words of advice in the locker room and then leaves us alone. A few jokes and a couple of slaps on backs, and players slowly start leaving the room and gathering in the hallowed tiled hallway leading to the pitch, shoulder to shoulder with the Leicester City players.
It was soon clear that the emotional strike launched at me by the back-up keeper was not to be an isolated attack. Beardsley from a few seats away, without shifting his gaze from the centre of the pitch, discharges another salvo: “Was Santa good to you kid?”
A few minutes later, my hero Shearer first-time volleyed a lofted pass from Ferdinand and drove the ball beautifully but unfortunately it skimmed inches wide of the Leicester goal.
When Reid blew the half-time whistle and the players on the pitch head down the tunnel for their well deserved break, Srnicek motions to me toward the pitch and says: “You stay.” I was joined by my fellow subs and we casually knocked the ball about while the rest of the gang was given their second-half instructions from Dalgleish.
In the 55th minute our precious lead came to an end. Neil Lennon from a short corner sent an in-swinging cross that was headed by Leicester’s Matt Elliott into the far corner of Hislop’s goal. Now, we were on our heals, just five minutes after Leicester’s first goal, Heskey turned on a ball, fired it just wide of our goal but Steve Claridge was there to knock it in. In a blink of an eye, we were behind.
Dalgleish then sent Ginola, Barton and myself to the end of the pitch to warm up. Me? Why me? Surely, he wasn’t seriously considering putting me into the match.
Ginola had an immediate impact on the game. I was in awe. With the ball he was dangerous, without it he was even better. How does a player anticipate so accurately where the ball is going to be two or three passes in advance? At the 77th minute - just seven minutes after entering the game – Ginola ran hard with the ball at the Leicester defensive line but was brought down on a hard tackle by Scott Taylor. There was no doubt to anyone at St. Jameses who would take the kick. Barton and I paused our warm ups to watch for the outcome. Shearer stepped up and sent a thunderous drive, deflecting ever so slightly off the Leicester wall, but catching the top corner of the Leicester goal.
Ignoring me, he continued, “You’re going in for Faustino - in the hole”. The “hole” referred to the withdrawn striker position tucked in behind the two front strikers. But this time, he didn’t give me a chance to react. “I don’t want you thinking out there, son,” he continued. “Two things - stay in the middle of the pitch and get the ball to Shearer. If you get it to Shearer, he’ll put it in the goal. You understand?”
McDermott handed me the substitution slip and walked me toward the fourth official. As I passed a seated Dalgleish he reached up and grabbed me on the arm. “You’ll do fine mate,” he said. “Just get the ball to Shearer.” I looked him in the eyes in an attempt to figure out why he had selected me over the other two players – hell, even Srnicek was probably a better choice than I. Dalgleish’ eyes returned no obvious answer. I could only assume that my energetic and passionate obsession for the Magpies I had tried so hard to demonstrate over the past three years was at this moment seen as an asset by Dalgleish. Or just maybe my mother had called him. I had learned over the nineteen years that she could browbeat anyone into almost anything. In any case, he would undoubtedly be criticized greatly for this decision and I was determined to help him defend his decision.
In the second minute of added time the ball was sent down the flank to Robert Lee and without thinking (I listen well) I took off like a madman to overlap Lee and provide an opportunity to move the ball further down the flank. As I curved past him, I remember McDermott telling me to stay in the middle. Oh well, it’s too late now. I’ll face my punishment later. Much to my surprise Lee sent the ball to me as I sprinted down the right side.
“Play on”.
The remainder of the day became a burr. Our celebrations would continue well into the early hours of Monday. Phone calls came fast and furious. I was honoured in each of my classes the next day and treated like a hero at our afternoon training session. I was in heaven. Although I would have been quite happy to sit on the bench for this momentous event, playing an actual part in its outcome was unimaginably wonderful.
The Magpies ended that season in second place, seven points behind Manchester United and equal in points with Arsenal, second place being awarded to us by goal differential. The second-place finish was enough to qualify Newcastle for the European Champions league, a satisfactory result but stained slightly by the memory of a pre-Christmas ten point lead at the top of the table that we had let slip away.
I hear my wife call from downstairs before I am fully awake. I hit the mute button on the remote control that, while I slept, had become lodged under my armpit.
Newcastle United 4 Leicester City 3
February 2, 1997
Copyright 2007 Stephen P. Spence
I lay on the pitch with a half-acre of soggy St. Jameses Park jammed up my nose and look up with my one eye to see the ball hovering tauntingly inches off the Leicester City goal-line. Set against a backdrop collage of blurry black and white home supporters, the ball hangs suspended and motionless. I plead with it to end its flight toward the inside of the far post and send over 36,000 Newcastle United supporters into ecstatic celebration. A nostril full of sod, I had no idea that this very instant, frozen as if in an Asian martial arts movie, would capture an illustrious triumph for the Magpies and a glorious moment of history for one of its most beloved and iconic players.
Very few Canadians are ever as fortunate as I to have this kind of opportunity. How rare it is for a Canadian to reach such this level and, even more, how rare for a Canadian to play in the Premiership for a team he idolized as a young boy. This is an account of February 2, 1997, the day I lay helplessly snorting St. Jameses Grass, and with one eye blindly caked in mud, watch Alan Shearer make history on a pass from me.
Three years earlier I joined the Newcastle United Youth Academy. I was over the moon when as a seventeen year old I received my official invitation to join the club that I had worshipped for so long. I sat staring at the unopened envelope on my mother’s kitchen table in suburban Vancouver Canada, paralyzed by the very real possibility of rejection and the permanent heart break it would bring. I made two feeble attempts to reach out and grasp the envelope but each time I pulled back, my mind superseding my hands. Finally, my mother who could no longer stand the anticipation grabbed the envelope and ripped it open like a two-day-old Band-aid. Prepared for disappointment by justifying that I did not want to go so far away all that much anyway, I was staggered by the smile that immediately adorned my mothers face. They wanted me. The Magpies wanted me.
My love affair with Newcastle began early in my life, initially through the influence of my soccer coach when I was just 10 years old. Jim Cooper, who hailed from Durham in the north of England, had a fondness for Newcastle that was infectious. No training session passed without reference to how the Magpies train. No game was complete until he had compared our performance to one of United’s more glorious or more disappointing outings, depending of course on our result.
Without deliberate intent, I became a Geordie – a Newcastle United supporter - ever so gradually adopting a fondness for all things related to the Magpies. I sought out Newcastle jerseys in sporting goods stores and stole peeks at English football magazines hoping to find an action shot of the familiar black and white strip. I waited with anticipation for each televised English league game in the hope that the broadcast would include a Magpies match. So few did but when was televised, I sat transfixed to the screen for the entire match.
At team training sessions and after school kick-abouts I would invariably bore my friends with detailed descriptions of the exploits of my favourite United players and their recent matches. When choosing sides for pick-up games I would insist that my team be called the “Magpies”. If I was overruled I would attempt to trade myself to the other team and then immediately begin lobbying all over again. I would push just as hard for the “Magpies” name when playing baseball, basketball, road-hockey, or Monopoly, as I would when playing soccer.
Every Christmas, from the age of eleven on, I received in my stocking a subscription renewal to “The Mag”, the unofficial supporter’s magazine of Newcastle United. For hours following its arrival in my mailbox each month I would sit alone and pour through the magazine without taking a break until I had devoured it in its entirety. I would read every word printed, from the credits on the first page to the advertisement on the last. I would examine every photograph until I had committed each one fully to memory.
I knew of no-one else in my neighbourhood who owned a subscription to The Mag (frankly, I doubt if anyone else in Canada did) so I believed it to be my responsibility to enlighten my friends with as many stories as I could remember and in as much detail as they could stand. I knew they enjoyed these recitations even though they pretended to be bored. I was highly protective of my Mags. I refused to take them out of the house for fear of being a target of the marauding bands of Mag thieves who roamed the streets of Vancouver looking for unsuspecting young boys with copies to pinch.
I bravely defended the honour of my Toon Army heroes whenever they were challenged. The ignorance of my little friends was no excuse for avoiding my wrath on those occasions when one dared to disrespect the Magpies. No one was spared my slashing sharp wit once I was pushed.
“Newcastle sucks.”
“The Magpies are the best team in the world.” I would counter, ever so convincingly.
“Who says so?”
“Everyone knows it – no one has to say it”
“If no one says it, how do you know it’s true? Magpies suck.”
“Cause it’s written down stupid. You suck!”
“Where is it written down?”
“Everywhere?”
“Where?
“Everywhere.” I repeated for extra emphasis.
“Give me one place you read it.”
“In The Mag!”
“In The Mag? That’s a Newcastle magazine, you idiot.”
“Ya but it’s critically claimed.” I had heard my mother use that expression many times about books that she read.
“It’s what?”
“Critically claimed. It means that it’s the truth. Don’t y’know anything?”
“Prove it”
“I don’t need to. Just read it yourself”
“You’re such an idiot.”
“You’re such a gay.”
My wit was unassailable. Once I had launched the big gun – the three letter challenge to a ten-year olds gallantry – any form of retort from that moment on was futile. It was over. The winner and still champion!
Teachers too, were not immune from my obsession. I wasted immeasurable hours of classroom time drawing pictures in my note-books of great United goals and spectacular saves when I should have been listening to explanations of the Pythagorean Theory or Champlain’s travels across Canada. Every school writing assignment was to me an opportunity to impart Magpie knowledge on the unfortunate ignorant masses. My book-reports were invariably summaries of one or another United-related paperback that I had ordered out of the back pages of the Mag. On one occasion, I boldly wrote a book-report on a United match-day program that I had fortuitously stumbled upon in a used bookstore my mother dragged me through. I was shocked and not a little insulted when my teacher chastised my work and tagged it as “trivial” and “without relevance”.
During every match I played as a youngster I would imagine myself as my favourite Newcastle player. In 1989 I was usually Glenn Roeder because that year I was a central midfielder. The next season I was moved up to striker so my favourite player became Micky Quinn. In 1991 my favourite player to emulate became Chris Waddle because I played mostly as a wide midfielder. But my hero, once he left the Blackburn Rovers in favour of my Magpies, was the illustrious Alan Shearer, the most proficient scorer ever to play in the English Premiership.
Whether because of my Newcastle fascination or just a devotion to the sport, I worked hard on my game. I played rough and scrappy as I read the combative Hughie Gallacher always did with the Magpies in the 1920s. I discovered that Jackie Milburn, the inimitable United center forward of the 1940s went largely unnoticed by professional football clubs until he walked uninvited into a Newcastle trial in 1943 and impressed club management so much they offered him a contract on the spot. This inspired me to find a way to work harder during those days when I was frustrated with myself.
I became a strong player. I soon started dominating local leagues and as I got older, I was picked for regional and all-star teams. I moved progressively to stronger club teams in the interest of playing at the highest possible level. One of my biggest disappointments as a young player was when I was not picked to play for my provincial team. I believed I was good enough but when the final team selections were posted on the locker-room wall, my name was absent. I was of course devastated. But rather than lose hope, I took comfort in a basketball tale that my father told me. He enlightened me of the now-legendary account of how Michael Jordan, in his freshman year of high school, was not selected for his school basketball team. I knew that if Jordan, the worlds best-ever basketball player, did not give up hope, nor would I. I pushed myself beyond where I thought I could go. Instead of training five days a week, I trained for six. Instead of staying an hour after practice to work on my finishing, I stayed for two. Instead of whining to my parents for a new pair of cleats, I whined extra hard for the top of the line pair.
When I was sixteen I was given the opportunity to play once a week on a men’s team. I learned many valuable lessons from that experience including that my survival demanded I play with my head up. Playing with and against men, many with British, European or Latin American roots, also gave me first hand exposure to the passion that is so uniquely characteristic of football. An Italian central back and player-coach on that team, Rocco Foggia, once told me while holding my face in both his hands: “If iz notta inna yo hot, little man, iza justa mechanics and datsa no way to play dissa game.” He punctuated the word “game” with a double Italian-grandmother slap on my cheeks. I tried hard not to grimace, not from the pain of the slap but from the smell of nicotine on his hands.
We had nine different nationalities on that team. Nine different views of the game, each one convinced it was the only way the game should be played. There were arguments. Boy, were there arguments. Everything was debated – How to warm up? Which end to take if we won the coin toss? Attack down the middle or attack down the flank? Who should take the free kicks? What formation to play? Who was pulling their weight and who was not? Who should play and who should sit on the bench? And, who should take a free-kick? That was a big one. But the joy shared after we scored a goal made all the squabbles seem petty by comparison and were easily forgotten. Regardless of how much bickering and yelling occurred during the game, when it ended, teammates and opponents alike unwound, hugged and laughed together like old friends.
From these expatriates, I learned that passion is the active ingredient of football. Passion gives an individual player the fuel he needs to overcome stronger opponents. But, passion can also bring opponents together. It is the emotion that is shared amongst those specially blessed with a true love of the game. From the sharing of this passion, a bond of mutual respect between opponents forms while the match is being played, and then becomes clearly evident at the games end. It is almost as if players who have it, recognize it in each other and seek out others with it after the match. It forges an unspoken union that transcends team loyalties.
That same year I convinced my old coach Mr. Cooper to contact Newcastle United on my behalf. I was initially disappointed in his response. I expected he would say something like “Newcastle needs a player like you” or “They will be so happy you chose them”. Instead he said simply “Let me see what I can do.”
But, Mr. Cooper had an important connection from years earlier that would prove very worthwhile to me. For a brief period of time in 1981-82, renowned footballer Peter Beardsley played for the Vancouver Whitecaps in the old North American Soccer League (NASL). When Beardsley left Vancouver he headed back to renew his playing career in the U.K and in 1993 ended up in his home town Newcastle-Upon-Tyne playing for the Magpies. Mr. Cooper had apparently met Beardsley during his brief stay in Vancouver and had made a point of staying in touch with him even after Beardsley returned to England.
Mr. Cooper called me just two weeks after I had first approached him. He explained that he had contacted Beardsley and talked to him about me. A week later Mr. Cooper called me again and told that he had received a phone call from Alan Irvine, Director of Newcastle United Football Club Academy. Apparently Irvine had said: “We might be interested in having a look.”
Early that summer, after many months and many letters, e-mails, phone calls and hours of parental convincing, I set off on a six-week trial to Newcastle. Arriving in Tyne-side, I was warmly welcomed and provided with a United training kit and a place to stay. Even before settling in – or catching up on the sleep I had missed by flying overnight – I put on my United warm-up jacket and wandered around the grounds hoping for a glimpse of a Magpie. Maybe Alan Shearer would drop by my room and welcome me. This would give me a chance to explain how I thought he and I had similar styles. We were both rugged players who scored lots of goals. For some reason I thought he would want to know this.
But Shearer didn’t drop by my room to welcome me. I soon discovered this was because it was the middle of their summer break and the senior players would not resume their training until after I had returned to Vancouver. Oh well. At least he wasn’t ignoring me. I don’t think I could have handled that.
For the next six weeks, I was treated like a Magpie and I felt like a Magpie. I was proud to wear the black and white training kit they gave me. I worked harder than I think I ever have before. I was determined to make the most out of this opportunity. I must have done reasonably well because only two days before my flight back to Vancouver, Mr. Irvine pulled me aside and said he wanted me to come back in the winter for a return two-week trial. I was elated. I said my goodbyes to Mr. Irvine much quicker than I think he expected, mostly out of fear that the front of my white training shorts was starting to turn a slightly different hue from the excitement of his news.
Upon returning home after the long flight I told my parents of the newest invitation but their reaction was not what I expected. My mother did not fall on her knees and thank the heavens for such a talented son. My father did not whimper with pride that his inborn athleticism had indeed been passed through his genes to an offspring capable of putting it to good use. Instead, they each looked emotionless at me and then at each other. They did not sanction my return trip.
My parents spent the next three weeks telling me about the facts of life. Not sex. I already learned all I needed to know about sex from teammate stories and a few woodland adventures with Suzanne Miles. The life-fact my parents imparted on me was the reality that life was largely filled with unfulfilled promises and broken dreams. Consequently, I had pretty much resigned myself to the inevitability of being forced to turn down the Newcastle trial. Then, quite by surprise, it was announced over one memorable Sunday dinner, a meal fittingly enough of roast beef, boiled potatoes, and mushy green peas, that my parents agreed to one further foray to the U.K.
At the time, I assumed that three weeks of steady pouting and melancholy had worn down my parents so that they had finally realized the misguided nature of their original objections. It was only while on the plane back to Great Britain, a full three months later that I realized the true purpose of their lectures. They did not dislike soccer, as I had thought. They were not lacking in confidence in their son’s abilities, as I had thought. They were simply giving me a valuable life tool - the ability to protect myself against the possibility – not the inevitability, as I had thought - of disappointment.
My second trial with Newcastle went as well as the longer first trial. I continued to follow a strategy of working hard and openly displaying my affection for Newcastle. For this, I was teased relentlessly by other players. I was called a “suck up”, a “kiss up”, and other “ups”, but I didn’t care. I listened intently to instructions and advice from the coaches and I tried very hard to remember every word they said to me and struggled to put into practice every little thing that was suggested to me. I received very positive feedback throughout the two-week trial. Although I thought it went well, I could not forget the life-facts my parents had imparted on me so vigorously before I left.
After opening up my acceptance letter in my mothers kitchen, my life had become a blur as I busily wrapped up one phase of my young life and prepared for a new life abroad. Before I knew it, it was mid-August and I was once again Tyne-side. This time I was an accepted Academy player so I was given a new room with a roommate.
My roommates name was Nigel Fotheringham, a 17 year old keeper from Hexham. This was his third year in the Academy and as he explained his last if he was not at least picked up for “the Reserves”.
Our routine was a grind, heavily structured, busy and unwavering. But, I had never expected it to be a holiday. From Monday to Thursday the entire day was set from early in the morning until late in the evening. Friday was the same but without the evening training. Since Saturday was usually match day, Friday evening’s agenda usually involved a team get-together to plan out the next day’s match or to watch a recent game video of ourselves or our upcoming opposition.
But Saturday was my favourite day because on Saturdays we would usually play a match in the morning and then spend the afternoon watching the senior team either at St. Jameses Park or on the “telly”. Those Saturdays when the seniors played at home were especially sweet for me because this was what it was all about - playing in front of 40-50,000 singing, flag waving Toon-army supporters. After returning from our own Saturday match, we would quickly shower, grab a bag lunch from the cafeteria and head over to St. Jameses. There was an assigned section in the stands for the Academy players and we would usually arrive an hour or so before kick off so we had plenty of time to swap stories of how the morning game went and exchange meaningless banter about the upcoming fortunes of the Magpies that afternoon.
Sunday was a day off for the Academy players, a day that I would usually spend hiking through the many northern countryside walking paths or along the rugged seashore near Newcastle-Upon-Tyne. I would often take a bus to some remote area of the Yorkshire Dales and spend the day wandering aimlessly through the rolling paths of the Pennine Way. On these long walks I hoped to find a person or couple, or even an attentive pet, who I could engage in conversation just for the opportunity to tell them I was a Magpie.
What I enjoyed the most about walking the Yorkshire Dales however, was the smell of burning coal that permeates through the entire region during the fall and winter. I am not sure why I find it to be so spiritual but the pungent odour is for me so uniquely tied to the Dales that it seems to have the ability to transform the attractive into beautiful and the memorable into unforgettable.
My first sighting of Alan Shearer was just a week after arriving in the Academy. Our Academy coach Vince Hutton took us to Darsley Park, the senior teams training pitch, to watch the team prepare for a particularly important upcoming match against Liverpool. There were only five or six players on the pitch when we arrived. I immediately recognized Robbie Elliott who was leaning up against the player bench stretching and talking to my Vancouver connection, Peter Beardsley who sat on the bench lacing up his boots. I could not see Shearer. I gazed endlessly at the door to the locker-room, hoping that each time it would open, it would be him. After the third or fourth opening, out he walked. He immediately looked up at where we had gathered as if he was looking for me. He sent a smile toward us and raised a welcoming hand. Seeing my favourite football hero attired in the same training kit that I wore every day, seemed just a little surreal to me - as if I had somehow hijacked another person’s existence.
As soon as time permitted, I telephoned my father and told him that I had seen Shearer for the first time. My father was not a particularly informed football supporter although he would always try hard to show interest in the sport when we talked about it or on the few occasions we watched a match together. But, from the moment of this phone that memorable day he would forever proudly describe to anyone who would listen, the story of how his son at Newcastle phoned him immediately after seeing his hero - Alan “Sheringham” for the first time.
A few weeks later we were once again taken to a Darsley Park session but this time, Vince had something more planned. At the end of the session, instead of heading for the exits we were herded onto the pitch to greet and mingle with the players. While some of my new friends were too shy to approach one of these legends, I was not, at least not at that moment, so inhibited. I immediately jumped toward Shearer and apparently with no forethought and very little obvious intelligence, blurted out: ”How does it feel scoring so many goals in the EPL?” He smiled at me and for a second or two I was afraid that he might break out laughing and just walk away. Instead, he tilted his head slightly and said: “You know, at times I feel like I’m the luckiest guy in the world”.
Wow! That’s gott be how I would feel. I once again felt I had a kinship with Alan Shearer. As quickly as he answered my question though, other Academy players following my lead, jumped in with stupid questions of their own and my brief relationship with Shearer ended abruptly.
I telephoned my father again. With a notably shakey voice, I recounted my meeting with Shearer. My father showed great interest in my news and before saying goodbye, made a point of saying: “Please say hello to Mr. Sheringham for your mother and I”. And then he added: “...and wish him good luck this weekend against those Land Rovers.” He meant well.
Just one year after joining the Academy I achieved one of my ambitions when I was selected as a full-time member of United’s reserve squad. A reserve squad is a team of players that a club considers promising but not strong enough to get playing time on the senior team. The reserve team serves two purposes – to provide regular competition for up and coming players so that they become more valuable assets to the club, and to ease injured senior players back into competition without subjecting them to the physical demands of top level play.
I was by no means the strongest player on the reserve squad but I was probably our hardest working player. Not flashy or particularly brilliant with the ball but I made few mistakes. Even though I did not score as often I would have liked, my hard work seemed to impress management. I think what impressed upon them the most however was my obvious passion for the Magpies.
After three months with the reserves, I was shocked when, although an inexperienced 19 year-old, I was invited by team manager Kevin Keegan to train with the senior team. The first time I stepped onto the same field with Shearer and the other members of this legendary squad, I was so overcome by the moment that I had to immediately return to the clubhouse and jettison some obnoxious fluids.
Every Wednesday afternoon I had the honour of lacing up my boots, vomiting and training alongside greats like Shearer, Les Ferdinand, David Ginola, Peter Beardsley, and David Batty - usually in that order. Clearly, if I was going to have any kind of a future at Newcastle I was going to have to exercise better control of my bodily fluids.
After just two sessions with the senior team the dream seemed to come to a crashing end. Kevin Keegan, surprised everyone and announced that he was quitting as Newcastle United manager. He had decided to leave United because he felt that he had taken the club as far as he could. When he first took the job, almost five years earlier, Newcastle was languishing at the bottom of the table in the old Second Division and headed for probable relegation. Not only did he help the Magpies avoid relegation that season but during the next he won the league championship of the renamed Division One and as a result earned the Magpies promotion into the newly labeled “Premier League”. In the first three years of his reign in the Premiership, Keegan helped the club finish third, sixth and second respectively. But now, as the team was challenging for the league title, he abruptly and unexpectedly throws in the towel.
I was devastated. What would become of me? I felt enormous guilt when, while the entire Geordie community mourned the departure of Keegan and agonized over how it might affect the team’s chance at the title, my biggest concern was what it would mean for me. Had my storybook dream of training with the best team in the world now come to a nightmarish end just weeks after it had begun?
Kenny Dalgleish was soon introduced as the new Newcastle manager and I waited anxiously for any announcement pertaining to reserve squad players being included in training with the senior team. But when the first Wednesday morning following his appointment arrived and there was still no indication that I should not attend the afternoon session, I took one of the boldest step I had ever taken in my life and decided to show up anyway.
When I stepped onto the Darsley Park training pitch I half expected to be swiftly escorted off the pitch by a beefy man in light green shirt, undersized pants, and a walkie-talkie on his hip and asked never to return. But when our eyes met, Dalgleish, instead of pointing his finger toward the exit, extended his hand in a warm greeting and said: “Hi there mate. I’m Ken Dalgleish - I hear you’re quite a footballer.” It looked my dream might carry on a bit longer.
I continued to train with the senior team every Wednesday that they trained. I never expected to dress for a game. That was an honour that was typically reserved for big contract big name players. My room-mate Nigel once explained to me though that every now and then clubs were known to give one of their Academy players a brief appearance in a top-level match just to keep the hopes alive amongst the club’s younger members. This thought gave me some unfortunate hope.
When I returned to Newcastle after my Christmas break, I was told that Kenny Dalgleish wanted to speak with me. My heart racing, I entered his office and within minutes learned that over the next few weeks he would be dressing three or four different reserve squad players in upcoming senior team games. Even though Christmas was a holiday for youth players, it was a particularly busy time in the Premiership, and a number of senior Magpies had come down with minor injuries. Going into Christmas, already decimated with injuries, Dalgleish was now in a bind. I was likely to be on the roster for at least one of those matches he told me. I picked up the phone to call my parents but decided instead to wait until after I had received an official call-up.
After four games had been played and four of my teammates had been called to the senior team, I started to doubt that my chance would come. As the end of January approached and I still had not received my call-up I grew almost certain that the window of opportunity had closed for me. But then in the Magpies January 29th home match against Everton, two more players dropped with injuries that would leave them out of the line-up for a game or two. The next morning, our phone rang at 6:30 am and Nigel, whose suspicious girlfriend had a habit of calling at odd times , sleepily grabbed it. He then grudgingly passed it over to me saying “It’s Dalgleish.”
“Hello kid. Sorry for calling so early but we need you at our training session this afternoon – you’re dressing for Sunday’s match against Leicester City.” I do not really know if I answered him properly. He may have had to wait until the afternoon session before he knew for certain that I would be there. I returned the headset and fell back onto my bed with my hands over my face desperately trying to avoid the embarrassment of Fotheringham seeing me cry.
Fotheringham who had grown particularly jealous and cantankerous watching my latest good fortunes wasted no time in giving me his wise opinion. “You know, there’s no chance at all that you will get into the game.” I agreed with him even though it contradicted what he had told me earlier. But Fotheringham contradicted himself quite often. He then continued with advice. “But if you do, don’t do try anything spectacular.” Sequentially tapping the fingers of this left hand with his right index finger, he began listing what I should not do if I made it onto the pitch, which of course would never happen. “Don’t hold the ball. Don’t run with it. Don’t be a hero. Just get the ball to Shearer - Just get it to Shearer!” Finally, he added, “And, for Gods sake, don’t smile! You're a right nut-case when you smile.”
Everyone I spoke with over the next few days offered versions of the same advice - Just get it to Shearer. Just get it to Shearer. Just get it to Shearer. Even my father when I called him the day before the match offered up his own account of the same advise: “Just pass the ball to Sheringham!” he said. My mother on the extension however, saw if quite differently: “Who is this Sheringham fellow? Why should he get the ball all the time? Maybe he should pass it to you. I think that’s a much better idea.”
Sunday seemed to take forever to arrive but when it did I was ill prepared to accept it. The anxiety was unbearable. An hour before kick-off I walk onto the pitch and look up at the colossal St. Jameses Park structure towering above me. Gallowgate End (also known as Newcastle Brown Ale Stand), the Leazes End, the Milburn Stand (called “Shearers Stand” by some), and the East Stand, all reach up into the bright blue heavens over northern England. Four stands link together and become an impenetrable barricade to protect the pitch and the many Geordies inside her fortified walls from the outside world, justifying its nickname as “The Castle”.
The Castle has a seating capacity of 52,394 but only a handful of supporters have gathered in her so far. I spot my fellow reserve squad teammates in their usual seats, gathered to watch the warm up and discussing the game to come. I knew that I must be a topic of at least a few of their conversations. I wave to them like an eight year old in a school play waving to his mother in the auditorium. But my teammates, much cooler and less harried than I, acknowledge my presence not with a returned wave but with a few almost imperceptible nods and winks, but in most cases, with absolute disregard. For a second or two, I wanted desperately to change places with one of them. They were relaxed and cheerful while I was an emotional wreck.
The Magpies starting eleven – Albert, Peacock, Hislop, Asprilla, Gillespie, Watson, Lee, Batty, Elliott, Ferdinand and of course, Shearer – are being put through an organized group warm up while the rest of us – Ginola, Clark, Beardsley, Barton, back-up keeper Pavel Srnicek, and myself - are left on our own. I run through the same pre-game routine the reserves use while my fellow subs fill their time in conversation and demonstrations of their favourite ball tricks. Fourty minutes or so later and it is time to leave the pitch and return to the locker room. While walking off the playing surface, I notice that a much larger crowd has now gathered with about one-third of the seats in The Castle now occupied.
Dalgleish offers us a few last words of advice in the locker room and then leaves us alone. A few jokes and a couple of slaps on backs, and players slowly start leaving the room and gathering in the hallowed tiled hallway leading to the pitch, shoulder to shoulder with the Leicester City players.
Even from my deep position at the back of the line, the melodious roar of our supporters rolls through the tunnel and up the stairs to where I stand - thirty thousand proud Geordies energetically singing “Blaydon Races”, the unofficial anthem of Newcastle supporters for generations.
Oh! me lads, ye shud a' seen us gannin,
Oh! me lads, ye shud a' seen us gannin,
Passin' the folks upon the road just as they were stannin.
Thor wis lots o' lads and lasses there, all wi smiling faces
Gannin alang the Scotswood Road to see the Blaydon Races.
Referee Mike Reed and his two assistants make their way down the stairs to the front of the two lines preparing to usher the players out of the “tunnel” and onto the pitch. As if choreographed, the respective starting keepers – Kasey Keller for Leicester and our Shaka Hislop – join the front of their respective lines. No sooner had the two keepers extended mutual best wishes than it was time to begin our procession out of the tunnel and greet the throngs of supporters.As the front of the line emerges into the winter sunlight and bends up the stairs to the checker-board St. Jameses pitch, the uproar of the Geordies thunders to an even higher pitch. Hairs stand up on the back of my neck while my knees buckle just a little. I am grateful for my spot at the back of the line for it allows me to hide the two small tears that now squeeze from of the edge of my eyes. Lack of control over my bodily fluids was certain to be my nemesis. I pull up the front of my jersey to wipe my face dry - for the benefit of any observers –of my perspiration of course.
The starting eleven from both squads line up ten meters or so from the touch-line and I move with the rest of the substitutes to the plexi-glass covered player’s bench. I am directed to the second row of seats behind the coaching staff and the furthest seat possible from Manager Kenny Dalgleish. Back-up keeper Pavel Srnicek seats himself next to me. As a back-up keeper and the least likely substitute to make it into the match, he would typically sit on the seat that I now occupy, yet another indication of just how unlikely it is that I will see match-time. Between Srnick and Dalgleish is seated Warren Barton, Peter Beardsley, and David Ginola, I suspect in order of substitution probability. The players on the pitch prepared themselves for the kick-off of a match that we all know could have significance to Newcastle’s pursuit of a rare league title. Not since 1927 has Newcastle captured the highest league title in Britain.
I am caught by surprise once all is quiet on the player’s bench, when Srnicek blurts out next to me, although loud enough for all bench-dwellers to hear: “Hey kid. If we win, I’ll buy you your first beer”. I laugh nervously, not quite sure how to respond but fully prepared to sprint back to the locker room and head directly to the airport.
It was soon clear that the emotional strike launched at me by the back-up keeper was not to be an isolated attack. Beardsley from a few seats away, without shifting his gaze from the centre of the pitch, discharges another salvo: “Was Santa good to you kid?”
Oh, is this the way it’s going to be? I knew I had to do something. If these attacks were left unanswered, any possible hope of earning a footballer reputation would be lost forever and would undoubtedly result in a melt down of mythical proportions and embarrassing notoriety. I had no choice. A return volley was needed even if it meant that I would never again have the chance of sitting on this bench.
“Hey gramps,” I responded to the thirty-six year-old Beardsley. “What was Santa like as a kid?”
What had I done? I had no right to make a joke like this, particularly at the man who had helped me get into the club. But, from the laughter from the rest of the substitutes and the restrained smile I glimpsed on Dalgleish, as he folded his arms to stop himself from laughing, I knew I had survived their assault. I had been challenged but had held my ground.
Beardsley looked toward me and as I braced for another attack, rather than strike, he offered me a respectful wink. As he turned back however he muttered to Barton seated next to him: “I think everything I own is older than that kid.” It was one last shot across the bow. I was relieved when I heard Barton after turning to Beardsley and placing a hand on his shoulder, say: “Not your hip, old man.”
Faustino Asprilla, who Dalgleish had put into the game in place of Beardsley, started the match on fire. He was playing as a withdrawn striker tucked in behind Les Ferdinand and Alan Shearer, and made numerous exciting runs early in the match. When the match was just three minutes old Elliott sent a long ball to Gillespie on the opposite side of the Leicester 18-yard box. Gillespie sent in a cross to a diving Asprilla who heading attempt at goal was unfortunately blocked. Ferdinand recovered the ball and passed it to Elliott who drove a low shot from 15 yards out catching the inside of the Kasey Keller’s near post.
The Magpies had an early lead. While Elliot ran to the bench to celebrate his goal with the substitutes I reached through my black and white jersey to pinch my side and confirm that this was not a dream.
Leicester was clearly shaken by our early goal. But in the 19th minute of the match, Emile Heskey almost put the Foxes back into the game when he slipped behind the offside trap and flicked the ball over Hislop’s head. Shaka managed to reach it with his finger tips and as the ball fell softly behind him, defender Philippe Albert cleared it out of trouble.
A few minutes later, my hero Shearer first-time volleyed a lofted pass from Ferdinand and drove the ball beautifully but unfortunately it skimmed inches wide of the Leicester goal.
Just before the half-time break Ferdinand was again involved twice more. First, he headed a Shearer pass across the face of the goal toward Asprilla but Asprilla was unable to get on the end of it. Then, Ferdinand headed a free-kick from Robbie Elliot just wide of Keller’s goal.
When Reid blew the half-time whistle and the players on the pitch head down the tunnel for their well deserved break, Srnicek motions to me toward the pitch and says: “You stay.” I was joined by my fellow subs and we casually knocked the ball about while the rest of the gang was given their second-half instructions from Dalgleish.
Leicester City started the second half with more obvious determination. They pushed hard, coming wave after wave at us seeking the equaliser. After one failed attempt, Asprilla sprinted from our own box to the other eluding numerous Leicester tackles along the way. He sent a tremendous pass to Lee who shot for the upper corner. We stood to celebrate the goal but at the last second a diving Keller guided the ball past the post with his fingertips.
Dalgleish then sent Ginola, Barton and myself to the end of the pitch to warm up. Me? Why me? Surely, he wasn’t seriously considering putting me into the match.
On the pitch, we continued to slide. Just seven minutes after Claridge’s goal we gave up another. Heskey once again beat the offside trap, ran down a pass from Claridge and drove it past Hislop, giving Leicester an authoritative 3-1 lead. Dalgleish immediately signalled to Ginola to enter the match and a minute later entered the game for a dejected Gillespie.
Ginola had an immediate impact on the game. I was in awe. With the ball he was dangerous, without it he was even better. How does a player anticipate so accurately where the ball is going to be two or three passes in advance? At the 77th minute - just seven minutes after entering the game – Ginola ran hard with the ball at the Leicester defensive line but was brought down on a hard tackle by Scott Taylor. There was no doubt to anyone at St. Jameses who would take the kick. Barton and I paused our warm ups to watch for the outcome. Shearer stepped up and sent a thunderous drive, deflecting ever so slightly off the Leicester wall, but catching the top corner of the Leicester goal.
I was elated. We were back in the match, within one goal of evening up the match. I jumped repeatedly and hugged anyone who would hug me back - ball boys and yellow-jacketed safety stewards included. When my jumping ended, I noticed assistant manager Terry McDermott signalling to me that he wanted me to return to the bench. I jogged back to return to my rear position next to Srnicek but before I could sit McDermott motioned for me to sit next to him in the front row.
I sat beside him but neither of us said much as, on the field, Ferdinand and Asprilla exchanged a couple of promising passes ending in a feed through to Shearer who was positioned dangerously 25 yards and facing away from the opposing goal. We all jumped up from the bench as if we collectively knew that we might soon be witness to magic. We were not disappointed, Shearer received the ball and in his classic way, turned abruptly and fired a rocket inside the far post past the outstretched arms of a diving Keller. We leapt on each other, hugging and bouncing like children.
The match was now equal with just seven minutes to play. I sat down again next to McDermott and he immediately tells me to my absolute shock “You’re going in for Asprilla, kid.” I can’t imagine that I filled him with confidence when I responded: “You fucking joking?”
Ignoring me, he continued, “You’re going in for Faustino - in the hole”. The “hole” referred to the withdrawn striker position tucked in behind the two front strikers. But this time, he didn’t give me a chance to react. “I don’t want you thinking out there, son,” he continued. “Two things - stay in the middle of the pitch and get the ball to Shearer. If you get it to Shearer, he’ll put it in the goal. You understand?”
I nodded, but I thought I was about to be sick to my stomach. Vomiting on McDermott however would probably be bad for my reputation, and surely leave me on the bench. So, I did my best to hold it in. Why did he want me in the game? Why not Beardsley with all his experience or Lee Clark who was already much appreciated by the Geordie faithful for his passion? I was certain that everyone in St. Jameses Park was asking the same questions as I stood and removed my track-suit. Who is this kid, and has Dalgleish gone absolutely bonkers?
McDermott handed me the substitution slip and walked me toward the fourth official. As I passed a seated Dalgleish he reached up and grabbed me on the arm. “You’ll do fine mate,” he said. “Just get the ball to Shearer.” I looked him in the eyes in an attempt to figure out why he had selected me over the other two players – hell, even Srnicek was probably a better choice than I. Dalgleish’ eyes returned no obvious answer. I could only assume that my energetic and passionate obsession for the Magpies I had tried so hard to demonstrate over the past three years was at this moment seen as an asset by Dalgleish. Or just maybe my mother had called him. I had learned over the nineteen years that she could browbeat anyone into almost anything. In any case, he would undoubtedly be criticized greatly for this decision and I was determined to help him defend his decision.
I stepped onto the pitch at the 87th minute replacing a bewildered and visibly angry Asprilla. When play resumed, I tried not to think as McDermott had advised. Instead, I ran. I ran and ran and ran and ran. I had very few opportunities to touch the ball in possession during the first few minutes but defensively I was an animal. Every time Leicester moved the ball to the middle of the pitch, I was there to challenge hard to win it back for my team. I was called on two fouls for unnecessarily aggressive tackles. After the second one, referee Reid called me over for a chat. My heart raced as I thought I was about to get a yellow card but Reid simply looked me in the eye, raised his finger toward my nose, and said sternly: “Kid, you’re doing well. Don’t be stupid.”
Regulation time ended and for the first few minutes of added time I did not touch the ball. Each time Newcastle gained possession it was sent long down the middle to Shearer in hope that he had one more bit of magic left in him on this day. I simply stepped out of the way to open up the path.
In the second minute of added time the ball was sent down the flank to Robert Lee and without thinking (I listen well) I took off like a madman to overlap Lee and provide an opportunity to move the ball further down the flank. As I curved past him, I remember McDermott telling me to stay in the middle. Oh well, it’s too late now. I’ll face my punishment later. Much to my surprise Lee sent the ball to me as I sprinted down the right side.
The words I had heard so often in the past few days kept repeating in my head. Just get it to Shearer. Just get it to Shearer. Knowing Alan Shearer as I did, I was certain that as I ran down the touchline with the ball, he would undoubtedly head for the top of the six-yard box. I was too frantic to look up, but I knew he would be there. I trusted my faith in Shearer and sent the ball to where I hoped it would reach him. At the same moment I struck the ball, an unseen Leicester defender took my legs out with a hard slide tackle and sent me flying. I rolled in the air like a pig on a spit and landed with a splat on my stomach. My clumpsy foe lost his balance too and landed on my head, driving my face into the soft St. Jameses turf. Blinded by the mud, I heard Reid yell.
“Play on”.
A right eye full of muck, I looked up using my left just in time to see Shearer connect with my pass and direct it toward the corner of the net. This is when the action stops. For what seems like an eternity, the ball hangs suspended inches off the ground in a scene absent of all motion, colour, and sound.
I blink and the scene immediately changes. The ball drops deep into the mesh of the Leicester goal. Thirty thousand Geordies in St. Jameses stand and roar as one. The sounds are exposive and the colours marvellous. It is a magical moment, one that would not soon, if ever, be forgotten.
Seconds later Reid blows his final whistle and the comeback is complete and final. The atmosphere in The Castle is electric. Songs ring out noisily, scarves sway slowly, the noise level is relentless. It is a moment of absolute euphoria.
The party in St. Jameses, just now beginning, will soon spill out in the streets and pubs of Tyne-side and extend into the oncoming work week. The Magpies, more specifically Alan Shearer, had scored three goals in the final thirteen minutes of the match to record what will go down in history as one of the biggest ever comebacks in top-level English football. The win put Newcastle back in the running for the Premier League title. Shearer’s unbelievable hat-trick – his first ever with the Magpies - gave him twenty league goals, tops in the Premiership. There was but one person who had assisted on the winning goal. No one would ever be able to take this from me. It was mine and would be for the rest of my life.
The remainder of the day became a burr. Our celebrations would continue well into the early hours of Monday. Phone calls came fast and furious. I was honoured in each of my classes the next day and treated like a hero at our afternoon training session. I was in heaven. Although I would have been quite happy to sit on the bench for this momentous event, playing an actual part in its outcome was unimaginably wonderful.
Little did I know that this would be my first and only opportunity to dress with the senior Magpies. I was simply not strong enough. I returned to the reserve squad and played well but just not good enough to be invited back to Dalgleish’ squad. On reflection, the luster of that special moment on February 2, 1997 was not tarnished one little bit.
The Magpies ended that season in second place, seven points behind Manchester United and equal in points with Arsenal, second place being awarded to us by goal differential. The second-place finish was enough to qualify Newcastle for the European Champions league, a satisfactory result but stained slightly by the memory of a pre-Christmas ten point lead at the top of the table that we had let slip away.
Shortly thereafter, I was offered a professional contract with Northampton who had recently earned promotion to Division Two by winning the Division Three play-off. It was not a spectacular season for me, particularly after injuring my knee midway through the term. When the season ended I was unceremoniously sold to financially strapped Stevenage Borough in the Nationwide Conference for a British rail pass and a pint of lager. After about twenty games with Stevenage, Manager Ian Atkins and I shared in the recognition that my short career as a professional footballer was over and it was time for me to pack my kit-bag and head home to Canada and begin my life as a civilian.
The opportunity to live out a childhood dream had been given to me and I had grasped it proudly. It had been short - very short - but I now felt oddly fulfilled.
Lying on the bed gradually emerging from the fog and shadows of sleep, with half of my face buried in the pillow, one eye is closed shut while the other groggily struggles to focus on the blurry television at the end of the bed. An exasperated British voice emanates from the obscure colours. “Why did Dyer not just pass the ball to Shearer? All he had to do was… was just get it to Shearer!”
I hear my wife call from downstairs before I am fully awake. I hit the mute button on the remote control that, while I slept, had become lodged under my armpit.
“Is the game over? Are you coming down now?” she calls up. “Were you sleeping?!” she shouts angrily when her first two questions go unanswered for a second or two.
“No”, I respond. However, the word that was formed by my brain was distorted into a yawn by my mouth, and my answer lay exposed as an obvious lie. Pulling slowly out of my stupor, I stand unsteadily beside the bed and reach up to the ceiling in a prolonged stretch while thinking of Alan Shearer’s magic and smiling at my own childishness.
posted by Stephen Spence at
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