Hammered - I Played Football for West Ham, Man City and Everton… Then the Police Came Calling and My Life Fell Apart. Mark Ward
was convinced Joe had made the right decision. As far as I was concerned, it wasn’t a gamble to start me on the right wing. I was full of confidence and couldn’t wait to get back to Liverpool to tell Jane and Dad that I’d be making my league debut the following day.
Making his Oldham Athletic bow alongside me on that afternoon of August 27, 1983 was the Manchester United and Scotland international Martin Buchan, an exceptional player and leader of men who was capped 34 times for his country. Joe had pulled off a transfer coup by persuading this cultured footballing centre-half to sign for the Latics on a free transfer from Old Trafford, having played more than 450 games for United over the previous 11 years.
Martin immediately made a big impression on all of us. He had this tremendous presence and whatever he said, about football or anything else, made sense. Even in training he looked immaculate and proved to be everything I’d read about him over the years. To play consistently well for Manchester United and represent his country with distinction for more than a decade was an achievement in itself, so it was a privilege for me to be making my league debut alongside a player of Martin’s undoubted class.
Joe had put together a team with a fine blend of experience and youth. There was the excellent ex-Manchester City centre-half and captain Kenny Clements, enigmatic striker Roger Palmer, up and coming future Scottish international goalkeeper Andy Goram and local youngster Darron McDonough.
Among a crowd of 5,750 I brought along my own small entourage of Jane, Dad, brother Billy and father-in-law George. I was about eight weeks short of my 21st birthday and Dad had told me before the game not to be intimidated and to go out and enjoy the moment I’d been striving so hard for.
Every footballer remembers his league debut. It’s a special game, an historical landmark in one’s career. Some debuts are triumphant occasions to savour while others can be disastrous. I couldn’t have planned mine any better.
It was a typically tight early season encounter, with players still finding their fitness, touch and trying to gain an understanding with their new team-mates. I saw plenty of the ball and was feeling pleased with my contribution as the game drifted towards a goalless draw.
We kept putting Brighton under severe pressure in the closing moments, though, and when Darron McDonough flicked on a long ball, I’d already started my run in to the penalty box. Brighton keeper Graham Moseley moved off his line and towards the ball but, out of the corner of his eye, he must have seen me diving horizontally to try and head it before he could get there. The ball seemed no more than six inches off the ground. Moseley was definitely favourite to get there before me and if he’d continued to advance off his line, there was going to be an almighty collision between us. Thankfully, he stopped and hesitated. What a mistake.
I met the ball full on my forehead, which sent it soaring into the top corner of the net. Picking myself up, I was immediately mobbed by team-mates. It was a truly wonderful feeling – unbelievable. The whistle blew before Brighton could even attempt a comeback.
A beaming Joe Royle was stood waiting for me at the side of the Boundary Park pitch. He knew in that dramatic final minute of the game that he’d made another very astute signing.
Radio Piccadilly interviewed me straight after my debut. And during the drive back to Liverpool I cringed as Jane, Dad, George and I listened to my babble on the airwaves, with me struggling to put into words how great it felt to score on my debut. I don’t know if it’s a Scouse thing or what, but in between every sentence I heard myself repeating the phrase ‘you know’. I’d go: ‘Well, you know, the ball was crossed from the left …’ and … ‘you know, I just dived and got my head to the ball.’
The Sunday papers made for satisfying reading, although I didn’t allow myself to get carried away by that headline-making start and remained keen to listen, learn and work even harder to improve my game. I was hungry for more success and I just needed to secure my position in the team every week to achieve it. Dad kept telling me that there was more improvement to come.
One of the conditions of my transfer was an extra £25,000 to be paid to Northwich Victoria after I’d completed 25 games in the blue of Oldham and I was delighted that the good people at Drill Field didn’t have to wait too long to benefit from the add-on clause. Although they were one of the most successful non-league teams in the country on the field, like almost all part-time clubs, they faced a constant struggle to balance the books. As their biggest asset at the time, my transfer at least did Northwich some financial good.
Having been in the side for a couple of months, Big Joe pulled me aside after training one day and said how delighted he was by my attitude and the start I’d made. He went on to say that the £9,500 Oldham initially paid for me was the best money he’d spent on a player. With that, I seized the opportunity to remind him of the wage rise he’d promised me at our first meeting in the pub. He fully agreed that I should be on more money, saying I’d done the business on the pitch and was already worth a lot more than the club had paid for me.
I’ll always be grateful to Joe Royle for putting his faith in me. He defied the wishes of the Oldham board to sign me and gave me the chance to prove myself again as a pro. His judgement in signing me had been well and truly vindicated, even though I’d played only about 10 games when we agreed that my pay rise was in order.
I wanted £350 per week, and Joe was all in favour, but there was a stumbling block. He told me that chairman Ian Stott was willing to offer me only £250 per week. I was hurt and angry when I heard. I pointed out that based on the club’s valuation, I’d be only £50 per week better off for having moved from Northwich to Oldham.
I was mad and, believing that you should always stand up for yourself and what you think is right, I told Joe that I needed to see the chairman. He organised a meeting with him for the following day but warned me not to expect any change from Stott. I hadn’t been at Oldham long enough to get to know the chairman but I was determined to push all the boundaries to get the £220 per week increase that I felt I deserved.
Stott saw me in his office after training. He was very businesslike and straight to the point. He said: ‘You’ve had a great start to your career here at Oldham but don’t get carried away. I believe that £250 is a fair wage for you at this moment in time.’
Reminding him that I was the club’s best player, I also pointed out that Oldham had paid a pittance for me and I was earning a meagre wage. I said that I’d already proven myself and warned him that if I didn’t get the £350 I was seeking, I’d walk away from the club.
He seemed taken aback by my stance. ‘You can’t do that – you’re under contract,’ he said with apparent alarm in his voice.
It was a case of calling his bluff. He tried to intimidate me by saying that Oldham Athletic would retain my registration, which would effectively prevent me from joining another League club. I responded by saying that I’d just go and play Sunday morning football in a park with my mates back in Liverpool.
I left Ian Stott’s office feeling very pleased with the solid stance I’d taken but, privately, I felt worried about the possible outcome of our strained contract talks. If I’d had an agent to look after me early on in my career I would have been on far higher wages than I was ever paid. Before players began employing agents to represent them in the late 80s, the clubs had them over a barrel.
I drove home to tell Jane what was said in my meeting with the chairman. She was worried that I’d provoked a situation that could endanger my career and our family’s livelihood but, as it turned out, we had no cause for concern. I was about to go to bed that evening when the phone rang. It was Joe Royle – to say that the chairman had agreed to pay me what I’d wanted.
‘Mark, whatever you said to him changed his mind,’ said Joe, who added that he was pleased for me and thought I deserved every penny of the £350 per week.
Ian Stott knew I was becoming a big asset for the club. For the sake of another £100 a week, it was far better for all concerned to pay me the money I deserved, because he knew he would eventually realise a substantial return on the original investment.
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