Hammered - I Played Football for West Ham, Man City and Everton… Then the Police Came Calling and My Life Fell Apart. Mark Ward
met and married Mum, Dad was a PT instructor in the army and always kept himself extremely fit. Dad was only a small man – 5ft 4ins – but incredibly strong and athletic. At 5ft 6ins, I’m hardly much taller than he was but, more importantly, I inherited his strength and athleticism too. Without those two assets, I could never have made it as a footballer. He would say to me: ‘Strength and speed equals power.’ Although I had to work on my fitness as much as everyone else, I had the capability to reach the levels needed to play at the top level.
As a small child, I remember gazing in admiration at Dad’s trophies on display in the cabinet in our living room. He won medals for football, running, cricket and weightlifting. Signed by Don Welsh, he was a promising left-winger for Liverpool in 1953-54, playing a number of games for the reserves. Uncle Tommy tells me that he once saw a photograph of the entire Liverpool squad lined up on the pitch at Anfield, with his brother stood proudly next to a young lad called Roger Hunt.
But compulsory National Service spoilt Dad’s hopes of becoming a pro. He was shipped out to Hong Kong, where he played for the battalion along with quite a few pro footballers. After completing two years in the army he was demobbed in 1956.
Over the years he’d tell me all about this magical place called Hong Kong. He really enjoyed his time out there and would say: ‘If you ever get the chance, son, visit Hong Kong.’ I would eventually play in Hong Kong for a short period at the end of my career.
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My parents married at St Columbus Church in Huyton on Grand National Day in April 1960. Dad’s sister, Chrissie, was Mum’s best friend and it was through her that they met.
One special talent I didn’t inherit from Dad was his wonderful left foot. He was actually a two-footed player. If I’d inherited his left peg, I’d have been a far better player – my left foot was hopeless.
As well as making around 10 appearances for Liverpool’s reserve team, Dad also played for South Liverpool, Skelmersdale United and some of the top Sunday League teams in our area, notably the Eagle and Child and the Farmers Arms in Huyton. Comedian Stan Boardman played at centre-forward in the same Farmers Arms team. I’d have a famous fall-out with Stan years later.
Uncle Tommy would take me to watch my father play. Apparently, I was a real handful and would try and run onto the pitch to join in. Although eight years separated them, Tommy was very close to Dad and he, too, was a very good player – as he’s still fond of reminding me to this day! He held the local league scoring record and once netted nine goals in one game, including six with his head.
I’m very close to Tommy and his wife, Helen, who have both always been there for my brothers and I since Dad died in 1988.
Dad taught Tommy how to tie his shoe laces, basic arithmetic and the art of kicking a ball with both feet. He also showed him how to look after himself with his fists, which was a handy skill to have around our way.
Huyton, in the borough of Knowsley, is not only known for being a rough area, though. A number of famous names are also associated with my birthplace. Harold Wilson was the MP for Huyton and the week after my birthday he became Prime Minister. Being a staunch socialist himself, Dad voted for him.
In the second world war, Huyton was home to an internment camp for German and Austrian prisoners of war. Goalkeeper Bert Trautmann was held there before going on to become a Manchester City legend.
Football and Huyton go hand in hand. Over the years there have been many debates among locals as to who would be included in a best-ever Huyton XI. Four definite starters would be Peter Reid, Steven Gerrard, Joey Barton and, of course, myself! What a formidable midfield quartet that would have been.
Reidy played for the Huyton Schoolboys team that won the English Schools Trophy, which was no mean feat. In my fictional Huyton all-time team I can just imagine Reidy commanding the centre of the midfield and pulling the strings with Gerrard powering forward to destroy the opposition, ably supported by the combative Barton and Ward.
Despite my true blue allegiance, I rate Steven Gerrard as the best midfielder I’ve seen in my time – a truly amazing player who has served Liverpool and England with distinction.
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As the size of our family increased, Mum and Dad decided to move on – to nearby Whiston, which is just a stone’s throw to the east of Huyton, on the other side of the A57. In the summer of 1967 we moved to a bigger, four-bedroom council house at 23 Walpole Avenue. I remember a happy and loving childhood and feeling secure in a very close-knit family. Not that we had much money. Dad was a labourer who found himself in and out of employment, although he always worked hard to provide for us as best he could.
I realised from an early age how relatively poor we were compared to most other kids in our area, and that we weren’t going to get a new bike at Christmas or go on holidays in the summer. We knew better than to ask for things our parents clearly couldn’t afford. I wore the cheapest football boots money could buy and never had a replica Everton kit as a kid. We just didn’t have the money for such luxuries. It didn’t used to bother me much, although it hurt my feelings a bit when I’d go to play for the under-nines and I’d turn up in football boots with holes in them while other kids, who couldn’t even kick a ball properly, were wearing the flashiest boots going.
But I honestly wouldn’t have swapped what we had as a family unit for anything. It was character-building. The most important thing was that there was always food on the table. Although how my parents managed at times I’ll never know.
You had to be smart and fight for everything in our house. If you were last out of bed to get your breakfast, there was a very good chance that there would be no Weetabix or Shredded Wheat left after six hungry kids had devoured it. Even if there were still a few cereal crumbs left at the bottom of the box, the chances were that there would be no milk left to pour on them.
Despite the harsh economics of home life, Mum tried her best to provide a special birthday present for her kids. The only way she could purchase these surprises was by means of the catalogue, paying for items in weekly instalments. On my 10th birthday I received a brand new 12-gear racing bike, which became my pride and joy. I knew that the weekly amount Mum had to re-pay the catalogue company was more than she could really afford but she still made sure I had this special bike to treasure.
I was oblivious to most of the everyday goings-on at home, though, as I fully immersed myself in football. You see few kids doing it today, but playing out in the street was my life. Our house was on the corner and instead of a fence or wall, there were hedges surrounding the garden. They reminded me of the Grand National fences – and they were ideal for smashing a football into. Over the years they got some hammer and the constant daily bombardment from my ball took its toll. While our neighbours’ hedges were all lush and green, ours were bare.
One day I was asked to run an errand for a man called Billy Wilson, who lived opposite. He and his wife May treated me like their own son – I was the spitting image of their grandson Karl who had emigrated to Australia years before I arrived in the street and whom they missed terribly. I had white blond hair just like him, too.
A miner who loved his garden, Billy became a great friend to me and I’d happily run to the shops nearly every day for him to get the Liverpool Echo. He was so generous, he’d give me a threepenny bit almost every time I went to the shops for his Woodbines and papers, which made me well off compared to the other kids in the street.
My first real mate was a lad called Colin Port, who lived in our street and was a couple of years older than me. He became my sparring partner and we competed against each other at everything. Once a week there was always a fall-out between us and it would inevitably end up in a scrap. The truth is that I hated losing at anything – still do – and my attitude to defeat usually sparked a fist-fight.
The first school I attended was Whiston Willis Infants, next door to the junior school. The two playgrounds were adjacent and I’d constantly be caught on the junior school premises playing football with the older lads. Looking back, competing against more senior boys played a massive part in my development as a young player.
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