Hammered - I Played Football for West Ham, Man City and Everton… Then the Police Came Calling and My Life Fell Apart. Mark Ward
In the shower area there were two huge baths, one filled with cold water that was used as a cold plunge for the players after their sauna.
I was picked up and thrown, head-first, into the icy water, followed swiftly by all the kit I’d just collected up off the dressing room floor. Two or three of the players stood guard while I shivered in the water. My next problem was getting all the kit dry in time for the players’ afternoon training session. I always managed to survive the intimidation process, although it helped that star midfielders Andy King and Asa Hartford both took me under their wing.
Kingy become a law unto himself at times. He was routinely late for training once or twice a week – he wouldn’t have lasted five minutes in today’s game – but he was a character as well as a great footballer. He once approached me half an hour before kick-off at Goodison. He took me outside the dressing room, stuffed £200 in my hand and told me to put it on a horse. I tried explaining to him that if I got caught leaving the ground, I’d be in big trouble. He just shrugged his shoulders and said: ‘Not to worry, I’ll sort it out.’
I rushed across to Stanley bookmakers and, with what seemed to me like an enormous amount of money in my hand, wrote the name of his horse on the slip and pushed it towards the woman at the till. She looked at me bemused and asked: ‘Is this your money, son?’
I told her straight: ‘No, it’s Andy King’s – the Everton player.’ There were hundreds in the betting shop at that time and at first I didn’t think she was going to accept the bet. But, thankfully, she put the slip through the machine and I took off clutching the bet receipt and managed to get back inside the stadium unnoticed just before kick-off.
This was to become a regular occurrence but Kingy looked after me with a tenner here and there. In fact, I’d earn more for putting on a bet for him than I did as an apprentice footballer. My weekly wage was £16 per week. The club gave the household where you lived £25 towards your food and upkeep, so you were always well fed.
Gaining the trust of the senior players made me feel good. One afternoon Scottish international Asa Hartford sent me to the passport office in Liverpool and rewarded me for the errand with £20, which was a lot of money to me at that time.
Being close to the players and watching them train and play only made me want to become a footballer even more. It was a tough baptism, though, and my cause wasn’t helped when I picked up a back injury that put me out of action for four months. It was a massive setback, as I had to impress manager Gordon Lee and his staff by the end of the season in order to earn the full-time professional contract I craved. I had a trapped nerve – sciatica was diagnosed – and it was as if I didn’t exist anymore. When you’re injured, you are useless to the club.
My injury eventually cleared up, though, and I travelled to Holland with the youth team to take part in the Groningen under-19s international youth tournament. I knew it would have an important bearing on my future at Everton, so I was determined to play well and put the months spent recovering from my back injury behind me.
It was a truly big tournament featuring clubs such as FC Hamburg, Sparta Rotterdam and PSV Eindhoven, to name just a few. I loved the atmosphere and build-up to the games and was starting to believe in myself more and more as we progressed through the competition. Our team was full of future Everton stars: Gary Stevens, Graeme Sharp, Steve McMahon and Kevin Richardson. Kevin Ratcliffe was due to travel with us but had to withdraw because he had first team commitments with Everton and was also selected for Wales in the Home International Championships.
I played on the right-wing in every game in which we achieved one draw and four victories to earn a place in the final against the mighty PSV. Despite dominating the game, we struggled to score against the Dutch, who managed to make it 1-1 with their only shot of the game. We’d played so many matches in such a short period of time that the players were very tired.
With only a few minutes remaining in the second period of extra-time, something inside my head told me to chase what seemed like a lost cause. The PSV defender was running back towards his own goal and I was just hoping he’d make a mistake – and he did. He tried to nudge the ball back to his keeper but under-hit his pass. I seized on it in a flash and buried the ball into the net.
I was surrounded by my jubilant team-mates and before we knew it, the whistle blew and we’d won the tournament. I’d scored the winner. How fortunes can change so quickly in football. Unbelievably, I was voted player of the tournament. I’d been picked out ahead of some brilliant players. It was quite an achievement and I thought this was just what I needed if I was to earn a full-time contract.
That night, I remember getting drunk for the very first time and how I suffered for it afterwards. After our victory we were allowed out to celebrate and the lads ended up in a lively bar, where I drank a small glass of cold beer that I didn’t much like the taste of. Inevitably, I was p****d within the hour and, along with a couple of the other lads, was in a terrible state by the time we got back to the hotel, where I became violently sick.
Arriving back in Liverpool the next day, somewhat hungover, it was great to hear our success being reported on radio and television. And my personal award meant I found myself in the limelight for the first time. The press came to our house and it was well documented in reports that Everton’s future was in good hands with young players of the calibre of Steve McMahon (who made his first team debut in the opening game of the following season), Gary Stevens, Graeme Sharp and Kevin Richardson – and I was being mentioned along with them.
When Everton played Nottingham Forest at home at the start of the 1980-81 campaign, I was thrilled to be pictured on the front cover of the match day programme along with some of my team-mates from the Groningen tournament, plus youth development officer Ray Minshull and coach Graham Smith. And there, on page 3, was a photo of me holding my player of the tournament trophy alongside a decent write-up of our victory.
As well as Ray and Graham, I should also give credit to the efforts of Ray Deakin, who became my youth coach. He gave me so much sound advice and encouragement in my first spell at Goodison, making me realise that, due to my size and weight disadvantage, I had to go into every tackle twice as hard as my opponent. I was saddened to hear that he died of cancer on Christmas Eve 2008, aged just 49.
If it hadn’t been for my performances in the Dutch tournament in the summer of 1980, I don’t think Everton would have offered me a full-time contract as a professional. But they did and Dad was made up. Not that there was any chance of him allowing my success to go to my head. He would knock me back down by saying things like ‘don’t get carried away’ and ‘you still have such a long way to go.’
Once again, he was dead right.
EVERTON became a poor team under manager Gordon Lee, who came in for plenty of stick from the press. I witnessed at first hand how he had lost the dressing room and failed to control certain players. Even at that young age I realised none of the senior pros respected him. And no-one undermined Lee’s authority more than Andy King, our prolific goal scoring midfielder, who really gave the beleaguered manager the run-around towards the end of his first spell at Goodison.
Looking back, Kingy was a total rebel and, as his apprentice and the one responsible for cleaning his boots, I had a bird’s eye view of his antics.
The other players would be halfway through their warm-up when you’d hear the screech of Kingy’s brakes as he belted in to Bellefield – late, as usual. And then, as he emerged from his car, I’d hear that familiar voice: ‘Wardy, come here.’ I’d jog towards him as he began to undress while walking from the car park to the changing rooms.
‘What’s going on? What’s being said?’ he’d ask me.
As usual, I’d ensure his kit was laid out neatly for him on arrival. Half the time he’d still be drunk from the night before but he wasn’t bothered. A very talented attacking midfielder who was once being touted for England honours, he knew that whatever he said around the club and no matter how badly he behaved by gambling and