To Cap It All. Kenny Sansom
the day. There was none of that ‘go to work on an egg’ nonsense in the Sansom household. And forget the ‘apple a day keeps the doctor away’ – that wasn’t me. Just take a look at the photographs of me during my young adulthood – do I look like a boy who’s just eaten all the pies? I was bloody gorgeous – Handsome Sansom.
In my early days at Palace I trained with the youth team at Langley Park. My mum and I would catch the double-decker bus home together and more often than not we’d sit opposite each other on the long seats downstairs. She was so proud and so funny. In her loud cockney voice she’d call over, ‘Kenny, who are you playing on Saturday?’
Blushing like mad I would try to ignore her, which was ridiculous – you couldn’t ignore Louise Sansom.
‘Kenny, who’s Crystal Palace playing on Saturday? I suppose you’ll be at left-back as usual.’ She’d be shouting by now.
Still blushing like mad, I’d nod a silent response, but she wasn’t having any of it. Mum was never content until I answered – for the whole of the Old Kent Road to hear me – words such as, ‘We’re playing Liverpool in the third round of the FA Cup.’
Now that really would make her happy. Don’t get me wrong, she wasn’t one to brag. Well, she loved every minute of it – and good on her!
TERRY AND KENNY
Terry Venables and I clicked straightaway and I think this was as much to do with our similar personalities and sense of humour as our passion for football. I had always been a joker and loved the old comedians – as did Terry. We both found the old-school types such as Tommy Cooper hilarious. He had a bar called the Laurel and Hardy, and once we did a fine rendition of these two old comedians, but we rarely got into ‘a fine mess’ the way they did. On the contrary, we rarely messed up. These were golden days – days of hard work, laughter and innocence.
Being an apprentice in a big club in the seventies was bloody hard work – but, as Terry was telling me often, ‘The harder you work, the luckier you become, Kenny.’ So I got stuck in. Some days the other boys and I would be pushed so hard running around the track that we’d fall in a heap afterwards. Some of the others were actually vomiting, and the sweat would be pouring off us.
I was a young member of the team and very fit, so I coped better than most. (In fact the photograph on the front cover of my book was taken just after one of these runs.) I remember watching George Graham, who was a senior player, gasping for air as he slumped on the ground. Life for us could be quite gruelling and much harsher than the lads today have to contend with. It would be commonplace for us to clean out the referee’s room (and, trust me, the ref’s room could be a right old smelly place – it was a good job Robbie Savage wasn’t around then).
During preseason training we’d paint the stadium. Imagine that happening today.
Can you see John Terry and Frank Lampard getting busy with a paintbrush during the hot month of July? I don’t think so.
I wouldn’t have had it any other way, though – and I really mean that. I honestly think that, had I been a part of this football world today, when wages and temptation are ridiculously high, I would have totally, totally, self-destructed. The discipline and positive mentorship I received was worth its weight in gold and saved me just in time from that self-destruction.
You know something? There’s hard work that is exhilarating, and then there’s hard work that is a bloody drag. Fortunately, my kind of work fell into the former category. At the end of the day I’d literally collapse into the chair with exhaustion. The day had been a great big ball of fun and, as the evening turned into night, I fell asleep with a great sense of satisfaction at a job done well.
In my early days at Palace I took great pride in shining the boots of some of the big names of the day, like Jim Cannon – a rarity who chose to spend his entire 16-year career with one club. I also polished Nicky Chatterton’s boots. He was a highly industrious midfielder and I was later to play alongside him in the ‘Team of the Eighties’. Another teammate was the legendary Dave Swindlehurst. It really was quite something for a youngster like me to be surrounded by such talent.
We all ate hearty food such as pies, pasties, sausage rolls and chips. We also played our hearts out in our quest to take our team to promotion.
My mind still held onto a childlike quality and it rarely crossed my mind that I had been signed by a famous club, that I was being coached by a man destined to become a legend, and that I was in a prime position to realise many a schoolboy’s dream. I didn’t think about ‘being a pro’. I was simply having fun. Being coached by Terry Venables and Don Howe was quite something.
I wasn’t sure about our ‘kit man’, though – he troubled me somewhat. At 6 foot 2 inches, he towered above me, and his name was David Horne. He wasn’t sinister, but I couldn’t understand how his mind ticked. I was used to kindness and consideration and I felt he was less than gracious when he declined to give me a lift home, even though he drove past the end of my road.
I’d look into his mustachioed face and gingerly ask him, ‘Are you going to be long, Mr Horne?’ This was a subtle way of saying, ‘Give us a lift, mate. I hate doing this bloody bus journey on my own!’ But I wasn’t brave (or cheeky) enough to say, ‘I hate travelling alone, Dave.’
But I have a hunch he looked upon me as an annoying little bugger he wanted to avoid. He’d say, ‘Sorry, Kenny, I’ve got masses to do here yet.’
So, off I’d trot to the bus stop and then, as I stood in all kinds of weather, he’d sail past me in his comfy car without as much as a backwards glance. How can you do that to an eager kid who would give his last Rolo away? I suppose it takes all sorts to make the world go round.
RED-CARDED
The one and only sending-off of my career came during the 1976–7 season when we were playing away at Coventry City. I can’t remember the score, but that’s not important – what is important is that I acted like an idiot. I was marking Scottish forward Ian Wallace, and it wasn’t too long into the match before he started kicking the shit out of me. I think my attacking game took him a bit by surprise and rattled him. I guess I got pissed off as well because, after one kick too many, I shoved him in the chest and sent the pair of us flying.
The whistle blew and I was shown the red card. But that wasn’t the worst of it: I was given a one-match ban and missed playing against Liverpool at home. I was devastated – and promised myself I would never be shown a red card again.
I was still that boy who didn’t like to get into trouble; still the kid who needed to be liked and loved – getting a red card meant I was naughty and therefore needed to be punished. Phew! Being ejected from the game hit me hard. It felt like rejection. It felt bloody awful.
To balance out these difficult early experiences at Palace, in 1977 I captained the Palace Junior team to the FA Youth Cup. It was another of those very proud moments.
At the same time I was skippering the England Juniors. Even as I write, it sounds quite phenomenal. If I pinch myself any more I’ll be bruised. Yet I guess the fact that I won the first nine of my full England caps while in this fertile atmosphere at Palace, should come as no surprise. I was receiving great coaching, even greater mentorship, and was playing out on the pitch with a terrific bunch of lads.
THE TEAM OF THE EIGHTIES
Looking back over my long career, I have come to realise that my years with the Eagles were the best days of my life. If I could be transported back in time to anywhere it would here to Crystal Palace. It was safe, it was fun and it was magic.
I was a naïve young man, very down-to-earth, and called a spade a spade. To be surrounded by other people with similar life values was truly magnificent. If I could get just 75 per cent of that happiness and contentment back I would be a happy man. Everybody felt it. Players and teammates like Billy Gilbert – who was