Soccer, the Gulf War, and Mr Genius
Are your parents here son?
Are your parents here son?
The question I was asked by different soccer scouts during the period 1989–1993. I traveled to 3 clubs. However one of the scouts was a P.E. Teacher at the secondary school (aged 11–16 years) I attended. 5 clubs approached my parents representing; Arsenal, Millwall, Celtic, Leicester, and Southampton soccer clubs. How did I decide on which clubs to select or rebuke aged 11–15 years?
If the parents were content with conversations involving the scout I jumped onto a plane and went. If they were not, or I didn’t get a strong desire to travel to the clubs they represented they were rejected. During those 4 years, I spent a lot of time during school breaks traveling to Millwall, Leicester, and Southampton.
The clubs I rejected were Arsenal (more on that later) and Celtic. After a school cup final in 1990 the Celtic scout approached me and said “do you want to go to Celtic? As a young boy growing up in West Belfast (catholic) the community contained a large fan base of Celtic supporters. However, they never quite caught my imagination, when dreaming of becoming a professional soccer player. Although I did love their 1988 CR Smith kit! (Fashion frenzy).
By then I was following the English Championship (Now Premier League) as my dad had brought me to see Manchester United when I was 7 years old. I was hooked after my first match and studied everything I could on the league they played within.
In my head, I was thinking that if I played against them in junior soccer the Manchester United scouts would ask me to come on try-outs with them. We do let our imaginations get ahead at times. But what else would a young aspiring soccer player dream!
Big Derek and the Den
The Millwall scout (P.E. teacher) at the school spoke to the parents in 1989 and asked them could I travel over to the club. I’m aged 12 years so need supervision or I’m not going. The door knocks and standing in the doorway is Derek (The Doog) Dougan former professional soccer player with a range of clubs in England, and America later in his career.
Derek played as a center-forward and was a giant of a man. After his retirement, he went into writing and sports commentary. (Passed way in 2007). I traveled to the airport with Derek and he spoke to me about what to expect when I got off the plane and went to the club.
The man was a fountain of information, and I kept replaying everything he told me long after I was on the plane. A club official was to be meet me at Gatwick Airport (London). I exited the plane following the crowds towards the exit and see a man standing with a piece of cardboard with my name on the front. Walking towards him I can see his Millwall jacket more clearly.
This was the club contact to bring me to my accommodation. Arriving at the digs (a house where kids on try-outs stayed) I was greeted by a lovely woman. “It’s so nice to meet you, Michael,” she said. I felt at ease right away. Now, let’s get some food and straight to bed. Training starts tomorrow!
I awake the following morning and meet the rest of the boys who are also on try-outs. They were from different parts of the U.K. and all had dreamed the same as mine. “Are you a paddy?” they asked? No, I’m Mick, and not a dirty one either! (Offensive term used to describe Irish).
We traveled via car to the training ground which was spread over numerous fields. Our coaches came across and introduced themselves and told us to go sit with the rest of the boys. There was 34 of us. During that week I experienced my first visit to The Den (soccer stadium) of Millwall F.C.
The ground housed some of the most notorious soccer hooligans during the 70s-80s with a massive police presence at all home games. I didn’t witness any of the clashes as we were brought in the staff entrance for the game. Bit frustrated. (I wouldn’t have minded throwing some bricks and bottles). Training started at 9.30 am until 12,30pm daily.
Lunch was also provided at the training facility. After lunch, we usually went back to the digs and played games, watched television, or relaxed in our rooms. I had a brilliant week and impressed as I was going back again. Not just yet!
Saints and the Gulf War
The Saints is the nickname of Southampton F.C. During the summer of 1990 I spent 2 weeks within a Ministry of Defence camp. The army was up at 5 am doing their morning routines. It wasn’t the singing that woke me up, but the sound of tanks rumbling across the ground.
No issues. I heard Saracens (army vehicles) most days in West Belfast. These men were training for deployment to the Gulf War. The camp is located in the south of England, where the club is also positioned.
No comfortable surroundings or digs this time. These were tin huts that usually contained soldiers. Beds and blankets were the standards expected for combat training. Not 13-year-old boys! (Hairy grey blankets). I got to experience these in later years for 9 months. Every day we would go to the mesh (hall for eating).
“Growing up in West Belfast I was usually throwing bricks and bottles at the Army. Yet here I was sharing a canteen with them!
At the end of every meal, the commanding officer would stand up and point across to those he wanted to clean the dishes. As there were so many of us he picked 4 every time. On the 6th day at camp, he pointed at me.
Our coaches sat beside them at mealtime. As I got up to leave my seat and join the rest of the boys, I didn’t notice our coach say to him, “Choose someone else”. I wished he hadn’t.
In giving me special treatment he alienated the rest of the boys I was staying with. Let the good times roll! The questions started instantly; “What’s so special about you”? Why don’t you have to wash up? Do you know the coaches? It didn’t get any better when the YTS goalkeeper (a few years older) came into our hut after training and said, “The Irish kid was making you look like fools out there.” Thanks, buddy!
On Saturday the senior team were playing a friendly game. Our mode of transportation was an army truck complete with a tarpaulin cover. If the friends back home could see me now!
These were the days of Matt Le Tissier (Genius), Alan Shearer (Goal scoring machine) and Francis Benali (Loved a tackle). Jesus, I was watching these guys on television not even 2 months previously. The game ended 3–0 to the Saints. Back to base for us.
At the end of the 2 weeks, the coaches asked would I want to return during the next school holiday. Although the experience was fantastic I couldn’t see myself settling with this group of boys. No was the straight answer.
“No matter how much falls on us, we keep plowing ahead. That’s’ the only way the roads clear” (Greg Kincaid)
Arsenal and the corner shop
When I returned from Southampton in August 1990 I was looking forward to starting school. Not for education. But the soccer team. Back then we had one of the strongest teams in school soccer. (Corpus Christi College). The starting eleven contained 5 players who were all traveling to various clubs in the U.K. I loved nothing more than game days with the school. The excitement among all the players moved across the corridors like some sort of magic dust.
Due to our success, we became popular very quickly. Our pre-match meal consisted of a cowboy supper, and a bottle of milkman’s orange. What else were you going to eat? When we played scouts would gather from numerous clubs, all jostling to get the player they wanted.
At the end of one game, I see a man approaching me. The club jacket he’s wearing is Arsenal F.C. “You had a good game” he says. Reaching into his pocket he gives me a piece of paper with a phone number and a time written on it. (Is this an episode of Moonlighting?). Give this to your parents, and asked them to call me tonight.
I get home and give the piece of paper to my mum. “Do you want to go to Arsenal?” she says. “No, I reply”. Back then most of the corner shops contained a payphone. We leave the house at 6.55 pm for the short walk to the corner shop. At this point, news had travelled that my mum was due to speak to Arsenal, so a large crowd of kids had gathered outside the shop.
Even though I told them I wasn’t going they couldn’t help themselves. The excitement of speaking to a big club from someone in a working-class community spreads like wildfire.
“The call is made and mum informs the scout that I don’t want to travel. And just like that, the door is closed.”
The Foxes and the speed demon
I traveled to Leicester City F.C. (The Foxes) during Easter of 1992. More digs for me. These digs contained a mixture of age ranges with some professionals (Mike Whitlow and Simon Grayson) staying with us for a few days while they got set up with other accommodation. They brought the newest computer games for the Sega which we all loved. (The spiky-haired hedgehog). I had a room to myself, so could unwind or retreat whenever I wanted. This is living!
The boys in the accommodation were the best I shared with to date. There were no big ego’s just a motivated bunch all wanting to make it in the game. I was aged 15 years by then, so traveling to airports was undertaken by my dad. I then met club representatives when exiting the airport.
Each day we got up to a lovely breakfast cooked by the wonderful landlady. Those smells combined with the fresh scents of spring outside were intoxicating. Still no potato bread though! Note to self. When travelling, bring potato bread. We arrived at the training ground at 9 am to get changed and ready for action at 9.30 am.
My game was based on speed and as I got stronger I used this to great advantage. Just before we broke for lunch I noticed this short but quite muscular player leaving the rest of his team in the shade during sprint work. (Reminded me of Ben Johnson former U.S.A. 100m sprinter).
The man was that fast he was starting on the pitch boundary line, while his teammates were positioned on the 18-yard line. I called one of the coaches across and asked; “What’s his name”? “Julian Joachim” he replied. Julian went on to play at a host of clubs in the U.K. professionally. I never got the chance to test a flat out 100m race with him!
It was so strange watching him on television in later years, recalling seeing him in his youth. The time at Leicester didn’t go as I hoped. I spent a lot of the time thinking about home which was affecting concentration in training. I just wasn’t performing at full capacity, and the attitude was becoming a real problem. At the end of the 2 weeks, I knew the outcome would be negative. However, I just wanted to get home.
Millwall F.C. the two Micks, and Maxi.
I returned to Millwall F.C. in Easter of 1993. The manager was former Ireland International Mick Mc Carthy (Big Mick) as he was known. Mick had played under big Jack Charlton (Passed away in 2020) in the Irish team that reached the quarter-finals of the World Cup in 1990. Where were you when Kevin Sheedy scored against England?
Those were great days for all us soccer nuts in West Belfast. The colors, songs, and atmosphere every match day were palpable. We’ve qualified for the World Cup. Go and compete. Ole, Ole, Ole. Goosebumps singing it to myself. Where all part of Jackie’s Army. Put ’em under pressure!
As the Irish team moved past Romania on penalties to face Italy in the quarter-finals, the West Belfast community had reached a crescendo. The streets were awash with green. Unfortunately, the team lost 1–0. I think I cried. When I returned from Leicester I started to lose some of the passion and motivation for the game. I was going through what all teenagers do.
However, I found myself less preoccupied thinking about football than in the years previously. Arriving at Millwall F.C. this time felt so much different. I wasn’t this scrawny kid just trying to find his feet. There was no one going to start any backchat this time. The players were all serious about getting professional contracts.
Steeping out of line was not in their thought process. The training was a lot more difficult as we all fought to stand out in every session. Our digs included former Man City, Liverpool, and Irish International Mark Kennedy (Wand of a left peg).
Maybe on a par with Niall Enright (West Belfast youth and community activist) or Gerry Flynn (Scored a goal from 40 yards in the Champions League). Mark made his first-team debut that season aged 16 years.
One morning during a water break I was sitting with Paul (Maxi) Mc Veigh watching the senior team train. The team then included; Malcolm Allen (Diminutive striker), Ben Thatcher (WWE tackle on Pedro Mendes) and Kenny Cunningham (Irish International).
Maxi, as he was more favourable known was my nemesis growing up in West Belfast. At first, we had a real disdain for each other. (St Oliver Plunkett-Holy Trinity rivalry). Then we became friends, playing at 3 clubs together. (Healthy respect was earned).
Maxi went on to become a goal-scoring legend at Irish League side Donegal Celtic. The man was one of the most gifted soccer players you could watch. (Or play with). Made defenders chase shadows, and also produced at least 2–3 nutmegs per game.
He laughed at the opposition when he put the ball through their legs! (Absolute shithousery). No filter, and that’s why we got on like a house on fire. God, I cherished those days my friend. But let’s get back to Millwall.
Are you the Irish lads we hear a voice saying? Turning around we see the first team manager Mick Mc Carthy. “Yes, we answer.” Mick sits down on the grass beside us both and starts asking how the training is going.
It’s going great was all we were going to say. We sit there for a further 15 minutes while he regales us with his 1990 World Cup experience! Told you; Were all part of Jackie’s Army!
Starting training after the water break all the teammates were asking what did Mick want? Are you getting moved into the senior team? We could have lied to wind them up. But these were a solid group. So, we told them we were talking about Ireland and the World Cup.
Lying in bed that evening I just couldn’t settle. The thoughts of what I was missing back home were occupying my mind. I was missing nothing. But that story has already been written.
I made the decision that I wanted to return home. I knew once I made this decision the club would not want me to return. So 4 days into another 10-day stay I returned to Belfast. What do I do now?
These were the days of the peace process negotiations, the decade of dance, and the start of a very dark period in my life. While everyone was singing; things can only get better. I went off the rails fuelled by drugs, drink, and risk-taking behaviour.
Disillusionment with soccer and lack of purpose can blur reality. (See when football dreams are crushed in published work). Do I have regrets about throwing away what most people dream? I wouldn’t be writing this story if I did. Life moves on. Get comfortable in your decision making. Ole. Ole. Ole.
