Gazza: My Story (8 page)

In the dressing room afterwards, when I was putting my clothes on, John came up and thumped me. I went home in tears and stayed there for the next three days.

It was all part of growing up, finding out how things worked, how to behave. Perhaps I had been a bit cocky, taking the piss out of senior players. I soon realised that was a bad thing to do and I came to respect them, as I have always done since. They have been there, done it and survived, so you have to respect them.

Between December and April I had a run of seventeen games in the starting line-up and my game improved
a lot. I was much more consistent, and scored the odd goal. I was still trying too hard, of course, and attempting too many tricks. I once caught the ball on my shoulder, but the ref couldn’t believe it and declared it a handball, which it wasn’t. The other side got a free kick out of it all the same. John Anderson, our full-back, gave me a right bollocking for that, telling me I had been stupid. I told him to fuck off.

But the team wasn’t doing so well after its decent start, and we were sinking down to mid-table. We’d bought nobody, apart from our hard man Billy Whitehurst, from Hull, who wasn’t exactly the best striker in the country.

In a game against Birmingham City, I seemed to be getting whacked all the time. I finally saw red and punched Robert Hopkins, right in front of the ref, and got myself sent off for the first time in my career. I ran off the pitch crying. I went straight past the bench and into the dressing room, where I kicked every bit of furniture. Stupid, I know. It’s hard to describe what happens in those moments on the field. It’s a cliché but a red mist really does seem to descend, clouding the big picture, making you unable to stand back and consider the likely consequences of your actions. All you see is what has upset you, and you lash out.

Because of suspension and injury, I missed quite a few matches at the end of that season. Unable to play, I grew depressed and started pigging out again. I had too much time on my hands. I went out with Jimmy a lot, or played snooker with all my old mates. We got ourselves involved in another motor accident when a bloke ran in front of my car. It was his fault, and I couldn’t avoid him but, panicking again, we drove away at top speed. I hadn’t realised that someone had taken a note of my registration number. I was tracked down and fined for failing to stop after an accident, failing to report an accident, and other stuff. The club was furious with me. They said I was tarnishing their good name.

Newcastle finished only eleventh in 1985–6, but it had been a great season for me personally. I had played thirty-one league games, even though it was only my second season in the first team, plus four Cup games. With nine goals, I was top scorer after Peter Beardsley. I’d also acquired an adviser, Alastair Garvie, who had been assistant secretary at Newcastle before setting himself up as an agent. He was also looking after Chris Waddle, among others.

In the first team, I was playing against many famous footballers, people I had only previously seen on television. I was also playing on famous pitches, hallowed turf
where the greats of the past had performed. I remember, when I first played at Old Trafford, sitting on a toilet and wondering how many idols had sat there before me. Would George Best ever have sat on this very seat? It was all quite hard to believe.

The established lads had been so helpful, right from the beginning, when I was only on the fringes of the first team. John Bailey may have been a joker in the dressing room, but he was kind to me and gave me good advice. When Tony Cunningham arrived for training in his BMW, I would call out, ‘Can I park your car?’ and he often let me. Both on and off the pitch, Glenn Roeder was probably the greatest support to me. ‘You’re doing well, keep it up,’ he’d say to me all the time during games. And when I was still quite young, he took me home with him, to where he lived in Essex, for a bit of a holiday. While I was there, he drove me past this big, posh house. ‘Look at that,’ he said, pointing it out to me. ‘Trevor Brooking lives there. One of these days, if you work hard, keep at it, and don’t get distracted, you could have a house like that.’ I was dead impressed.

At the end of the close season, Willie McFaul called me into his office. I thought I was in for a bollocking for some crime I had forgotten, but instead he said: ‘Here, I’ve
got a present for you.’ He’d got an advance copy of the 1986–87
Rothman
s
Football Yearbook
. I didn’t twig why he was giving it to me till I saw the cover. The photograph on it showed me beating Mark Lawrenson of Liverpool. I appear to be pushing him off, bashing him on the face with my left arm, but, of course, I’m not – it’s just the camera angle. It was sheer skill and determination.

I look so young. Chubby cheeks, floppy hair. But then, I was young, I suppose. It had been a very good beginning.

The 1986–7 season was a good one for me: I played twenty-four games and scored five goals, though I was out for a while with a groin strain. And at the end of that season, I was picked for the England Under-21 team. It was my first representative honour and it made up for the fact that I never played for England Schoolboys, which I won’t mention ever again.

I was selected for an Under-21 tournament in Toulon. It was the first time I’d ever been abroad, and for many years afterwards I used to wind people up by claiming that Toulon was the capital of France, because that was the only place in France I’d ever been to.

It was also the first time I’d ever been in an
aeroplane. I was shit-scared, convinced that the thing would crash and I would die. I had a couple of brandies beforehand to give me Dutch courage, but I was still worried about getting on the plane. The England doctor had to take me by the hand and physically lead me on board – and even then I held his hand for most of the flight, like a little boy, as I was still shaking so much.

Our first game was against Morocco, and I scored with a free kick. It was not only our first goal but the first goal of the whole tournament. We beat Morocco 2–0, so it was a good start, but the biggest pleasure for me was having been able to pay for my dad and a couple of his mates to come out to Toulon to watch me play and then enjoy a fishing holiday. I felt happy that I could at last pay back my dad in some way for all his support.

I was so excited during the trip that I could hardly sleep. Instead I used to go to other players’ bedrooms at night, to talk to them, see what they were doing. For some reason, it didn’t seem to please them.

I played in the draw against Russia, but then I got ’flu and missed the game against France, who beat us 2–0. I was back for the match with Portugal, which finished in a goalless draw. We ended up fifth in the tournament, which was disappointing.

Back in Newcastle for the 1987–8 season, one of the big thrills was the arrival of Mirandinha, the first Brazilian to play in England. On his first day at training, we all stood in a line and shook hands with him, one by one. After I’d taken my turn to welcome him, I nipped along the back of the line and rejoined it at the end to shake his hand again. He must have thought there was a set of Gascoigne twins playing for his new club.

I took it upon myself to teach Mirandinha English, starting with the days of the week. The lads tested him afterwards every day to see if he’d got them right. When it came to Wednesday, and the players asked him what day it was, he said ‘Wankday’. The lads were practically in tears.

He played his first game away against Norwich. Hundreds of Geordies made the long trek to Norfolk wearing sombrero-type straw hats. Our Brazilian took a free kick from about sixty yards out and tried to score and all the fans went wild. He always tried to score, wherever he was: the one word I never got him to understand was ‘pass’. In his next away game, at Manchester United, he scored two goals.

Mirandinha was given a sponsored car when he
joined the club, a VW Golf GTi. One day I asked him if I could borrow it. As yet he didn’t really know much about me, except that I was in the team, so he agreed and I went out for a spin in it with Jimmy. As we were driving along we happened to pass a lad from Dunston we both knew, in his car, someone who always thought he was right flash. So I decided to race him, overtaking him as fast as I could and speeding away from him. Unfortunately, moments later I braked too quickly at a corner and went straight through a fence into a field.

Next day at training, Mirandinha asked for his car back. I said, ‘Car? Car? What car?’ Eventually, I took him to it – still stuck in the fence, its back wheels almost touching the front wheels. Despite all that, I got my own sponsored club car not long afterwards.

I felt a bit guilty about what I’d done to Mirandinha’s Golf. When I heard that his two little kids were desperate for a dog, I bought them one, a springer spaniel. He was so delighted he called the dog Gazza. I responded by telling him I would call my goldfish Mirandinha.

That season I was chosen again for the England Under-21s, and I was desperate to play, even though I’d picked up a knock. So I didn’t report for treatment, as
I should have done, or tell Willie McFaul or Dave Sexton, the Under-21s manager, and succeeded in hiding the problem in training. But by the time of the Under-21 match it was really hurting. I ran around the field like a nutter, and was taken off before I did something stupid. The gaffer was less than pleased when I returned home injured and missed two matches, including one with Man United.

I was dropped from the Under-21s, which woke me up. I got my head down, started working hard and regained my place in the team. At the end of October, I won the Barclays Young Eagle of the Month award and was back in favour with Dave Sexton. I worked my socks off in our 5–1 win against Yugoslavia, scoring twice. And then I went and got myself sent off playing for Newcastle against QPR in November. As always with me, things seem to be going well, moving forward, and then something happens to set me back and the depression sets in.

In a game against West Ham, I got a bit frustrated and lashed out at Billy Bonds, the Hammers defender. He was clutching his leg.

‘All right, Billy?’ I asked him.

‘It’s my ankle,’ said Billy.

‘That’s all right, then,’ I said. ‘As long as it’s not your arthritis.’

A bit cheeky, and also unwise, since Billy, despite being forty-one, was still one of England’s toughest defenders. He proceeded to mark me out of the game and we lost 2–1. Mirandinha got our consolation goal. That’ll larn me, I thought. But of course it didn’t.