Secretly, I was gutted. I just wanted to be setting off to Lilleshall, walking in there shoulder to shoulder with Michael. I didn’t want to be left behind, staring at Michael’s empty place in the dressing-room. I loathed the taste of failure. I thought that if Steve had pushed me, I could have got into Lilleshall. It took me a long time to understand Steve’s motives.
Lilleshall’s rejection slowed my climb up the England ladder. Bias rules in schoolboy football, no doubt about it.Players at the National School were always selected for the England U-15s. Always. The advantage was huge, obvious and deeply unfair. It really pissed me off. The midfielders who got into Lilleshall ahead of me were players like Kenny Lunt, Jamie Day of Arsenal, and Richard Keller of Scarborough. They were also ushered into the U-15s. Go on, straight through, there are your England shirts, help yourselves. I seethed with resentment at their fast-track treatment. I sat at Ironside, just thinking of those midfielders running out onto those beautiful pitches at Lilleshall, enjoying daily coaching and being handed the key to the England U-15s dressing-room. These England games were on Sky. I fancied some of that, being broadcast to the whole country. Watching the games was torture. I sat there with Dad, looking at midfielders who were my age but not my equal. I screamed at the TV, bollocking the commentator when he praised one of the midfielders with Three Lions on his shirt. I would have walked out in disgust but for one person. I loved seeing Michael do well.
Lilleshall screwed up, and I hoped and prayed every day they would recognize their mistake. Shit, we left out that brilliant kid from Liverpool. What’s his name? Gerrard. Let’s get him in, sharpish. I dreamed of a letter coming through with a Shropshire postmark apologizing for their terrible oversight and telling me to get down there now. The door seemed to open briefly when a youth attached to Arsenal left Lilleshall. Michael called to tell me. ‘There’s talk of them bringing in a replacement,’ he said. I couldn’t sleep that night. I lay in bed thinking of Michael’s words. Mentally, I was already packing my bags forLilleshall. They had to call me in. But no. The call never came. My dream died again.
Seven months later, my anger with Lilleshall found a fantastic outlet. The National School came to Melwood, where us Heighway kids were based at the time, for a fixture. Thank you, God! I prepared an ambush. I was steaming for this game like nobody’s business. Honest to God, the night before the game I was cleaning my boots, making sure the studs were nice and sharp for those pretty boys from Lilleshall. Dad realized how pumped up I was. He wound me up relentlessly. ‘You’ll shit yourself against Lilleshall,’ he said. ‘You will. I know it. Those National School boys are better than you.’ I went, ‘Yeah, yeah.’ I was burning inside. I felt like having a fight on the Friday evening. I stayed awake all night, as if I feared sleep might soften me, lessening the fury inside. In the morning, I stormed into Melwood on a wave of adrenalin and resentment. Steve could see the fire in my eyes.
‘Be careful,’ he warned. ‘You’ll get injured.’
‘These lot are getting it,’ I replied. ‘They are all getting booted everywhere. I am going to show Lilleshall they got it wrong. All of them.’
Steve tried to reason with me. No chance. I was on a mission.
And when I saw those Lilleshall boys marching into the pavilion at Melwood, all smart and smiling in their England blazers, the fire raging within me turned into an inferno. I was more than a man possessed. Even now, I don’t know how I restrained myself from nailing them in the corridor. ‘Let’s have it now,’ I thought. ‘Come on, in your spotless blazers and cocky smiles. Huyton v.Lilleshall, now. We’ll see who’s better!’ God, I couldn’t wait.
I sprinted out of the pavilion and towards the pitch.
Lilleshall’s rejection slowed my climb up the England ladder. Bias rules in schoolboy football, no doubt about it.Players at the National School were always selected for the England U-15s. Always. The advantage was huge, obvious and deeply unfair. It really pissed me off. The midfielders who got into Lilleshall ahead of me were players like Kenny Lunt, Jamie Day of Arsenal, and Richard Keller of Scarborough. They were also ushered into the U-15s. Go on, straight through, there are your England shirts, help yourselves. I seethed with resentment at their fast-track treatment. I sat at Ironside, just thinking of those midfielders running out onto those beautiful pitches at Lilleshall, enjoying daily coaching and being handed the key to the England U-15s dressing-room. These England games were on Sky. I fancied some of that, being broadcast to the whole country. Watching the games was torture. I sat there with Dad, looking at midfielders who were my age but not my equal. I screamed at the TV, bollocking the commentator when he praised one of the midfielders with Three Lions on his shirt. I would have walked out in disgust but for one person. I loved seeing Michael do well.
Lilleshall screwed up, and I hoped and prayed every day they would recognize their mistake. Shit, we left out that brilliant kid from Liverpool. What’s his name? Gerrard. Let’s get him in, sharpish. I dreamed of a letter coming through with a Shropshire postmark apologizing for their terrible oversight and telling me to get down there now. The door seemed to open briefly when a youth attached to Arsenal left Lilleshall. Michael called to tell me. ‘There’s talk of them bringing in a replacement,’ he said. I couldn’t sleep that night. I lay in bed thinking of Michael’s words. Mentally, I was already packing my bags forLilleshall. They had to call me in. But no. The call never came. My dream died again.
Seven months later, my anger with Lilleshall found a fantastic outlet. The National School came to Melwood, where us Heighway kids were based at the time, for a fixture. Thank you, God! I prepared an ambush. I was steaming for this game like nobody’s business. Honest to God, the night before the game I was cleaning my boots, making sure the studs were nice and sharp for those pretty boys from Lilleshall. Dad realized how pumped up I was. He wound me up relentlessly. ‘You’ll shit yourself against Lilleshall,’ he said. ‘You will. I know it. Those National School boys are better than you.’ I went, ‘Yeah, yeah.’ I was burning inside. I felt like having a fight on the Friday evening. I stayed awake all night, as if I feared sleep might soften me, lessening the fury inside. In the morning, I stormed into Melwood on a wave of adrenalin and resentment. Steve could see the fire in my eyes.
‘Be careful,’ he warned. ‘You’ll get injured.’
‘These lot are getting it,’ I replied. ‘They are all getting booted everywhere. I am going to show Lilleshall they got it wrong. All of them.’
Steve tried to reason with me. No chance. I was on a mission.
And when I saw those Lilleshall boys marching into the pavilion at Melwood, all smart and smiling in their England blazers, the fire raging within me turned into an inferno. I was more than a man possessed. Even now, I don’t know how I restrained myself from nailing them in the corridor. ‘Let’s have it now,’ I thought. ‘Come on, in your spotless blazers and cocky smiles. Huyton v.Lilleshall, now. We’ll see who’s better!’ God, I couldn’t wait.
I sprinted out of the pavilion and towards the pitch.
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