How NOT to be a Football Millionaire - Keith Gillespie My Autobiography by Keith Gillespie Page B
Authors: Keith Gillespie
Tags: Gambling, Horse Racing, Northern Ireland, Newcastle United FC, Sheffield UnitedFC, Blackburn Rovers FC, ManchesterUnited FC, Leicester City FC, Bradford City FC
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quickly that there was no time for introductions. People started weighing in from all sides and I received a ferocious dig that was my cue to leave. I escaped the riot to jump into a taxi.
Viv took one look at me when I arrived in the door and said I’d better go to hospital. Blood was leaking from a wound at the back of my head, and I required a couple of stitches which I tried to disguise at the Cliff. The gaffer knew we had a night out planned and usually heard if there was trouble. Miraculously, the details of our scrap never reached him.
I’d already fallen foul of him earlier in the season. When I was left out of the squad for a home game, I arranged a Friday night out with a few of the lads from Northern Ireland. We met at the Castlefield Hotel and I was carrying a couple of bottles of Budweiser through the lobby when I caught sight of the gaffer. He looked at me and said nothing. I hurried away.
On Monday morning, I was pulled into his office.
“A week’s wages for telling the truth, two for lying,” he said.
“They weren’t my drinks.”
“Ok, two weeks.”
That incident was a minor blip, though, and long forgotten as we entered the festive period well in the title hunt, with Kenny Dalglish’s Blackburn emerging as a strong rival. After sitting out a few matches, I came on at The Dell in a 2-2 draw with Southampton, and was reinstated to the starting line-up for the first game of 1995, the visit of Coventry to Old Trafford.
Scholesy and Cantona scored in a routine win, and I did reasonably well. The gaffer kept me on for the full 90, which was a good sign. If I had known what was coming, I might have taken a few pictures. There was nothing to suggest it was a pivotal moment in my career, but fate had other ideas. Why? Turns out, I had just played my last game for Manchester United.
7
Glory Nights
WHEN I was a young boy, the heart of Northern Irish football was the Spion Kop at Windsor Park. On international nights, the large old terrace behind the goal was a heaving mass of bodies, a wall of noise that was the backdrop to some unbelievable games. I used to stand there with my dad, in awe of the atmosphere.
It was a special time, with Billy Bingham leading a talented group of players to two World Cups. Big nations dreaded coming to Belfast. One evening stands out for me. September 12, 1984 – a qualifying match with Romania. Whiteside was in full flow. He grabbed the crucial goal, slipping the ball past their keeper right in front of the Kop. He ran towards us with his arms in the air. The noise was incredible. I imagined tasting that feeling.
Ten years later, my chance came around as the Bingham era ended and Bryan Hamilton took over. I can’t say it was a surprise when I was given the nod to start a European Championship tie with Portugal because Alex Ferguson had actually told me two weeks earlier that I’d be making my debut in the game. He called Bryan to find out if I would play before giving me the all clear to go.
Knowing that far in advance probably gave me a little too much time to think about it. This was a big deal, and the build up was nerve-wracking. Portugal were a serious international team with stars like Luis Figo, Rui Costa and Paulo Sousa in their ranks. I was a raw youngster coming in from the periphery at Manchester United with a big reputation to live up to.
Then, as now, Northern Ireland had a small pool of players to choose from, lacking the depth to compose a squad entirely of Premier League performers. Managers had to look to the second division or maybe even further down the ladder. Although I had only made a limited number of first-team appearances, all the hype was about me because I was a Manchester United player. That old George Best comparison was thrown around again. Pressure. I fretted about what the other lads expected, thinking they might view me as some kind of big shot with ideas above my station. I had nothing to worry about. The senior figures
Viv took one look at me when I arrived in the door and said I’d better go to hospital. Blood was leaking from a wound at the back of my head, and I required a couple of stitches which I tried to disguise at the Cliff. The gaffer knew we had a night out planned and usually heard if there was trouble. Miraculously, the details of our scrap never reached him.
I’d already fallen foul of him earlier in the season. When I was left out of the squad for a home game, I arranged a Friday night out with a few of the lads from Northern Ireland. We met at the Castlefield Hotel and I was carrying a couple of bottles of Budweiser through the lobby when I caught sight of the gaffer. He looked at me and said nothing. I hurried away.
On Monday morning, I was pulled into his office.
“A week’s wages for telling the truth, two for lying,” he said.
“They weren’t my drinks.”
“Ok, two weeks.”
That incident was a minor blip, though, and long forgotten as we entered the festive period well in the title hunt, with Kenny Dalglish’s Blackburn emerging as a strong rival. After sitting out a few matches, I came on at The Dell in a 2-2 draw with Southampton, and was reinstated to the starting line-up for the first game of 1995, the visit of Coventry to Old Trafford.
Scholesy and Cantona scored in a routine win, and I did reasonably well. The gaffer kept me on for the full 90, which was a good sign. If I had known what was coming, I might have taken a few pictures. There was nothing to suggest it was a pivotal moment in my career, but fate had other ideas. Why? Turns out, I had just played my last game for Manchester United.
7
Glory Nights
WHEN I was a young boy, the heart of Northern Irish football was the Spion Kop at Windsor Park. On international nights, the large old terrace behind the goal was a heaving mass of bodies, a wall of noise that was the backdrop to some unbelievable games. I used to stand there with my dad, in awe of the atmosphere.
It was a special time, with Billy Bingham leading a talented group of players to two World Cups. Big nations dreaded coming to Belfast. One evening stands out for me. September 12, 1984 – a qualifying match with Romania. Whiteside was in full flow. He grabbed the crucial goal, slipping the ball past their keeper right in front of the Kop. He ran towards us with his arms in the air. The noise was incredible. I imagined tasting that feeling.
Ten years later, my chance came around as the Bingham era ended and Bryan Hamilton took over. I can’t say it was a surprise when I was given the nod to start a European Championship tie with Portugal because Alex Ferguson had actually told me two weeks earlier that I’d be making my debut in the game. He called Bryan to find out if I would play before giving me the all clear to go.
Knowing that far in advance probably gave me a little too much time to think about it. This was a big deal, and the build up was nerve-wracking. Portugal were a serious international team with stars like Luis Figo, Rui Costa and Paulo Sousa in their ranks. I was a raw youngster coming in from the periphery at Manchester United with a big reputation to live up to.
Then, as now, Northern Ireland had a small pool of players to choose from, lacking the depth to compose a squad entirely of Premier League performers. Managers had to look to the second division or maybe even further down the ladder. Although I had only made a limited number of first-team appearances, all the hype was about me because I was a Manchester United player. That old George Best comparison was thrown around again. Pressure. I fretted about what the other lads expected, thinking they might view me as some kind of big shot with ideas above my station. I had nothing to worry about. The senior figures
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