Read Online How NOT to be a Football Millionaire - Keith Gillespie My Autobiography by Keith Gillespie - Free Book Online Page A
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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debuts. Dowie got the only goal from the spot, and we celebrated in style. Kevin, who was excellent in the game, overdid it in the post-match party. He turned up for the flight the following morning still pissed and with a big yellow face. When we landed in London, they needed a wheelchair to escort him off the plane. The phrase, ‘Wheelchair for Horlock’ followed him around after that.
People are always shocked to hear of professional athletes behaving in such a way, but, in those days, it was commonplace. We felt fit enough to run off the excesses, and it really did help team bonding. If you’re in a group where there is a tense atmosphere, the prospect of a few days away together is a nightmare. But we always had better results on our travels, and that was a testament to the spirit in the camp. We enjoyed each other’s company.
The summer tours were the prime example. My first was to Canada, in the summer of 1995. That was a trip where discipline went out of the window. I was looking forward to my first, proper tour as a senior professional. The lads had been to the United States the previous summer and told me all the stories. Football-wise, we were heading to Edmonton for a three-team tournament with Canada and Chile. But it’s fair to say that we weren’t too focused on the games when we met at Heathrow.
Bryan was fighting a losing battle from the start. Myself, Phil Gray and George O’Boyle had gone for a few beers in the terminal and nearly missed the flight. On the plane, the drink was openly flowing. When we got to the other end, Bryan sent us out training straight away. He knew the majority were half-pissed and ran the hell out of us. It really kicked off a couple of nights later after we got thrashed by Canada. We were awful. The extreme humidity offered some sort of excuse but really, we shouldn’t have been losing badly to a team like that. We reacted the only way we knew by embarking on a spectacular bender. I was on the local beer, Labatt Ice, and it went straight to my head. I was hopelessly drunk when we got back to the hotel, walking around the lobby vainly looking for a bathroom when I spotted Phil Gray standing at the reception desk talking to someone. For reasons unknown, I started pissing on Phil’s leg.
There was a commotion over it, but I was ignorant to it. My focus was on extending the night so I went upstairs to persuade my room-mate, Gerry McMahon, to find a second wind and head out into town for another look. It was a huge hotel, with over 20 floors, and we were near the top. As we were going down in the lift, it stopped at the 19th floor and Bryan walked in. Someone had called him after my behaviour in the foyer.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“I’m going out.”
“No, you’re not.”
I said nothing. When the doors opened at the ground floor, I made a break for it and sprinted across the lobby. Bryan shouted at Gerry Armstrong, telling him to follow me. I burst out onto the street with a Northern Ireland legend in pursuit, a member of the 1982 World Cup side that I had watched as an excitable seven-year-old back in Islandmagee.
I knew he didn’t have the pace to catch me. I kept running. And running. The problem was that I barely had a Plan A, let alone a Plan B. Three quarters of a mile later, I was on my own in a nondescript street with absolutely no idea where I was. I stopped to a walk, and allowed Gerry to catch up. He convinced me to go back to the hotel and sleep it off.
Bryan called a big meeting with the group the next morning which concluded with him turning to me and announcing that I wouldn’t be having any more alcohol for the rest of the trip. Some chance. That night we were invited to an Irish bar and, on the coach there, the boys were putting beer in teacups for me. After we showed our faces there and made our way back towards the hotel, Bryan said that nobody was allowed out that night. Again, wishful thinking. It’s not that we didn’t respect
People are always shocked to hear of professional athletes behaving in such a way, but, in those days, it was commonplace. We felt fit enough to run off the excesses, and it really did help team bonding. If you’re in a group where there is a tense atmosphere, the prospect of a few days away together is a nightmare. But we always had better results on our travels, and that was a testament to the spirit in the camp. We enjoyed each other’s company.
The summer tours were the prime example. My first was to Canada, in the summer of 1995. That was a trip where discipline went out of the window. I was looking forward to my first, proper tour as a senior professional. The lads had been to the United States the previous summer and told me all the stories. Football-wise, we were heading to Edmonton for a three-team tournament with Canada and Chile. But it’s fair to say that we weren’t too focused on the games when we met at Heathrow.
Bryan was fighting a losing battle from the start. Myself, Phil Gray and George O’Boyle had gone for a few beers in the terminal and nearly missed the flight. On the plane, the drink was openly flowing. When we got to the other end, Bryan sent us out training straight away. He knew the majority were half-pissed and ran the hell out of us. It really kicked off a couple of nights later after we got thrashed by Canada. We were awful. The extreme humidity offered some sort of excuse but really, we shouldn’t have been losing badly to a team like that. We reacted the only way we knew by embarking on a spectacular bender. I was on the local beer, Labatt Ice, and it went straight to my head. I was hopelessly drunk when we got back to the hotel, walking around the lobby vainly looking for a bathroom when I spotted Phil Gray standing at the reception desk talking to someone. For reasons unknown, I started pissing on Phil’s leg.
There was a commotion over it, but I was ignorant to it. My focus was on extending the night so I went upstairs to persuade my room-mate, Gerry McMahon, to find a second wind and head out into town for another look. It was a huge hotel, with over 20 floors, and we were near the top. As we were going down in the lift, it stopped at the 19th floor and Bryan walked in. Someone had called him after my behaviour in the foyer.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“I’m going out.”
“No, you’re not.”
I said nothing. When the doors opened at the ground floor, I made a break for it and sprinted across the lobby. Bryan shouted at Gerry Armstrong, telling him to follow me. I burst out onto the street with a Northern Ireland legend in pursuit, a member of the 1982 World Cup side that I had watched as an excitable seven-year-old back in Islandmagee.
I knew he didn’t have the pace to catch me. I kept running. And running. The problem was that I barely had a Plan A, let alone a Plan B. Three quarters of a mile later, I was on my own in a nondescript street with absolutely no idea where I was. I stopped to a walk, and allowed Gerry to catch up. He convinced me to go back to the hotel and sleep it off.
Bryan called a big meeting with the group the next morning which concluded with him turning to me and announcing that I wouldn’t be having any more alcohol for the rest of the trip. Some chance. That night we were invited to an Irish bar and, on the coach there, the boys were putting beer in teacups for me. After we showed our faces there and made our way back towards the hotel, Bryan said that nobody was allowed out that night. Again, wishful thinking. It’s not that we didn’t respect
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