Banksy (51 page)

My apartment was spacious, light and airy. My building fronted a billiard-table lawn that drifted down to the sidewalk, passing on the way a large eucalyptus tree around which it flowed like a cool green tide around a rock. It looked as if Jackson Pollock’s palette had been tipped over the flower beds, so diverse were their colours. All the time I was there I never saw litter on the street where I lived. The service in the shops, restaurants and cafés was faultless and the amenities of the city first class. The quality of life in Fort Lauderdale was better than I had ever experienced. I absolutely loved it.

I also took to the football, though it was a world away from what I had been used to. There were six points for a win, for a start. Should a match end level, it was decided by a series of one-on-one confrontations between striker and goalkeeper, the winners of which were awarded four points. Teams also received a bonus point for every goal scored, up to a maximum of three. Owing to the sheer size of the USA, teams did not play alternately on a home and away basis. We went ‘on the road’ for three games, then played three matches at home.

The mechanics of the NASL took no getting used to, but the pomp and circumstance that preceded each game was something
else. The phrase ‘over the top’ doesn’t do justice to the pre-match hoopla.

At one end of the Fort Lauderdale stadium stood a set of metal gates that would have done justice to Solomon’s temple. They led to a compound not unlike a car park, at the rear of which towered mock-Corinthian columns. Before a home game began the team assembled in this compound prior to being introduced individually to the crowd. The match announcer made every player sound as if he were a gladiator. He hyped up each and every one of us to the limit, stringing out his vowels as if he were the master of ceremonies at a world heavyweight boxing match.

‘Laaaaaay-deeeeeees an’ genel-merrrrrrrn. Let’s hear it foooooooor, the he-row of the Stri-kuuuuuuurs deeeee-fey-yance, the worn’n’ ownleeeeeea – Go-or-or-dain Bang-kssssss!’

That was my cue to leave the compound and sprint through the gates on to the pitch to acknowledge the adulation of the masses.

The protracted nature of each introduction meant that I had a couple of minutes to kill even before our right back took to the field. I felt a bit of a spare part standing out there all on my own (the keeper was always introduced first, the star striker last), so I’d embark on a series of stretching and bending exercises followed by some short sprints, making out that I was finely tuning my body for the battle ahead. What a warrior!

The introduction of the home team lasted about twenty minutes, during which, our opponents were already out there kicking their heels. But all this was as nothing compared with the hullabaloo that every NASL team made when a new signing was introduced. I remember one away game against the Las Vegas Cannons, who included Eusebio in their ranks. As we took the field the home side were introducing their latest signing, the former Birmingham City and Sheffield United midfield player Trevor Hockey. As I ran out I couldn’t help laughing. Trevor rolled past me in a tank saluting to the crowd, wearing army fatigues and sporting a military helmet. As the tank rumbled by I said, ‘You look a right plonker, Trev.’

My smile was soon wiped off my face, however, when the tank turned round and passed me again as I walked towards my penalty area. With no warning, it fired its cannon. It was as if a bomb had gone off three yards away from me. I wasn’t ready for that and instinctively hunched my shoulders and ducked. I glanced up to see Trevor turn around and look in my direction, a wide-eyed look of surprise on his face.

‘I think I may have embarrassed myself, Gordon,’ said Trevor.

To this day I am not sure to which context he was referring.

We had a decent side at Fort Lauderdale. It included Norman Piper, who had given sterling service to Portsmouth and Plymouth Argyle. Norman played wide on the wing and was a really good player. He got through a lot of work in a game, which was no mean feat in the conditions. Although all our home games were played in the cooler evenings, the biggest problem we had was adjusting to the humidity. That could be really debilitating, especially in the last twenty minutes of a game. Norman, however, just kept on going. He liked to run at opponents and, as they tired in the latter stages, not only scored but created a lot of late goals for us.

Unless you want to include me, the Strikers didn’t boast any real stars until the arrival of George Best. In the main the team comprised good solid pros from clubs in the lower divisions of the English Football League. Maurice Whittle joined us from Rochdale, where he had been used to playing in front of crowds of around 3,000. I remember Maurice standing open-mouthed before a game at New York Cosmos, where a crowd of almost 70,000 had turned up to see Pelé and Franz Beckenbauer display their skills. Not only did the NASL offer the likes of Maurice an opportunity to make some decent money from the game, it also offered the experience of playing against some of the giants of world football – World Cup winners Pelé and Carlos Alberto to name but two. You wouldn’t find them lining up against you on a wet Wednesday at Spotland.

The team spirit was first class and, as in football dressing rooms
the world over, practical jokes were rife. We had a young player called Tony Whelan, who had played for Manchester United reserves. Following a home friendly match against the Italian club Torino, the team assembled at the airport with our manager, Ron Newman, ready to go on the road again. A bunch of us were sitting playing cards when I noticed Tony walking towards us. I nudged some of the other lads.

‘They were terrific watches Torino gave us as keepsakes, weren’t they?’ I said to Norman Piper as Tony approached.

The lads all agreed enthusiastically.

Tony pricked up his ears. ‘What watches are these?’ he asked.

‘Cartier,’ I said. ‘We all got one. From the Torino manager.’

‘He never gave me one,’ said Tony, obviously miffed.

‘Then you’d better have a word with Ron Newman,’ I suggested, ‘he’s obviously pocketed yours.’

We doubled up with laughter as we watched Tony taking Ron to task about the ‘missing’ watch, and a bemused Ron protesting with increasing vehemence that he didn’t have a clue what Tony was on about. They argued for fully five minutes before the penny finally dropped and they turned as one to see our card school rolling on the floor in disarray.

Ron Newman had played the majority of his football in the lower divisions of the Football League. He was a good manager for the NASL, not least because he lapped up the hype of the American game. The NASL was at that time divided into two conferences – Pacific and Atlantic – each of which had two divisions. The top teams from each division met each other in end-of-season play-offs. We were leading the Eastern Division of the Atlantic Conference as we took to the road for three away matches. We won one and lost two, though we did pick up some bonus points in the third game, which was decided on a shoot-out.

Those two defeats saw the Strikers slip to third and the local media believed our chance of winning the title had gone. As we took to the pitch for our next home game, against Tampa Bay
Rowdies, I was surprised to see a table in the centre of the pitch with a coffin on it. I had no idea why it was there. Once the formalities of introducing the team were over, a man with a microphone walked on to the field and headed for the coffin. We all watched agog, wondering what on earth was going on. This man made a short speech about how, according to reports in the media, our chances of winning the title were dead and buried. Suddenly the lid of the coffin was flung open and up popped Ron Newman like a jack-in-the-box. He grabbed the microphone and announced loudly, ‘But, as you can see, the Strikers ain’t dead yet, folks!’

The stadium erupted as the Strikers fans lapped up Ron’s piece of showmanship. I can understand why they did. I mean, who wouldn’t pay good money to see Sir Alex Ferguson do that at Old Trafford?

My decision to resume playing had been a massive one for me. I was confident I could do a good job for the Strikers, but at the back of my mind was the fear that I would make a fool of myself. After all, how many one-eyed goalkeepers have
you
come across? Thankfully, nothing could have been further from the truth. I coped well with the flight and speed of the ball. My reactions were good and I was pleased with my general level of fitness. The only problem I had was in the drastic reduction of my peripheral vision. I found I had to make a half-turn to bring players on my right-hand side into my field of view. This did not hamper my performance, though. On the contrary, I think I did pretty well. In 26 games that season the Strikers conceded 29 goals – the fewest in the NASL. Not only did this help us to win matches, it also denied our opponents bonus points for goals scored.

To my great delight, the Fort Lauderdale Strikers won our division, though we were beaten by the New York Cosmos in the final play-offs. To cap what for me had been a great comeback and a marvellous swansong to my career, I was voted NASL
Goalkeeper Of The Year. That award gave me as much if not more satisfaction than many I had picked up in England.

Having had a great time with the Strikers I decided to hang up my boots for good. I had overcome what had undoubtedly been the greatest challenge of my life. I had played football again and at a very good standard. My disability had not beaten me.

I returned to England in 1979 to discover that I was unemployed. Tony Waddington, who had told me I would always have a coaching job at Stoke City as long as he was in charge, had resigned in 1977 after seventeen years as manager. I wasn’t out of work for long, however. The Port Vale manager, Dennis Butler, offered me a coaching role at Vale Park. When Dennis resigned only months after I had taken up my duties, my old Stoke City team mate Alan Bloor took over. So I was back in harness with Alan, who took on as his assistant the former Preston and Blackburn player Graham Hawkins.

At first everything went well. But one thing I was beginning to understand about coaching is that you can only teach those who are willing to learn. One day I gathered the first-team squad together to make a point on attacking play. The Port Vale centre forward was Bernie Wright, a burly and somewhat surly striker who had been at Walsall (twice), Everton and Bradford City before joining Vale for £9,000 in 1978.

Having watched Bernie play for the first team on a number of occasions, I’d noticed he wasn’t helping his midfield the way he should. Bernie tended to stay too close to his marker, instead of dropping off into space to receive the ball, hold it up and allow support to arrive from midfield. I pointed this out to him, but he was having none of it.

‘I’m not doing that. Can’t see the point,’ he informed me. We discussed the issue, but still Bernie wouldn’t follow my instructions. He was intransigent, belligerent, and in the end, quite rude.

I was very annoyed. I had been employed as the coach, yet here was a player who didn’t value my ideas and what I had to say about the game. I suppose that sort of attitude is something a coach is paid to sort out, but it certainly wasn’t my idea of job satisfaction. I spoke to Alan Bloor, who said he’d have a word with Bernie. Whether he ever did, I don’t know. A few days later Alan resigned and I left Port Vale with him.

On the whole I enjoyed coaching, but I was hankering to be a manager. I applied for two vacant jobs, at Lincoln City and Rotherham United and was interviewed for both. In the meantime I received a telephone call from the chairman of Telford United of the Alliance Premier League, the equivalent of the Vauxhall Conference today. The Telford chairman invited me to take over as club manager. I politely declined, telling him that my aim was to manage a Football League club, for which I had two forthcoming interviews.

Big mistake. The Lincoln job went to Colin Murphy and Rotherham United appointed Ian Porterfield as their new team boss. A few days later, however, the Telford chairman was back on the phone. With about ten games to go to the end of the season, Telford were in danger of relegation to the Southern League. Obviously, he added, he didn’t want that to happen. All he wanted me to do was come along and do what I had to do to keep them up. This time I accepted his offer.

Telford United were a team of part-time professionals who trained two evenings a week. Before signing the contract that had been offered I watched the players train in midweek and play on the following Saturday. It was obvious to me that Telford were not a good side, even for the Alliance Premier League. I knew I would have my work cut out, but I accepted the challenge. Telford may not have had a good team, but I knew a man who did.

Bangor City had previously won the Alliance, but at the time were experiencing financial difficulties. My thinking was simple: if Bangor had won this league, then they must have good players.
And if they’re strapped for cash, they might be willing to sell some.

I drove to Bangor’s Ferrar Road ground to watch them in action and was impressed by their goalkeeper and centre half. Having been given a budget to work to, I approached the Bangor chairman, Mr Roberts, and asked him how much he wanted for the pair.

‘Fifteen hundred pounds…’ said Mr Roberts.

‘It’s a deal,’ I said.

‘… But you’re going to have to take our centre forward as well.’

I had seen the Bangor centre forward in action and, with the best will in the world, he just didn’t look good enough.

‘I’m not so keen on him,’ I said.

‘If you don’t take our centre forward, you won’t get the other two,’ said Mr Roberts. ‘They travel down from Cheshire together for games, and he has the car!’

What else could I do? I signed the centre forward as well. The goalkeeper and centre half did a great job for Telford United and, as luck would have it, so too did the centre forward. (Either I’m a poor judge of a striker, or he’d been having an off day when I first watched him.) He scored a hatful of goals for us and by the end of the season Telford United were comfortably clear of relegation.