used to take me to White Hart Lane. Every Christmas, I’d end up with
a United uniform and a Tottenham uniform, and maybe an England
uniform from my mum. If it was soccer – or anything to do with soccer
– I was there.
Mum wasn’t all that keen on soccer. Her dad was, though, which was
one of the reasons I loved being with him as much as I did. Joe was
employed in the print trade. For a long time he was over the road from
home, at the Stationery Office in Islington. Then he moved down to Fleet
Street. He and my grandmother, Peggy, lived on an estate just off City
Road, down near Old Street. My dad went out to work early most
Saturdays.
The rest of us would get on the train at Walthamstow and go down
to see my grandparents for the day. We had to get there before noon:
Grandad would be off about half past eleven if he was going to watch
Spurs. Before leaving, he’d come downstairs and watch me play soccer
in the little park on the estate. I’m sure Grandad remembers those times:
he definitely remembers me breaking his spectacles. I was only about six
but I was already kicking a ball hard enough that his glasses didn’t stand
a chance the time I accidentally caught him full in the face.
Once Joe went off to White Hart Lane, Peggy would take us off to
the shops. Sometimes we’d go to the West End but, more often, we’d
get the bus up to the Angel and go to Chapel Market. I didn’t mind at
all. I had to follow Mum and Nan and my sisters around for a bit, but I
always seemed to wangle a toy or something by the end of the
afternoon.
We sometimes had pie and mash for lunch in Chapel Street
as well. Once we got back to the flat, Joe would be getting in from
soccer. Then he’d get ready to go out and do the night shift. Dad would
pick us up in Wenlock Street after finishing work and we’d all drive
home together.
Once I started to get serious about playing soccer, Joe and Peggy
would come over to us on Sunday morning. Grandad came and watched
all my games. I liked him being there: he was softer with me than Dad
when it came to talking about the match and how I’d played. Mum
wanted to come too, so Peggy would stay at our house. She’d look
after Lynne and have Sunday dinner ready when we all came in. Then,
Sunday afternoons, we often went down to Victoria Park in Hackney.
There was plenty of open space to play soccer with Dad and Grandad,
and there were lots of other things to do as well: a big playground, the
boating lake and even a little zoo.
I couldn’t have asked for anything more and I didn’t, but along came
Ridgeway Rovers anyway and took over my life. I was seven, so it’s not
surprising I’m not sure now how it all happened. My mum remembers
me being spotted playing in the park and a bloke called Stuart
Underwood knocking on our front door to ask about me. My dad,
though, reckons there was an advertisement about a new boys’ soccer
team in the local paper and that afternoon over at Chase Lane was a
sort of trial. Either way, I’m really grateful – and proud – that I was part
of that first Ridgeway Rovers team. And the man who set up the team
had a lot to do with me making a future for myself in the game.
Stuart Underwood’s a massive bloke. About 76 inches, with a big
booming voice and this fantastic presence about him. He was a bit of
a drill sergeant type. I was a little scared of him at first. He could be
pretty tough: no matter how young you were, if you weren’t playing
well, in a game or in training, he’d tell you that you were rubbish and
needed to do better, instead of just jollying you along. Stuart was honest
with you. But he wasn’t one of those dads who stood on the touchline
at kids’ games, bawling and screaming. He had this softness about him
as well. His own son Robert played in the team, but Stuart seemed like
a father figure to all of us. And he had this dream about creating a
really good team.
Every single boy just loved playing for Stuart and we had this fantastic
team spirit. He’d organize for Ridgeway to play in competitions in
Holland and Germany, so we gained the same sort of experience as a
professional playing in an international tournament. Other fathers got
involved, too. My dad took on some of the coaching. So did a man
called Steve Kirby, whose son Ryan played for Ridgeway and ended
up playing against me ten years later in the League. Dad was always a
fit man and he did running with us, as well as working on our technique.
Steve was a bit of a tactician and he used to do positional play, runs
off the ball and that kind of thing. A lot of the time, all three of them
would be there and we’d split into smaller groups: there weren’t many
boys our age who got that much attention paid to their training. The
three of them – Steve, Stuart and my dad – used to argue a lot, but it
was all in the cause. They were honest people wanting to make the
team as good as they could.
It worked. I don’t know where Stuart found them, but we had some
really good players: Ryan Kirby, Micah Hyde, who’s now at Watford,
Jason Brissett, who was at Bournemouth last I heard, and Chris Day,
who was a lanky center-forward for us but ended up playing in goal
for QPR. It was all about the team, though. Stuart Underwood’s son,
Robert, was a perfect example. To be honest, he didn’t have great
ability to start with but because he worked so hard at his game, he
made himself into a good team player. That was credit to him, but it
was credit to Stuart and the rest of us too. We never once thought to
ourselves: he’s not good enough to be playing for Ridgeway.
Stuart had to have everything done properly. We always had a decent
field on which to play our home games, like the one at Ainslie Wood
Sports Ground, which was just a short walk from home. We trained
twice a week. Stuart lived nearby, in Larkswood Road, and there was
a park there, with decent facilities, that we used to use. One way or
another, Stuart would make sure we had what we needed. When we
had important games, like Cup finals, he’d insist on us eight and nine-
year-olds wearing a collar and tie. One important rule was that if you
didn’t turn up for training in the week, then you didn’t play at the
weekend; it was as simple as that. It was a good habit to learn: I always
made sure I was there and that I was there on time. I loved the training
anyway. Lived for it. But it was also another reason we had such a good
team: Ridgeway Rovers always went about things the right way.
With so many boys’ sides, you notice the most talented players. They
make a big fuss of the individuals in the team. That wasn’t allowed with
Ridgeway: any showing off and you’d be brought back down. It was all
about the team. In no time, we were starting to win games ten-and
eleven-nil and people could see there was something special about us.
Professional clubs started scouting our players, and I think West Ham
asked about me when I was eleven. But Stuart, Steve and my dad had
decided that there should be no need for any of us to be involved with
clubs until we were older. If you were training with a professional club,
the rule was you couldn’t be training with a Sunday League team at the
same time. I knew I didn’t want that, I wasn’t ready for it. We all stuck
with Ridgeway. I think, in the long run, those rules were why so many
of us went on to make a success of ourselves. We learned about
commitment and dedication right from the start.
I had to learn about not playing soccer too. Because I was smaller
than most, I used to get my share of knocks. Dad had drummed into
me that, most of the time, the best thing to do was just get up and get
on with it, like I’d had to with his mates over at Wadham Lodge. He
taught me a lot about avoiding injury as well. As a winger – and because
people were starting to hear about me a bit – I often had a defender
trying to give me a kick. Dad worked with me on keeping the ball
moving, releasing it quickly once it was under control. That still helps
me keep out of scrapes as a professional player. And it’s the best way
to play. When I was about ten, I did have one layoff through injury: the
kind that happens to lots of boys. Running and jumping all the time,
especially on hard fields, ends up jarring knees, shins and ankles. With
me, it was my heels: pins and needles at first and then, later, aching
during and after games. I tried putting bits of foam in my boots but
eventually I had to have a complete break from soccer. I couldn’t play,
I couldn’t train. Couldn’t even have a kickabout over at the park. That
was the longest five weeks of my life and, in a way, I’ve never got over
it. Having to watch soccer instead of playing it still has me climbing
up walls.
Ridgeway Rovers was a great time for all of us, not just the players.
Our families got involved, whether it was washing uniforms, driving us
about, coming on trips or raising funds. That team was together for six
years, which meant our families were, too. And you can’t spend that
amount of time together without becoming pretty close. I remember
Micah Hyde’s dad, Ken, used to have dreadlocks: him and my dad –
short back and sides – would be stood on the touchline together on a
Sunday for the Ridgeway game. The parents used to organize dinners
and Friday night dances to help raise money to pay for the team. Even
though it was Dad who took us for training, my mum probably put in
almost as many hours on me and my soccer, despite her job as a
hairdresser. She was the only one of the mums who drove, so if there
was a minibus run she always ended up with the job. When Dad
was out working, Mum would be the one who got me to where I
needed to be, when I needed to be there, with the right stuff ready in
the right bag.
Looking back, it must have been quite hard for my sisters, with so
much of our family time being tied up with my soccer. I’ve spoken to
Lynne about it since and she says she did feel a bit left out by it all.
She’s three years older than me and had her own friends and just got
on with her own life. Even so, when we were at school together Lynne
would always stick up for me if there was any trouble. One lunchtime
at Chingford High, I remember having an argument with an older boy
in the dinner queue. He ended up whacking me out in the playground.
It was Lynne who took me home. She made sure I was all right and
that the teachers at school knew what had happened. Soccer, though,
she didn’t really like at all. We’ve both got our own families now: Lynne
and her husband Colin have a girl and a boy, Georgina and Freddie.
Even though we don’t see that much of each other, I’d say I feel closer
to my older sister these days than I ever did when we were young.
It was different with Joanne. I was five when she came along. I can
still remember standing in the kitchen at home and my dad coming in
and telling me she’d been born and me bursting into tears. I really
wanted a brother, of course. But we got on fine: if I wanted her to go
in goal in the back garden, she never said no. She just trailed after me
all the time: to soccer, the park, the shops, everywhere. Joanne’s a
hairdresser now, just like Mum, and it’s only in the last couple of years,
since she started working and I got married, that we’ve stopped being
together so much like that. I suppose she had to grow up eventually;
and so did I. Sometimes, though, I do miss having my little mate around.
I’m sure Joanne misses running around with big brother as well.
Mum always tried to make sure we sat down together to dinner as
a family. That was when she and Dad would try and get me to tell them
about what I’d been doing at school. I do the same with Brooklyn now.
If I ask him, I usually get the same response my parents got with me:
nothing. It wasn’t that it was a secret or anything. It’s just how kids are,
isn’t it? When I was at primary school, I’d be around to help with meal
