I’m Not Really Here
Contents
About the Book
About the Author
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Epigraph
Prologue
1. Sheila Take a Bow
2. Destiny Calling
3. Lucky Man
4. 24-hour Party People
5. True Faith
6. Moving On Up
7. In a Lonely Place
8. Half the World Away
9. Sky Starts Falling
10. One Day Like This
11. All Possibilities
12. There Is a Light That Never Goes Out
Picture Credits
Picture Section
Index
Copyright
About the Book
Paul Lake was Manchester-born, a City fan from birth. His footballing talent was spotted at a young age and, in 1983, he signed coveted schoolboy forms for City. Only a short time later he was handed the team captaincy.
An international career soon beckoned and, after turning out for the England under-21 and B teams, he received a call-up to the England training camp for Italia ’90. Despite missing out on a place in the final squad he suitably impressed the management, with Bobby Robson earmarking him as an England captain in the making. As a rising star Paul became a target for top clubs like Manchester United, Arsenal, Spurs and Liverpool, but he always stayed loyal to his beloved club, deeming Maine Road the spiritual home where his destiny lay.
But then, in September 1990, disaster struck. Paul ruptured his cruciate ligament and sustained the worst possible injury that a footballer can suffer. And so began his nightmare.
Neglected, ignored and misunderstood by his club after a succession of failed operations, Paul’s career began to fall apart. Watching from the sidelines as similarly injured players regained their fitness, he spiralled into a prolonged bout of severe depression. With an enforced retirement from the game he adored, the death of his father and the collapse of his marriage, Paul was left a broken man.
Set against a turning point in English football, I’m Not Really Here is the powerful story of love and loss and the cruel, irreparable damage of injury; of determination, spirit and resilience; and of unfulfilled potential and shattered dreams.
About the Author
Paul Lake was born in Manchester in October 1968. He signed schoolboy forms for Manchester City FC in 1983, and made his senior debut against Wimbledon four years later. Capped several times at England under-21 level, he was selected for Bobby Robson’s Italia ’90 training squad. Later that year, and shortly after being handed the City captaincy, Paul suffered a serious knee injury. In 1995, following countless operations and a long spell of rehabilitation, he was forced to retire from the game. He went on to qualify as a sports physiotherapist, working for a number of football clubs in the north west. In March 2010 he was appointed Ambassador for Manchester City in the Community.
I’m Not
Really Here
Paul Lake
This book is dedicated to my father, Ted Lake and to my mentors,
Ken Barnes, Tony Book, John Mercer and Glyn Pardoe
Acknowledgements
I’m grateful to so many people for their help in getting I’m Not Really Here off the ground. It was my good friend, the photographer Kevin Cummins, who started the ball rolling by introducing me to his literary agent before a City v Arsenal game. Kevin Conroy Scott, from the Tibor Jones agency, lent me his ear, read some draft chapters and gave me the impetus and confidence to tell my story. He also helped me to find a top-drawer publisher in Century, whose Director of Publishing, Ben Dunn, has been nothing short of fantastic, as have his colleagues Charlotte Bush and Briony Nelder.
I’ve received equally invaluable support from other quarters. Alison Vaughan, a great friend and former City workmate, wielded her red pen and critiqued the chapters, author and historian Gary James cast his statistical and analytical eye over the detail, and Fred Eyre – writer and pundit extraordinaire – kindly offered his wise words and expert advice. Other pals that have helped with read-throughs, photographs and memory jogs include Jason Beckford, Tony Wood, Billy Duffy, Ian Brightwell, Tudor Thomas, John Mercer, Kevin Cowap, Geoff Durbin, David Clayton, Chris Bailey, Ian Cheeseman, John Clarkson, Dominic Warwood, Neil Davies, Adam Roland, Eric Mullender, Sharon Latham, Roland Cooke, Arthur Reid and Neil Smith. Numerous staff at Manchester City Football Club have lent their backing to this book, but I’d like to offer my sincere gratitude to Garry Cook, Sarah Lynch and Vicky Kloss.
I would, of course, like to extend my heartfelt thanks to the wonderful Lake family – Mum, Susan, David, Michael and Tracey, and all my nieces and nephews – who have supported me through thick and thin. I must also give a mention to my in-laws – the Parker/Radcliffe/Atherton clan – particularly Eric The Blue and Pauline. And not forgetting my three beautiful children – Zac, Edward and Hannah – who make me feel like the proudest dad in the world, all day, every day.
But my highest praise is reserved for Jo: my co-writer, my best friend, my wife. She’s the Sybil to my Basil, the Mildred to my George, the Marge to my Homer, and I simply couldn’t have done this without her.
Manchester, August 2011
There are lessons to learn
When you’ve waited your turn
And things didn’t turn out
Quite the way that you dreamt about
Badly Drawn Boy, ‘Life Turned Upside Down’
We are not, we’re not really here
We are not, we’re not really here
Just like the fan of the invisible man
We’re not really here
Traditional Manchester City chant
Prologue
25 August 1990: The Crest Hotel, Buckinghamshire
Game On
IT’S THE OPENING day of the new season, and we’re just hours away from our match against Spurs. The manager, Howard Kendall, is announcing the team line-up at lunchtime and the players and staff are having a stroll around the hotel grounds. There’s none of the usual laughs and larks this morning, though, as the lads nervously await the final selection. We’re all desperate to see our names up on that team sheet, and having to hang around for this 11th-hour reveal is nothing short of agonising.
Go on, Gaffer, pick me, I say to myself as I walk alongside my shell-suited colleagues. You saw what I could do in pre-season. Let me pull on that blue shirt today. Don’t leave me on the bench.
I’m chatting with my team-mates David White and Ian Brightwell when the manager, who’s been pacing ahead with the physio, solemnly beckons me over. My heart sinks. Here we go. Here’s where I get dropped. And here comes Howard to let me down gently. Three of us (Colin Hendry, Steve Redmond and I) are vying for two places, and no doubt it’s yours truly who’s drawn the short straw. Col and Reddo are highly experienced centre-halves and I’m a play-anywhere utility man – if someone’s going to be disappointed, it’s probably going to be me.
‘We need to talk,’ he says, gesturing for me to take a seat at a nearby bench. I sit down and fear the worst.
‘The thing is, Lakey, I’ve been having a good chat with the coaches, and …’
… and I’m not playing you today, says a little voice in my head.
‘… and I want to make you captain.’
My jaw drops. I can’t believe what I’m hearing.
‘Bit of a surprise, eh?’
‘Just a bit, Gaffer …’
‘You’ve really impressed me in pre-season, son. You’ve grown up, you’ve matured, and I reckon the time’s right for you to step up a gear.’
‘Yeah, but—’
‘You’ll be fine, don’t worry,’ says Howard, sen
sing my shock. ‘I wouldn’t have asked you if I didn’t think you could hack it. I know it’s in you, I just want to bring it out.’
Though I barely hear him he goes on to explain that the captaincy might be the springboard for my career as a skipper, not just for my club, but for my country too. Christ. And there was me thinking I was going to be keeping the subs’ bench warm.
‘I know we’ve got other leaders in the camp already, but don’t let that bother you,’ he adds. ‘They’ll see exactly why I’ve plumped for you, and they’ll back you. And if you need to give somebody a bollocking – yeah, even Peter Reid – just do it. You’ll get more respect from the lads if you boss them around a bit, believe me.’
‘I won’t let you down,’ I say.
‘I’m sure you won’t,’ replies Howard, patting me on the back. ‘This could be the making of you, Lakey.’
And with that he ambles off to rejoin the coaching staff, leaving me sitting on the park bench, shaking my head in disbelief.
After a post-lunch phone call to my parents (‘you can’t get a better accolade than that, Paul,’ says my choked-up dad) I retreat to my hotel room to steal half an hour’s solitude. I need some time to come to terms with this. The fact that I’ve edged my good mate Reddo out of the team is shocking enough, but to have leapfrogged seasoned professionals like Reidy and Adrian Heath to the captaincy is unbelievable. But I’m determined to do myself justice and to do everyone proud. My parents, my team-mates, the boss, the fans; I’m desperate not to disappoint the most important people in my life.
The captain’s armband is pride of place when I run out onto the White Hart Lane pitch later that afternoon. Outwardly I’m focusing on my new duties and responsibilities, yet inside I’m doing cartwheels as the City faithful greet me with a raucous chorus of ‘there’s only one Paul Lake …’
They’re probably as surprised as me that I’m leading out the team today, but as fellow Blues I’m sure they understand how much this honour means to a native Mancunian. Like them, I’ve also watched from the stands as local-born City captains like Mike Doyle and Paul Power have marshalled the troops. Now it’s my turn to skipper the team that I’ve adored since childhood, and it feels incredible.
Buzzing with excitement, I trot to the centre circle, nodding as I pass Gary Lineker and Paul Gascoigne, both fresh from their Italia ’90 exploits, before shaking hands with my Spurs counterpart, Gary Mabbutt. And, as the referee blows his whistle on that sunny August day, I enter a new phase in my life.
This is it. Let the good times roll.
12th January 1996: The Beaumont Hospital, Bolton
Game Over
A week has passed since I reluctantly announced my retirement from football. I’m laid up in a private hospital, recovering from major surgery to straighten a right leg that has started to warp badly after the trauma of 15 operations.
Despite feeling dreadful – my knee’s throbbing, my head’s thumping – I attempt to manoeuvre myself out of bed to fetch a newspaper from across the room. Staggering towards the table, I lose my footing and accidentally rip the plastic cannula out of my leg. Shit. Shit. A thick jet of blood suddenly torpedoes from my knee, splattering the magnolia walls like a blast from a paintball gun. A fumbling attempt to re-insert the tube fails dismally; I’m panicking, I’m shaking and the blood spurts relentlessly.
I drag myself over to the emergency cord and give it a weak tug. Within seconds a nurse sprints into the room. The poor woman flinches; she’s probably never seen so much blood.
‘Oh my God … uh, okay … just stay put, Mr Lake; we’ll get this sorted,’ she stammers. As she frantically tries to stem the flow, I just stand there helpless, watching my lifeblood drain away and form a crimson puddle on the carpet.
It’s at this precise moment that the stark reality of my predicament hits home, the truth smashing into me like a set of studs to the solar plexus. Just look at the state of you, sneers a voice in my head. You’re a joke. You’re a mess. You’re f***ed.
I start to sob uncontrollably, the hot tears streaming down my face and dripping onto my green hospital gown. I’ve done lots of crying lately, but this is uncharted territory. I’m howling like a wild animal in distress, as the deep-rooted pain that I’ve tried to suppress for years finally rises to the surface.
To her credit, the nurse goes about her business, eventually patching up the wound and reconnecting the tubes. Soon there’s a knock at the door and the hospital physio, Philippa – ignorant of the drama within – breezes in to tell me that a pair of former City team-mates, Niall Quinn and Tony Coton, have come to visit. She stops in her tracks at the sight of a blood-soaked, tear-stained 27-year-old and glances over to the tall shadows hovering beyond the door.
‘Don’t worry, Paul, I’ll have a word with them,’ she whispers. ‘They can come back another day, can’t they?’
I nod and try to thank her, but the huge lump in my throat prevents any speech; I can’t even lift my head up to look her straight in the eye. But my loyal physio, who’s been my rock over the past few months, is well aware of the dark place that I’m inhabiting. She gives my hand a squeeze, tells me that everything will be all right and helps me back to bed. After they’ve cleaned me up, Philippa and the nurse edge out of the room, closing the door gently behind them.
I need to be alone. I don’t want anyone else – not my team-mates, my best friends or even my beloved family – to witness the depths of my pain and self-pity. After five miserable years of dashed hopes and false dawns, I need this privacy to finally get to grips with the fact that my career as a professional footballer is over, and that the sport I was put on this earth to play is no longer part of my life.
I lie there and stare out of the window towards the bleak Pennine moors. My right knee throbs relentlessly, a reminder of the succession of failed operations that saw me go from Manchester City captain and England hopeful to a useless bastard with a leg that’s so wrecked that I’d struggle to jog round the park, never mind kick a ball around for 90 minutes.
I start to feel dazed and light-headed – losing a pint of blood is probably taking its toll – and as I sense myself drifting away, scenes of a former career begin to flicker before me like an old Pathé newsreel. A grainy montage of goals and passes, of headers and tackles, of team-mates and managers, of stadiums and crowds, all accompanied by muffled commentators’ voices.
‘He’s a player beyond his years, is Paul Lake …’
‘Lake stayed on his feet, and that was the key …’
‘And there goes Lake, City’s jewel in the crown …’
Accompanying this kaleidoscope of nostalgia is the stomach-churning knowledge that I’ll never experience those footballing heights again.
I’m finished. It’s over.
Sheila Take a Bow
OCTOBER 1968. DON Revie’s Leeds United were topping Division One, Bob Beamon was leaping to new heights at the Mexico Olympics, and Sheila Lake’s baby bump was as big as a space-hopper.
Barely a fortnight before the birth of their fourth child, my parents were summoned to St Mary’s Hospital to be given the bombshell that Mum was expecting twins. There was none of that ultrasound scan stuff in those days; apparently some doctor had just happened to hear not one, but two faint heartbeats through his stethoscope. Dad’s immediate reaction was to smack his palm against his forehead, whine ‘just my bleedin’ luck’, and storm out of the maternity ward, leaving my poor mum alone with a Lucozade and a Woman’s Realm.
He spent the next couple of hours careering around the back streets of Manchester in his beige Austin Maxi, chain-smoking roll-ups and trying to digest this shock news. You could understand him freaking out, I suppose; there were already three kids under the age of six in the Lake household and the unexpected arrival of double trouble was going to stretch his wages even further.
Dad soon came around to the idea, however, and became the Proudest Father in Manchester™ when Mum gave birth by caesarean section on Monday 28 Octob
er 1968. I arrived first, a writhing tangle of knees and elbows, with my twin, Tracey, making a far daintier appearance five minutes later. After a week in St Mary’s, we were driven home in our carrycots to be introduced to our three older siblings, and for the next couple of years our house was brimful with the usual baby bumph of bottles, bibs and terry-towelling nappies.
The family home was a red-brick semi on Bowker Avenue in Haughton Green, a suburb on the east side of Manchester, about six miles from the city centre. It was a predominantly working-class area with plenty of shops, parks and street corners to keep the average youngster happy; happy enough for the Lake kids to regularly sing ‘we all live in a house in Haughton Green’ at the top of our voices to the tune of ‘Yellow Submarine’.
My mum and dad both hailed from Ardwick, an inner-city district that was home to many second- and third-generation Irish families. Sheila McGinty and Ted Lake met as teenagers and sealed their courtship with a low-key wedding at St Aloysius’ Roman Catholic church in 1955, not long after Dad had completed his national service. The newlyweds bought a small terraced house in Abbey Hey, just a mile or so down the road from Ardwick, and in 1962 their first child, Susan, was born. David arrived two years later, by which time my parents had saved enough money to make the upwardly mobile move to ‘the Green’ where the houses had driveways, front porches and back gardens. Child number three, Michael, appeared on the scene in 1966, followed finally by me and Tracey.