How NOT to be a Football Millionaire - Keith Gillespie My Autobiography by Keith Gillespie 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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Towards the middle of January, I heard murmurs that The Sun knew the full story, and the whisper was confirmed when a reporter called to my house to ask about Black Friday and said they were running a piece the following day. I refused to comment, but had the door open long enough for a photographer to pop out of nowhere and take a picture.
There were a few calls I had to make. I knew the press would be after Mum so I rang to prepare her for the storm. I said that I’d lost some money gambling, and that the papers were going to reveal the details. I heard a long sigh from the other end of the phone.
“How much?” she asked.
“A lot.”
“Thousands?”
“Yeah...”
“£10,000?”
“More...”
A pause.
“£20,000?”
“More...”
“£30,000?”
“No... £47,000.”
“Ack... son...”
My hunch was right though. The press started knocking on her door. And, when she didn’t answer, they started ringing where she worked – an old folk’s home. Classy.
Then, I rang the gaffer. He told me to drive to his house straight away. I’ll never forget how understanding he was about it. He let me stay and have some food while he rang Mickey and got it sorted.
My saving grace was that I was due a new contract because of my form, a £5,500 a week deal that would rise by £500 every season. The five-fold pay increase eased the burden. Keegan spoke to the club’s hierarchy and organised an advance on the signing-on fee. It was that straightforward. The one thing the gaffer was really annoyed about was that I hadn’t owned up to Terry. I could easily have avoided all the publicity; the club had the clout to sort it out. Now, it was too late.
The next morning, the story was splashed over the front page of The Sun, and all hell broke loose. A steady stream of journalists set up camp outside, and I had to run out to the car and reverse out the driveway quickly, ignoring their cries for a reaction. They followed me, but I knew the roads around fairly well so I managed to pull a few manoeuvres and throw them off the scent.
When I showed my face at Maiden Castle, the welcome was less sympathetic. The lads were pissing themselves. There was no arm around the shoulder; the unforgiving rules of the dressing room applied and, to be absolutely honest, I was glad of the banter. They seemed to be more amused by the fact that I’d backed a horse called Dream Ride.
The club never ordered me to stop gambling. There was no mention of going to Gamblers Anonymous or anything like that. I wouldn’t have admitted weakness anyway. I was blissfully in denial and didn’t really believe I had a problem. The gaffer said they wanted to treat me like an adult, so they left me be and that suited just perfectly.
I did stop punting though. Not because I wanted to; the reason was that I had nowhere to go. While the Black Friday story was fresh in people’s memories, turning up in a betting shop was a no-no. The newspapers would have been all over it.
Lying low was the only option. I did a few interviews, insisting that I had learned from my experience and was ready to put it behind me. But, I was going through the motions, drawing on my media training and saying all the right things.
The yearning for a bet lingered. Long, boring afternoons spent playing Super Mario could only amuse me for so long.
11
Pipped At The Post
MY gambling meltdown was merely a subplot in one of the most dramatic Premier League title races of the modern era.
The 1995/96 season should have been Newcastle’s year. Our collapse was the story that dominated the headlines. In horse racing parlance, we led early, idled in front, and got nabbed on the run-in by Manchester United.
The only surprise is that I didn’t have us backed.
Man United had started the season slowly, lulling everybody else into a false sense of security. Alex Ferguson had dispensed with Incey, Mark Hughes and Andrei Kanchelskis and placed his faith in the lads I had grown up alongside at
There were a few calls I had to make. I knew the press would be after Mum so I rang to prepare her for the storm. I said that I’d lost some money gambling, and that the papers were going to reveal the details. I heard a long sigh from the other end of the phone.
“How much?” she asked.
“A lot.”
“Thousands?”
“Yeah...”
“£10,000?”
“More...”
A pause.
“£20,000?”
“More...”
“£30,000?”
“No... £47,000.”
“Ack... son...”
My hunch was right though. The press started knocking on her door. And, when she didn’t answer, they started ringing where she worked – an old folk’s home. Classy.
Then, I rang the gaffer. He told me to drive to his house straight away. I’ll never forget how understanding he was about it. He let me stay and have some food while he rang Mickey and got it sorted.
My saving grace was that I was due a new contract because of my form, a £5,500 a week deal that would rise by £500 every season. The five-fold pay increase eased the burden. Keegan spoke to the club’s hierarchy and organised an advance on the signing-on fee. It was that straightforward. The one thing the gaffer was really annoyed about was that I hadn’t owned up to Terry. I could easily have avoided all the publicity; the club had the clout to sort it out. Now, it was too late.
The next morning, the story was splashed over the front page of The Sun, and all hell broke loose. A steady stream of journalists set up camp outside, and I had to run out to the car and reverse out the driveway quickly, ignoring their cries for a reaction. They followed me, but I knew the roads around fairly well so I managed to pull a few manoeuvres and throw them off the scent.
When I showed my face at Maiden Castle, the welcome was less sympathetic. The lads were pissing themselves. There was no arm around the shoulder; the unforgiving rules of the dressing room applied and, to be absolutely honest, I was glad of the banter. They seemed to be more amused by the fact that I’d backed a horse called Dream Ride.
The club never ordered me to stop gambling. There was no mention of going to Gamblers Anonymous or anything like that. I wouldn’t have admitted weakness anyway. I was blissfully in denial and didn’t really believe I had a problem. The gaffer said they wanted to treat me like an adult, so they left me be and that suited just perfectly.
I did stop punting though. Not because I wanted to; the reason was that I had nowhere to go. While the Black Friday story was fresh in people’s memories, turning up in a betting shop was a no-no. The newspapers would have been all over it.
Lying low was the only option. I did a few interviews, insisting that I had learned from my experience and was ready to put it behind me. But, I was going through the motions, drawing on my media training and saying all the right things.
The yearning for a bet lingered. Long, boring afternoons spent playing Super Mario could only amuse me for so long.
11
Pipped At The Post
MY gambling meltdown was merely a subplot in one of the most dramatic Premier League title races of the modern era.
The 1995/96 season should have been Newcastle’s year. Our collapse was the story that dominated the headlines. In horse racing parlance, we led early, idled in front, and got nabbed on the run-in by Manchester United.
The only surprise is that I didn’t have us backed.
Man United had started the season slowly, lulling everybody else into a false sense of security. Alex Ferguson had dispensed with Incey, Mark Hughes and Andrei Kanchelskis and placed his faith in the lads I had grown up alongside at
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