How NOT to be a Football Millionaire - Keith Gillespie My Autobiography by Keith Gillespie Page B
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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the Cliff.
The Fledglings had matured, and a serious transition was underway. Butty and Gaz Neville were given even more opportunities, while Scholesy and Phil Neville were thrust into league action on a regular basis. Meanwhile, the departure of Kanchelskis to Everton a month before the new season left a vacancy on the right wing. Becks stepped into the breach. But he wasn’t the only option Ferguson had considered in the summer of 1995.
Six months after letting me go, he tried to buy me back.
It all came about during my early pre-season after the messing about in Canada. In unfortunate circumstances, I had some company. Jim, my loyal friend from home, was in Sandhurst training to join the army when a problem with his eyesight emerged. He was discharged, and understandably felt down in the dumps. Jim had always wanted to be in the army. I tried to lift his spirits, and invited him to Newcastle for a week. Every morning, I trained. Every night, we drank.
In the afternoons, we lounged around the house – I’d be having a few bets, of course – and this 0161 number kept flashing up on the phone. I didn’t recognise it so, as usual, I let it ring out. They never left a message. Then, one day, the phone flicked straight to answering machine, and I heard a distinctive unmistakeable Glaswegian voice.
“Keith, it’s Alex Ferguson...”
I leapt across the room to grab the handset, and got there just in time. True to form, he got to the point quickly. He explained that Kanchelskis was on the way out, and that he had been chatting with his staff about possible replacements. Brian Kidd had mentioned my name. He’d never thought about it until then.
“Are you interested in coming back?”
“Of course I would be...”
“Right, leave it with me...”
What else was I going to say? It was an instinctive response. I was never going to refuse Alex Ferguson and, ultimately, Manchester United were the biggest club in the world. My last contact with Newcastle had been a dressing down after some high jinks on international duty, so I just thought, “fuck it, why not?”.
The conversation was short. Jim was as shocked as I was, and we had plenty to chew over that night. But it never went any further. I waited for the phone to ring, but Ferguson never called again.
I spoke to Gaz Neville a lot – when my Manchester United-supporting mates wanted tickets he was the go-to guy – and he spoke to Peter Beardsley about it on England duty. Beardsley and Keegan were very, very close and Peter told Gaz that Ferguson had lodged a £4 million bid that was dismissed outright. I understood why. Considering I was a potential deal-breaker on the Cole transfer, Newcastle were hardly going to let Manchester United have both players. The club said nothing to me about it.
I was fine with that. Flattered, but not disappointed. I liked where I was and, as we burst out of the stalls and opened a clear advantage, the grass was greener in the North-East.
The gaffer wanted us to express ourselves, and assembled a talented team with a simple enough mission statement. Ginola had joined from PSG for £2.5 million and slotted in on the left, with myself on the right, and Rob Lee rampaging through the middle to provide support for Peter Beardsley and Les Ferdinand, who we’d signed for £6 million from QPR. The formula worked. While the cavalier approach left our defence exposed, we had so much firepower that management believed results would go our way if we played to those strengths.
We didn’t go overboard on tactics and training was fun. Mostly five-a-sides. Team-talks were short. If we’d won the week before, Keegan kept it to no more than a couple of minutes. He preferred to go around one-to-one and give individual pep talks. That kind of man-management was his strong point. Big Les always said that the gaffer had this special way of making you feel like the best player in the world, and I related to that.
Until Christmas, we were
The Fledglings had matured, and a serious transition was underway. Butty and Gaz Neville were given even more opportunities, while Scholesy and Phil Neville were thrust into league action on a regular basis. Meanwhile, the departure of Kanchelskis to Everton a month before the new season left a vacancy on the right wing. Becks stepped into the breach. But he wasn’t the only option Ferguson had considered in the summer of 1995.
Six months after letting me go, he tried to buy me back.
It all came about during my early pre-season after the messing about in Canada. In unfortunate circumstances, I had some company. Jim, my loyal friend from home, was in Sandhurst training to join the army when a problem with his eyesight emerged. He was discharged, and understandably felt down in the dumps. Jim had always wanted to be in the army. I tried to lift his spirits, and invited him to Newcastle for a week. Every morning, I trained. Every night, we drank.
In the afternoons, we lounged around the house – I’d be having a few bets, of course – and this 0161 number kept flashing up on the phone. I didn’t recognise it so, as usual, I let it ring out. They never left a message. Then, one day, the phone flicked straight to answering machine, and I heard a distinctive unmistakeable Glaswegian voice.
“Keith, it’s Alex Ferguson...”
I leapt across the room to grab the handset, and got there just in time. True to form, he got to the point quickly. He explained that Kanchelskis was on the way out, and that he had been chatting with his staff about possible replacements. Brian Kidd had mentioned my name. He’d never thought about it until then.
“Are you interested in coming back?”
“Of course I would be...”
“Right, leave it with me...”
What else was I going to say? It was an instinctive response. I was never going to refuse Alex Ferguson and, ultimately, Manchester United were the biggest club in the world. My last contact with Newcastle had been a dressing down after some high jinks on international duty, so I just thought, “fuck it, why not?”.
The conversation was short. Jim was as shocked as I was, and we had plenty to chew over that night. But it never went any further. I waited for the phone to ring, but Ferguson never called again.
I spoke to Gaz Neville a lot – when my Manchester United-supporting mates wanted tickets he was the go-to guy – and he spoke to Peter Beardsley about it on England duty. Beardsley and Keegan were very, very close and Peter told Gaz that Ferguson had lodged a £4 million bid that was dismissed outright. I understood why. Considering I was a potential deal-breaker on the Cole transfer, Newcastle were hardly going to let Manchester United have both players. The club said nothing to me about it.
I was fine with that. Flattered, but not disappointed. I liked where I was and, as we burst out of the stalls and opened a clear advantage, the grass was greener in the North-East.
The gaffer wanted us to express ourselves, and assembled a talented team with a simple enough mission statement. Ginola had joined from PSG for £2.5 million and slotted in on the left, with myself on the right, and Rob Lee rampaging through the middle to provide support for Peter Beardsley and Les Ferdinand, who we’d signed for £6 million from QPR. The formula worked. While the cavalier approach left our defence exposed, we had so much firepower that management believed results would go our way if we played to those strengths.
We didn’t go overboard on tactics and training was fun. Mostly five-a-sides. Team-talks were short. If we’d won the week before, Keegan kept it to no more than a couple of minutes. He preferred to go around one-to-one and give individual pep talks. That kind of man-management was his strong point. Big Les always said that the gaffer had this special way of making you feel like the best player in the world, and I related to that.
Until Christmas, we were
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