The Second Half Read online

  Actually, it wasn’t really about which club I should go to. Forget about Madrid, Everton, Celtic, Barcelona, Inter Milan and the reasons I should or shouldn’t have gone to any of them. The fact is, the morning I left United I lost the love for the game a little bit. I could have had every club in the world ringing me but it wouldn’t have given me that buzz, that satisfaction, that ‘Here we go’.

  I thought I could make a bigger impact at Celtic than I would have at Everton or Madrid. To be honest, I thought it might be a bit easier at Celtic. I knew they would dominate a lot of matches. ‘I’ll go up to Celtic, and I’ll maybe do a job for a year, a year and a half.’

  But when I arrived, I still felt like I was starting all over again. Trying to prove people wrong.

  I signed for Celtic on 15 December, although I couldn’t play until January. The press conference was chaotic the day I signed. I felt like putting a dampener on it. ‘Listen, lads, I am thirty-four, my hip’s hanging off.’

  Outside Celtic Park, with the scarf over my head, for the photographs. Hundreds of fans on the steps of the stadium. They were really good to me. They gave me a great welcome – everybody at the club. And it was nice to get the Celtic kit on. I was glad to be there. They were letting me get back to what I was about, playing football. And Gordon Strachan and his staff, Garry Pendrey, and, of course, Tommy Burns – there was a very good atmosphere, good banter. Tommy was a really good guy, God rest his soul. If I’d gone to Madrid, I would never have met Tommy. John Clark, the kit man, was one of the Lisbon Lions; he was part of the team that won the European Cup in 1967. The kit man is vital; he’s almost the hub of everything, a link to everybody. He has to be good-humoured and upbeat. You have to be glad to see the kit man in the morning. He reflects the club, in a sense. I think Clarkie got a bigger buzz out of me signing for Celtic than anybody else at the club; he appreciated what I’d done in the game. He couldn’t do enough for me.

  I met great people up at Celtic.

  Their training, particularly their warm-ups – it was all about rotational stuff, movement of the hips. First and foremost, there was always a ball. If there were sixteen players, there’d be eight serving the ball to eight players in the middle. You’d always be working on the ball, and your recovery was when you were the server; you’d be throwing the ball for somebody in the middle. It was all about flicking the ball back, with the outside of your foot or your instep. All rotational stuff. The stressful part for me was flicking the ball back – and that was only the warm-up.

  After the warm-up, I felt like going in. I was thinking, ‘That’s me done. I’m struggling.’ But I actually liked it, getting a feel for the ball. And there was a bit of banter thrown in, because some lads couldn’t do it. So I enjoyed all that – but my hip didn’t. I hadn’t trained properly, with a ball and other players, in more than two months. Knocking a ball against a garage door is no substitute. We trained for an hour and a quarter or an hour and a half. I didn’t feel too bad immediately afterwards; it was all new – I had that extra bit of energy.

  I got back to my hotel in Edinburgh. People had advised me to stay in Edinburgh – ‘Live in Edinburgh, keep away from all the hassle.’ Rangers fans, even Celtic fans. It made sense; I’d have more privacy. But, really, I should have stayed in Glasgow. (Later on, I rented a small flat in the West End of Glasgow, and it was fine.) But anyway, I drove back to the hotel; it was about an hour’s drive from Glasgow. Lovely hotel – lovely suite.

  I lay on the bed. And my hip – I’ve never known pain like it. My hip was fuckin’ screaming. Just from the warm-up, from the training. It was all that movement; I hadn’t moved properly in months. I hadn’t been twisting, holding other players off. And it wasn’t as if I could ease myself back to fitness. I’d be going back on the pitch in two weeks; I was going to be thrown straight into a game.

  I lay there, thinking, ‘I don’t want to go back. But I need to – I have to.’ I was an experienced professional, I’d played more than six hundred games; I could deal with anything.

  My hip was screaming. Not aching – screaming. ‘What have you done?’

  I couldn’t budge. I thought to myself, ‘You should have retired. You should have just packed it in.’

  But I couldn’t leave after my first day. Imagine how that would have looked. Celtic fans, with their scarves and jerseys. ‘No, I’ve got to go to work.’ Could I go in and tell them that my hip was at me? Would it be better tomorrow? I’d have a forty-five-minute drive the next morning, maybe an hour, back to the training ground. ‘I’d better leave a bit earlier – I’ll hardly be able to drive.’

  It was my own fault. No one had forced me to stay in Edinburgh.

  But the hip – fuckin’ hell. I should have just packed it in. I should have been braver. Sometimes you have to be courageous enough to say no. An Irish friend of mine once told me, ‘ “No” is a sentence.’ One of my strengths earlier in my career had been my ability to say no to people. I’d be very clear about not over-doing things, and knowing the limits of my job.

  Then there’s the shame. I was under contract. People had bought jerseys with my name on them. I didn’t want to let anyone down. And the feeling that I wouldn’t even be able to play. Not long before – less than a year ago – I’d been in the Highbury tunnel, imposing myself on the game before it had even started. Now I was lying on a hotel bed, wondering if I could get through training.

  I had to go in the next day. Of course, I had. It was my job. I needed to train. I had that game coming up in a couple of weeks.

  My attitude, throughout my career had been: you train how you play. I should have adapted. I should have taken it easy in training. I wasn’t going to win plaudits for training on Tuesday; I’d get them if I played well on Saturday. I don’t think I felt old, in football terms, but, physically, I was. My body was old. But I was new in the dressing room and I wanted to impress; you have to. The player’s job, every day at training, is to impress the manager and his coaching staff. Gordon had never seen me train before. Tommy Burns had never seen me train. They’d seen me play, but they hadn’t seen me train.

  The training didn’t get any easier. Before he took charge of Celtic the teams Gordon had managed had always been up against it. Southampton, Coventry – always fighting for survival. His teams were always hard-working, and his training was designed around that. I liked it. I just wished that I could have coped with it better.

  You’d get changed at Celtic Park, and you’d get in your car and drive to the training ground up the road. It’s different now, but this was when I played. The biggest challenge was – whose car were we going in. We’d be sitting in the dressing room.

  ‘Whose turn is it?”

  Because after training you’d have to drive back and nine times out of ten the rain was pissing down, so a gang of players would be getting into your car, covered in muck.

  I enjoyed that, the bit of banter.

  ‘Listen, lads, I’ve a Bentley. Nobody’s getting into it with their fuckin’ boots on.’

  I got to know the lads in the car. I’d go with Dion Dublin, or Petrov. We’d only be in the car for five minutes, but we’d have the crack. I had the United car for the first few weeks, so I invited everyone into the back of it, boots as well.

  I ended up leasing a Golf – to keep my own car clean, but mostly so I could get around discreetly in Glasgow.

  At around that time I was asked by somebody in Celtic’s administration if I’d mind not being paid until after January, because I wouldn’t actually be playing until then.

  I said, ‘But I’ve signed my contract, and I’m training, and you’re selling jerseys in the shop. I want my wages from when I signed.’

  The glamour of it – the fuckin’ glamour of it.

  Michael had begged me not to sign for Celtic. He wasn’t happy with the negotiations, or their ‘take it or leave it’ approach. But I still think that if I hadn’t signed for Celtic I would have regretted it. They’d offered me the least mon
ey of any of the clubs. I read somewhere that I went to Celtic for forty or fifty thousand a week, but it was fifteen basic they offered me. I wasn’t motivated by the money – or, just the money. I think there might have been a bit of guilt about that, when I left United – the amount I’d been earning there, and earning so much for something I loved doing anyway.

  I’d said once or twice in interviews over the years, ‘I’d like to play for Celtic one day.’ I’d said it casually but now I felt I couldn’t go back on my word. And I wanted to play against Rangers, in an Old Firm game. For the atmosphere, the buzz – the experience. I’d played for United against Rangers, and it was electric. I remember thinking, ‘If it’s as good as this when it’s Rangers against United, what must it be like when it’s against Celtic?’ I’d been up to see Celtic play Rangers several times, at Ibrox, too. They were massive games. Celtic were going to play in my testimonial at United the following May; it had already been agreed before I’d left United. So I wondered, ‘If I don’t sign for Celtic, will that be awkward?’ But, more than any other consideration, I just thought, ‘I want to treat myself here. I’m going to go where I want to go, and fuck the money.’ I wouldn’t have called it a dream, but I’d always liked Celtic. And the Irish connection would have been in the back of my mind; I felt a bit of loyalty to them. Usually, when you’re making a decision about your career, you consider everything – the challenge, family, location. But this decision was a purely selfish one. I just wanted to play for Glasgow Celtic. Celtic is a special club.

  My first game was against Clyde, away, in the third round of the Scottish Cup. We were beaten 2–1. It was a nightmare. I wasn’t happy with my own game. I did okay, but okay wasn’t enough. After the game – the disappointment. As I was taking my jersey off, I noticed the Nike tag was still on it. When I got on the bus, John Hartson, a really good guy, was already sitting there and he was eating a packet of crisps – with a fizzy drink. I said to myself, ‘Welcome to hell.’

  We went back on the bus to Celtic Park. A lot of fans were waiting, having a right go at Gordon and some of the players as we got off the bus. Being knocked out of the Cup by Clyde – it was a massive shock. But Tommy Burns – I take my hat off to him – stood on the steps and had a go at the Celtic fans; some of those lads were ready for a bit of action.

  ‘You’re not Celtic fans,’ he said. ‘You’ve got to get behind the team.’

  I remember thinking, ‘This is a good start.’

  My first game, and already the fans were up in arms and one of the staff was on the steps of Celtic Park, having to defend the manager. So that was a nice, gentle introduction.

  My first Old Firm game was at Ibrox, and we won 1–0. It was brilliant. It lived up to all of my expectations, probably because we won. ‘Magic’ Żurawski, a Polish lad, scored the goal. The start of my Celtic career hadn’t been great – losing at Clyde, and angry fans. But then, not long after, we go and win at Rangers, and I’m thinking, ‘This is what it’s all about.’

  The atmosphere was brilliant, fuckin’ electric. The hatred – I enjoyed all that. I got a yellow card for a foul on Pršo and they were baying for a red card. Physically, I must have felt good. I was Man of the Match, and that was a little moment of satisfaction, another tiny victory. The dressing room afterwards was great. Again, it’s what football is all about.

  But, at this stage, I was taking painkillers before every match. An injection in the bum – Diclofenac, or Voltarol. The cause of the pain was a labral tear of the hip, and I understood that playing on could worsen the tear. I was taking an injection before the game and one at half-time, just to get through. And you do get through, but the consequences arrive the day after, and the next day. I’d be in bits. Mind you, I’d have been in bits, anyway; the Rangers game was a physically tough one.

  I doubt if painkilling injections are as regular now as they used to be, because of the advances in sports science. I don’t think players would put up with it.

  The painkillers just hide the pain, and they wear off. So there was the double whammy: I was going to suffer anyway, and then the hip would be at me, too. I could justify taking the painkillers for the game against Rangers because I knew it was going to be tough. But now I was taking them for every game. That was when I thought, ‘This is not good.’

  I’d been taking them in England, but only for the big games – Arsenal, City – when I knew I’d have to be physically at my best. Now, common sense was telling me that my days were numbered.

  We played Hibernian a few weeks later, away, at Easter Road, and I remember feeling a bit caught out. I’d done my homework on Rangers but I didn’t know much about Hibs. I remember thinking, ‘Fuck it, this is hard.’ They had a couple of lads in the middle of the park. Kevin Thomson was one of them; he went on to Rangers and Middlesbrough. They were both excellent. We won, but it was a bit of a shock. I thought that I should have been dominating these two, or any Hibs players. But my mind was lying; they had very good players.

  We won the League Cup in March, against Dunfermline. But I went off injured. Running around like a madman, I tore my hamstring, making a forward run. We won, but I didn’t really feel involved in the celebrations. I was embarrassed.

  I’d come on as a sub in the semi-final in the last minute of the second half; I played for about ninety seconds. It wasn’t a great experience, but I was coming back from injury – another one. It led to my only real disagreement with Gordon Strachan. After most games Gordon would let me go home to Manchester to do my recovery. But he’d organised a practice game for the next day. I was still getting my fitness up, and I think Stiliyan Petrov was also coming back from an injury, so he’d organised this game, eleven v. eleven.

  I said, ‘I usually head straight home after a game.’

  He said, ‘I’d like you to play in the game.’

  I could see why he wanted that. But then he said he needed to see what I could do.

  And I said, ‘Have you not seen me play six hundred and odd games down in England?’

  And he said, ‘No, no – I just need to see you.’

  I stayed over and played the next day and, actually, I enjoyed playing the practice game. But that was where my career was now, playing practice games, showing the manager what I could do.

  We beat Hearts at Celtic Park in early April, and won the League title. I was injured that day. I remember going into the dressing room. It was hard to join in the celebrations. I hadn’t played enough.

  I won League and League Cup medals with Celtic, but I never really contributed. Celtic won the League, but they were about fifteen points clear when I signed for them. I got Man of the Match away at Rangers and that pleased me, a little bit.

  I look back at my time there and I’m a bit embarrassed by it. I didn’t play too often – twelve or thirteen games, I think. I was on the bench four or five times. I tore my hamstring twice. And the reason you get injured a lot is your body’s not right. I wasn’t fit. My hip. My strides – I was trying too hard to impress. I was trying to play like a twenty-one-year-old – ‘Look what a player you’ve signed.’ I was in cuckooland.

  I would have been a bit cleverer if I’d still been at United. I would have been thinking, ‘I’ve earned my stripes here. I know my position. I don’t have to be running around like a teenager.’ But at Celtic, I thought, ‘They’ve signed me, the fans all think they have a top player.’

  I think I was a top player, but I hadn’t sprinted in years. At United, I just read the game and was in the right positions. At Celtic, I was going, ‘I’d better start getting the odd goal here, to impress them.’ A childish attitude – stupid.

  Why didn’t I go to Everton? I would have regretted not going to Celtic, and I couldn’t go to both. But Everton would have been good. I spoke to Phil Neville, who’d moved there earlier in the season. I knew that there were good fitness people there who could have helped me. I liked David Moyes, their manager. The chairman, Bill Kenwright, was very good with Michael in the negot
iations. They offered me a lot more than Celtic were paying me. But I think I might have found it hard playing for another English team. Which is stupid, I suppose, because it’s business. Although I would never summarise my years at United as business. It wasn’t business to me.

  Everton might have given me another lease of life; I might have had two or three more years there. The system they played would have suited me. I would have been a proper sitting midfielder.

  It doesn’t keep me awake at night.

  And I’m not knocking Celtic; it’s a brilliant club. I’ve no regrets. Even though it didn’t work out. I go up to Celtic quite a bit, and I enjoy it as much as anything. I should be embarrassed because I hardly kicked a ball for them. It’s almost like a family up there. ‘You played for us; you’re one of us.’ I feel lucky to have played for Celtic.

  Maybe I was just putting off the inevitable decision. I was frightened of saying to myself, ‘I’ve retired.’

  My testimonial was on 9 May 2006. A player’s testimonial can be very rewarding financially. But I think it’s tradition that makes it such a big day. You’re thanking the fans and they’re thanking you. It was a chance for me to say goodbye to the United fans – a huge incentive for me.