England
‘When I put on the England shirt, I had a collection of thoughts. It was like going into battle, fighting for your team, your country.’
Sol
Passers-by stare and wonder how someone could be so lucky. But it can soon be forgotten, your name remembered by the few when only years before it would be difficult to walk down the street without a greeting or discreet nudge from one friend to another.
He had 73 England caps; the only player to have represented his country in six consecutive international tournaments. He was named in the official team of the tournament in both the 1998 and 2002 World Cups, and the 2004 European Championship. Aged 23 years and 248 days, he became the youngest England captain after Bobby Moore. He played under five England managers – Terry Venables, Glenn Hoddle, Kevin Keegan, Sven-Goran Eriksson and Steve McClaren – and scored England’s opening goal in the 2002 World Cup in Japan. He had goals disallowed against Argentina in France ’98 and against Portugal in Euro 2004, which would have changed his country’s football history.
Sol Campbell’s international career, virtually more than any other English footballer, encapsulates the expression ‘Life is one long “if only”…’ If those goals had been given, how life would have changed. In the way we all regard him. How we would remember him. Our hero? The man whose goals led us to glory? One of our best, most consistent international defenders, rather than a career that attracted enthusiastic interest for a short while, but has since been ignored or largely forgotten as new players have emerged.
Everything new is something old forgotten.
• • •
On 9 November 1996, Sol was picked by England for his first World Cup qualifier. He had made his international debut six months earlier against Hungary in a friendly. But against Georgia in Tiblisi, the second game of the qualification group, he would be starting for England for the first time. There would be no team sheet pinned to the wall like at school. He would be told while sitting in a team meeting. The full squad at long tables, watching the projector as the management went over the previous game; and then, without warning, the projector showing the team for the next game.
‘At first I wasn’t sure and then looked again.’ Sol’s name came into focus. ‘Shit!’ It was like someone creeping up from behind and bursting a paper bag right behind his ears. ‘It was!’
He sat motionless. He didn’t want anyone to notice how excited he was. His international future seemed all of a sudden, in an instant, to open up, with the realisation that he could really be part of the England setup. Even become a regular, a first pick.
He starts to go through in his mind the stretches and exercises he will need to do before going to bed. A mini-workout planned in seconds! Manager Glenn Hoddle continues to go through tactics. He listens but his mind is now elsewhere. I need a good night’s sleep. If I get to bed by nine, I’ll be asleep by ten and up by seven. I must conserve all my energy. Pace myself. Before going to sleep that night he prays the next day is good, and that he plays to the best of his ability. I don’t want to let anyone down.
The next morning, he was at once wide-awake. In fact, he didn’t so much as wake up, as sit up. ‘Enjoy today,’ he said out loud.
His mind speeds through his preparation until kick-off. Again, he repeats he doesn’t want to let anyone down. He doesn’t. England win 2-0. ‘I made a good account of myself. I was nervous but confident. It was a nice and easy debut. It’s always difficult playing away from home (it doesn’t matter who you play) and to win was very satisfying.’
• • •
How suddenly life can change. England were defeated by Italy at Wembley three months later, on 12 February 1997. Zola scored in the ninth minute to win the game by a single goal. Sol learned a lesson that night in dealing with the press. It was only his fourth game, still just twenty-three and looking to become a regular in the heart of the defence. In international football, there is no room for sentiment; after the game, Sol and goalkeeper Ian Walker were blamed for the goal. ‘I was naïve. I discussed openly with the press that it might have been my fault. Afterwards, I’d see captions in different magazines, blaming Walker and me for the loss. “Blame these two if we don’t qualify,” I glimpsed in one of the papers. You can imagine how I felt after seeing that.’
The reaction derailed any further admissions. He and the goalkeeper were being made scapegoats. He was learning that playing for England was different to playing for your club. The media inspection was more intense. He didn’t mind, as long as they were fair. He noticed other players were guarded. ‘I wouldn’t be hiding, but I certainly wanted to protect myself in the future,’ Sol says.
• • •
Italy 0 England 0, 1998 World Cup qualifier Group 2, Stadio Olimpico, Rome, 11 October 1997
Italy: Peruzzi, Nesta, Maldini (Benarrivo 32), Albertini, Cannavaro, Costacurta, Di Livio, Baggio, Vieri, Zola (Del Piero 63), Inzaghi (Chiesa 46). Sent off: Di Livio (77).
England: Seaman, Campbell, Le Saux, Ince, Adams, Southgate, Beckham, Gascoigne (Butt 89), Wright, Sheringham, Batty.
Attendance: 81,200. Referee: Mario Van Der Ende.
In a belligerent backs-to-the-wall performance, England get the draw they need to ensure their passage to the World Cup finals in France. The enduring image from the match is the bandaged bloodied head of Paul Ince after an elbow from Albertini resulted in several minutes off the pitch with the England man receiving stitches. The sending off of Di Livio with fifteen minutes remaining after a foul on Campbell is the final nail in the coffin for the beleaguered Italians.
After the Wembley defeat to Italy, England won their next three matches in the group. It would come down to their last qualifying game to see who got automatic qualification to the World Cup in France the following year. England had to go to the Italian capital needing just a point to qualify. Not so easy. No team had won a point there in fifteen attempts. It was a time when Italy were making the beautiful game even more beautiful: their glorious blue shirts, their players looking like silver screen stars, and Serie A probably the best league in the world. ‘I just love the football mentality of the Italians. It’s the reverse there [to England]. Defenders, midfielders and goalkeepers get the respect and adulation that here is only reserved for strikers. They are the stars.’ So here is this young man from Newham, about to play against a team and country he respected, against legends such as Paolo Maldini who he admired, knowing millions of people back home would be watching. ‘It was the ultimate!’
The England coach was escorted through the local traffic by police bikes and flashing lights to the north of the city. The streets were alive, with fans banging on the roofs of their Fiats, Vespas weaving through traffic like horses in blinkers; the Italians all gestures and gesticulations, a cacophony of sound. National colours hanging with pride from every conceivable vantage point showing that the Romans are resolute; this will be their day. England are in town. We beat them at Wembley, they are saying, now to the slaughter in Rome without a single lion needed. These times it is left to Cannavaro, Maldini, Zola and Vieri to slay the opposition.
Sol knew he would be playing on the Saturday. Any doubt he may have had was dispelled as soon as the pattern of play was worked on at the training ground, a few days before. He woke up nervous on the morning of the match. ‘Not a bad thing as it focuses the mind,’ he says. He sat towards the back of the coach. Three-quarters of the way down. He didn’t want to be too near the front. That’s where the management sits. Huge crowds were building along the route from the city to the stadium. Delays were occurring on every block.
‘Get out of the middle of the road!’ Fans are singing and dancing as the coach rolls by, crossing from the side of the street to get a closer look. There is a big match in Rome today. Sol watches the entertainment going on. The Carabinieri give orders for fans to disperse but they are slow in moving on. The Italian fans gaze up at the coach while the England supporters, on seeing their heroes, start a one-note chant.
‘I remember, as we reached the stadium, I felt the butterflies inside my stomach begin to become a little more intense. I was excited. In the back of my mind, I was thinking I want to play the best game of my life. In a matter of hours, we could qualify for the World Cup.’
Paul Ince sat a few rows ahead in the coach. Sol looks at the player as he is talking to another team-mate. He thinks it was Ian Wright but he’s not sure. He watches Ince’s gesticulations. He had played in Italy, for Inter Milan. He had played for the best teams. He had experience. We will need that today, thinks Sol. More than ever. ‘I think anyone would want Ince in their team because of his desire and his skill. He knew his position and he was an incredible tackler. He was not just a force. His anger motivated everyone around him.’
They get off the coach in silence, each player with their own thoughts and desires. Sol’s mind is racing. He could not think quickly enough. He needed to calm down. On the outside, he looks assured for someone so young, but inside his heart is beating with an excitement, the will to win, a determination. The stadium is a block of concrete; grey and sullen, contrary to the player’s mood of anticipation and excitement. It is pretty soulless on the inside too. ‘There is no finesse about most of the international stadiums around the world,’ says Sol, ‘they tend to be very bland.’
Sol puts his bag down. Some of the players go to the massage room. Sol wants to get out and see the pitch as soon as possible, impatient like a schoolboy. It is something he does and will always do before a match. The stadium is virtually empty but the tension is still evident. There are England supporters around but the Italian fans, as is the norm in this country, tend to stroll in with minutes to go before kick-off.
He walks from one end of the pitch to the other. It is not only the players who are your opposition; it can also be the turf. He bends up and down like a bird feeling its texture, at first slowly and then shifting his hand along with greater pace and with concentration. He sees how long the grass is; it’s different in every stadium. In some it’s cut short, in others left long. The Italians liked their football to be a little slow, so the grass would be longer. By the time he walked from one box to the other, he knew it was a good pitch with no wet patches or particularly bad areas. That’s good, he thinks, and now he is ready to pull on his England shirt and reap the rewards.
Back in the dressing room, he decides what studs to wear. He always liked longer studs, especially as a defender. His movement and style of play suited the longer length unless it was bone dry and then he would use moulds. He hardly ever wore just moulds, maybe only for pre-season friendlies. Towards the latter part of his career he would wear both, multi-studs (moulds and studs). He was one of the first footballers to do that. But today the longer studs will do. He gets down to business. He tightens his laces loop by loop, twice, and finishes off in a short bow, muttering, ‘Okay, okay! Let’s get out there.’
Glenn Hoddle was keeping his team calm. Quiet words to those he felt needed them. He had worked his team well and thoroughly. His preparations were complete. There was no need to panic. No, he’d done his job. This was his moment too, as a young international manager, to show the world, and he sensed his destiny. He gave the impression he had little doubt a result could be achieved. Sol was ready; as ready as he ever had been in his still brief international career. He had the look of a man focused for the coming hours. He felt relaxed and confident. Mature beyond his years. As he finished putting his white No.2 shirt on, he once again observed his team-mates. ‘I looked at Shearer, I looked at Adams and thought, I’ve got winners here. Each one of us was ready to fight for our lives like an army going into battle. We were not going to be defeated.’ He sat there, repeating to himself the mantra instilled in his psyche by his father: ‘You have one chance. Grab it!’ Yes, this was a game to take the chance and not look back. Paul Gascoigne knew it also. He stands, then strides around the dressing room. It is difficult to keep him calm. He is the opposite to Sol. This had once been his home ground, playing for Lazio at a time when he never attained full fitness and couldn’t reach the heights he dreamed of. He could show the Italians today what they’d missed.
As the players prepared to leave the dressing room, Hoddle shook each one firmly by the hand, followed by placing his hand onto their chest just above the heart; it was meant to be a sign of reassurance. The players slapped each other on the back and knew what had to be done. Sol’s heart was starting to pound hard. He didn’t mind Hoddle’s interest in the ethereal. He thought it fitted neatly into his character. There were others who thought it was a little weird. But there was no thought of it now. They had a job to do. To win or draw. And then off to the World Cup. It sounded so simple.
• • •
The England team soaked up pressure from the very beginning. They were disciplined, with each player going in hard to disrupt the rhythm of the Italians. The English were playing like the Italians. Hoddle knew his team could beat them at their own game. There was Ince, wiping his forehead, a deep cut and a shirt splattered with blood, looking as if he’d been in a street brawl; then, returning to the pitch after a long delay with a white bandage, that seemed to belong more to a World War II movie, wrapped around his head. It encapsulated the day, the spirit. He was gone from the action for eight minutes and the English support filled in the space. The noise from the English fans drowned out the Italians. Ian Wright very nearly won it at the end, when he went around the goalkeeper and hit the post but immediately the ball was at the other end, for Christian Vieri to head just wide of the goal; he should have scored. The Italian bench groaned at the miss. The game was over. England won 0-0!
Sol met Vieri years later back in Italy, and with a shake of a hand they reminisced about the classic game. It wasn’t the miss Vieri chose to remember; it was Sol’s first tackle of the afternoon. ‘I will never forget it,’ he said, ‘it was the hardest tackle of my career.’ The compliment of a good tackle, Sol thinks, outweighs any goal.
For the English, it was as exciting a goalless draw as was ever seen. When the final whistle blew, Hoddle jumped up and down in excitement and, of course, relief. His coaching staff joined in the celebrations. Sol embraced his team-mates. They were going to the World Cup! Glory in the draw! Hoddle walked up to Sol to congratulate him. He shook him warm-heartedly and Sol saw a smiling face he recognised so well, and yet in the excitement it looked strangely unfamiliar. ‘Yes!!’ Sol shouted, ‘we did it!!’
Sol has praise for Hoddle. ‘His ideas were original, he was exciting to work with,’ and, in what seems like an afterthought says, ‘It’s a shame he didn’t maintain his career as an international manager. I’m convinced he could have gone a long way.’
He ran towards the England fans packed on the terraces chanting the theme tune of ‘The Great Escape’. It was the first time the supporters had bellowed out the song from the famous war movie and its continual drone had driven the Italian fans mad; they were almost stunned into silence. ‘We won on the pitch and we won on the terraces without a fist being thrown,’ a fan who was in Rome proudly says, as if re-living that special moment. It was a memorable Saturday afternoon for the England team and its supporters. ‘We deserved it. It’s great for the nation. It’s eight years since we qualified and now the hard work starts,’ Hoddle said.
These were good days for Sol. He was a first-team regular for both club and country and he was just twenty-three. His confidence soared to new heights. He loved his football and now felt no-one could stop him reaching the very top. He had moved forward with his life and career. Everything worked. The deftness of his play seemed to be guided by a force that shadowed him in everything he attempted. Walking without fuss in one direction, and that was upwards. He was improving, getting better, and he knew it. It was one of those defining periods in one’s life that we all crave for. ‘When I put on the England shirt, I had a collection of thoughts. It was like going into battle, fighting for your team and your country. I would think that I’m playing against the best players in the world and would love that I could master them, control them and nullify them. Yes, I would love that.’ He takes a pause and continues, ‘I think international football played at the highest level is the best. Even if you played in a friendly and it’s a mundane game, you just knew it meant a lot, not just to yourself and the team, but to the whole country.’
Eight months later, on 29 May 1998, prior to the start of the World Cup finals in France, Campbell was asked to captain England in a friendly against Belgium. The sides drew 0-0. ‘It was a tremendous moment for me. I was the second youngest captain ever, and I was very proud.’ And then he whispered, as if entrusting someone with a big secret: ‘I was living the dream.’
• • •
The dream continued for Sol, and for his country. Having reached the finals in France, England’s qualification from the group stage opened up the way to the last 16 and a potentially epic clash with South American giants, Argentina. The world held its breath.
• • •
Argentina 2 England 2 (aet; Argentina win 4-3 on penalties), World Cup 1998 Round of 16, St Etienne, 30 June 1998
Argentina: Roa; Vivas, Ayala, Chamot; Zanetti, Almeyda, Simeone (Berti 91); Ortega, Veron; Batistuta (Balbo 68), Lopez (Gallardo 68). Goals: Batistuta (pen 6), Zanetti (45).
England: Seaman; G Neville, Adams, Campbell; Anderton (Batty 96), Beckham, Ince, Le Saux (Southgate 70); Scholes (Merson 78); Owen, Shearer. Sent off: Beckham (46). Goals: Shearer (pen 10), Owen (16).
Attendance: 30,600. Referee: K M Nielsen.
In one of the most talked-about games in the history of England internationals, Glenn Hoddle’s men come close to knocking out one of the tournament favourites despite Beckham’s infamous red card following his kick at Simeone. England find themselves trailing to an early Batistuta penalty following a Seaman foul, only for Shearer to equalise in similar fashion from the spot.
Owen’s memorable slalom through the Argentina defence leads to a wonder goal and a 2-1 lead for the men in white, but Zanetti’s strike from a clever free-kick sees Argentina level at half-time. England put on a brave performance in the second-half with ten men to take the game into extra time and the dreaded penalties, where misses by Ince and, at the last, Batty, send Argentina through and England cursing their misfortune.
Before the game Sol had never felt such intensity. Everything seemed louder. The stadium was full of noise, which could have been disconcerting to someone who hadn’t experienced such feral rivalry before. But Sol remained calm. He was just excited to be part of such a big game. He knew who he was about to face. He was prepared. He had learned his lesson about surprises from the Chilean striker, Marcelo Salas, who, with his two goals, had almost single-handedly led the England defence on a merry dance when the two countries played in a friendly earlier in the year; it would not be repeated.
The ground was packed on one side with the flags of St George, on the other with dancing, faithful Argentinians throwing confetti in the air and passing their national flag up and down from hand to hand, each man or woman grabbing the cloth as if it will bring luck. A shadow looms over a contest between two countries formerly at war. This is when football becomes political, however hard those in government, managers and players tell you that sport and politics have nothing in common. Try telling the Argentinians that it’s simply a football match; try telling the English. ‘The Falklands is always there. We were always reminded about it, even if we wanted to forget it. It was a real grudge match, as big as Germany. We simply didn’t want to lose. It was the game that could be made into a movie. It was full of drama,’ Sol remembers.
Before he shook the Argentinian players’ hands he had a fleeting moment of unease. Just for an instant, and he is not clear why. Probably tension. The tension between the teams was so tangible that it infiltrated everyone on the pitch, in the stadium, those watching around the world. The build up to World Cup games is different to anything. It stirred emotions that had lain dormant for years. ‘We are in the second stage of the tournament. Now anything can happen. If we beat Argentina, we play the Dutch and then …Who knows?’ The two teams pose for their photographs: Argentina in all blue, England in all white. Sol runs away in short sprints towards the box, taking small jumps, getting rid of the last remnants of nerves. He shouts out something to himself or his team-mates, or to anyone listening. There is a delay before kick-off. Deep breathing. The teams are facing up and ready to go. Television! Sol thinks. The wait goes on and on. The referee in red shirt hesitates and hesitates again, and then blows his whistle. The crescendo of noise is so great it becomes almost muffled. Sol will feel the crowd’s interminable support; more aware of it than ever, when it is most needed.
His first touch doesn’t come until the end of the second minute. He calmly intercepts a through ball and lays on the perfect pass to full-back Graeme Le Saux to start an attack. He will continue in the same vein. He will have a good game.
The scores are level at 2-2 after an explosive first half. Shortly after the restart, when David Beckham is sent off for a petulant kick on Diego Simeone, confetti, bottles and wrappers are flung into the sky and the lights fade from Beckham’s first World Cup. ‘We weren’t angry with him, no-one in the squad was,’ Sol says. ‘We needed to get on with it, we had to. We were down to ten men.’
Nine minutes to go and with the scores still level, Darren Anderton sweeps in a corner. The ball flies over Shearer, and Sol meets it in full flight, heads it downwards. He watches the ball bounce off the turf and over the line. For one moment, everything comes to a standstill. Everything suddenly goes dizzy. He turns before the ball reaches the net, and runs to the English supporters in celebration. It is a team sport but he feels completely alone. He sees in the corner of his eye everyone from the bench jumping up and down. What a time to score my first goal for my country. His has to be the winner. Suddenly he sees the bench is no longer celebrating but signalling to him, hands and fingers waving to and fro. One of the substitutes yells, ‘Get back! The goal’s been disallowed.’ Alan Shearer’s flailing elbow on goalkeeper Roa is adjudged to have been a foul by the referee.
‘It was a goal,’ Sol says. ‘Unless you are actually holding someone down, it is fair to challenge for the ball.’ And he moves his fingers to show the position of the players: goalkeeper there, right-back there, Shearer there.
His celebration stops. Ecstasy swept away in an instant. And now he has to run full speed to the other end as the Argentinians are attacking. It is down to the man who took the corner, Darren Anderton, who runs the length of the field to perform one of the great lung-busting diving tackles, to save the day. ‘The game would have been over if he hadn’t made that tackle. People shouldn’t forget it. It was one the greatest tackles I’ve seen on a football pitch.’
Extra-time is to be played. The golden goal rule is in operation. The first team to score in extra-time wins. Game over.
It had been a tough ninety minutes. One of the toughest Sol remembers. He lies on his back in the break. He drinks water, lots of it. His legs are rubbed down. Manager Glenn Hoddle is issuing instructions. He hears his assistant John Gorman trying to motivate everybody. Banging the palm of his left hand with the fist of his right. ‘Come on!’ Sol can’t get the disappointment of his disallowed goal out of his mind. If only…If only. Shearer never fouled. Come on, snap out of it! We still have thirty more minutes to play. I’m strong; I feel strong. Pass me another bottle of water. Les Ferdinand comes over and whispers words of encouragement. ‘I got stronger and stronger throughout extra-time,’ recalls Sol. ‘It was strange, I felt I could run forever.’
The game remained level after extra-time. Penalties. ‘I wasn’t chosen in the first five to take a penalty. After that, there isn’t a set list, you are just randomly chosen. I think I would’ve been picked way down the line – probably number ten before David Seaman! So there was little fear that I’d have to take one. I’ve seen over the years some ordinary players better at taking penalties than shooting in open play. Others fall to pieces when faced with the test in a high-pressured game. If I’d taken one, I’d have kicked it as hard as possible straight down the line, into the centre of the goal. Sounds easy but I never took a penalty throughout my career.’
England lost the shootout 4-3. The England villains could have been anyone. No-one misses a penalty on purpose and the pain of missing probably never leaves the psyche. Our heroes are, after all, mere humans. ‘We all played well. We could have won…We should have won, even with ten men,’ says Sol.
He showers and changes in silence. He suffers pain far worse than he has felt before. He feels cheated. Come on. Relax. It will get better. It has been a spectacular match; one of the best World Cup games in recent years. Better to be part of a match like that than not being part of it at all. Really? He is gutted. Those hours after the game are difficult to face. Time to go. Time to get out of this stadium. If only we could make ourselves inconspicuous. Some hope.
The team drift away from their dressing room, passing by people with wide smiles; faces incongruous to the England players’ mood. A ball boy in a tracksuit looks at the English stars excitedly. He is tempted to ask for autographs but something tells him to wait for the Argentinians. Sol and the players are now joined by their families as they walk slowly, like a group of mourners, towards their team coach. It’s parked next to the Argentinians’. Sol is about to experience ‘one of the worst things I saw in my time in football.’
As the England entourage climb aboard their coach, a badly trained choir of Argentinian footballers are jeering, jumping up and down, banging the windows and swinging their shirts over their heads. If they had a wreath, they would have tossed it over. In the English players’ eyes, it was the worst form of sportsmanship. It would not be forgotten.
‘It was a disgusting display. I thought it was despicable. No class. Never seen it before or since. But it showed how much it meant to them.’ And now there was a slight tut in Sol’s tone. ‘I was glad they were knocked out in the next round by the Dutch.’
• • •
England had departed the World Cup finals in France in glorious defeat. In adversity, they had shown spirit and togetherness. But when they returned, dark clouds began to gather.
After the World Cup, Glenn Hoddle said something stupid, which gave the press a chance to hang him. Once the Prime Minister started to criticise the England manager, the FA had no choice. Hoddle was gone within days. Sacked for nothing to do with football. The news of his sacking is followed by the name of one man. All we can see and read are pundits supporting their next sacrifice. Faces magnified, mouths opened wide as his name is repeated. This is a one-horse race.
The clamour had started. It grew in intensity, a fire being flamed by a strong wind. The fawning was overwhelming: ‘He should always have been our England manager’…‘The man’s a winner.’
The clocks are ticking; spring is coming. Optimism is at its height.
Kevin Keegan was named as England’s saviour. The former Liverpool and Hamburg star was making his name in management, and the FA called Fulham owner Mohamed Al Fayed, who graciously gave his permission for Keegan to leave Craven Cottage to manage his country. At the time, everybody won: Keegan was our new manager, the media and FA got their man, and Al Fayed got his best press for years.
Sol respected Keegan. He was still receiving general approbation for his playing career and now he was being acclaimed as a manager. Sol was disappointed that Hoddle had left but he couldn’t have wanted for a better replacement. Players tend to get over the sacking of managers far quicker than some managers would hope. ‘Keegan could get the best out of you. He could make you feel ten feet tall. I’d never experienced that before,’ Sol says. ‘He had a passion, a desire; and, he was a legend and enthusiastic. He would always back you up. A good manager always backs you up, always, through good and bad times.’
Sol repeats a story he was told by Keegan: ‘When Keegan was at Hamburg, the manager was not happy with his team; they were not playing well and not working hard enough. So he got the squad onto the training pitch and told his players to run until he told them to stop. But he didn’t tell them to stop; he just let them run and run until they started to groan, to falter and then the first one dropped out followed by another and then another until there were only three players left standing, or rather running, of which one was Keegan. The next season, the manager chose a team, with the three players who kept running the first on the team sheet. The rest he got rid of.’
And the moral of the story? ‘Hard work defines the spine of your team. You build it up from players who can tough it out,’ Sol replies. ‘Keegan believed it and so did I.’
• • •
After all the hoopla, Euro 2000 was a ‘washout’ as Sol puts it. England scraped through to the tournament by winning a two-leg play-off with Scotland. In the actual competition in Belgium and the Netherlands, England failed to get through their group. Losing in the first game to Portugal 3-2 in Eindhoven after being two-up, things improved in the next match with a 1-0 win against a very poor German side in Charleroi. England then played Romania in their final group game. They lost 3-2, an 89th minute penalty knocking them out of the tournament. Sol played in all the games. He moves his hand around, like he’s flaying at a wasp, when he says: ‘We needed a draw in the final game and we just didn’t get it.’ His first reaction was self-pity, then frustration, followed by, ‘We have to move on. These things happen.’
Sol returned home with as much confidence in his manager as he did going out. He remained optimistic that Keegan and the players would turn it round. He found the manager easy to work with and the atmosphere in the camp was good. There weren’t any dramas, no back biting. Things remained upbeat even though the team was losing. Any initial negative reactions from the players had begun to recede by the time they landed back on home soil. Keegan, at the airport, seemed as positive on the outside as he did on the first day of the job. You have a good break, he told Sol, and I will see you soon. They shook hands. It will come good, he promised.
• • •
England had Germany in their qualifying group for the 2002 World Cup in Japan and South Korea. They were drawn to play them in their opening match. Sol was unfit for the game after his shoulder injury at Brentford in the Worthington Cup. He watched it from the stands. It was never a good experience to watch a game but that afternoon was particularly miserable. It was the last game to be played at the old Wembley stadium, a place of pilgrimage. It was going to be pulled down. Old Wembley had become a scrapyard of past glories; a relic of better days, standing on a past mourned with the help of old newsreels, technicolour film and iconic photographs. There was a lot of shouting and reams of paperwork about who should or would buy the stadium, but in the end even the journalists couldn’t muster any enthusiasm for the idea that the new owners would be the FA. Nevertheless, this was the last hurrah to our national stadium, so the anticipation was keen; and, what better way to celebrate than to beat Germany in a World Cup qualifier?
It rained and rained. On that soggy October day in 2000, the once beautiful stadium emptied at full-time, a fan leaving a small bunch of wild flowers on a seat behind one of the goals, where once the crowd had stood in an explosion of colour and song. The gesture left a sense of loneliness in the vast expanse, but sometimes an action such as this can herald a new beginning. It needed to. It was a bad day all round. England had lost 1-0 to a Dietmar Hamann free-kick, struck well outside the box and sent skimming along the wet surface, past David Seaman. And yet it was just the beginning of the bad news.
As soon as the final whistle went, Sol left his seat in the stand to go to the dressing room. He didn’t know why but he had a feeling of unease as he made his way down. By the time he reached the tunnel, the rumours were spreading. It was being said that Kevin Keegan had resigned. No-one was sure if it was true.
Sol dismisses it as gossip, suspecting someone has invented the story, looking for an angle on a miserable day by making it even more miserable. Soon the news gets louder, and now the manager’s words have reached the ears of the footballing world.
‘I’m out of here. I’m not up to it. I can’t motivate the players. I can’t get the extra bit out of these players that I need,’ Keegan had said in typically honest fashion. He’d had enough and was going home.
Sol was disappointed. He had tremendous respect for this passionate man. He wanted to go up to him and help change his mind. Things will work out, he thought. No need to panic. He wanted to give him the sort of shove that children do, when pushing their parents towards their favourite sideshow at the funfair. But he didn’t. He simply walked away from the stadium, head down, towards his car. The only thing comforting the fans on that day was how honourable and honest the manager was in the face of defeat. He had fallen on his sword.
Keegan had spoken to Sol a number of times about him taking on the role of England captain. But as Sol drove away from the stadium, those thoughts were far from his mind. No, instead he thought what a solitary job it was to be England manager. He’s never given much time and is inevitably sacked, sooner rather than later. A stark but obvious realisation came to him: the only way we can keep hold of the same manager is to win a tournament. It’s possible! We had a bad day but we have good players. We have the makings of a good team. We can win the World Cup. We can certainly still gain automatic qualification from the group.
As Wembley disappeared from view, Sol knew the press would wail at the death of their chosen manager and then begin to guess who would be the new one. A fresh surge of optimism would develop. He had seen it before. He didn’t mind who they chose as long as the incoming man was someone who could inspire the players with new ideas and, above all, that they could believe in him.
• • •
Sven-Goran Eriksson was one of the most respected managers in Europe. A slim man with rimmed glasses, a receding hairline and a face that gave the impression he ate too much junket, the Swede was the sort who you would imagine getting off his deathbed to straighten the bottom sheet. He tended not to look a person straight in the eye; instead, he would glance down at his shoes, as if he was trying to work out if one of his feet was longer than the other. He had a voice that was a medley of headmaster, airport announcer and librarian.
There was a suspicion about having a foreign England manager. ‘I was intrigued,’ says Sol. ‘I had no problem with it, other than being disappointed that we didn’t have an Englishman good enough at the time to step in.’ Yet Sven carried around with him an aura that quietly intimidated and demanded respect from the English football fraternity. When he asked for something, he usually got it. People would half-acknowledge him as he walked into the room, unsure whether to go up and introduce themselves. His Italian girlfriend, Nancy Dell’Olio, with her gregarious clothing and flashbulb Hello! magazine smile, did not make the personality any easier to understand. Still, an air of invincibility shadowed him, and there was a sense that he knew it too. ‘He was always hammering on about respect,’ Sol says. ‘He showed us we needed to treat everyone with the same amount of courtesy, from the tea lady to the chairman.’
Sven’s start was auspicious. The team began to win again. Qualification for the World Cup finals in South Korea and Japan, which had at first seemed a long way off, turned into a series of celebrations, with England eventual winners of their qualifying group. The highlight was a 5-1 win against Germany in Munich. Under an overcast sky and on a damp pitch, England humbled their once-mighty rivals, with Michael Owen scoring a hat-trick.
We are converts now. We of little faith. Who needs an English manager? The Swedish demigod receives acclamation. Salvation! You win in football and our lives need no longer be ‘If only…If only.’
The spirit in the camp was good. It had reached the point where the squad was beginning to overflow with confidence. ‘We had a bloody good team. It was probably the best England team I played in.’ Sol’s relationship with his manager was also good. ‘He was always charming. He wanted everyone to be included, to be involved, and wanted to get advice from his senior players, one of which I’d now become.’ Sol pauses. ‘He also had a very popular assistant.’
That man was Tord Grip, an accordion player who had been assistant manager to Sven at Lazio. ‘He was a lovely man who I’d talk to after training. He always had time for you.’ He had a sense of humour too. When he read that Sven’s girlfriend Nancy Dell’Olio was telling the press she was a lawyer, Tord allegedly quipped: ‘The nearest she’s ever been to court is Wimbledon.’
Before the tournament, the manager found himself embroiled in a ‘red top’ frenzy, when he was caught having a fling with Swedish television presenter, Ulrika Jonsson. The story was too good to be true for the tabloids, especially as Eriksson was meant to be in a monogamous relationship.
When the England team went abroad, sometimes the morning papers would suddenly disappear. It was either the manager or the FA’s decision. ‘When I was in a tournament, I never read the sports pages. I’d avoid the television, too. Sometimes, I’d watch the football phone-in programmes on Sky for a few minutes and they would be talking about England, and when the show was finished I wouldn’t feel so good about myself, or what I’d heard about my team-mates. Criticism, or even praise, brought up an equal amount of negativity in my head. Once you believe in your own success, that’s when you’re finished. Others in the squad were addicted to the stuff and watched all the time. I’d think, what are you doing? Why do this to yourself? But I suppose we’re all different.’
There was no sniggering or whispers when the England manager walked by at the start of the tournament. There was no feigning of reading a broadsheet newspaper with a tabloid hidden inside. None of the squad took any pleasure in the tittle-tattle of gossip. ‘Absolutely not…,’ says Sol, pausing. ‘Probably because we all thought we could be next.’
• • •
‘Every time we reached the finals of a major tournament, our talisman got injured,’ Sol mourns. Japan 2002 would be no different. Before the squad set off, David Beckham, the England captain, suffered a broken metatarsal during a Manchester United Champions League match against Deportivo. Sol felt as concerned as every football fan. ‘My immediate feeling was of disappointment. I knew it was going to be difficult but I truly believed with all our best players fit, we had a good chance of winning the World Cup.’
The England build up was consumed with the usual ‘will he or won’t he be fit for the tournament?’ saga. In the end the England captain travelled and posed with the England team, Eriksson and the FA chairman on the steps of their British Airways flight to Tokyo. Sol had done it all before. He understood the razzmatazz that goes with travelling with the England squad. ‘It’s quite funny really. Everyone pretends they don’t care how they look on the aircraft stairs, but I saw a few hankering to find the best place and checking their hair before the click of the cameras.’ He chuckles at the revelation.
Flights bore Sol. As soon as he boards, he wants to get there. He dreads the long and seemingly slow journey to reach the other side of the world. The plane is full. There is a large team of staff travelling. The full squad flies Club Class while the FA chiefs and manager fly First. Sol spends his time watching films to pass the hours away. And then, as the plane approaches Japan and the passengers are asked to fasten their seatbelts, he meditates on what is about to happen. That perhaps he is nearing his dream. Everybody who has ever kicked a football dreams that one day they will lift the World Cup. The future is golden. He knows he is in top physical, mental and emotional condition, in order to summon up all the forces necessary to win. The unique chemistry of mind and soul is ready. He’s never been so ready.
• • •
It’s England v Sweden, the first game in Group F, in Saitama. After 24 minutes, David Beckham whips in a corner and Sol rises like a dolphin leaping from the sea. GOOAALLLL!!! Poetry at any time. His first international goal! A great cheer went up to the heavens.
This time there is no question. The goal is given and Sol darts away, as if a cell door has suddenly opened. He is in intense celebration, and is followed by Rio Ferdinand clambering over his shoulders. The World Cup has truly begun. As the whistle blows to restart the game, his heart soars and he thinks not only has he scored his first goal for England but he has scored in the World Cup, the most important tournament on the planet. What makes Sol happy? This is what makes him happy! The pleasure of it lapped sweetly at his mind. His name was in the history books, and this time, no-one could take it away. ‘The relief that I had actually scored for England was so powerful. I’d been waiting for that for a long time.’
The game eventually ended in a 1-1 draw. When he looked up at the scoreboard he felt a pang of regret that the team had not gone on to win. But in the World Cup, the cardinal rule is don’t lose your first game, so things weren’t so bad. There was a sense of relief that they were off and running. England had a great chance. Now it was on to Sapporo and a little matter of revenge.
• • •
Argentina 0 England 1, Group F, World Cup 2002, Sapporo Dome, 7 June 2002
Argentina: Cavallero, Pochettino, Samuel, Placente, Zanetti, Simeone, Veron (Aimar 45), Sorin, Ortega, Batistuta (Crespo 60), Gonzalez (Lopez 64). Subs Not Used: Almeyda, Ayala, Bonano, Burgos, Caniggia, Chamot, Gallardo, Husain, Lopez.
England: Seaman, Mills, Cole A, Ferdinand, Campbell, Beckham, Scholes, Butt, Hargreaves (Sinclair 19), Owen (Bridge 80), Heskey (Sheringham 56). Subs Not Used: Brown, Cole J, Dyer, Fowler, James, Keown, Martyn, Southgate, Vassell. Goals: Beckham (pen 44).
Attendance: 35,927. Referee: Pierluigi Collina.
Revenge is so sweet. England put the pain and hurt of St Etienne behind them with a stirring victory against their nemesis. And who better to score the winning goal than David Beckham? Michael Owen is tripped in the penalty area just before half-time and up steps the ‘villain’ of ’98 to shoot emphatically past Cavallero from the spot. Spirited defending by Campbell and Ferdinand and a series of outstanding saves from Seaman keep the Argentines at bay, and suddenly the so-called ‘Group of Death’ looks a lot easier.
‘When you put on that jersey, the name on the front is more important than the name on the back.’
From the film Miracle, 2004
It was on his mind, there was no denying it: the Argentines’ truculent behaviour on their team bus four years before. ‘We didn’t exactly go around talking to each other about it, but those of us who were there carried it inside; it was unspoken. There was certainly a feeling of revenge. And of course, it was Argentina that drummed up an assortment of emotions.’
The draw in the first match made the Argentina game even more important. The Argentinians held no fear for Sol. The philosophy of facing strong opposition is simple. There is no foregone conclusion in any game of sport. There can be no competition without competitors, right? For the team to win, there must be a team to beat. Simple, right? Good, let’s get on with it.
Sol and Rio Ferdinand were told to mark Batistuta. They did it well enough. He was substituted on the hour. Rio and Sol had forged a partnership that had grown stronger every time they played together. ‘We were both good readers of the game. Maybe it’s because we were both Londoners.’ Sol shrugs his shoulders. ‘I suppose it was,’ and goes in search of a word. ‘It was natural.’
The game began as if it was following straight on from the match four years before. Kily Gonzales had a wonderful chance but shot just wide from an exquisite set up from a Sorin backheel, and then Michael Owen broke free from a Nicky Butt long ball but hit the post. Beckham, minutes later, was virtually sliced in half but referee Pierluigi Collina played the advantage, only for the ball to fall to Michael Owen who was brought down in the box. Penalty! The guilty Argentinian shoos the bald referee away with the shake of his index finger but to no avail; Collina ignores his plea of innocence, and the ball is placed on the penalty spot.
Beckham steps forward for England. Who else? The captain. A world star. For God and country. These are the moments for the likes of him. He thinks about where he is going to strike the ball. So much strength and passion urging him to get it right. It comes from inside the stadium and from the other side of the world. A collective surge of spirit. He has to score and he does. Sol watches from just inside the Argentinian half, just in case the ball ricochets back and an attack is launched. ‘I watched the ball hit the middle of net.’ He then sprints over to the corner flag to join Beckham in celebration. One-nil to England. The main protagonists from the game four years earlier celebrate, if it’s possible, more than anyone else. To all those critics with such little faith: we are England and for a beautiful moment we are the best team in the world.
The final minutes of the game ended with the inevitable onslaught from the Argentines. England had the chance to wrap it up with a Scholes shot and a Sheringham volley but failed to do so. A last-minute clearance off the line from goalkeeper David Seaman confirmed it was England’s day. Many times that would have gone in, ruined everything, but this time it doesn’t. The final whistle goes. Sol is ecstatic. ‘We still had a chance to make the names on the pitch immortal. We were all beginning to believe.’ Dreams were merging into reality.
England drew their next game with Nigeria 0-0 in Osaka. They only needed a point and without much trouble they got it. It was a game that seemed to be played in a half-sleep. ‘We were getting tired. It wasn’t just the weather, it was what goes on in here.’ Sol points to his head. ‘These tournaments are such a psychological grind, every part of you is tested.’
The draw left England second in the group and into the last 16 to face Denmark. But already there were regrets, that if they had beaten Nigeria they could have avoided a potential match against Brazil in the quarter-finals – assuming the Brazilians beat the Belgians. They did, 2-0. As for England against Denmark in Niigata, Ferdinand scored early from a Beckham corner and then Owen made it two. The match commentator was delirious: ‘What an opportunity we have now!’ not quite believing that we were heading to the quarter-finals. England scored again and it was 3-0 at the final whistle. On to Brazil.
• • •
‘We were expecting Winston Churchill and instead got Iain Duncan Smith,’ Gareth Southgate is famously alleged to have said about Sven’s half-time team talk against the Brazilians. Sol says: ‘I don’t remember it being particularly inspiring but that wasn’t his [Sven’s] style. He sometimes took individuals to one side and gave them a talk but he certainly didn’t with me that day.’
It rained the day before the match. Everything had cooled. As Sol walked alone in the hotel grounds, he prayed it would rain again the following day, the day. He was not alone, the whole squad felt the same. It would help. Brazil on the other hand prayed for the opposite. Hot and stifling.
Sol slept well. The small beds had now been exchanged for larger ones at England’s home base. When the squad arrived in Japan, they found the hotel beds too small for the size of a typical English footballer. Replacement beds hadn’t come straightaway and there was frustration but now everything was prepared, well organised.
Sol spent the night before alone in his room following dinner. He kept himself to himself a lot of the time. He accepted the fact that he would never get on with everyone. Not in life. Not in the England squad. It just doesn’t happen that way. We are all different. Just because they happen to share a gift of being the best footballers in the land doesn’t mean you have to get on. Many will consider themselves at best incompatible with, at worst superior to others, so that disputes are unavoidable. For his time abroad, Sol did not ally himself to any group or involve himself in any conversation that engaged in trivial debate or controversy. Sounds tedious? Perhaps, but he was simply more comfortable in his own company. He didn’t play cards or play golf. He couldn’t get into PlayStation. Martin Keown was part of the squad and Sol spent time talking with him. He was disappointed that he wasn’t able to immerse himself in Japan’s culture and surroundings. But he still enjoyed his time there. He enjoyed his football. When fit, he always enjoyed the games and the training. That was his fun. Playing in the best competition in the world against the finest players; he felt flushed with the freshness and sense of anticipation. When you’re winning and playing well, it feels as if everything is under control.
Everything, of course, except the weather. As Sol woke the following morning and peered out of his window, he was greeted by blinding sunlight. The sky was as white as a shroud, which, as he watched, slowly turned blue. His heart sank. He knew that the heat would test the team.
The game at the Shizuoka stadium started well for England. Michael Owen scored in the 23rd minute, pouncing on Lucio’s mistake; a pickpocket in action. But Brazil equalised through Rivaldo, from a perfect ball by Ronaldinho, which Sol was unable to reach, just minutes before half-time. Rivaldo turned in celebration, taking off his blue shirt and swinging it around like a giant wheel, revealing a yellow vest, licking his lips and enjoying the taste of the blood of the Englishmen. Just before half-time is thought to be the worst period to let in a goal. The team can feel exactly how the supporters do: deflated. Sol walked back into the dressing room looking at the positives. He could see the team was rattled but by the time they came out for the second half, they would be ready again. The break would give them the chance to re-energise. Change the pendulum back in their direction. Remain calm. Forty-five minutes left. Anything could still happen.
There seems to be a miscomprehension about a manager’s team talk. The common belief is when a team walks in at half-time and they are losing when they should be winning, the truly great manager of the day will inspire the players with a coruscating speech. Sol doesn’t see it like that. ‘The manager’s team talk doesn’t really exist. Not one with words that can motivate us to win, not in my experience. Perhaps Keegan was the closest to that type of management. He spoke with passion. Wenger tended to let you relax when you first got into the dressing room. It isn’t his style to come in and start immediately to motivate. He would let the players deal with the physical side first, and then if we needed a ‘rocket’ would let us know just before we went out again. It would be measured and well timed, so that his words were still spinning in our ears as we returned to the pitch.’
There was no speech from Sven that day. He said his piece and the players had their say. The feeling was collective that they could still do it. They were an established team now; a group of players who knew how to motivate each other. They spoke the same language. The fifteen-minute break, instead of feeling like a good rest, felt more like a catnap. It felt as if someone had tampered with the official watch. It felt as if time had started to act strangely. But as the team trooped into the heat again, there wasn’t a player who didn’t believe that victory could be theirs.
In the second half, Brazil went ahead 2-1 from a free-kick by Ronaldinho. It was over forty yards from goal. It caught Seaman off his line and left the English goalkeeper back-peddling in disbelief. ‘It was a long way out,’ says Sol. ‘I don’t think he meant to do it.’ Whether he did or whether he didn’t, England had to come back from a goal behind. Their task was made easier by the sending off of Ronaldinho for a late tackle on Danny Mills, just before the hour. Mind you, by the time he’d left the field, it was more like 65 minutes. But after that, the game petered out and England were unable to make their one-man advantage count.
Surely we could have won, couldn’t we? We should have beaten Brazil, beaten Turkey in the semi-finals and then slaughtered Germany in the final. Hallelujah! England are world champs. The players’ names are immortalised. The country celebrates for another fifty years. Oh God, if only…If only.
In the dressing room after the game, Sol feels parched. He drinks litre after litre of water. He washes away his sweat, his body pleading for rest. There is no more time for dreams. He can’t see anything clearly at that moment. The disappointment is too great. He will only be able to truly register it when he returns to England, and catches the remaining games on the television. ‘You know what, looking back I don’t think we believed we could win,’ he says. ‘They were one man down and we still couldn’t push, we were flat, all our bodies were spent, we were knackered. Michael Owen was half-fit, we had too many players not a hundred per cent.’
‘Mind you,’ he says, nearly as an afterthought,’ if we had beaten Brazil, we would’ve been strong enough to play ten more games! Winning, more than anything else, gives you strength.’
• • •
Japan was in the past now. Could England put their hoodoo behind them and go the distance in the European Championships? They qualified for Euro 2004 in Portugal by topping their group one point ahead of Turkey. Sol played in four of the qualifying games, missing the others through injury.
But in the tournament itself, England gave a sigh of submission very early on. They lost their first game to France 2-1 in Lisbon after leading the game for 90 minutes. Zidane scored from a free-kick and, virtually with the last kick of the game, grabbed the winner from the penalty spot. The following match, England won 3-0 against Switzerland, with the night belonging to Everton’s Wayne Rooney, who scored twice and became the youngest player in European Championship history. ‘I’d put him in the same bracket as Paul Gascoigne,’ Sol says. Two years earlier, Rooney, still only sixteen, had been introduced to the county’s consciousness with a superb last-minute goal so cool, so unflustered, that it would skim past Sol’s right foot and end Arsenal’s 49-game unbeaten run. ‘It was an exquisite shot but I had no idea he was a revelation. I’ve seen other young players doing extraordinary things, score wonderful goals. That’s not the test. It’s whether you can repeat it again and again over a long period that proves your greatness.’ Rooney would score twice again in the last group game, England beating Croatia 4-2, the other goals scored by Scholes and Lampard. England progressed into the quarter-finals to face the favourites and hosts, Portugal.
Rooney, now the talisman of the England side and the media’s darling, walked off injured as early as the 27th minute in Lisbon. But England had gone ahead in three minutes, from a Michael Owen goal after he intercepted a back pass from Costinha. They held out for 80 minutes until Helder Postiga headed Portugal level, and the game looked as if it was going into extra-time. But not before we had another one of Sol’s ‘if only’s’. If only referee Urs Meier had given the goal scored by Sol in the last minute of the game. ‘It was an awful decision. Unjust. Worse than the disallowed goal against Argentina. If Portugal had scored, it would’ve been allowed. I have no doubt!’ John Terry was adjudged to have fouled the goalkeeper, and a free-kick was given rather than a place for England in the semi-finals of a very open tournament. Another disallowed goal marked down on Sol’s curriculum vitae and, once again, the prospect of being a national hero was snatched away.
In extra-time The Maestro, the attacking midfielder Rui Costa, scored the goal of the tournament, with a shot recorded at 91km/h. But Frank Lampard equalised five minutes later and the match was destined for penalties and yet another English disappointment. ‘When we lost, I truly felt I couldn’t go on like this. We had a very good team. We deserved to win. It felt as if a higher power had decided it wasn’t to be. It had begun to happen too often for me to disregard other forces.’
Beckham missed his penalty by launching the ball into the top tier that, if it were the theatre, would have been the perfect moment to pull out the opera glasses just to watch it dart by. England’s miss that decided the game was bestowed upon Aston Villa’s Darius Vassell. His penalty was saved by goalkeeper Ricardo who promptly got up to take one himself and score the winner for his country. The hosts eventually played Greece in the final. The Greeks won 1-0, heralding one of international football’s greatest upsets.
• • •
In October 2005, Sol won his 66th cap and earned himself a place in the top twenty most-capped England players. His caps since Euro 2004 had dropped off due to injury, and the emerging partnership of John Terry and Rio Ferdinand. By the time the 2006 World Cup squad was named, Sol was no longer first choice. He made an appearance though, as a substitute against Sweden.
After the tournament, Sven said his goodbyes to the squad. His resignation had been accepted before the competition. He shook Sol’s hand as they were about to board the flight home. Polite and comfortable, it was a civil goodbye. Little did either know then that they would be saying goodbye again five years later, but in a considerably different manner.
The process of finding a new England coach reached the heights of ineptitude. Promises of finding the best possible coach were acted out like a third-rate end of pier farce. The FA seemed hell-bent on pressing the self-destruct button. They initially chose Luiz Felipe Scolari but he quickly made it plain that they should look elsewhere. In the end they picked Eriksson’s coach, Steve McClaren. Sol was promptly dropped from the England setup, along with David Beckham and David James.
There was no phone call, not even a letter. There was no explanation as to why he was being dropped. ‘I got a text. ONE TEXT! That was all,’ Sol says angrily, and then retreats into hesitancy. ‘It just isn’t right to treat someone like that. Also, it was shortsighted. You never know when you might need the player again.’
England started to lose. McClaren’s team looked ineffective and unlikely to qualify for Euro 2008. The manager looked out of his depth. He was not ready for the job. The papers reported that McClaren was considering a recall for Sol. ‘I knew the newspaper stories were coming directly from McClaren. It’s how it works, a trickle of stories followed by a phone call.’ His mobile rang. He knew who it was, even before looking at the screen. He was hesitant. What should I do? Leave it? Let it ring forever? The way he was treated by McClaren made him feel like he was in one of those dungeons in which you can’t stand up or lie down. He felt incarcerated. Where were his good manners? Respect? It hurt. No-one knew how much.
His usual habit was to let calls go straight to voicemail. He thought for a moment and then reluctantly answered. It had taken McClaren a year to make the call.
‘Hello Sol, it’s Steve McClaren.’
‘Yes, yes, yes,’ Sol tutted down the phone while, half-sighing with his other voice.
He couldn’t refuse the call-up. It was his country, after all. Anyway, he was happy to be back. He loved playing for England. Even when he was on the bench, however excruciating it felt, he was proud again to be part of the squad. McClaren said to the press, ‘I always maintained that I was not closing the door on Sol. I know he won’t let England down and I am very pleased to welcome him back...’
He played four more times for his country. His last game was against Croatia, which England lost 3-2 at Wembley. England didn’t make the Euro finals and McClaren lost his job.
‘England dropped me,’ Sol says, miffed at the memory of his last years of international football. He believes he should have gone to South Africa in 2010. ‘I was angry and disappointed not to have been picked for the World Cup squad in South Africa. I was playing well enough on my return to Arsenal and yet [England manager] Capello chose Carragher, who said he’d retired from international football, and Ledley [King], who was injured most of the season, ahead of me.’
He used to bump into Fabio Capello. They lived in the same area of London and went to the same coffee bar, just below Sloane Square in Chelsea. They would always greet each other formally; a hello, and sometimes a shake of the hand. One morning, Capello was with his assistant Franco Baldini. Sol spoke one to one with Baldini, making it clear he’d like to be considered for the England squad to South Africa. ‘My form had been excellent for the last few months, I was getting better and I was getting stronger. I believed I was good enough to be picked. I wanted to make sure that they knew I was keen to be involved.’ Baldini listened. He said they’d heard rumours from Liverpool that Jamie Carragher was considering a return to international football after he’d announced his retirement in 2007. ‘There’s him and of course Ledley King is still keen to be part of the squad, even through his injuries.’ But he said that he would talk to Capello and see what could be done. He hurried away before his cappuccino got cold. It was one final aside before writing a loud ‘THE END’ and slamming the door on Sol’s international career forever.
Meanwhile Capello’s England tenure would last just two more years. He gave the visual impression that he couldn’t wait to get out of the country. His body language exuded a need to escape; he might as well have said: ‘The only worthwhile view of England is from the back window of a taxi heading for Heathrow!’
• • •
Sol ponders his entire England career with bicker and banter. From the moments before his debut against Hungary in 1996 to his tournament debut in Euro ’96 as substitute against Switzerland and Stuart Pearce yelling, ‘Get into your fucking position!!’ when he first got onto the pitch; on what he expected it to be like; on what it actually was like as a player; and now, in retirement, on how it should have been.
It is the ‘now’ he finds himself thinking about the most. The hushed gossip of a hundred half-conversations, the absence of cries of ‘Bravo!’, the FA seemingly nervous to acknowledge and applaud in the wrong place. What went wrong? ‘I’m acknowledged more around Europe than in my own country. It makes me sad. Maybe it’s the English way,’ he says. He finds it difficult when thinking of his international career to sit back, make himself comfortable and enjoy what he worked for and what was given back.
‘I believe if I was white, I would’ve been England captain for over ten years. It’s as simple as that,’ he says without emotion. ‘I think the FA wished I was white. I had the credibility, performance-wise, to be captain. I was consistently in the heart of the defence, and I was a club captain early on in my career.’ He thinks the FA decided they couldn’t have a black face fronting the full national side around the world on a regular basis. ‘It’s crazy!’ he says. ‘It’s an indictment [of them] and I don’t think it will change because they don’t want it to, and probably the majority of fans don’t want it either. It’s alright to have black captains and mixed race in the Under-18s and Under-21s, but not for the full national side. There is a ceiling and although no-one has ever said it, I believe it’s made of glass.’
He pauses. ‘Are there elements in the FA who are [intrinsically] racist? Is the FA always the leader of football it should be? Is the FA as pro-active as it should be, or does it simply react to something long after a situation has developed? I have my views and others will have theirs.’
Take for instance the comments of previous FA chairman Lord Triesman, who, after leaving his post in 2011, was heavily critical of English football’s governing body. ‘It is more likely if he was white that he would have captained England on more occasions. I don’t subscribe to the view that it [the FA] was consciously racist but I think there is an assumption of a type of person who should captain England.’ Having said that, he continues, ‘The team [selection] rests solely with the manager. I cannot remember anyone ever saying you should pick X or Y. Last time it happened was with Sir Alf Ramsey and he told the FA where to go. [In my time at the FA] I was a great enthusiast for Rio to captain England but it was Capello’s choice for Terry and I left it at that.’
Sol contrasts his feelings on his full England debut against Hungary with those on gaining his fiftieth cap. ‘I knew I was going to come on sometime during the game against Hungary. I was just waiting. But when I was told I was coming on, I felt so proud. What a feeling! I thought, this is what it’s all about. I’m playing for my country. I remember thinking of Lilleshall. I’d progressed from there to the first team. I’d gone through the whole system and here I was, taking my first steps as a full international picking up my first cap.’ He pauses and jumps ahead to when he won his fiftieth cap against Denmark in the 2002 World Cup in Japan. ‘Do you know, the FA planned no recognition for me when I won that cap? They had prepared nothing. I was hurt and, again, disappointed. I complained to someone in the FA, and only then did they give me a memento, a few weeks after the World Cup: a collage of photographs from all the games, with no frame.’
Sol can’t be angry. Instead he feels numb. He leans forward. ‘Michael Owen was made captain ahead of me. I thought: what is going on here? I couldn’t work out what was happening. The more caps I won, the further away I seemed to be pushed from becoming captain. I think the FA didn’t want me to have a voice. I played well, acted honourably on and off the field, but there was little recognition. Owen was a fantastic forward but nowhere near being a captain. It was embarrassing. I kept asking myself: what have I done?
‘I’ll say it again. I don’t fit the FA’s image of an England captain. I’d done enough to be captain. I’ve asked myself many times why I wasn’t. I keep coming up with the same answer. It was the colour of my skin. What’s the point of having a bridge you can’t access? I say, burn it, and build a new one so you can cross over. If I’m wrong, then I’m listening.’
