IT WASN’T THE MONEY that made me choose football: it was fun. And in those days clubs didn’t pay that much for a youth player.
The pleasure started at the tender age of four, when I was trying to kick a ball on behalf of local football club EHC. Here, on the green and pleasant acres where ‘Mr Fortuna’ René Maessen started his career, people quickly noticed how talented I was. Not to boast too much, but I was so good I ended up in teams one age group above mine. On my players’ card they simply changed ‘1976’, my year of birth, to ‘1975’. Nobody would ask any questions. If opponents wondered why I was so much smaller than the rest of my teammates, we would tell them it was due to stunted growth. ‘Poor little guy, just leave him alone. It’s hard enough being so small.’
Once again, my talent was genetic. And as with billiards, it was all thanks to Granddad. He had been a football player himself – and a good one. In 1950, four years before professional football was introduced into the Netherlands, he even won the League when he played for Limburgia. They had faced Ajax in a play-off at the Olympic Stadium in Amsterdam and annihilated them 6–0. Granddad often told me what a fantastic afternoon it had been, with 60,000 spectators in the ground.
That became my dream. I wanted to be a champion too, just like him. I wanted to win trophies – be the best. The problem was, I didn’t just have that dream when I was in bed, I had it on the pitch too! My lack of concentration became notorious. Out of desperation, the coaches put me in the position where I could do the least damage. That’s how I became a right-back.
I loved it, because it meant I was always close to my mother who attended every game and would warn me as soon as the ball was coming my way!
I was always focused on something else. Watching the birds – real ones, at that age – or fiddling with the label in my collar. I kept touching the bloody thing, over and over again. It almost drove my mother insane. She would yell at me: ‘Nando, watch out! The ball’s coming towards you!’
It took me no more than a split second to change from dreamer into hunter. And within the blink of an eye I had that same ball on my feet.
Well, after all I was a talent!
It turned into a pattern. Right after I’d kicked the ball away, the dreaming would start again. I would stop running and start playing with that damn label again. I didn’t have a clue what was happening at the other end of the pitch. Not interested.
I wasn’t alone though. Lots of my teammates were absent-minded a lot of the time. The big difference was that while they were still dreaming when they were in possession of that pumped-up piece of leather, I wasn’t. As soon as I had the ball, I knew what to do. First thing being: not losing it to an opponent.
Not everyone appreciated it. I remember one little bloke walking towards my mum, in tears. I knew the guy. He was a friend of mine, despite the fact that he was playing for another club. That’s why I didn’t understand the tears. What had I done to him? I wouldn’t kick him!
‘Please, Mrs Ricksen ...’ he sobbed. ‘Please ask Nando to let me go past him just once!’
I sympathised. Being a left-winger he was a pretty good dribbler, but I worked him out quite easily. Over and over again. So I blocked him every bloody time. After all, that was my job: to defend. He, on the other hand, wanted to enjoy the pleasure of running into the box and sending the ball towards the goal. At least once. Hence his plaintive request to my mother.
I didn’t want any of it. Loved the guy, really, but he had to learn that defenders don’t give presents to forwards. Ambitious defenders, that is. And I was ambitious. I wanted to become the best defender in, well, the world. So no sentimental drivel, please. I was working on my future here. If he wanted to go past me with that ball, he’d have to invent some good tricks. Like any good forward. Otherwise, try your luck at netball, mate.
In 1986, at the age of ten – or eleven, as it was known at EHC – I went to a Catholic club named RKONS. They were located in the southern town of Landgraaf, home of the annual Pinkpop festival. At RKONS, I was turned into a midfielder. That didn’t do me any harm. On the contrary: it made me tougher, stronger, more confident.
The move from EHC to RKONS was because my parents had taken over a pub in Landgraaf. Yes, a pub! And I loved it.
The place became my living room. I mingled with the clientele, and sometimes even assisted as the place got crowded. Pedro and I collected empty glasses and rinsed them behind the bar. It was great fun. I went here, there and everywhere on a night like that – it was like being on the pitch.
Not a single empty glass escaped my notice. Later, I would swap them for full ones, of course, but not at that time. Not yet.
Ten years old, and already I was ‘The Man’ at the local pub. Walking around with an enormous stack of empty glasses, being noticed by everybody, I loved the attention, I can tell you.
Apart from the fun – and the added bonus of staying up late – it was profitable too. Every single evening we collected empty glasses we were rewarded with a handful of guilders, money that we used to spend the next day at the local toy shop. Pedro and I would buy cheap plastic shit, which was usually broken within hours.
Sadly, it lasted no longer than a year. Because my mother struggled to combine working in the pub with raising two little boys, my parents had to sell the place. And off we went, back to Little Chicago.
In the meantime, a small part of my dream had come true: I was playing for a professional football club. As a youngster, obviously, but still. I was a member of Roda JC’s youth squad, and damn proud of it. For a boy from Limburg, more precisely this boy from Limburg, there were only two clubs that mattered: Roda JC and Fortuna Sittard. The other two professional ones, MVV and VVV, I couldn’t care less about. So when, in 1988, a Roda scout approached my mother about me, I didn’t have to think twice. Neither did she. The mighty PSV was interested too, but Mum didn’t like the idea of me moving all the way to Eindhoven. I was too young, in her opinion. Well, bless her, I was happy with Roda too. It seemed to be the perfect first step on the ladder. All of a sudden I had to train four times a week instead of two, as was the case with RKONS, but that wasn’t a big deal. If I wanted to make it, I would have to toughen up. Actually, I thought it was pretty cool: four training sessions a week.
As clubs weren’t allowed to buy youth players from competitors, Fortuna Sittard didn’t approach me any more, although I heard they were very interested in me. Tough luck, they simply had to wait ... for a phone call from me, for instance.
And you won’t be surprised to hear that the phone call came, right after the umpteenth argument with my coach Hans Fischer. I’d had enough and I wanted to go, the sooner the better. What a lousy coach he was! Couldn’t teach me anything, with his ridiculously basic exercises. Hardly any of his youngsters have broken through on a national level. Enough said.
The thought of not being able to find a club any more never crossed my mind. Full of confidence I called Fred van Barneveld, youth coordinator at Fortuna Sittard, and explained the situation. I told him how much I wanted to play for Fortuna and how important it would be for my career. I wasn’t making any progress at Roda, thanks to the crappy training. All they wanted me to do was ‘kick and rush’ – ideal for a football club in Britain maybe, but not for a Dutch team, and especially not for a youngster in a Dutch team. I was eager to learn, so give me something worthwhile to learn!
Fred totally agreed.
Unlike at Kaalheide, Roda’s stadium, there was a lot of focus on young players within the walls of Fortuna’s ground, De Baandert. As was reported by Mark van Bommel – much later of PSV and Barcelona fame – who was my teammate in the regional youth squad, he kept asking me ‘Why don’t you come and play with us?’ In fact, he posed the question so often I began to think he was taking me for a ride. So I stayed with Roda. In general I liked it there. And I was doing well, scoring about four goals per game! I was so good I was promoted to a higher age group again. So I felt like the King of Kerkrade. Well, not quite, but there certainly wasn’t any lack of self-confidence!
All went well until about 1992. Around that time it occurred to me that the youth division was something of a necessary evil. They simply didn’t care about us. For instance, we never got a chance in the main squad. Nol Hendriks, the wealthy owner of the club, preferred to buy new players rather than try out a few of his own youngsters. All he did was buy. And sell, of course; this banker loved to make a profit. At one point he even wanted to get rid of the entire youth department. Well, that about sums him up!
So, after one more of Mr Fischer’s tricks – he didn’t let me play with the older guys and at the same time refused to put me back into my own age group – I decided I’d had it with Roda. It was time to move on.
Fortuna were very happy when I called. Nevertheless, I had to play a few test matches. A formality. The games were part of a tournament somewhere in Limburg. And guess what? I won Player of the Tournament!
Now, I don’t want to sound big-headed, but it didn’t come as a surprise to me. Back then, I was already a member of the national youth team. With the famous orange shirt around my shoulders, I more than once ended up being one of the best players of the lot. No arrogance here, honest! Just facts.
I was sixteen when I signed my first contract with Fortuna. I earned 750 guilders with it and was over the moon. Two years later my youth contract was changed into a real one. I remember my mum and dad getting emotional when I told them the news.
I was a professional football player!
Despite my happiness, I kept my cool. There was a bigger goal to achieve, so I had to stay focused. Okay, it was wonderful to be able to earn money with my hobby, but I had to be aware of the fact that I’d just started to realise my dream. It was only the beginning. The hundreds of guilders I got were great, but it wasn’t the Big Money I dreamed of. Yet.
Two other guys signed their first contract on the same day as me: Mark van Bommel and André van der Zander. The club put on a bit of a show, with the three of us signing a piece of paper on a table that was placed on the pitch. We felt like real professionals, proud of the beautiful yellow and green Fortuna shirt we were wearing. It was a magic moment.
‘BELOFTEN BLIJVEN IN BAANDERT’ was the alliterative headline in the newspaper. It meant that the club had contracted three of its most promising players.
My mother showed the clipping to everyone. She was so proud of me – and the fact that they’d finally managed to spell my name correctly. In the past, it had often been ‘Riksen’, or ‘Hernando’. Not this time. At last, Fernando Ricksen had made the news!
To me, being signed by Fortuna was an enormous relief. It was great to have everyone in a major football club showing confidence in you ... Well, everyone except head coach Chris Dekker.
He kept telling me that I was still a rookie, that it would be a long, long time before I’d really be of significance to the club, and that I may have to reach the age of 25 before I’d become a full-blown member of the first team.
I was flabbergasted. Was this the same man from the picture in the newspaper? The man who was standing behind me, grinning, while I was signing the contract? If he had any doubts, why did he give me a contract in the first place?
I didn’t want any of this, so I told him, ‘Tough luck if I have to wait that long. Tough luck – for you! You see, I work according to a schedule, my own schedule. It says: two more years at Fortuna and then my debut in the Dutch national team. Way before I turn 25!’
He laughed, thought I was joking.
But I wasn’t. I was dead serious.
When I told him that, he laughed even louder. ‘Forget about that, son,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘You’ll never reach that far.’
When I noticed he wasn’t joking either, I turned around and walked away, with my dad. It was useless talking to this man any longer. He simply didn’t get it.
Didn’t he know who he was dealing with? I was Fernando Ricksen, one of the biggest rising stars in the area. PSV wanted me, and so did Anderlecht. They recognised the fighter inside of me, the battler who would do almost anything to reach his goal.
‘I’ll get back to you when I’m 25!’ Famous last words before I left Mr Dekker’s office.
And, boy, did I prove him wrong! I was 24 when I made my debut in the Orange team, in an away game against Spain. I’ve never seen Dekker since then, which is a pity, as I’d loved to have seen his face!
I felt fantastic in my first days at Fortuna, hence my behaviour as a cocky show-off in Dekker’s office. My many goals and assists were – what can I say? – mouth-watering. As a midfielder I scored about as many goals as a good centre-forward!
In all honesty it was all thanks to the amazing team I was in. Mark van Bommel, little Bart Meulenberg, Ronald Dassen, Ivo Pfennings, Freek de Winter and André van der Zander were top-class players and lots of them would end up in the first team. We were an amazing youth brigade, and together with our coaches John Walstock, Henk Duut and Cor Brom (a former head coach at Ajax) we lost just one game that season. Undisputed champions!
We were not just teammates, we were mates full stop. Friends, pals. Went to each other’s birthdays. Downed our first pints of lager together. Glorious days, great memories.
Of the eighteen members of the squad, a mere sixteen went into town together on a Saturday night. No team building required – we were a team already!
Most of the time we went to the Peppermill, a big nightclub in Heerlen, right on the border with Germany. We had a ball there, drinking beer and staring at chicks from the side – we never set foot on the dance floor. In our opinion, dancing was uncool.
Mind you, we didn’t have to chase the girls. As soon as they found out we were Fortuna players – and I confess we didn’t exactly hide the fact – they were chasing us! But, with some of the other guys and myself already having girlfriends, we made a pact: whatever happens in the Peppermill stays in the Peppermill!
And that is exactly what happened. Nobody ever broke our deal, no matter how juicy the goings-on. So my beloved Desiree, who sent me one hand-written love letter after the other, never found out anything.
Mark, André and me were the first ones to make it into the main squad. We were just a bit better than the rest, especially André who could run like a racehorse. I always thought it was strange that, unlike Mark and me, he never really made it to the top. After three years of struggling at Fortuna, he went to Germany and ended up playing for clubs like Germania Teveren. What a waste.
And there are more examples of talented players who never achieved fame and fortune. Take, for instance, Rik Platvoet, whose surname funnily enough means ‘Flatfoot’. He was centre-forward in various national youth teams and, my God, the boy could score! He was so good he kept Patrick Kluivert out of the team. That was until Kluivert, Ajax’s greatest talent in decades, started to build some muscle. Only then could he take the place of Rik Platvoet, of whom we haven’t heard much since. While Kluivert became a star at Ajax and Barcelona, Platvoet’s CV includes names like Heracles, MVV, Emmen and VVV. Nice clubs for an average player, but Rik Platvoet was no average player.
Still, André and Rik are exceptions. Most of the time, somebody who has ‘world class player’ written all over him lives up to the expectations. Like, for instance, Clarence Seedorf. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I had a shower with him after an under-16s match. Those legs! Concrete! And a six-pack to end all six-packs, un-be-liev-able!
He had the body of an adult, not that of a fifteen-year-old boy. Well, to be honest, he was an adult, both physically and mentally. I knew it: this guy was going to make it big time. I was 100 per cent sure – no, make that 100,000 per cent! Anyone could see it. The way he walked, the way he kicked a ball – one in a million was our Clarence.
Mark was ahead of his years too. So I wasn’t surprised that, later on, he conquered the world with PSV, Barcelona, Bayern Munich and AC Milan. The guy won titles in Holland, Spain, Germany and Italy! All thanks to his character. Mark really lived for his sport. He was dead serious, always. Never went on the piss. His mind was always set on football. The perfect prof. Never met anyone like him.
He was the best player to come out of Limburg. Playing at number 10, as Jari Litmanen did with Ajax, nobody could get near him. Later in his career he moved towards the back of the field. That’s where and how he became a superstar. But initially he was up front, with his curly hair and juvenile moustache. With his length and strength he brought us victory – more than once.
And I know it may sound strange for those of you who are familiar with his career, but in the early years he never kicked an opponent. On the contrary: at Fortuna he was always on the wrong end of the studs. He was never vengeful after being kicked, because he knew there was somebody who would do that for him.
Yup, that Ricksen guy.
I always took revenge on Mark’s behalf. More than once this habit had me suspended, but I didn’t care. It was all part of the deal.
For Mark this was an ideal situation. I used to ‘correct’ those thugs so bloody hard that they thought twice before they touched Mark again, and this meant he was free to do what he did best: playing football fluently. In this way, something nice came out of most of my passes to him.
The two of us became like a well-oiled machine. He was the artist; I was the labourer. My job in the shadows was to make him shine. It was as simple as that. And I liked it that way. It was how, in the past, a man like Jan Wouters always operated next to key figures such as Marco van Basten and Ruud Gullit.
Acting like that, Wouters was at his best. And so was I.