Full Time: The Secret Life of Tony Cascarino

Doubt, it seems to me, is the central condition of a human being in the twentieth century.

The drive to Luxemburg takes seventy-five minutes. I find a space in the long-term car park, button my coat against the cold and make the short walk to the Luxair desk in the departures hall. A couple of businessmen travelling to Manchester for the day are standing in a queue. After checking in, I proceed directly to the departures hall and hand my passport and boarding pass to the stern-looking officer at the control. He flicks the passport open, glances at my face and checks it against the photograph inside. Although I have terrorized the odd defence in my time and was once captured by a Scottish photographer in the car park at Celtic with a balaclava on, I have never been a member of an illegal organization, but I am often subjected to scrutiny at border control. It’s the details they find confusing. I can tell sometimes when they check my passport that they can’t join the dots . . .

Can an English-born Italian with an Irish passport travelling to Ireland via England really be that confusing? Well, maybe just a bit.

It is Thursday, 11 November. After a short stop in Manchester, it is just after midday when the flight lands in Dublin. Not much confusion as to my identity here; people nod and wave as I make my way to the baggage hall. I collect my bag from the belt, sling it across my shoulder and exit via the blue channel at customs control. Anything to declare? Not much . . .

1 set of car keys

1 passport

1 wallet

1 mobile phone + charger

1 toilet bag

4 team-issue Umbro T-shirts.

2 pairs of Adidas football (moulded and studs) boots

1 pair of shin pads

1 team-issue Umbro track suit

4 pairs of socks

4 pairs of pants

1 magazine (FHM) purchased at Manchester airport.

1 book (The Guv’nor by Lenny McLean)

The Posthouse Hotel is a mile at most from the terminal. There was a time, not so long ago, when I’d take a taxi or call the shuttle, but lately I prefer to make the journey on foot. A sharp breeze catches my breath as I exit the terminal. I turn right past the taxi rank and walk against the traffic towards the big sweeping bend, where the friendly face of a former team mate stirs the memory as I turn for home. I glance towards the hotel and the bedroom we once shared and the spirit of Andy Townsend is chastizing me from the window: ‘Oi! It’s only a fiver by taxi, you tight git!’ I smile and look again but he is gone.

The absence of the coach from the car park tells me the team are still training. I collect my key from reception and descend to my room, which looks as if it has just been burgled. Niall Quinn’s fingerprints are everywhere. The Sunderland striker has had the run of the place since Monday when, normally, I should have joined the team, but I’ve been struggling with my knee of late and Nancy wouldn’t release me until after we’d played (and lost) last night’s game to Monaco. I thread my way through the debris and decide to freshen up with a bath when Niall returns from training.

‘Well, if it isn’t the superstar,’ he smiles. ‘Don’t mind the rest of us – you just turn up whenever you like.’ We shake hands and chat for a while about the team and exchange gossip about Nancy and Sunderland. He tells me he has picked up a slight strain in his neck.

How can a man called Tony Cascarino play football for the Republic of Ireland? Good question. Ask the punters at Stamford Bridge and they’ll say, ‘Well, ’e wasn’t going to play for Italy, now, was he?’ A touch cruel perhaps, but undeniably true. I did qualify to play for Italy but then I qualified to play for England and Scotland as well. Why did I choose the Republic of Ireland? Well, to be honest, I suppose because they chose me. I qualified for the team in 1985 under the ‘grandparents’ rule. My mother, Theresa O’Malley, was the youngest of four daughters born to Agnes and Michael Joseph O’Malley, a native of Westport, County Mayo, who emigrated to London in his teens. Because we were closer to the O’Malleys than the Cascarinos, I grew up with a strong sense of ‘Irishness’ and got to know Michael quite well when he came to live with us for a few years after Agnes passed away. He was old and almost blind. An earpiece connected to the radio was his umbilical cord to the outside world and time. Every day, when the news was announced at 12.30 p.m., he’d look at his watch and say ‘Oh, it’s twelve-thirty. Sure we’ll go and have a black and tan,’ and I’d escort him to our local, the Bull. He died in 1982, three years before I made my début for the Republic. Sometimes, I wonder what he would have made of it all . . .

Chris Byrne calls at the hotel in the afternoon and I join him in the lobby for a drink. Chris is from Dublin and works for Aer Lingus and has been a friend for years. We chat about the game and the mood among the fans and he informs me I’ve been getting a lot of stick from the press. I smile and pretend to shrug it off but I have always been sensitive to criticism and it stings like a festering sore for the rest of the evening. Two years have passed since my last international goal for Ireland; I was a ‘wonderful servant to the team’ then, ‘a faithful old warrior still prepared to give his all’, but the tide has been turning slowly ever since. It’s the little things you notice: the kids running past you with autograph books; the look you get sometimes after a bad result; talk radio shows you just happen to tune into . . .

‘We’ve got John from Mullingar on the line. John, you want to make a point about Tony Cascarino?’

‘Yes, thanks, Des. I just thought he was a disgrace against Croatia, a complete waste of time! I can’t understand why McCarthy has brought him in again.’

And the case for the defence? Well, beyond the fact that I am thirty-seven years old and still trying my best, there is none. Two years ago, I was on the verge of retiring from international football after we just failed to qualify for France ’98 but I decided to keep going when Ireland’s manager Mick McCarthy asked me to think about it. Still rebuilding after the Jack Charlton years, he didn’t have another big centre forward to call on and needed a standby targetman for Niall Quinn. I’ve won twelve caps since and come off the bench for ten of them but haven’t complained. Physically, I can’t do it for ninety minutes any more – I play these days in fits and spurts. And maybe I was wrong to hang on and should have let go but I am one goal short of the all-time scoring record, and, like the boxer who passes his sell-by date, you always think you can do it one more time. But I won’t this time. This week, we play Turkey at Lansdowne Road and again four days later in Bursa, to decide who gets to travel to the European Championships next summer. Win, lose or draw, I won’t be travelling with them. John from Mullingar can sleep easily. This is my last week with the team.

I wake at eight on the morning of the game, splash some water on my face and tiptoe out of the room. Niall is sleeping; Niall is always sleeping; Niall sleeps more than anyone I’ve ever known. I joke sometimes that rooming with him is like rooming with a big baby. ‘Right, Niall, I’ll change your nappy and give you your bottle and put you down and then feed you again first thing in the morning.’ It’s a notion that always makes him laugh, but it’s true.

The breakfast room is deserted except for Mick Byrne, the team physio; Charlie O’Leary, the team kit man; Tony Hickey, the team bodyguard; Ian Evans, the assistant team manager; and Alan McLoughlin, the only player up. It’s funny, but I must have breakfasted with Alan on every morning of every trip since he joined the squad nine years ago. And yet, despite the fact that we are both early risers and ideally suited, we’ve never shared a room. When reminded of this, he jokes that we will have to set it right next time, knowing that there may not be a next time. If we don’t beat Turkey, Alan also intends to call it a day.

After breakfast, we sit and chat and scan the morning papers. A massive earthquake measuring 7.2 on the Richter scale has rocked north-west Turkey, killing hundreds . . . Andrea Curry, an Irish aid volunteer, has died in a plane crash near Kosovo . . . The IRA has set a deadline to hand over some weapons . . . the popstar Gary Glitter has been jailed for four months for downloading child pornography on the Internet . . . the singer Shane Lynch of Boyzone is in trouble with the National Parents Association for swearing at the MTV awards . . . and Mick McCarthy has named his team for the big game at Lansdowne Road: Alan Kelly, Stephen Carr, Gary Breen, Kenny Cunningham, Denis Irwin, Rory Delap, Lee Carsley, Roy Keane, Kevin Kilbane, Niall Quinn and Robbie Keane. I am listed among the subs. Mark Lawrenson, whose column in the Irish Times I always read, thinks it a positive selection: ‘If Kilbane can get forward and Delap can leave space for Carr, the visitors can be put under serious pressure out on the flanks. If that happens Niall Quinn, who is playing as well these days as I have ever seen him play, can be even more of a problem for the Turks.’ All a little too highbrow for the tabloids, who, predictably, see the game as a simple case of ‘stuffing the turkey’.

After two hours of lounging over breakfast, at half-past ten I return to the room where, no great surprise, Niall is still sleeping. I pull the curtains, fart and make a few loud noises: ‘Look at the state of you! What are you like!’ He twists and groans but dozes off again. Finally, there is nothing for it but to switch on the telly and give him a prod: ‘Come on, Rip Van Winkle, you big fat bastard. Ireland is depending on you tonight!’ He opens his eyes and grins and dozes until eleven, when he begins his day with a long, hot, soak in the bath.

Before lunch, we board the coach and drive to the beach at Malahide for the traditional match-day stroll. We split up into twos and threes, and I join up with Roy Keane and enquire about the latest dressing-room gossip from the most famous club in the world, Manchester United. He smiles and suggests I’ve come to the wrong man. ‘My problem,’ he says, ‘is that I can never remember who I’m not talking to; I have a go at so many people during games that I can never remember next day who I’m not talking to. And who’s not talking to me.’ I laugh and shake my head; typical Roy.

I first got to know Roy on a trip to Boston, just after he’d made his international début in 1991. It was at a time when Jack Charlton was God in Ireland and the team was at its height. We played the USA in a friendly and drew 1–1 and then hit the town, where a great night was had by all until the alarm call next morning. Some didn’t go to bed. Shattered and dishevelled, we crawled on to the coach in various states of undress. A 7.30 a.m. departure was delayed until 7.45 a.m. and then 8.00 a.m., when everyone was accounted for except Roy. Jack was seething and immediately dispatched Mick Byrne to try and locate him. ‘Fucking hell! Nineteen years old, his first trip away and he is nowhere to be found!’ Ten minutes later, when he finally arrived, Jack went for him. ‘Where the fuck have you been? Do you have any idea how long we’ve been waiting?’ It was an absolute savaging but Roy didn’t blink: ‘I didn’t ask you to wait, did I?’ And that was it. End of confrontation. He walked straight by and sat down. We couldn’t believe it. No one stood up to Jack like that! It was incredible. We were absolutely pissing ourselves. Thankfully, he has matured a great deal since, although it’s still quite easy to form the wrong impression of Roy. He demands a lot on the field and can be abrasive and difficult to play with when you don’t measure up to his standards, but he’s a very bright fellow and has a good sense of humour when you get to know him. Not that I would ever claim to know him. The only people who really know Roy Keane are his family in Cork, but we have always got on well.

‘Have you made any decision about your contract yet?’ I ask. ‘Are you going to sign?’

‘Naah,’ he says. ‘I’m just taking each game as it comes for the moment. I’ve left all the negotiating to Michael Kennedy [his solicitor]. What about you? Are you going to play for another year?’

‘I’m not sure. I don’t want to, but I haven’t a clue what I’ll do if I stop. I’m just playing every game as if it was my last.’

We return to the hotel for lunch and retire to our rooms for the afternoon. After a few games of cards, I leave Niall to his afternoon nap and tour the other rooms in desperation for a chat but everyone is either reading or sleeping or watching telly, so I end up in the physio’s room with Mick Byrne and Charlie O’Leary. Charlie throws me a Snickers and suggests a cup of tea. Mick invites me to take a seat.

‘The game, of course! I dreamt it was 0–0 in the eighty-eighth minute and things were looking desperate for us. Denis wins the ball just inside our half, plays a one-two with Roy and races down the wing to the byline, where he delivers this beautiful cross. The Turks have pulled everyone back to secure the vital draw but despite being heavily outnumbered, one green shirt climbs high above the sea of red and heads majestically into the net! Well, the crowd go absolutely berserk. The player races to acknowledge the roar but is engulfed by a group of stewards who have ecstatically abandoned their posts . . .’ He pauses and fixes me with a grin. ‘You’ll never guess who the player was,’ he says.

The day runs smoothly until just before the pre-match meal, when I bump into Packie Bonner in the corridor. Packie, a friend and former team mate, is a member of the coaching staff.

‘No, we’ve just had him down with Martin [the team doctor, Martin Walsh]. They’re talking about a painkiller before the game.’

I continue on towards the dining room but feel the blood draining from my face. I think, ‘Oh shit! I might be playing this game,’ and within two seconds, the little voice is in my head . . .

‘Of course I want to play. I was out of bed at six the other morning to drive to Luxemburg; I’ll be chewing anti-inflammatories for a week for this team! Why would I inflict that on myself if I didn’t want to play?’

‘No, you’re right, I wouldn’t. In fact, I can’t think of any self-respecting professional anywhere in the world who would think what you’ve just thought!’

‘I didn’t mean it like that . . . Look . . . Niall Quinn has been my direct rival on this team for the last fourteen years and although he has been the preferred choice for most of that time, I never considered myself inferior to him and always believed I could do as good a job for Ireland until last year, when for the first time ever I travelled to Dublin hoping I’d be named as a sub.’

‘I’d gone. I’d lost it. I’d started the season well with Nancy and was still training hard but the years had finally caught up with me and I didn’t want to let anyone in Ireland down. Niall is four years younger than me and playing better than ever. I’m happy to stay involved but in a supporting role.’

Think positive? Not me. I think negative. I have always been a negative person. I have always thought negative thoughts. For as long as I can remember, there has been a little voice in my head that highlights my weaknesses and undermines my confidence.

When it comes to the art of shooting oneself in the foot, I have always been world class. I think too much during the games. Most players analyse performance after a game; not me: I do it all the wrong way – I think about how I’m playing as I play. Three bad passes and I’m glancing at the touchline . . .

I’ve scored and played brilliantly one week and gone out and been awful the next, purely because some negative thought has hijacked me. I’ve tried to change and purge the doubt but it has always been in there, always been part of me. It was Graham Taylor at Aston Villa who noticed it first. He didn’t know me from Adam when he signed me from Millwall, but within a few weeks he had identified my weakness. ‘I want you to see a sports psychologist,’ he said, one morning after training. ‘You should be much more confident about who you are and what you want to be. I can’t believe you’re so negative in your approach.’ A few weeks later he was offered the England job and I never followed it up. Would ‘therapy’ have made a difference? Perhaps, but I was quite immature at the time and wouldn’t have been prepared to open up. We all know what happens in the psychiatrist’s chair. Tell me about your childhood. What sort of a man was your dad? Tell me about the voice and when you first heard it. The prodding and probing of the secret corners; the paring away of the layers until your vulnerability is exposed . . .

We leave the hotel at six. A police escort speeds our passage through the streets, which are humming with the buzz of the game and Saturday night fever. I sit, gazing out of the window of the coach as we drive to the ground, struck, as always, by the silence, and reminded of the opening scene of Saving Private Ryan and the tension on the boats as they sped toward the beaches. As we approach Lansdowne Road, a large group of supporters have gathered outside the Shelbourne House and raise their pints in salute as we pass, unaware of our private fear and how lucky they are. Superstitious, I choose my usual spot in the corner of the dressing room and change in the usual order – shorts, shirt, socks, boots, shin pads. Charlie has hung a number twelve shirt on my peg; I change and follow Denis Irwin on to the pitch for the warm-up. Normally, when a substitute, I am relaxed before a game, but today, since my brief encounter with Packie, I’ve been agitated and unable to concentrate. Niall’s neck has been dominating my thoughts. Painkilling injections before a game have never worked for me; you take them in the hope that the discomfort will clear with the first surge of adrenaline but it rarely does. I watch for his emergence from the dressing room and analyse his every step during our warm-up routine. It is obvious he isn’t right.

He disappears down the tunnel to get ready; I follow a few minutes later and find an anxious Mick McCarthy waiting at the door. The manager has also been observing Niall during the warm-up: ‘Get yourself out there, quick,’ he orders. ‘You’re playing. Change your shirt.’ There are five minutes to kick-off. My head begins to panic . . .

My heart begins to race. I rip the twelve shirt from my back and look instinctively to the peg for the nine but the peg is bare – Niall hasn’t taken it off. I cross the room and find him sitting with his head between his hands, staring dejectedly at the tiles. Unsure how to ask for the shirt from his back, I fidget awkwardly for a moment in front of him until at last he senses my presence: ‘Oh yeah . . . Jeeze . . . sorry, Cas.’ He hands me the shirt and I slip it quickly over my head and join the rest of the team in the tunnel. We walk on to the pitch to a deafening roar from the crowd and as the national anthems are played, I drill myself to be positive and to really give it a shout. When the game begins we make a good positive start. Kevin Kilbane goes close with a couple of fine efforts and we are lifted by the reaction of the crowd. Just before half-time, Stephen Carr whips over a free kick from the right and the ball is knocked down for me by Gary Breen. For a moment, just a moment, the target opens before me like a rerun of Mick Byrne’s dream. I catch the ball sweetly on the half-volley and believe I am about to score, but the goalkeeper’s reaction is sensational and he deflects the shot away. And then the voice is back again. That one missed chance is enough to set him off . . .

‘So are the crowd! What an atmosphere! They would have really lifted the roof had that gone in.’

‘We both know your legs have gone and that you’re going to start playing absolutely shit.’

‘Oh, come on, Tony, how long have we been having these conversations? McCarthy will have you off in a minute. I can see Dave Connolly warming up as we speak.’

‘No, not tonight. I’m going for the record. I’m going out with a bang.’

‘A bang! Dear oh dear . . . when’s the last time you made a bang for Ireland, Tony? How long is it since you’ve scored an international goal?’

‘OK, but this is my last game at Lansdowne Road. I owe it to the people of Ireland to run my legs into the ground.’

‘The people of Ireland. Don’t make me laugh! What would the people of Ireland think if they knew Theresa’s secret?’

‘The Monaco game on Wednesday . . . the travel . . . your knee . . . it’s starting to take its toll, isn’t it?’

‘And don’t tell me you didn’t notice the collective groan from the crowd when they heard you were replacing Niall?’

‘Admit it, mate, it was a terrible mistake to keep playing. The papers will murder you tomorrow. You should have bowed out gracefully with Andy and Ray Houghton two years ago.’

Mick McCarthy calls me to the touchline after seventy-five minutes. The game finishes 1–1.

Chapter Two

Little Voice