Full Time: The Secret Life of Tony Cascarino

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

– Dylan Thomas, ‘Do not go gentle into that good night’

You cannot beat a good right hander.

– Lenny McLean, The Guv’nor

Although we damage our knees and bruise our toes and tear the odd muscle from time to time, nothing hurts as much in football as the truth. It’s like being caught offside. On the morning after the drawn game with Turkey, there are linesmen with raised flags everywhere, highlighting what I have known deep down for some time. First there is a brief exchange between Mick McCarthy and Niall I happen to overhear – ‘You’ve fucking got to be fit, Niall, we need you’ – and then, the reviews in the morning papers:

The omens were not good when Ireland suffered a disastrous late withdrawal, when Niall Quinn cried off approaching kick-off time with a neck injury. His fitness will be monitored closely before Wednesday. He was replaced last night by Tony Cascarino, still a crowd favourite at Lansdowne Road, but nothing like as mobile or as effective as the Sunderland striker. Up against the determined Turkish number five, Ozalan Alpay, Cascarino failed to make much of an impression. Sunday Tribune

Cascarino: two moments in the first half apart, he was anonymous. Off the pace and unable to compete with the peerless Alpay in the air, he showed once more that his international career should have been ended long since. Sunday Times

Battled as hard as he could as a late replacement for the injured Niall Quinn but bar a first-half shot offered no threat to the Turks. Rating 7. Ireland on Sunday

Came in at the last minute when Niall Quinn’s neck injury failed to clear up. Couldn’t get enough power or direction on a Kilbane free but was later denied by a brilliant save when he connected with a Breen knockdown. Ran out of steam and could have been replaced earlier. Rating 5. Sunday Independent

The ratings always make me smile; I’ve had games where I’ve played well but got a 4 because I missed a couple of chances, and games where I’ve played poorly and got an 8 because I scored. Kevin Kilbane played really well last night but was given a 5 by one of the papers! Who judges these things? Stevie Wonder! And yet, while I would argue that my critics are unfair – they don’t give me any credit for playing well in the first half and make no allowances for my week – I can’t really argue with the bottom line: my time has gone.

The journey to the Turkish city of Bursa proves the mother of all transfers. Tired and crusty, we are hauled from our beds early for the four-hour flight to Istanbul, which is followed by a twenty-minute coach ride, a sixty-minute crossing of the Sea of Marmara and another eighty minutes by coach before we reach our hotel. On the final leg of the journey at Yalova, we encounter the first visible signs of the recent earthquake: mile after mile of displaced families, housed in makeshift plastic shacks by the side of the road. It’s dark and raining outside and conditions look thoroughly miserable, but though we sympathize with their plight, our compassion is fleeting. One of the innate skills of the professional is his ability to identify what matters most in life and our thoughts immediately return to ourselves. And genuine causes for concern like: Will the journey ever end? Will the hotel be nice? Will the food be OK? Will we be able to use our mobile phones? Will the room have two double beds? And pay-per-view porn? And satellite TV?

Luckily, when eventually we arrive, the answer is yes to all of the above except the pay-per-view porn. The Kervansaray Termal Hotel is not exactly the Ritz, but it’s fine.

The old firm game is scoreless with five minutes to play when John Collins wins the ball and sets off down the wing. Fifty thousand Celtic fans jump to their feet. They see Collins racing into Rangers territory. They see Tony Cascarino slipping his marker and breaking free. They see the winger cross the ball low to the striker’s feet. They see a million-pound player in front of an open Rangers goal with a glorious opportunity at his feet . . .

They do not see the fear on my face at that moment. They do not hear the taunting of the little voice in my head. They have no idea that a ball played low across my body when I’m facing goal has always been my Achilles heel. They do not believe their eyes when I swipe frantically and completely miss the target. They do not feel compassion when I fall to my knees and cover my face in shame.

‘You could have been a hero. It was all there in front of you, the winning of the game.’

I jump to my feet and prepare to face the kick-off. Some strange things start happening. The players have stopped playing. The fever-pitch roar has suddenly dimmed. Every person in the ground is staring at me. I look to where my family are sitting in the stands. My mother is crying: ‘He should never have left the hairdressing.’ My son is shaking his head: ‘You’re not very good, Dad, are you?’ My manager, Liam Brady, is being consoled on the bench by those who have managed me in the past.

I walk towards them and begin to explain: ‘Liam, I’m sorry. I’ve always had a thing about a ball played in low.’ But the words have only just left my mouth when I am shaken by a screech and plunged into a world of almost total darkness. Heart thumping, I open my eyes and struggle to make sense of the sound and the shadows until a familiar face, unconscious in the bed alongside, brings it all into view. ‘Shit! Niall! Bursa! I’ve been dreaming that dream again!’ I glance at my watch and it is five o’clock in the morning. I roll over and listen until the strange, mournful chant of the call to prayer ends and I drift slowly back to sleep.

The day begins with a slow walk to the bathroom mirror, a long study of my reflection and the discovery of a fleck of grey in my hair. I wash and change and descend quickly to reception where, after securing a translation for brown, I slip discreetly out of the door in search of a chemist. It is time to start looking young again. Perception is everything in football. I remember, when I was just starting out at Gillingham, a story that appeared in the paper one day about a 25-year-old we had just signed from Fisher Athletic. Paul Shinners was another south Londoner and while I didn’t know him personally, I did know he was older than twenty-five. A few weeks later, I put it to him one day when we were alone in the dressing room.

‘Paul,’ I said. ‘I’m not being funny, but you’re not twenty-five, are you?’

‘I’m twenty-eight, but you can’t come from non-league football at twenty-eight now, can you? So I knocked three years off and no one has ever asked me to prove it.’ It was a lesson that would serve me well. I’ve been dyeing my hair for as long as I can remember and make a point of presenting myself as smartly as possible when negotiating a contract. You wouldn’t believe the difference a dye makes. Present yourself to the chairman in your naturally greying state and you’re asking for trouble: ‘Oh no, I’m not sure about this one. I don’t think we’ll get a year out of him.’ But add a bit of colour to your roots and the contract is in the bag: ‘Look at him, he’s in great nick, I can’t believe he’s thirty-six! He must really look after himself.’ It’s just an illusion but the illusion works. In football, it’s not what you are but what you appear to be that counts.

The colour costs four million Turkish lira, which seems a staggering amount to spend on your hair. I return to the hotel and after breakfast, slip upstairs and lock the door to the room. At a critical juncture of the process, there is a frantic rattle on the door. ‘Open up, Cas,’ Dave Connolly says, ‘We’re starting a game of cards.’

Colouring your hair is not a done thing in football; you can bleach it, or shave it, but the rest is taboo. ‘Sorry, Dave, I’ll be out in a minute,’ I lie. ‘I’m just having a bath.’

But Niall, who has just shaken himself from his nightly coma, immediately blows my cover. ‘He’s not in the bath at all,’ he laughs. ‘He’s colouring his hair!’

Within seconds, the phone is buzzing and a queue has formed at the door – ‘come out, you big poof!’ The ribbing continues at training and for the rest of the afternoon – a childish but welcome diversion in the on-going battle to stay sane.

A journalist, with whom I’ve been friendly for some time, invites me for coffee in the lobby after training. He is researching a feature for his paper and enquires about Mick and the mood in the camp. I offer the honest assessment that while the concession of a goal in Dublin is undoubtedly a setback, it is far from insurmountable and we all still believe we can qualify. He makes a few notes and the interview ends. We order more coffee and chat about old times.

‘I know you’re a good player but not a great player,’ he smiles, aping a well-known commentator.

‘You’re right, it is an odd question. What do I know about you? I know you’re thirty-seven years old and Ireland’s most capped player. I know you’re a goal shy of the all-time scoring record. I know you’ve played in two World Cups and for Aston Villa, Celtic, Chelsea and Marseilles. I know you named your first son Michael after your Irish grandfather and your other son Teddy after Teddy Sheringham. I think you’re possibly divorced but I’m not sure, and that you may have remarried a French girl but I’m not sure about that either. I know you’re well liked by your peers and by the media. A typical streetwise cockney, I’d say; one of the nice guys.’

‘It’s on its way,’ I reply. ‘This is my last season. I really can’t see myself playing next year.’

‘Well, in every paper you open these days there’s an hysterical ex-professional preaching that “such and such should have scored this” and, “so and so should have done that,” conveniently forgetting that when he played the game, he did exactly the same.’

He smiles and reaches for his cup but says nothing. It’s time to let him know what’s on my mind.

‘There’s a lot of them about,’ he says. ‘It depends on what you’ve got to say and why you want to say it.’

‘The bookshops are heaving with ex-footballers’ tales. If you’re thinking of it in terms of a pension, forget it. Publishers are the only people making money from books these days, unless your name is Alex Ferguson or you’re married to a Spice Girl.’

‘So why do you want to do it? Didn’t you just mention something about players with short memories?

‘Yeah, but it wouldn’t be that kind of book. I’m not interested in talking about the games I’ve played or the goals I’ve scored or the wankers I’ve met in dressing rooms. I’m not interested in hurting anyone but myself.’

‘Because I’ve made mistakes and hurt my two boys. Because a lot of things happened that they don’t know or understand. Because there’s more to football than the ninety minutes of a game and more to the people that play it than a 5 in the ratings. Because after eighteen years of being cheered and jeered and analysed, I would like people to know who I am.’

He folds his arms and rubs his chin and explains about a publisher he knows in London and asks me to wait while he gives her a call. When he returns, I am surprisingly anxious.

‘Well, no, not exactly, but that was the gist of it. I’m sorry, Cas, but I can see where she’s coming from – it’s a hard one to sell. You’re just not sexy enough.’

I nod and consider returning to my room but the urge to keep pushing is too strong. ‘And what if, say, the book revealed something that was front-page news? Would that be sexy enough?’

‘What if Ireland’s most capped international player wasn’t ever qualified to play for Ireland?’

‘It depends what you mean by serious. Do I qualify to play for the Republic of Ireland? No. Am I prepared to go on the record? Yes. But it’s not my only reason for doing a book and I’m not the only person to be considered here. There are a couple of important details that still have to be sorted.’

‘Fuck! That’s unbelievable! Does it have to be a book? What about a double-page spread in a respectable Sunday newspaper?’

We shake hands and agree to meet soon. He scurries back to the lobby like a dog with two tails.

What sort of a place is Bursa? I have absolutely no idea. It’s like Zagreb and Vienna and Seville and Rome and all the other magnificent cities we have visited but never seen over the years. It’s a hotel room with a ceiling and four walls; a four-day stretch in a prison without bars, where the wardens are friendly and the food is OK and the boredom is agony. What sort of day was Tuesday? Exactly the same as Monday. The wailing starts; we wake up. The wailing stops; we fall asleep again. We eat and train and sleep and eat and train and sleep until finally, at last, Wednesday brings the chance to escape . . .

I have always liked Niall Quinn. I first got to know him in the summer of ’88, when we were bit players on an Ireland team that travelled to Germany for the European Championships. I remember in particular the second game of the tournament against the Soviet Union. We were both on the bench when the Soviets equalised, late in the second half, and Jack gave the order to warm up: ‘Get ready Big Man!’ Responding immediately, as you do when Jack gives an order, we jumped to our feet and started sprinting down the touchline when Jack completely lost the head: ‘Not fucking you, Niall!’ It was one of the great put-downs. He was quite shy and timid back then but has changed out of all recognition since. He’s a character now, one of the leaders on the team, and although our rivalry has always been intense we’ve never allowed it to cloud our friendship. The thing I appreciate most about him is his sincerity when he wishes you the best. He is not two-faced like many in the game. He has always wanted me to do well for Ireland, as I have him, and there have been times when we’ve felt guilty about taking the other’s place. ‘See you in an hour’ is our standing joke before kick-off; when he’s called in, I’m sent out – or at least that’s how it used to be.

On the morning of the game, I inform him of my decision to retire, come what may. ‘Don’t be stupid,’ he says. ‘What if we qualify? Stay in there. We’ll need you next summer.’ For once, I know he’s lying. For once, I don’t mind.

We lunch at 12.30 a.m. and play cards for an hour. Niall has declared himself fit to play and as a result, I spend a worry-free afternoon having my hair cut (another four million!) and killing time with the book I am reading by Lenny McLean entitled The Guv’nor. In Chapter Five, the infamous prize fighter has just been hired to ‘mind’ a demolition man called Fred . . .

Next morning, I tucked myself in the caravan they used as an office and I sat drinking coffee, having a smoke and keeping an eye on the gates. A tipper lorry pulled in and this big fella jumped down, all boots and no fucking brains. I watched him as he went over to Fred. They started arguing and Fred got poked in the chest by this mug’s finger. They came over to the caravan and Fred said to him, ‘My partner wants a word.’

As he put one foot on the metal steps I chinned him. Down he went like a bag of shit. But I picked him up and did him again; four of them and he’s unconscious. Once I start I don’t stop. He had blood coming out of his ears and nose, and his forehead was split open. I was going to give him some more but Fred grabbed my shirt and pulled me back. ‘Enough, Len, enough, don’t kill him.’ So to get rid of some steam, I picked up a lump of concrete and flung it through the windscreen of his lorry. We brought him around, slung him in the back of the tipper, and parked him two streets away. Never saw him again.

I met Lenny McLean once at a car dealer’s in Streatham. We shook hands and it was like clutching a shovel; I gripped as hard as possible but he crunched every finger in my hand. He had just started acting and was quite full of himself but, tempting as it was to call him a flash bastard, I decided to bite my lip. The guy was an absolute maniac; he’d have crushed me on the spot.

The night is fresh; the stadium is humming; the situation – Turkey 0 Ireland 0 – is desperate. I sit in frustration watching the stalemate until late in the second half, when Mick finally gives the order to warm up. Alan McLaughlin, who is sitting to my right, springs to his feet and follows the other substitutes down the touchline. I delay a moment until they’ve cleared the bench, then charge past Mick, looking fiercely determined – an old trick I mastered under Jack when the lads used to joke that I’d pull every stroke in the book to get a game. Do they expect me to apologize? Anything goes when there are five subs on the bench and you are desperate to play. And I am desperate to play. In the eightieth minute, the moment I’ve been waiting for arrives. Mick orders me to get stripped, Jeff Kenna is called to the side and with nine minutes left, I run on to the pitch for my eighty-eighth and final appearance in green. Strangely, I feel little emotion as I race into position; no tinge of sadness that a huge chapter of my life is about to end. My thoughts are dominated by the notion of making a difference. I want a goal to be my encore, to exit the stage in a blaze of glory, to be remembered as having delivered when it mattered. Pathetic, isn’t it? As if eighteen years wouldn’t teach a man something about Roy of the Rovers endings . . .

The final minutes of the game flash like seconds. Six are added for injuries and stoppages and though I reach and stretch and strain every sinew, nothing drops for me or for the team. When the final whistle blows, ecstatic Turkish players and officials come swarming on to the pitch, but for me, there is only the painful sting of failure and the seething frustration that losing always brings.

Sore and edgy, I turn and begin walking towards the tunnel, but the number two has raced across to cut me off. He’s sneering and mouthing triumphantly. Winning is not enough. He wants to rub my nose in it. Instinctively, I flick out my foot and watch as he trips and regains his balance. Instinctively, he swings his arm and catches me with a sledgehammer blow to the jaw. Stunned, but rather pleased to be still standing, I lash back immediately but am pounded and walloped from all sides as more players arrive and an ugly brawl ensues. Tony Hickey arrives and shepherds me to the safety of the dressing room. I am already feeling guilty . . .

Mick Byrne arrives with some ice for my swollen lip. I shower and change and tour the dressing room, commiserating with my younger team mates. Mick McCarthy is changing in the adjoining dressing room.

We sit in silence, wrapped in our own thoughts, on the marathon transfer by coach and boat back to Istanbul. I take my final Irish jersey out of a bag and send it around the coach to be signed. It comes back and I gaze at the squiggles, trying to figure them out. I’ve known Mick McCarthy and Mick Byrne since 1985 and little Charlie O’Leary almost as long; Niall Quinn, Denis Irwin, Roy Keane, Alan Kelly, Alan Mac – we’ve had some good times together, some of the best of my life. We reach the airport in the early hours and in the confusion go our separate ways without saying farewell. They’re heading for Dublin, and onward connections to England. I’m heading for Frankfurt, and an onward connection to France. One chapter ends, another continues. That’s football. That’s life.

The flight from Istanbul to Frankfurt touches down at 8.15 a.m. The police are waiting and check every passport as we step from the plane. In the delay, I am lucky to make my connecting flight to Luxemburg. I pick up my car at the long-term car park and drive to Nancy, arriving just in time for lunch with Virginia and Maeva. It is Thursday, 18 November. My international career has ended. I am happy to be home.

Chapter Three

Last Throw of the Dice