Michael Owen: Off the Record

I’ll give any game a go. I played for Hawarden Cricket Club and made it into the senior side at 13. I love darts and bowls, too. Once a month we’d go to the tenpin bowling alley in Chester. Boy, was that competitive. My dad used to be brilliant, with a smooth action that helped him hit the middle pin every time. Now his action has gone, and we always take the mickey out of him for it.

I’m proud to be able to summarize my childhood as fun and character building, with family life to the fore. My parents gave us everything they could. I can recall plenty of examples. In my early teens, Dad wanted to take me to visit a few clubs to open my eyes to how football worked. One day we were invited to Sheffield Wednesday to have a look round, and as we were about to leave the youth-team manager stopped us and said, ‘Right, here’s your expenses.’ Twenty quid, I think it was. So off we raced, straight past home and on to Rhyl pleasure beach to spend the money on rides before returning to the house. I’ll never forget that day.

When I look back on my childhood, that incident sums up my parents. Any spare penny they had was spent on the kids to make them as happy as could be. They never spent a thing on themselves. Sometimes I wonder whether Mum wore the same clothes for 20 years.

Whatever your mum and dad say or do, for most people that’s the gospel. I would never want to spoil my kids because giving in to every wish or demand was something my parents never did. But any time I get a spare minute I want to spend it with my children, to make them as happy as we were. Now, of course, I’m scoring goals for England and having a great life, yet being a kid is really hard to beat, if you’re lucky enough to have grown up in the kind of parental environment I experienced. It’s wonderful to have such a comfortable existence now, and to live in such a nice house, but if somebody said to me ‘You’ve got to give it all back and live the life you had as a child’, I could think of worse things. I would have no problem with my daughter Gemma or son James growing up that way. If money is tight in a family things are given to kids only for the right reasons; no child is going to get anything just because they cry for it. It’s easy to brush problems off with money (‘here’s a couple of quid, go and buy some sweets’), but the best things in life are free, as everyone knows. For my dad to take me, on the back of his bike, to feed some horses in a field for half an hour was my idea of a treat; Dad spending £40 on one activity, or paying for an expensive holiday, just didn’t have the same appeal. Give me a simple train ride any day.

I won’t deny that my wealth from football has enabled me to help the whole family financially. When I was 18 and building a house a mile from the family home, a new estate with some really nice houses was being constructed nearby. It was always my intention to buy homes for members of my family, and it was just coincidental that a chance to do so arose so close to where I was building on the plot of land I had found. Mum and Dad liked the show house we went to inspect. Initially I bought two show homes because my brother Andy has always liked his own space; the idea was that the family would live in one while Andy took the house next door. At first I didn’t think any further ahead than that, but soon I started to feel it was unfair on my other brothers and sisters. So I bought the next two houses along, for my older sister Karen and my brother Terry. Lesley was very young, so I didn’t need to buy one for her, but subsequently the next one in the close became available and I acquired that one as well. The next house along also came on the market, but we didn’t have enough family members to fill it. So there is one non-Owen in the street. He’s a very nice fella and doesn’t seem to mind sharing the close with my whole family. The arrangement probably won’t last for ever. If Lesley’s boyfriend or Karen’s boyfriend moves away through work it’s possible that one or both of them will move on. But at least it has given them a start on the property ladder. If they wanted to move, obviously I wouldn’t take offence.

I’ve always liked investing in property. In 2003 I bought a couple of plots of land in the Algarve, near where Paul Ince has a place. Having poured all my energy into my new home in North Wales, initially I didn’t make much headway in terms of building on the land in Portugal, but it’s an exciting project for the future. The house will be open to all the family, and I like the idea of us going there in the summer with all the kids for a major holiday. I’m also buying a place on The Palm in Dubai. When we visited the city before the 2002 World Cup, members of the England team were offered the chance to buy in the resort. Half a dozen of us said yes.

But I don’t see myself as special in any way. One of my brothers drilling the wrong hole on an aeroplane wing is a much more serious issue than me having a bad time in a football match. When I pick up an injury I don’t expect a stream of sympathy from them. Missing a goal is part of the job; being a hero or a villain is part of the job. We’re all good at something. It just happens that I’m good at football and that has a high public profile, so everyone notices what I do. I’m skilled at football, my brothers are skilled at engineering. Neither talent is more valuable or important than the other. In the Owen family we just get on with life and look out for one another.

2 Little Big Man (#ulink_3a5c47e6-43bf-5fd9-834b-3e830288ca87)

From my earliest days as a footballer I was up there with the big boys – we’re talking size and age here, not fame. Almost from my first serious kick I left my own generation behind to take on older lads – perhaps starting a trend that ended with my World Cup goal against Argentina when I was only 18.

My first memories of my life in football date from when I was seven. I started properly with Mold Alexander, five miles from the family home, though people often trace my beginnings to Hawarden Pathfinders, who were my local cub side. They played every few months, so fixture congestion was hardly a problem. When Dad took me to Mold he was told that the youngest age group was Under-10s, which didn’t look too promising given that I was still only seven. But after a couple of training sessions I managed to force my way on to the substitutes bench, from where I would often come on and score.

Things started to get serious when I was chosen, at the age of eight, to represent Deeside Schools under the management of Bryn Jones and his assistant Dave Nicholas. Their motto was ‘first to the ball’, which they stuck to the dressing-room door. Though playing for Deeside seemed a huge promotion at the time, I realize now that you don’t really leave an imprint in football until you become a professional. How many people, for instance, could name the record goalscorer for England Under-15s? (It’s me, by the way.) Still, for me to be the youngest boy to be picked for Deeside Schools felt like an immense achievement at the time, even if it doesn’t now. I beat Gary Speed’s age record and then, in my third year, Ian Rush’s highest total for the number of goals in a season. To be in the local papers at 10 or 11 in the same sentence as Ian Rush was about as good as it could get.

For a while, then, I was an eight-year-old playing in an Under-11 county side. I could score goals at that age and at that level, but I think Bryn Jones and other administrators of Deeside Schools felt they needed to be fair to the older boys in that age group and not allow them to be ousted by an eight-year-old kid. For my second season, however, I was made captain and I played every game. I scored 50-odd goals in 30 or so games, and then in my final year I hit 92. The papers were full of it. I actually broke Ian’s record at a tournament in Jersey, and my dad and younger sister were there to witness the event. In an equivalent number of games I beat Rushie by two, but we played a lot more matches than he did in his record-setting year so I ended up pulling 20 clear.

I can still remember the decisive strike that day, though all my goals at that age were virtually identical: a ball over the top, followed by a sprint and a finish. I was quicker than everyone else at that time so it was always a one-on-one, with a finish to the side. You don’t get many crosses or diving headers in Under-11 football; you’re always running on to through-balls, with the full-backs mysteriously playing everyone on side. When I scored against Argentina at France 98, and in the 2001 FA Cup final against Arsenal, I can recall jogging to the touchline trying to assess the meaning of what I’d just done. The first time I went through that mental process, I suppose, was when I scored in Jersey to surpass Ian Rush in Deeside’s record books.

I hadn’t yet met Rushie when I improved on his earliest achievement in football, and I didn’t cross his path for a long time after I arrived at Liverpool. By then he had left Anfield, though I did see him occasionally in the players’ lounge, or doing a stint on local radio. I didn’t get to talk to him properly until January 2003, when he rejoined the club as the strikers’ coach. I’ve had a couple of rounds of golf with him since and he’s a mate now. When he was first unveiled as Liverpool’s striking coach we both did interviews about each other, and the Deeside scoring record was usually the first question to be asked.

There’s a funny story attached to my second proper association with a local club side. After Mold Alexander, I moved on to Hawarden Rangers and scored about 116 goals in 40 games in their colours. We won everything. When the club’s annual awards came round, I was desperate to be Player of the Year, as all young boys are. I just knew I was head and shoulders above the other lads in the team. But the winner was … our goalkeeper. We were winning 10–0 virtually every week, and our keeper, who was two years younger than everyone else, had barely made a save all season. It wouldn’t bother me now if someone got Player of the Year ahead of me, but when you’re 12 it really hurts. It’s life and death. You wait all week for Saturday to come.

Dad was livid. ‘You’re not playing for them again,’ he told me. The following season I was going to confine myself to the county team (though I was also by that time playing Liverpool youth games at the weekend). However, the manager of St David’s Park, another local side, was especially persistent and promised Dad that if I joined them I wouldn’t be asked to play too many times.

‘Just let him play in four or five,’ he pleaded.

‘Oh, go on, then,’ Dad replied.

St David’s were about to play Hawarden Rangers, and the manager came on to ask me to play against my old club – the one that had deprived me of the Player of the Year award. I wanted to spite them so much that I agreed to make myself available. We beat them 4–3 and I scored all four of our goals. There were rumours that the Hawarden manager was going to report the St David’s manager for tapping me up, though it never came to much. You can imagine the feeling of smugness as Dad and I walked back to the car.

When you’re the top man at football in primary school, you attract a certain amount of respect from your peers; once you get into secondary school, however, not everyone’s quite so fascinated. At Hawarden High, many of my contemporaries developed an interest in fighting and smoking, but I had to stay off that path. If you’re a prospect, it’s then that you have to retain your focus on the game. It was around that time that I started to become aware of jealousy in other children. I was well liked at school, but when it was announced that I was leaving to go to Lilleshall, in my third year at senior school, a couple of the tougher lads would occasionally snarl at me. I assumed it was envy because I was doing so well and moving on. It didn’t turn physical and I didn’t tell my parents, though my dad seemed to be aware that I had stirred up some animosity in one or two kids. Anyway, schools are full of cliques and hierarchies. I had my own. I certainly never went home crying, saying people were picking on me.

My best friend from my school days is Michael Jones, who I met at infant school. He lived about three miles away from us, so until I was allowed to ride off on my bike I had to rely on Mum to drive me to his house. Later we played golf every other day. Whenever I’m not working we go out for a meal with our partners, or he comes round to watch a match. We always look out for each other. Didi Hamann, at Liverpool, has become good friends with Mike, and he often joins us on the golf course. Mike turned pro in 2003 and has been to South Africa to play in the Sunshine Tour. His plan is to join the Pro Tour, which is two levels below the European Tour. He’s got a bit of climbing to do, but at least he has a sponsor to see him through his first year.

I didn’t really enjoy the academic side of school, though I quite enjoyed maths. I also liked geography. General knowledge interested me too. At home on winter nights Mum and Dad would set quizzes. It was the formal aspect of being taught through lessons that turned me off. In those environments I would find myself looking at my watch, gazing through the windows and waiting for PE – anything, really, except classroom teaching.

It was at the age of 10 that boxing was added to my list of sporting activities. A little known story about me is that I boxed in two proper club fights, one in front of the dickiebow brigade. It was Dad’s intention to make me stronger physically and toughen me up mentally, so he took me to the local boxing gym – the Deeside Boxing Club, above a pub in Shotton – where I watched a training session one afternoon and joined the following day. Organized fighting tends to be a fad for a lot of boys. They come in for a session or two and then disappear, often when the going gets really tough. But I stayed with it for three years because I enjoyed it so much.

The first of my serious bouts came after I’d played for Deeside Primary Schools that same day. The fight was in the evening, and I found myself opening a 10-fight bill in Anglesey in front of an audience wearing dinner jackets and bow ties. Never mind taking a penalty in the World Cup, nothing compares to being in a boxing match. My first opponent had already had a couple of fights, and I was much lighter than him, so I made sure I protected myself down below by inserting the proper guard. I wore all the body armour I could to make the weight. I just about managed to get close enough to him on the scales for the bout to go ahead, and the next thing I knew I was climbing through the ropes for the opening contest in the short but eventful boxing career of Michael Owen.

I won on a split decision. It should have been unanimous, or so I believed. My corner and my family thought so too. A couple of experts came up to me that night and said, ‘Fantastic performance. That should get you the boxer of the night award.’ But a heavyweight who won the final bout of the night just beat me to it. By then I was becoming passionate about the sport.

My victim wanted a rematch. This time we met on my home ground, at Connah’s Quay Civic Centre, in front of a thousand spectators. I didn’t box quite as well but won on a split decision again. Home advantage probably helped. And this time I was named boxer of the night. I still have the programme, which cost 20p, for this, my second and final bout. The date on it is 14 March 1990, it was billed as ‘An Evening of Boxing on behalf of Guide Dogs for the Blind’, and it was organized by the R & B Golf Society. There, among the ‘senior’ bouts consisting of three two-minute rounds, is S. Kavanach of Anglesey v. M. Owen of Deeside. I wonder what happened to my great rival, S. Kavanach?

With two wins under my belt, my next fight was scheduled for Wrexham, but my opponent failed to show. By this time, however, football was beginning to take over and I was moving up through the ranks. A place at Lilleshall, the Football Association’s national academy, was on the horizon, so my life as a boxer was brought to a premature end.

I’m certain that putting myself through the trial of a proper boxing match had a beneficial effect. I didn’t know at the time that it was Dad’s intention to toughen me up. He now admits that the idea was to give me an extra layer of protection against the jealousy I aroused at school. I wouldn’t say boxing increased my muscle bulk or changed me physically, but it helped me learn how to look after myself. It was certainly more mentally challenging than rugby, cricket or athletics, which I also took part in (when it came to school sports I grabbed whatever was going). If I got kicked and stayed down when I wasn’t properly hurt I got a rollicking from Dad. In fact, I only needed to do it once to learn not to do it again. Apparently he was a fearless player who wouldn’t be afraid to put his head where it hurt. He came from a tough part of Liverpool, and his mentality was that you don’t go down unless you’re in real pain.

I suppose I’m quite old-fashioned when it comes to playing the game. Umbro, one of my major sponsors, are always trying to twist my arm to get more colour into the boots they make for me, and as I’ve grown older I’ve let them inject a little more white. Football is full of passing fashions, such as coloured boots, or pulling your socks up above the knees, but I’m not the sort of player who would shave one eyebrow for effect. I’m not into trends. I’m not saying that makes me better than anyone else, but my attitude is similar to my father’s: just play the game like a normal man.

One of the worst things to have crept into football in recent years is the crowding of referees. If you do that, and push and shove one another, you make the incident look more serious than it is. When I first came into the Premier League players had plenty of respect for one another; it would have been unthinkable to try to get an opponent sent off. Nowadays if you even touch a goalkeeper the whole defence comes over and pushes you around. The crowd starts shouting, the ref feels an exaggerated sense of urgency, and red and yellow cards start flying. There just isn’t as much mutual respect among players as there used to be.

But back to my childhood. A major feature of my footballing repertoire is explosive speed over short distances. Third in a county race at the age of 12 was the full extent of my honours as a young sprinter, though I did once cover the 100 metres in 11.4 seconds. My size helped. In my early teens I was half the height of most of my contemporaries, which helped me achieve that extra pace. But it wasn’t until I was about 18 that I started to become not just fast but powerfully quick. By then I was growing into my frame. Dad tells the story of how he took me to the local leisure centre for an indoor match when I was five. He sat up on the balcony watching, and remembers noticing that I side-footed the ball into the goal rather than blasting it. Later he told Mum, ‘If Michael’s got pace as well, he’s going to be some player.’ Soon it became apparent that I could burst away over 40 or 50 yards.

My two brothers were also good footballers. They had a lot in the locker. As he would tell you himself with a smile, my eldest brother, Terry, did what many keen footballers do and became a bit too fond of smoking and drinking. Andy had attributes that would be highly valued today. He was blisteringly fast. These days, if you’re quick and you can kick a ball in the right direction you can make a decent living in the lower leagues. I wouldn’t say Andy went off the rails, but he got himself a girlfriend he was passionate about and didn’t want to put in the time on the training ground. He was at Chester (Third Division) for a while, and he played for Holywell Town (Welsh Premier League). You’re not a mug if you’re competing at that level. Both Andy and Terry got paid for playing.

When the family get together, we fall about laughing when the talk gets round to ‘what might have been’ for my brothers. When Andy has had a couple of drinks he starts saying, ‘I could have been as good as Michael if I hadn’t found a girlfriend or hit the ale.’ It’s hilarious, and he knows it too. There’s nothing funnier in the world than Andy telling us how fast he was and how many goals he scored. He will turn to Dad and say, ‘Come on, Dad, tell ’em how fast I was!’ And Dad will back him up, playing him on a string. Terry doesn’t make the same claims; he’s happy to have chosen the easier life, without football as an obsession. Even at 32, though, Andy insists he could still make the grade for a couple of years. Usually when he’s had a couple of drinks.

Speed is the key to my battles with the game’s best defenders. The tough ones are the quick ones. Size doesn’t bother me, because my main weapon is pace; it’s the fast ones who negate some of my natural swiftness. Marcel Desailly springs to mind in that respect. In his prime, he was a beast to play against. Martin Keown was also quick on his feet. At his peak, you wouldn’t find yourself sprinting past Martin. Of the current generation, John Terry is not as quick as some, but he gets very tight to you and it’s difficult to turn against him. Rio Ferdinand is fast, but he also likes to give you a chance. He likes to play a bit. He wouldn’t mind you thinking you were on to a good thing and then reaching the ball first to do a Cruyff turn. You think you’re going to get round him but then he sticks out one of those long legs and steals the ball. Jaap Stam was also a really world-class defender, on account of his speed, size and aggression. That’s the real modern defender. Football’s moved on from the age of the big stopper always heading the ball. Walter Samuel, of Roma and Argentina, is another to have given me trouble. We’ve had a few good tussles.

Anyone who lets me get a run on them, lets me turn and face them one on one, is playing to my strengths. But a defender who glues himself to me and doesn’t let me turn is starting to make it difficult to make those runs. When they do that, I love a ball to be plonked in behind the defender because I will always fancy my chances of beating him in a sprint. In those instances it’s all about the midfielder picking the right pass to play to the striker – the killer pass.

Gary Lineker was my favourite player when I was a kid, and Everton were my team, though for my card collection I’d go after any big name from any club. However, if I compare my allegiance to Everton to, say, that of my Liverpool friend and colleague Jamie Carragher, I didn’t come close to being a real diehard fan. He tells me about the lengths he used to go to in order to follow the Blues. When Jamie was five his dad was already carting him off to away games, even in Europe. When he tells me that, I think, Oh, OK, I wasn’t really a fan after all. Between the ages of five and 15 he’d be physically sick if Liverpool beat Everton. For the first 20 minutes he could hardly watch. He would hide in the toilets. I supported Everton, but if they lost it wouldn’t devastate me. I would look forward to my own game more than the Everton result.

The stars at Goodison Park when I was a kid were Trevor Steven, Kevin Sheedy, Kevin Ratcliffe, Neville Southall and, above all, Lineker, mainly because he scored goals. I didn’t know much about him though. I’d have been buzzing to meet him and get his autograph, but I didn’t really idolize anyone when I was young. I didn’t study any individual with a view to learning his secrets and the details of his life, I just loved football. I didn’t look at the players of that time and think, I’m desperate to be like you.

At that time, Lineker was the England striker, followed, of course, by Alan Shearer. I’d like to think I’m the main England striker now. People always assume you’re best pals with players who were prominent in previous England setups, which isn’t always the case, though I do speak to Gary and Alan on the phone from time to time. Not for advice, though Gary has certainly called me a few times just to chat. When I put the phone down I sometimes think he was passing on wisdom without ramming it down my throat. But I would never ask anyone for guidance. If that’s a fault, so be it. It’s not that I think I can do everything perfectly, it’s more that I regard advice as a favour given, and I don’t like asking for favours. I can never phone anyone and, say, ask for match tickets. My dad is the same. He would never have called Everton, as an ex-player, to ask for tickets, or put in a call to Liverpool to say, ‘My son’s on your books, can you get us in to the game?’ We would stand in line like everyone else. If I’m struggling for form or fitness, I batter my way through it. If someone wants to give me advice I’m a happy listener, but I just can’t ask for it. That’s just the way I am.

3 Lilleshall and Louise (#ulink_f6982afa-e21d-5635-bb23-b7d0b69a0cb5)

Lilleshall has disappeared off the list of big breeding grounds for talent, but it was the academy where I changed from a boy to a man. It was the Football Association’s university for England’s most promising youngsters. For me, it was the bridge between my exploits with Deeside Schools and the start of my professional career with Liverpool. And I loved every moment of it.

The two years I spent under the direction of Keith Blunt and his staff were, for me, an enormous transitional stage. I learned a vast amount about life, football, everything. Keith was the head coach, and he taught me about the discipline of football as well as how to be as a person on the pitch. My graduation was notable for one other life-changing event: when I returned to Hawarden, my relationship with Louise Bonsall, who was around throughout my formative schoolboy years, found shape, and it put us on the path to parenthood in our early twenties. Today, we have our daughter Gemma and son James to show for all the happy years we have spent together.

In large measure, Lilleshall made me the player I am today. By the age of 14, at the FA’s hothouse in the Midlands, I was playing football full-time – training every single day and playing matches at weekends. Up to the ages of about 12 or 13, you play football purely for the enjoyment; around 14, you start thinking about it more seriously. It becomes more of an academic process. So in my first year at Lilleshall I felt myself passing through that door into professionalism. It was during these years that I made my debuts for England U-15s and U-16s, and I managed to score on both occasions.

Keith Blunt taught me a tremendous amount about being a striker. He stressed the importance of keeping possession of the ball and highlighted all the technical areas where I needed to improve. He was a coach who wouldn’t complicate things but insisted on the basics being done properly. He wanted the defenders and midfielders to move the ball quickly to the strikers’ feet. That totally transformed my game. Up to the age of 14, I was running on to balls chipped over the top; now I was learning the serious stuff. I was finding out how to take a ball into feet, how to turn, how to keep it away from a defender, side-on, and how to use my strength and link the play. Lilleshall was where my game really took off.

It may seem unlikely, given that effectively I had to leave home at 14, but I have immensely happy memories of being a student there, and I was heartbroken when I heard it was to close as a national centre of excellence. Just look at the players who have emerged from its halls. It was a place of phenomenal achievement. I remember watching an international five or six years ago and counting half a dozen players who had been through Lilleshall; Ian Walker, Sol Campbell, Andy Cole and Nick Barmby were among them. From my generation there was me, Wes Brown (Manchester United), Michael Ball (Everton), Kenny Lunt (Crewe) and Jon Harley (Chelsea). Every year they were churning out good players, so I was dumbfounded when they closed their doors and the Premiership clubs assumed responsibility for guiding the country’s best young players. At Lilleshall we developed both as footballers and as young men. We lived and breathed the game.

I say all this with a large measure of hindsight, because the first couple of months living away from friends and families was hell. An absolute killer. In the first two or three weeks I often cried. Everyone in our group fantasized about going home. But soon enough I found those feelings reversed: when I was at home, I couldn’t wait to get back to Lilleshall. I just loved that place. Some of my fondest memories are of the lads with whom I shared those years. We were like 15 brothers. When I left, at 16, again I couldn’t stop crying. The wrench was leaving people with whom I’d shared so much.

Those two years between 14 and 16 are serious ones in any teenager’s life. Whatever you want to do, that 24-month period will probably tell you whether or not it’s going to work out. The coaches at Lilleshall were quite clear with the parents. They were told that if we were lucky one of us might turn out to be a top-flight pro. One in 16 was, they said, the average. So the parents were under no illusions. But these warnings were delivered with a certain kindness in the voice. The care we received was just excellent. They sent us to a very good local school, Idsall High, and made sure we didn’t neglect our education. I managed to pass all 10 of my GCSEs, with C and D grades. Had football not dominated my thoughts, I’m sure those grades would have been higher.

The days were highly structured. In our dormitories we would be woken up at 6.45 a.m. and have to be down for breakfast by 7.30 to give us time to board the bus to school. Often, on Saturdays, we would head off to watch a Premiership game – usually Aston Villa or Coventry, because they were the nearest grounds. Our own matches would be on the Sunday, then it was back into training on the Monday. On the third Saturday and Sunday in every month we came home. There were three main influences on us, none of whom we will ever forget: Craig Simmons, the physiotherapist; Keith Blunt, the head of football; and Tony Pickering, the housemaster on the two upstairs floors of bedrooms and bathrooms. Tony and his wife Gilly looked after us as if we were their kids. They were lovely.

One day at Lilleshall I became extremely poorly, and Gilly called my parents to ask them to drive down. Mum and Dad said they would be there in 40 minutes. When they arrived, Gilly told them, ‘I’ve never known a kid have so much faith that his parents were coming.’ She thought that was very special.

In the dorms we had some great parties – and usually got caught by Mr and Mrs Pickering just as we were getting into full flow. The friendships with the other lads remain, but we haven’t always kept in close contact. You always think you are going to maintain that close connection, but life moves on. It’s sad, because I’d love to speak to a few of them now. I see Wes, obviously, with England and we chat about Lilleshall occasionally, though not often enough. I’d love to get everyone back together. Maybe we’ll have a big reunion when we’re all finished.

Everyone looked out for one another. We had to, because we encroached on a normal local school where there was a great deal of jealousy. In addition, we naturally took all the prettiest girls because we were young footballers playing for England schoolboys. We had one or two serious problems with the local kids, and some fights. I didn’t get involved in any punch-ups, but there was a lot of general animosity – threats, say, from the older brothers of boys at the school we’d fallen out with. I remember a big group coming down with baseball bats one day, and us having to run off. There were even attempts to confront us up at Lilleshall. But maybe the threats weren’t as serious as they seemed at the time. After all, we were extremely fit athletes, so I can’t imagine the locals wanting to take us on. My only previous experience of that kind of jealousy was during my last few weeks at school in North Wales when, knowing I was about to leave, some of the older boys made things uncomfortable for me. This is where my boxing experience came in useful – not that I had to make physical use of it, though.