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My favourite player as a youngster was Kenny Dalglish. He had it all—great skill with either foot, amazing strength in the penalty box, and the vision to make telling passes or take up perfect positions. He had been largely unheralded outside Scotland before his record-breaking move to Liverpool, but it was no surprise to those of us who idolized him that he quickly made his mark in England and Europe, and went on to become a legend at Anfield. In modern times, Kenny is the king of Celtic players as far as I am concerned, and only Henrik Larsson ranks alongside him.
From the outset with Lurgan Celtic’s boys’ side and with St Peter’s primary’s team, I was a prolific goalscorer. I played on the right wing for the club but for the school I played at centre-forward and I really did score a barrowload. That may come as something of a shock to those Celtic fans who have seen me score precisely three times in the five-and-a-half seasons that I have been at Parkhead. But as a youngster I scored regularly, almost week in and week out, both for my schools teams and for my clubs, and while still at primary school, a headline appeared in my local newspaper ‘Lennon Hits Three’.
At the same time as I was starting out in football, I was also learning the ropes in Gaelic football. While there are similarities between the two sports, the latter involves handling and passing the ball from hand or foot. From the start I loved them both, but soccer—I’ll use that term to avoid confusion—was always my preferred version.
Junior soccer was given quite good coverage in the local press, and my family have newspaper clippings to prove that I was something of a goalscoring sensation. I particularly remember playing in five-a-side and indoor tournaments, and I think the first picture of me in a newspaper was when we won the Craigavon Festival Under-11 trophy. Also in that five was Gerry Taggart, who would become a lifelong friend and a very fine professional footballer. Gerry and I also played in the Lurgan Celtic team which was chosen to represent Armagh in the Ulster age group finals at the Community Games in Letterkenny, County Donegal. Gerry scored two as we won the final 6-1 against Monaghan, and I got a hat-trick inside fifteen minutes—a little different to my scoring ratio with Celtic of one goal every two seasons!
The national finals of the All-Ireland Community Games at Butlins’ Irish camp at Mosney was a very prestigious tournament, and Gerry Taggart and myself were both picked for the Lurgan area Under-12 side which represented Armagh in the games. Scouts from senior clubs in Britain watched the final in which we beat Galway on penalties thanks largely to goalkeeper Dee Horisk saving three of their spot kicks.
Butlins camp at Mosney would become a regular haunt for me. In September 1983, several of us who had won the soccer trophy returned to contest the Community Games Gaelic football final, which was played for the Charles Haughey Perpetual Cup. Gerry Taggart, Dee Horisk and I all played for the Craigavon select eleven which won this trophy competed for by sides from all over Ireland.
I loved our visits to Butlins, because apart from the football there were all sorts of fun and games for youngsters. There was an amusement park attached to the camp and when we weren’t playing matches, we could be found there having a whale of a time.
In my last year at St Peter’s, I was selected for the Mid-Ulster District Primary Schools Team to play in various tournaments. It was as a result of playing well for the Mid-Ulster side that I first came to the attention of the Northern Ireland schoolboy team selectors.
The official records showed that in my final year at primary school, I played all five games for Mid-Ulster against the likes of Belfast and East Antrim, scoring five of our fourteen goals as we finished second in the league. I nearly always played up front at that time, and it was the same in Gaelic football where I occupied one or other of the forward positions and liked nothing better than to score goals or points.
When I left primary school, I first attended St Paul’s junior high school, for boys aged from eleven to fourteen, and here again football was my main preoccupation. I was just eleven and in my first year when I was selected to play for the school Under-13 side. We were a very good side under the charge of teacher Mr Kevin O’Neill, and I remember we beat our great rivals Killicomaine School to win the local school league and cup double. Again, I scored a hat-trick in the cup final, and we got our team picture with both trophies in the Lurgan Mail—always a sure sign of success.
As well as playing for St Paul’s I was by then enjoying myself with Lurgan Celtic. Our Under-13 team went through the entire season unbeaten and won the Michael Casey Memorial Cup into the bargain. I also had my first taste of ‘foreign’ football when I went over to Scotland and played against Greenock Shamrocks and Greenock Boys Club. Shamrock at that time had one of the best young teams around and had strong links to Celtic. We beat them 3-2 and I remember the trip well as it was my first visit to Glasgow and I got to meet some of my relatives on my father’s side who lived in Scotland.
I was still playing Gaelic football for St Paul’s and the Clan Na Gael club at this time, winning the Armagh Under-13 championship with the school.
I soon took and passed the exams which meant I could continue on to senior high school, in my case St Michael’s Grammar School in Lurgan. One of the great things about St Michael’s was that it was co-educational. Since it was a Catholic school run by a strict nun, any sort of contact between boys and girls was frowned upon, but that didn’t stop your hormones rampaging. Like every other teenage boy, I was awkward around the opposite sex and it would take me ages to pluck up the courage to talk to a girl or ask her for a dance at the occasional ‘hops’ held at the school or the local social club. I’ll confess now to having had a big crush on a very pretty girl of Italian extraction, Anita Cafolla. I must have carried a torch for her for a year or two when I was fourteen or fifteen, but nothing ever came of it and we went our separate ways with me moving to Motherwell and later Manchester.
Like everyone, I had my favourite teachers at school and one of the teachers who had considerable influence on me was Seamus Heffron, who taught me French at St Michael’s. More importantly, he was in charge of the school Gaelic football team. He was the kind of teacher you need in any school, the sort who encouraged young people to do their best at work and play, and who put in many unpaid hours looking after the team. Seamus has subsequently followed my football career closely, coming over to see me play at Leicester and Celtic, and he is in regular touch with my family and myself.
When I first attended St Michael’s, it became clear that I faced something of a problem, one that almost got me expelled from the school and nearly ended my career in soccer almost before it started. St Michael’s was a highly traditional school and preferred the Gaelic version of football, which of course I loved, but not as much as soccer. Schoolmatches were played on a Saturday morning which sadly was also the same time that Lurgan United, the boys club for which I then played, held their games.
At that point in my life I came up against a person who was very determined to get her own way. Sister Mary St Anne was the nun in charge of St Michael’s, and she was determined to uphold the school’s traditions.
One of those traditions was the cane. Anyone above a certain age will remember that corporal punishment was once routine in schools, the teacher’s weapon of choice being the tawse or the cane. Sister St Anne was one of those strict no-nonsense nuns who did not mind dishing out sentences but would send for a male teacher to administer the actual punishment.
I was a typical schoolboy, I suppose, and got in my fair share of scrapes and pranks, such as playing truant or ‘bunking’ as we called it, so in my time at St Michael’s I was caned perhaps two or three times.
The occasion I remember most was a beautiful sunny day when the attractions of a double period of biology could not compare with the farm which adjoined the school. After lunch, three or four of us decided to scale the wall and make our escape from school. I’ll name no names—for reading this will be the first time my own mother will know what I did, and I wouldn’t like to get anyone else into the trouble I’m going to get!
We had climbed a tree and were sunning ourselves when one of the teachers spotted us and came running over. We jumped down from the tree and unfortunately for one of the lads, he landed in a giant cowpat. Even worse for us was the fact that our escape route was sealed off by three other teachers. We were all hauled off to be caned, with the smell of cow dung accompanying us everywhere we went until my poor unfortunate classmate was sent home.
The caning ceremony was bizarre. You would go into Sister’s room, and there would be no sign of the cane at first. The weird thing was that she kept the cane hidden in a box behind a picture in her room. The box would be produced with great ceremony and the assistant headmaster or other teacher would take out the cane. On each occasion the sentence was the same—three strokes of the cane on each hand, which you placed one on top of the other to receive the stroke. I suppose the cane was supposed to be an encouragement of sorts, but if so, then it did not achieve its purpose as your hands were so traumatized that you couldn’t lift a pen or do any serious work for the rest of the day.
Tradition meant everything to Sister St Anne. As far as she was concerned, it was to be Gaelic football or no football at all. I, on the other hand, just could not envisage life without soccer. I was about fourteen, I was already in the school Gaelic football team, and was also playing for the local Clan Na Gael club. But I was doing so well with Lurgan United soccer club that my name was already in the books of several scouts from senior clubs across the water in Scotland and England. So I knew by then that I had a chance of playing football for a living and, more and more, that was what I wanted to do. But Sister St Anne decreed that I would play for the school Gaelic football team and that meant giving up Saturday morning soccer. Or so she thought.
The penalty for disobeying the order was simple—I would be expelled from St Michael’s. I was in tears at the thought—I had worked hard to pass the exams to get into St Michael’s and now I faced expulsion for playing football.
The annoying thing was that all these orders were relayed in public at school assembly. My sister Orla was in the sixth year and she confronted Sister about this before telling my parents.
My father was very angry when he and mother went to the school office. He pointed out that I had made a commitment to the soccer club and somehow he worked out a compromise with Sister. At that time it was close to the end of the soccer season, so I was able to carry on playing but had to switch to Gaelic as soon as the season ended, and in the meantime I played only in the important school matches.
I would not have liked to have left St Michael’s under a cloud. I loved my time there, and the standard of education was very high and academic achievement was not just demanded but expected. I was no swot, but there were some subjects which I did enjoy, mainly languages such as English literature and English language, Spanish, French and Irish Gaelic—I got ‘O’ levels in all of those. I passed seven ‘O’ levels in all, the others being religious studies and chemistry. I could have done better, but by then my mind was on other things, namely where I would start my football career.
The only other profession I considered was that of veterinary surgeon because I always loved animals. I still do, and have shares in several racehorses.
We always had cats or dogs in our house, and we also had a canary for years—one who never stopped singing! He was called Sweep, and the cat was not too impressed with his constant noise.
Perhaps if I had passed my biology ‘O’ level I might have carried on to study veterinary science, but I failed and that was the end of any thoughts of becoming a vet. To be honest, by that time I was already set on a career in football.
By the time I was fourteen I was on the fringes of the Northern Ireland schoolboy team. It was a very exciting period for me which also saw me widen my horizons a little.
For some reason of which I’m not aware, Lurgan Celtic had dropped their boys’ team but the people who ran it went off and formed Lurgan United which I joined, because it was really Lurgan Celtic by another name. At that time we had a rare crop of players and we were frequently watched by scouts from dozens of clubs in Britain, and also representatives of other more senior boys’ clubs in the area.
One of the best boys’ clubs in Armagh, indeed the whole of Northern Ireland, was Lisburn side Hillsborough. Its officials and players were all from the ‘other side’ of the divide, so when Gerry Taggart and I were asked to join them, I was a bit sceptical. I had plenty of friends who were Protestant and Unionist, but joining Hillsborough from Lurgan Celtic was something of a bridge crossing, as we would be the only two Catholics in the club. I need not have worried a jot. We were welcomed with open arms and in the five years I played for Hillsborough, nary a cross word was spoken about the religious and political problems in my town and country.
One of the players was Noel Baillie, and he and I went right through the ranks at Hillsborough together before he went on to play for Linfield, the Belfast club traditionally associated with the Protestant and Unionist sector of the city’s population. Strange to think that the two of us, one who played more than 600 games for and also captained the ‘Rangers’ of Belfast and myself, who captains Glasgow Celtic, were once both wee boys in the same team.
Those were busy days for me, especially at weekends. I would play soccer twice a day on the Saturday, for Lurgan United in the morning and Hillsborough in the afternoon, and then turn out for my Gaelic football club on the Sunday. I was at the age when you felt you could play all day, every day. No one had heard of the phrase ‘teenage burnout’ in those days. I would pay for the excessive football a few years later, as you will learn in a later chapter.
My Gaelic football career was going very well, too. I seemed to have the natural ball-playing skills needed for both versions of football, and my ability to hit a long shot came in handy in Gaelic in particular. Playing for St Michael’s and Clan Na Gael, in total before I left school, I won Armagh county league championship medals at Under-13, Under-14 and Under—15 levels; two more Under-16 league medals and two minor league medals; plus an All-Ireland Community Games medal and a winner’s medal in the prestigious Herald Cup tournament.
The pinnacle of my school Gaelic football career came in an All-Ireland final. St Michael’s won through to the Under-161/2 Colleges B Championship which was played at mighty Croke Park in Dublin, the home of Gaelic football. It was a huge day for everyone at the school, but we were not fancied to beat the big strong team from Clane Community School in Kildare.
We were much more skilful, however, and I thoroughly enjoyed the game if not the match report in the local Lurgan paper—it mentioned something about me being ‘exciting to watch’ but spoiled things by adding ‘the red-haired youngster…spoils his performances occasionally with his fiery temper’. The anti-ginger brigade in the media had it in for me from the start, it seems…
We won a close match by a goal and three points (1-3) to four points (0-4), and instantly became heroes to the rest of the school. In that year I also played for Clan Na Gael’s Under-16 team which won the North Armagh championship, as our club performed the remarkable feat of winning the league at every age level.
Despite my Gaelic football success, soccer was more and more the main focus of my life. As I approached my final year in school, I was already set on a path to try to become a professional footballer, and senior clubs from Scotland and England were taking a great interest in me, including one rather surprising club indeed.
CHAPTER THREE First Steps on the Ladder (#ulink_18ee8358-70af-5e66-878f-a0ac84419c12)
As I progressed through the ranks of school football and played for both Lurgan United and Hillsborough Boys Club, several senior teams in Scotland and England had begun to take a look at me with an eye to securing my signature in the future.
One club in Glasgow in particular seemed to begin taking a genuine interest. That club was not Celtic, but Rangers.
That is correct. Your eyes do not deceive you. I am relating the story here not to make any great fuss, but because it really did happen and in fact was reported in the local Lurgan paper at the time, though not with any great prominence. The first sign of interest from Rangers came after I played for the Northern Ireland Under-14 select against the Scottish Schools team in Stranraer. We won the match quite convincingly and I played particularly well that day. It was after that match that I came into contact with Harry Dunn, the well-known scout who would eventually help me to get a start in professional football.
He told me that Motherwell FC might be interested in giving me a trial, but a couple of weeks later he called the house to say that Rangers were also interested and would like to invite me to visit Ibrox Park for the day.
My dad was stupefied. But shortly afterwards we received a letter from Jock Wallace, the then manager of Rangers, confirming their interest in my future. You can read that letter and see the picture of me at Ibrox in the illustration section—proof positive that Rangers were following my progress as a fledgling footballer.
It was one of the few times in my life that I saw my father look absolutely stunned as he read the message on that Ibrox-headed notepaper. He just could not believe it at first, but when he realized it was serious he expressed his grave reservations about me ever signing for Rangers, not least because it could place my personal safety, and that of the rest of the family, at risk from the actions of extremists—given what happened to me when I was chosen to captain Northern Ireland, his fears were sadly justified.
Despite my father’s concerns I also consulted Dessie Meginnis and it was decided all round that I should go over to Glasgow to see what Rangers had to offer.
The visit took place after an international youth tournament at Ayr where I was lucky enough to be named best player in the Under-14 section. The Lurgan Mail reported that ‘Neill (sic) Lennon has attracted the interest of Birmingham City, Glasgow Celtic and Rangers.’ Later on it was reported that ‘13-year-old Neil Lennon accepted an invitation from a top Scottish Premier League side to view their set-up. Neil, who was accompanied by his father, enjoyed the experience and may well be invited back at a later date for a trial. The club asked that their name should not be disclosed at this stage.’
That is probably a reference to the fact that the whole situation of Rangers taking an interest in a Catholic schoolboy was very delicate, to say the least. At that time, because of their culture as the club of the Protestant and Unionist tradition, Rangers did not sign Catholics. The club had stated several years earlier that it would sign a Catholic if he was good enough, but funnily enough by the early 1980s, Rangers still hadn’t signed anyone of my religion. The first boy to sign for them who was reported to be a Catholic was John Spencer later in that decade.
It was obviously going to be problematic for me to sign for them and perhaps that’s why everything was kept pretty hush-hush, but I have never doubted that their interest in me was genuine, not least because Jock Wallace told my father face to face—and as people who knew him will recall, Jock didn’t do whispers…he could be heard out on the pitch!
With my father along to watch over me—and make sure I didn’t sign anything—I enjoyed my trip to Ibrox, in company with three other boys from the Northern Ireland Under-14 side. We were accompanying the Under-15 side which went to Glasgow to play a Rangers’ youth side, and after the game we four were given our own guided tour of Ibrox, including the dressing rooms and the trophy room, which was empty as usual—only kidding!
Ibrox was very impressive, particularly the marble halls, and Jimmy Nicholl, the Northern Ireland international who then played for Rangers, looked after us well. My dad had a conversation with Jock Wallace in which the Rangers manager said that he had known about me for some time. The subject of my religion was mentioned and my dad recalls that Wallace knew it would be a problem. Even so I was only thirteen and the time for deciding my future was a long way away, though even by then I was pretty certain that I wanted to be a professional footballer.
Over the next few months, Harry Dunn also assured me that Rangers were keeping an eye on me. The interest from Rangers was intriguing, but never came to anything. I reckon I would have been about fifteen or so when Graeme Souness took over and started the revolution which brought Rangers their first high-profile Catholic signing of the modern era, Maurice Johnston, and Catholics have played a considerable part in their subsequent success. Could I have been the one to break the mould before John Spencer and Mo Johnston? I don’t know, because the question never arose. Still, it’s certainly something to ponder.
With nothing concrete coming from Rangers or any other club, I began to wonder if anyone would sign me up, but I need not have worried. The occasion which really brought me to the attention of scouts was the Milk Cup in Coleraine in 1985. Although I had only just turned fourteen, Dessie Meginnis asked me to captain a ‘Craigavon United’ select side which contained several older players.
The Milk Cup was a huge tournament for youngsters, and the best teams from all over Northern Ireland as well as visitors from as far away as Italy and San Francisco participated in a week-long competition with the final being watched by 10,000 people.
We played as Craigavon United but in reality it was the Lurgan Celtic team of two years earlier. Given our loyalty to the club in the east end of Glasgow it was somewhat pleasing that our best performance came against Rangers in the final. We had done well to get that far, but Rangers were hot favourites. Ironically, their side was managed by none other than Harry Dunn. His boys had wiped the floor with everyone, scoring fifty-five goals and losing none in romping to the final, and had the likes of John Spencer and Gary McSwegan playing for them. They were a very good side, but we gave them a huge fright, only losing to them on penalties after drawing 1-1 at full-time. At the end of the tournament, players were selected to contest a Northern Ireland versus the Rest of the World match. With Dessie Meginnis as manager, I was chosen as captain of our side which won 1-0.
There was high praise at home for this bunch of youngsters from Lurgan who were representing Craigavon. When I got back to my house it seemed as though the telephone did not stop ringing. Scouts from Manchester City, Oxford and Motherwell all called my dad, but the interest which excited me most was that of John Kelman, chief scout for Celtic, who knew Dessie Meginnis. Kelman told my father that Celtic would like me to come over for a trial at some point in the future. I was ecstatic that I was even being thought of in connection with Celtic. When I was first told, I bounced about the house like some crazy fool, jumping up and down and doing somersaults.
I was now on the fringe of the Northern Ireland schoolboy team, so it was a very exciting time for me. Football was almost taking over my life, but then I suffered my first major setback. I had been selected in the initial squad of eighteen players of ages fourteen and fifteen who would train together to prepare for schoolboy internationals. That training period lasted about six or seven months, at the end of which the squad was reduced to sixteen. I was one of the players cut at that point, and I felt as if the roof had fallen in on me. I had put a lot of effort into my training for the national squad, and I was gutted to be left out. I kept thinking of the other players going off to feature in matches at big stadiums in Scotland and England while I was stuck back in Lurgan. I seriously began to doubt whether I would make it into the ranks of professional football.
Looking back on that period, I was probably carrying a bit too much puppy fat—like any teenager, I was quite conscious of it. I decided that I needed to get fitter and then perhaps my turn would come. Motherwell and Manchester City were still interested in signing me, after all, though I had heard nothing more from Celtic and a trial for Oxford United had produced nothing solid.
Everyone at Hillsborough Boys Club was really good to me at that time, encouraging me to carry on. I went back to play a full season for them, which proved to be highly successful. In 1986, when I was fifteen, Craigavon United returned to the Milk Cup but I was too old to play for the junior side which won the tournament that year.
As I studied for my ‘O’ levels, Harry Dunn assured me that there was still very strong interest in me from Motherwell. Indeed there was—one of the directors of the club, Malky McNeill, came over to see my parents and me, and he took us for dinner to a very nice restaurant at the Chimney Corner, an upmarket hotel on the outskirts of Belfast. I will never forget that meal, because not only did it lead to me starting my professional career with Motherwell, it was also the first time I had seen someone cracking open a bottle of champagne. Malky stuck a silver coin into the cork and handed it to me saying ‘you keep that for luck’. I remember that the bill came to ?8, which was an absolute fortune to my parents in those days.
After that dinner, I was made a formal written offer by Motherwell of a two-year apprenticeship plus a year’s professional contract.
At around the same time, Manchester City’s scout Peter Neill, who had seen me play in the Milk Cup in his home town of Coleraine, invited myself and Gerry Taggart to take part in trials for the Maine Road club. The trials went very well and City let me know through Peter that they wanted me to sign for them.
So I now had two offers on the table. After much discussion with Dessie, Harry and my parents, it was decided that I would sign for Motherwell. The main reason I signed for Motherwell in preference to Manchester City was that we thought I would have a better chance of progressing more quickly at a smaller club where I might get more opportunities to break into the first team.
I was hugely excited at the prospect of playing full-time professional football, even as an apprentice, and couldn’t wait to finish school and get over to Scotland.
But joining the Steelmen, as Motherwell were nicknamed because of the forges around the town, turned out to be the wrong choice for me. In fact, I would go as far as to say that my move to Scotland and Motherwell was a complete disaster.
Motherwell were then in the Scottish Premier League, and the previous year the club had celebrated its centenary. They played at Fir Park, so called because it was once the corner of Lord Dalziel’s country estate in which fir trees grew.
In the 1987/88 season the manager was Tommy McLean, the former Rangers and Scotland player, and his assistant was Tom Forsyth, also a former Rangers player. That season the club had a staff of thirty-three full-time footballers, and they had a lot of players who were either already well known in Scottish football or who would become so, such as former Celtic player Tom McAdam, ex-Rangers man Robert Russell and a certain Tom Boyd whose name will reappear later in this book.
In July 1987, having just turned sixteen, I packed my bags and left home for a new life as an apprentice footballer with Motherwell. It was the first extended period I would spend away from my family, and I have to say that I did not enjoy it one bit.
It was certainly a huge shock to me to have to move into digs. My very first lodgings were with the grandmother of one of the Motherwell players, Chris McCart. Some thirteen years later when I signed for Celtic, one of the first people to greet me was the selfsame Chris, who by then was on Celtic’s staff as a youth coach. Football can be a small world at times.
It can also be tough and uncompromising, especially for young apprentices. Among the boys who joined at the same time as me was Scott Leitch, who later captained Motherwell and is now the manager of Ross County. Scott was slightly older than me—in fact, every signed player at the club was older than me.
Our day consisted of an early rise in order to take the public transport I needed to get to Fir Park. We had to be there before the senior players as we apprentices had to clean their boots and make sure the kit was laid out and the place was tidy before training began. We were nominally under the supervision of chief scout and youth development officer Bobby Jenks, but from the start we were coached and trained by Tommy McLean and his coaching staff.
I was surprised to be thrown in at the deep end by being made to train with the first-team players and the rest of the senior squad. I was still a raw boy, and not physically up to the task of training like a full-time professional footballer. We would be taken to Strathclyde Park near Hamilton and made to run up steep slopes, then there would be all sorts of running and exercises that really were more suited to adults than a teenager. I was constantly getting it in the neck for my lack of fitness and I had to admit that I was struggling as I was overweight and had never experienced anything like the intensity of this training. After the senior players went off for the afternoon we apprentices would have to go back to Fir Park and do more cleaning and tidying of the stadium in preparation for the forthcoming season. Was it any wonder that I went back to my digs exhausted most nights?
I loved playing most of all and when I finally got the chance to play in a few warm-up games, I thought that I performed quite well. I definitely held my own among my age group, and went with Motherwell’s Under-16 side to play in the Milk Cup at Coleraine where I had happy memories. We did well in our first game, beating Newcastle United’s boys 5-2, before losing to Liverpool in the semi-final, the Reds eventually going on to win the tournament. Once again I was selected to play in the closing match, this time for the Rest of the World which beat a Northern Ireland select eleven 2-1. I must have set some sort of Milk Cup record having played for the Northern Irish select at Under-14 level and then for the Rest of the World at a higher age group—and I was on the winning side both times.
Back at Fir Park, there was just a chance that I might have made it into the reserves. The training was murder, however, and though I was determined to stick it out, I picked up a thigh injury and that set me back several weeks.
I was also suffering badly from homesickness. It did not help matters that for various reasons, I was shunted about from landlady to landlady, and I was in three different digs in three months.
The fact that I was the only Irish apprentice brought me some unwelcome attention. Not to put too fine a point on it, I was picked on and singled out to be the butt of a few jokes, usually involving ‘Irishness’, a subject beloved of the politically incorrect comedians of the time. I remember that my being a Catholic from Northern Ireland was also the subject of some remarks. On one occasion a senior player grabbed the broom I was using and showed me how to sweep up. ‘There,’ he said, ‘that’s bit more Protestant-like.’ I had never heard that phrase before and though I now know it’s a common expression in the west of Scotland to describe things being neat and tidy, back then at the age of sixteen, I didn’t know how to deal with this kind of banter.
I was very unhappy and couldn’t see me getting anywhere fast, and on a pittance for a wage I couldn’t exactly live the high life. Like quite a few clubs, Motherwell had taken advantage of the Government’s funding of youth training and my wage was set at the Youth Training Scheme allowance of £28.50, although the club, to be fair, paid for my lodgings.
The last straw came when I was moved into my third digs with an old lady who was perfectly civil but bordering on the stone deaf. We had nothing in common and conversation was minimal. My life consisted of cleaning boots, training, more cleaning, then going home to eat my dinner, watch some telly and go to bed. I was fed up and miserable, and something had to give.
Part of the contract I had signed entitled me to a couple of holidays during the season and by the beginning of September I decided to use up one of my breaks to go home to Lurgan. I had a long chat with my dad, during which I told him how nightmarish things had become. I told him that my brief flirtation with professional football, Scottish style, was over and that I wanted to come home and start my studies again.
My dad then had a long telephone conversation with Tommy McLean during which he told the manager in no uncertain terms that he was not happy with the way I was being treated. Tommy made it clear that he very much wanted me to stay and that things would improve, but my mind was made up and that was the end of my time with Motherwell. I don’t blame anyone for what happened and I’ve never held it against the club that I had a poor start to my career. It was just one of those things that happens in football, and at least I had shown enough potential for Tommy McLean to want to keep me on.
I returned a wiser lad to Lurgan and home, and also to St Michael’s School. I had only missed a few weeks of term, and I was sure I could catch up and eventually sit my ‘A’ levels. Despite my harsh experience at Motherwell, I also wanted to continue playing football.
Nothing better illustrates the topsy-turvy nature of football than what happened to me next. Within days of my arrival home I was invited to train with Glenavon, the local side who played in the Irish League. Their manager Terry Nicholson had heard of my return and moved quickly to sign me on professional terms, albeit for only a few quid a week. There were the usual complications over the cancellation of my registration with Motherwell, but the Scottish Football Association finally cleared me to play.
Glenavon played at Mourneview Park in Lurgan and it was there that I trained and played with the reserves. As part-timers, we trained on Tuesday and Thursday nights and the park was close enough to my home for me to jog there and back. I played a couple of reserve matches and scored twice, but as a sixteen-year-old schoolboy it looked as though I might stay in the reserves for a while. Glenavon’s first team had made a dreadful start to the season, however, so Terry Nicholson decided to give me a chance in the senior side.
I made my debut as a senior professional footballer for Glenavon on Saturday 26 September 1987, in an Irish League match against Cliftonville at Mourneview Park.
I played in midfield and did particularly well in the first half, hitting the bar with a long-range effort after seventeen minutes. I was enjoying myself being back at home and playing football, and the training at Motherwell had certainly made me fitter. In the seventy-seventh minute I went forward, picked up a pass from substitute Billy Drake, beat one defender and sent goalkeeper Bobby Carlisle the wrong way as I shot home with my left foot. Cue a great roar from the home fans and a jig of delight from me.
It proved to be the only goal of the game. I had scored on my debut and into the bargain I had ended an eight-game losing streak for Glenavon. I think I was a bit of a hero in Lurgan that night…and all the miseries of Motherwell had vanished.
The Lurgan Mail duly reported: ‘A debut goal is something worth celebrating and Neil certainly savoured the euphoria of it all. It was a score which may go down in history, marking the birth of a star.’ Just shows you, the press can get things right at times!
I was amazed at the reaction to my debut. I was congratulated by people I had never met, I had my picture taken in my school uniform by the local paper, and because it was an Irish League match, the national newspapers covered the game. I was even given a special mention in Ireland’s Sunday World column about football in the north.
I couldn’t wait to play again and the following weekend I did it again, scoring the first goal in Glenavon’s 3-1 win over Bangor in the TNT Gold Cup. I might have played a third game, but of all things I went down with ’flu.
By then, however, I had received the call which would put my soccer career back on track. I had turned down Manchester City for Motherwell, but they were a forgiving lot at Maine Road and within weeks of my arriving home the club contacted my dad through Peter Neill and said they would still like to take me. I needed no second invitation. In late October 1987, I put pen to paper and signed for City.
My friend Gerry Taggart had been signed as an apprentice that summer and was already over in Manchester, so this time, at least, I would not be the only Irish boy in the squad. I had to say goodbye to Glenavon but I would never forget the start they gave me as a senior player, and probably because of that experience and my feelings that things couldn’t go as badly as they had done at Motherwell, I packed my bags with a lighter heart.
City’s scout Peter Neill accompanied me on the trip to Manchester, which included ten hours on a ferry from Belfast to Liverpool—not fun, I can tell you—followed by a bus journey to Manchester. We arrived at my digs where the landlady warned me I had an early rise as I was wanted at Maine Road at 8.30 a.m. the following morning.
The guest house was just fifteen minutes’ walk away from the stadium in Rusholme. As I set out for the ground my first thought was that I had somehow woken up in the wrong country. I had seen maybe only a few brown—or black-skinned people in my life, and here was I now in the Asian quarter of Manchester. I think I probably stared goggle-eyed at women in saris and men in turbans with big long beards—sights I had only seen on television before. As I walked along the road to Moss Side, which is the Afro-Caribbean area of the city, I really did begin to wonder where the white people had gone. It shows you how naĭve I was when I arrived in Manchester, and it was to be the first of many culture shocks that I would experience over the next few weeks and months. It was a whole new world to me, yet I never found it intimidating. On the contrary, it was exciting to find new cultures on my doorstep, and I thoroughly enjoyed exploring Manchester.
I was back on the apprenticeship treadmill, having signed a two-year contract. Once again I was on the government’s Youth Training Scheme stipend of ?8.50 per week, but City did pay us an extra ?0 for travel expenses. I was also determined not to repeat the Motherwell debacle, and the main difference in my environment this time around was that within a few days of arriving at Maine Road, I was put into digs with an incredible, wonderful family called the Ducketts.
They lived in a rambling three-storey Victorian house in Stockport. Len and Jackie Duckett were the mother and father in charge of the household which included their two grown-up married daughters, a younger son and a grandson. Everyone in that house brought their own distinctive personality to a warm and supportive environment in which I was immediately made to feel at home. They were all hard-grafting people who contributed to the household income, and while you had to toe the line and respect their house rules, there was always plenty of humour and laughter around.
Len Duckett became almost like a second father to me, looking after me and making sure I knew my way about Manchester. I still talk to him to this day, and indeed I regret not keeping in touch more regularly because the Ducketts really were very good to me over a number of years. At City and later at Crewe Alexandra I would sometimes move into a flat with other players, for instance, but the Ducketts would always take me back if I needed somewhere to stay.
What makes their kindness and support of me even more astonishing is that Len was a season-ticket holder at Manchester UNITED. But he would often come to watch this City boy play, even travelling to Ireland when I started playing for Northern Ireland’s youth side. They are still a warm and caring family, and I will always be grateful to the Ducketts for the start they gave me in England.
In my first year with them I had the whole of the top floor to myself, but after that they provided lodgings for three more players, namely Michael Hughes from Larne, later a Northern Ireland international who is still playing, Mike Sheron who went on to become a prolific scorer at several clubs, and John Wills. We four had a great time together, and all played in the FA Youth Cup Final of 1989. Regular as clockwork, we would catch the bus to Maine Road each morning, and, unlike Motherwell, training was something I looked forward to.
Billy McNeill had left the manager’s job to return to Celtic in September 1986, and that had triggered something of a slide at City. During the summer before I arrived at Maine Road, Mel Machin had taken over after Scottish manager Jimmy Frizzell had taken over briefly and presided over the club’s relegation to Division Two. Jimmy was kicked upstairs to become general manager, while Mel’s job was simple—to get City back to the top flight as soon as possible.
