Neil Lennon: Man and Bhoy. Neil Lennon

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ