Sol Campbell Page 3
Even when the temperature fell in the winter months and he shivered in the increasing cold, he would remain out on the street or in the park, with just the tennis ball as company and a crowd of spectators in his mind, created by the rustle of the trees. In the autumn, with sycamore leaves falling off the branches and spiralling like marionettes out of control, he would create other sounds in West Ham Park to be his company.
He would sometimes watch games on television and then hurry back into the park to recreate what he’d just seen. The group would consist of Sol, a tennis ball and the trees as his team-mates; kicking the tennis ball against a tree, which would then ricochet back with the perfect pass to his foot, and then wham! into the makeshift goal. Yes! Practice! Practice!! Practice!!! He would work so intensely that the soles of his trainers wore down and his feet could feel the pavement or the wet grass. ‘I would use cardboard to fills the holes in my trainers,’ Sol says. He would save up for months before being able to afford a pair of new ones. ‘I was given a little bit of money from my mum and dad, sometimes my brothers, 10p or, if I was lucky, 50p. I used to have this little piggy bank, which I kept hidden behind the cot.’
The cot, which Sol slept in as a baby, was now a laundry basket and piled to the brim with clothes. When no-one was looking, he would push the cot away from the wall, open his piggy bank shoved deep in the corner, and count out his money. Slowly. Counting and recounting. Then he would return it back behind the cot and the pile of clothes, well hidden from even the most inquisitive sleuth.
Money was always tight in the household. It was something you lived with, even if Sol used to notice his father filling his pockets with notes before he went off to the pub. He was too young to understand this was wrong. It’s his house, he works hard and surely he has the right to go out and enjoy himself, Sol thought. ‘Sometimes I had to use soap to brush my teeth if we ran out of toothpaste. It was that bad. It would usually take days to replace it. If my trainers were virtually impossible to wear anymore and had to be used sparingly, I wouldn’t go out and instead I’d play upstairs in mum’s room, using the bed and its corners as the goalposts, with a wrapped-up piece of foil as the ball.’
• • •
‘I saw a lot of things as I was growing up. I was very observant and didn’t miss a trick. I could see very quickly how things would pan out. In that environment, I grew up pretty quickly but it was always tough. The main thing I learned was that I saw a lot of my brothers waste time on different things, like not really concentrating on their schoolwork. I swore I wouldn’t be like that.’
Birthdays and Christmas were never easy for Sol. Beneath his calm persona laid a hotbed of unease. He rarely found a present under the Christmas tree and he rarely enjoyed a day accepted by the vast majority of the country as a time of joy and frivolity. In the Campbell household, the youngest was never spoiled. The house was full of family with underlying tensions. Sol used to sit there quietly, half-listening, waiting for something to explode, like a firework going off; his father holding court like a king, as Sol’s siblings paid respect to the man who provides.
When he was sixteen and earning enough money with Tottenham Youth, he went to Dixons and bought himself a Walkman with a cassette and radio. He also treated himself to a tape: a compilation album with the Robert Palmer song ‘Addicted to Love’ as its opening track. He sauntered around the neighbourhood for a week listening to his music; the best, and at that time only present to himself. Two days before Christmas he wrapped it up and put it under the tree. On Christmas day, he went downstairs, looked under the tree, acted surprised and opened his one present, the Walkman. It was the first time he found a special present waiting for him.
Birthdays were no different, except on his twelfth when he received the present of all presents. It was a Mongoose bike, chrome with red pads and handlebars; more importantly it was from his dad. As with all things, beauty can be seen anywhere. And this present was, in Sol’s eyes, truly beautiful. Waking up to find his dad standing by the bike; the proximity of the gift in front of the house; his father holding the handlebars ready to hand it over. But after that, he received nothing. The beauty of that day made the following birthdays even harder, for his father never repeated his generosity again.
He tried not to think of his birthday as a special day. He would urge it to go by without fanfare or celebration. Some close friends might have known but most would never have guessed. There was never a party; never were his friends invited over to sing him a happy birthday.
On one birthday, when his mother buys him a birthday cake, he dashes home from school before the rest of the family gets there. He wants to eat a piece of cake on his own and then have time to hide the rest of the cake in his one drawer in his mother’s room so no-one could find it. He lights himself a candle, blows it out and sings himself a happy birthday. The cake is so tasty; he savours every single bite. And, as a treat to himself, he buys a coca-cola at the local newsagents. There’s no Hollywood scene when his father suddenly wakes up from his sleep to find his youngest son eating the cake on his own and clasps him to his chest and wishes him a happy birthday. There’s no moment when father tells him how much he is loved, hugs his son again and says, ‘I am so proud of you.’ No, his father remains asleep upstairs in his own room or at his local pub drinking a pint, having a smoke and sharing a laugh, unaware it’s Sol’s birthday.
The cake lasts three days. Sol goes through the same routine. He rushes back after school, creeps upstairs and puts his ear to his father’s door just to check if he is in there. He does not want to be disturbed. This is his moment, no-one else’s. He opens his drawer and there is the cake, waiting, neatly sliced with a knife he borrowed from the kitchen. He crosses his legs on the floor and gulps down a whole slice, but not before looking at the door to check no-one is watching. Then he pauses and eats another slice. He is tempted to have a third but resists; he wants this pleasure to last for as long as possible. He doesn’t sing a happy birthday to himself again; no, that can wait for another year. But other than the bike, the cake that his mother bought is his favourite present ever.
• • •
Sol was always kicking something along the street. He would dribble, smack and juggle a football, tennis ball or a can as he walked without losing his stride. Even if he was on his bike, riding up and down the street, he would be seen holding a football under his arm as if he was never going to let it go.
His clothes were well worn but he still managed to look smart, proud and upright. His one drawer at home was filled with clothes handed down from brothers, some too stained or creased to continue wearing. But even if there was no more use for them, he was hesitant to throw them out. It was an unspoken rule in the house not to throw anything away ‘just in case’; to be kept safe if worse became the very worst.
He started at Lister Community School at the age of eleven. He arrived with a reputation from the local boys that he was a good footballer, someone to watch. There’s nothing better than to arrive at school with a reputation; life becomes easier when you’re thought of as being a good athlete. Sol was taller, stronger than most in his year and although still very quiet, he soon became the chosen leader. These decisions are never openly discussed. They just happen. If he had known, he would not have felt comfortable. He would turn down many offers of leading a team until Gerry Francis asked him to be captain at Tottenham years later; he was more content to remain in the background, without much fuss, rather than being thrust forward on show. And yet he would tend to walk a few steps ahead of his group of friends and, if the pack were slow in following, he turned and they would pick up their pace. This was all done without any signal, visual or vocal. That would be ridiculous. His calmness demanded respect even for boys heading into their teenage years. Sol had little idea he was conveying such an influence but it was happening and it was natural. He would display an instinct to teach those not as naturally talented as him in football. Before big games, he would take friends to the park and w
ould help prepare them and try to improve their play. It would not always be one way. He was lucky to have good players around him at the time and was never daunted to learn from others. He wanted it and he needed it too; his drive and dedication were insatiable. The competitive matches were vital in his life. He longed to be on the pitch against an opposing team, working hard, and after a game, worn out and elated, feeling the exhaustion as if he had finished a cross-country run. It was around this time that his first imagery of opposition becoming the enemy in a battlefield came into being: the courage and coolness he needed in the heart of battle; not fearing any player in the opposition. Driving them back to defend, scoring to mark the victory. He would never lose that descriptive force in his imagination; never, whether he was turning out for the local district side, or playing for England in the World Cup.
He never wanted to talk about his success on the field. There was no longing to rush home and share with his family his latest news or get approval. There was no welcome face or the thumbs-up from one of his siblings. Even with his brothers who understood, played and liked the game, there were no questions. It didn’t matter. He was just having fun, loving the game. Football was thought of in the Campbell household as recreational and not something you could earn a living from. It hadn’t happened for his older brother John, so why should it happen for Sulzeer? It wasn’t said, but it only worked out for the few. There was no-one in his life at the time to encourage him to think otherwise, neither at home nor at school. This young man didn’t think much about his future, certainly not in football. What he wasn’t realising was that his strides in the game were becoming more forceful.
‘He had a certain maturity even at that age. He was humble as well,’ says Edwin Lavinier, a close friend and future best man. Edwin saw Sol’s upright behaviour as coming straight from his home. Whenever his friends went round to pick Sol up (waiting at the door and not invited in), they would be respectful. They would address Sol’s father with hands out of pockets, arms to attention at the side. ‘Good morning, or good afternoon, Mr Campbell’ and, before saying another word, you waited for him to answer; not unlike an exchange with royalty. ‘I didn’t and still don’t even know his first name,’ says Edwin. To the boys, he looked just like they thought he was: a dominant West Indian man with a strong exterior who always expected those in his company to behave with manners and courtesy.
• • •
The English teacher detects giggles from the class. They are even more exuberant than usual. The ones sitting at the back were given some strong advice a few days before that behaviour in class was not very good and they were at school to learn and not just to play. But this has had little effect; those who decide that they are going to misbehave continue to do so. That morning, they were definitely finding something very funny.
The teacher decides the best way to treat them is to simply ignore the troublemakers and concentrate on those who want to learn something. The boys start to whisper into each other’s ears. The desks are so close together they are virtually squatting on the same chair. The talk and near-laughter continues until the teacher has had enough and asks them, politely at first, to ‘settle down’. It works initially but then the muttering starts up again, and the class sniggering gets louder and louder. Sol is not part of the noise. He is disturbed by it and soon his conscience tells him he must do something. So he gets up and walks straight to the teacher, who looks surprised to see the sight of a concerned-looking young Mr Campbell standing by his side. He is about to chide him for walking up to him without permission, when Sol asks, ‘Can I have a word?’
The teacher is about to answer when Sol beckons him down. As he whispers, the class falls silent and the titters and sneering suddenly lull. After he is finished, Sol returns to his desk and the teacher, looking very embarrassed, turns away from the class to the blackboard and pulls his zip up sharply and loudly. The teacher turns to face the class and continues as if nothing happened. ‘Only Sol would have done something like that,’ says Edwin. ‘We would have been laughing all day, but for Sol. He had no choice but to go up to the teacher and tell him his flies were wide open and he was exposing himself. He said very little but his actions spoke volumes. He was always considerate and with the smallest amount of fuss he gained our respect.’
Sol’s shyness was considered a drawback by some but not a weakness. He stuck to the set of rules put in front of him, and as he grew, stood up for its unwritten code of good behaviour. If anything, his father’s heavy-handed authority and his mother’s kindness taught him that you are not alone; you can revel in life’s imperfections and learn from the humility and humanity of getting it right and getting it wrong.
• • •
Often when Sol returned from school, the front door was locked, and without a key, he would have to use his ingenuity to get himself back inside. He would at first knock on the neighbour’s door and if they were in the routine was easier; he would be allowed to miss out on a couple of leaps to get through next door’s back garden. Otherwise, he would have to leap over the neighbour’s fence at the front and back of the house, squeeze himself through the smallest window in the bathroom, and drop down from a height onto the toilet seat. His motivation was hunger. He was always hungry in those days. He had a huge appetite. He never had enough money for the local shop and needed his bowl of cornflakes, which he would demolish very quickly. He would then do his homework alone and afterwards he’d escape to the park to play football, which was fast becoming his refuge. He was growing more and more independent; he had to, he had no choice. His mother was out during the day at work and his father had become an empty presence in the home and in his life.
He was being chosen to play football for the school side and by the time he was eleven he started playing in the district league for Newham. The school had put his name forward and without a trial he was accepted and picked to play. So this became part of his life outside school hours. It was a role he felt most comfortable with; without realising it, football was becoming the epicentre of his life. Nobody was recognising the change. His parents and siblings took little notice of their youngest’s ambitions or interests. He would disappear for a few hours, play his game and come home without a mere mention of who he had played against, if he scored or if he played well. As long as he didn’t get into trouble, from his parents’ point of view, all was fine and nothing need be asked. For Sol, home was home in title only. He couldn’t really understand what home was meant to represent. It was somewhere his dear mother lived but little else, other than it being a place to escape from.
He played in a number of positions for his school and for Newham District. First he was used as a sweeper, then centre-half, next as a forward and finally in midfield, where he stayed for the majority of his early teens. He played at Flanders Fields in East Ham and the Terence McMillan Stadium just behind Newham General Hospital where Portway and Newham District both played their cup finals. ‘I played my first cup final at the Terence McMillan Stadium: Portway versus Nelson school. We won and I scored. I remember Nelson had hundreds of fans and were expecting to walk over us. They’d played us the week before and beat us in the league 4-2, so they thought they could just turn up and win the cup.’ In that league game Sol had scored and played well. He was the youngest on the pitch. ‘I was nine, coming up against ten or eleven-year-olds. I was at least a couple of years younger than anyone else. After the game, and I have never forgotten this, a Nelson boy who was playing in defence came up to me and said, “You know, you’re a fantastic player.”’ It was the first time in Sol’s life someone had complimented him on his football, in fact on anything, straight to his face.
In the cup final, he scored two goals. ‘One was a long shot,’ he remembers, ‘and the other one I beat two and then went on to beat the goalkeeper. The goalkeeper actually played for Newham District. He was the best in the area but he didn’t stand a chance that day.’ He remembers the state of the pitch, his movement when beating the two boys be
fore reaching the goalkeeper, the weather, the length of the blades of grass, the mud in the goal area. Every detail meticulously recalled and relished like discovering a fine bottle of wine. ‘It’s hard to forget our goals, isn’t it?’ he says, which sets off in his subconscious a deluge of other football memories which, until that moment, had remained buried.
• • •
Sol was sixteen at the time he was waiting in line at Barclays Bank in Plashet Road in Upton Park. The queue was long but he didn’t mind. Queues can be good barometers of mood, and that day he was in a good one. He was called and walked forward to deposit some cash. The cashier look at his filled-out slip, read the number on the cheque and was about to stamp it, when he suddenly stopped and looked straight up at Sol.
‘Sulzeer Campbell? I know that name. Weren’t you once down to play for West Ham?’
‘Yes.’ Sol replied. He instinctively looked round to see if anyone was watching, or better still listening.
‘I used to work part time at the club.’ And he read out Sol’s full name. ‘Sulzeer Jeremiah Campbell. It’s a hard name to forget.’
Sol smiled shyly.
‘And you’re now playing youth for Tottenham?’ The cheque was from the club.
‘Yeah.’
‘What happened then? Why didn’t it work out with West Ham?’
‘Oh, nothing. You know, just one of those things.’
The cashier stamped the slip. ‘Well, good luck then with Tottenham,’ he said and held out his hand to shake.
Sol walked out of the bank and stopped. He thought to himself that it wasn’t ‘just one of those things’. No, it wasn’t. It was another example of his defining character.