Pitch Black

IT’S A FREEZING
cold January afternoon and it’s a third-round FA Cup tie. The atmosphere is that combination of euphoria and cockiness you get when your team’s comfortably ahead and the opposition are just going through the motions. Mixed in with that cheery, swaggering arrogance is anticipation. Anticipation that at any time you might get another goal to really drive home your dominance. Familiar songs are sung in homage to our heroes. It’s like New Year’s Eve.

The opposition make a change. It’s not made with any conviction that things can be turned around, but just to give the substitute a run-out. As the sub does the familiar handshake with his departing teammate and runs onto the pitch, passing on instructions and tactical changes, the party atmosphere suddenly changes, as if he’s said something loud and offensive to the host. For the final ten minutes or so, the focus of the crowd is on this one player. All the singing has stopped and the cheery atmosphere dissipates into a sea of bitterness and hatred. They can’t wait for him to get possession so they can have their few seconds of vitriol. Every touch, every pass, there’s no let-up. The player himself seems not exactly oblivious – how could he be, such is the noise? – but seems determined to concentrate on the job in
hand. He plays gamely, but doesn’t really have any effect on the rest of his teammates, who just want the match to end. The final whistle goes and he retreats to the dressing room with his teammates, pausing to shake hands with home team players. The player in question is an eighteen-year-old striker called Garth Crooks. I was in the crowd that day and was just eleven years old. It was the first time I’d ever really thought about an opposition player. I kept wondering, what must he really be thinking? Did he want to jump into the crowd and take them all on, Bruce Lee-style? What would I have done if he had? Would I have joined in with him? Could the two of us have taken on every one of the 40,000-odd people in the crowd together? The significance of that event for me as an eleven-year-old football fan has led – in a roundabout way, and several years later – to the writing of this book. I’d seen black players before, on
Match of the Day
and the regional football programmes that ITV showed on Sunday afternoons. I was interested in them, of course – their relative scarcity gave them a kind of novelty value – but something had changed after I thought about Garth Crooks, and I began to develop an enduring empathy with all black players. I wanted to know what they really thought.

Throughout the 1970s, when Crooks was making his name as a slippery, predatory striker, the nature and level of racism that existed within the professional game was at a level that exceeded anything seen today in southern or eastern Europe. Black players were routinely subjected to the most vile racist abuse imaginable. From the terraces, black players were routinely subjected to monkey noises and racist chanting.

Bananas were thrown at them; they were spat at and received death threats. Far-right groups openly sold racist literature both inside and outside football grounds without
opposition or condemnation from clubs. Terrace abuse wasn’t solely confined to away fans, either. Home fans abused their own black players mercilessly and sent letters to clubs and the local press, vehemently condemning decisions to include black players in teams.

On the pitch there was often no hiding place from the abuse that black players suffered. Routine racist abuse from opponents was commonplace, as was abuse from teammates in dressing rooms and training grounds.

Racist myths steeped in historical justifications for slavery, colonialism and racial discrimination were widespread. Black players were admired for their strength, speed and flair, but also denigrated for their lack of intelligence, application and courage and their inability to play in cold weather. Coaches and managers ascribed these popular myths to players under their charge and stereotyped their ability and performances.

The FA, as the governing body of the English game, and its Scottish and Welsh counterparts were complicit in all this by their refusal to take action or provide even the most cursory of condemnation – that is, until they were forced by pressure from grassroots anti-racist campaigns to take a stand and provide some semblance of leadership.

The media blindly peddled the same racist myths without either disapproval or qualification and often ignored some of the nastiest examples of racism, so they were tacitly and overtly complicit in the racism that was raging around the game. Black players were routinely described as ‘black pearls’ or ‘black gold’ and their achievements described as ‘black magic’.

That image of the game seems like something from a bygone age. Certainly it is a generation away from today’s multi-camera, 24/7, wall-to-wall football coverage. Racist chanting of the massed, four-sides-of-the-ground variety
is almost unheard of, at least in English football stadiums, and is curbed by legal statutes and powers against such behaviour. The media is willing to condemn such behaviour in outraged tones, and coaches and fellow professionals are quick to jump to the defence of fellow teammates subjected to these displays of racism. But while overt racism is condemned, racism in more subtle forms remains. There are still few players of Asian origin playing in the professional game, in spite of the widespread popularity of the game within their communities, and there remains a chronic shortage of black coaches and managers.

There are an increasing number of books on issues of race both in sport and in football in general. Phil Vasili’s excellent
Colouring Over the White Line
(Mainstream Publishing, 2000) provided a well-researched encyclopaedia of black footballers who have played in the British professional game. However, the critical difference between Vasili’s book and this one is that this book serves as a history of black British footballers from the perspective of those footballers themselves, and an analysis of the key events that have shaped the experience of black footballers today. The sometimes angry, moving and humorous testimonies from current and former players demonstrate the strategies they adopted to deal with and respond to the racism they suffered.

However, although
Pitch Black
differs in approach from
Colouring Over the White Line
in many other respects, its starting point is the place at which Vasili’s book ends.
Colouring Over the White Line
provided an overview of the start of an era in which black footballers were beginning to come of age, or ‘exploding into maturity’, as Vasili put it. Vasili’s book supplied evidence of a black presence since the birth of the professional game in England and ended in the 1980s
just as a crop of talented young black footballers were starting to make their mark.
Pitch Black
concentrates specifically on UK-born or -raised players. Therefore, there’s no Thierry Henry or Patrick Vieira. No Shaka Hislop, Lucas Radebe or Jimmy Floyd Hasselbaink. Also, because it’s about British-born black players, Republic of Ireland internationals Paul McGrath, Chris Hughton and Terry Phelan don’t feature, even though they were born in west London, east London and Manchester respectively, though Chris Hughton does count as a manager. However, players such as Cyrille Regis, Brendon Batson, Eric Young and John Barnes, all of whom were born outside the UK but were raised in Britain and played at international level for one of the home nations, are featured in these pages.

This book takes an historical approach, beginning in the 1970s and charting the black British presence in the national game, and ending with an assessment of contemporary issues and an analysis of future developments.

The issue of racism in football just doesn’t seem to go away. Every incident brings about a familiar pattern. Denouncement, outrage, soul-searching, finger pointing. The event is analysed from all angles and eventually things move on once the incident has been milked for all its worth, until the next incident and the old familiar circular pattern emerges again. The purpose of this book is two-fold. Firstly, to provide greater understanding of the issues involved and to allow the debate around racism in football to move away from its familiar arguments. Secondly, it’s intended to provide a voice to those at the sharp end of racism in the game, but a voice that goes beyond the familiar knee-jerk responses, articulating a considered, thoughtful analysis of players’ own experiences and their role within the game.

IT IS
12 April 1982. Paul Canoville is warming up on the sidelines getting ready to come on as substitute for Chelsea against Crystal Palace. He is met with a torrent of racist abuse, mainly from his own fans. Monkey chants and cries of ‘Sieg Heil’ rain down from all four sides of the ground. When Canoville replaces his teammate, the abuse becomes louder as he enters the field of play. He is visibly shaken as he runs on to make his debut for Chelsea. He is just twenty years old.

17 June 2007. Nedum Onuoha is playing for England in the UEFA under-21 European Championship against Serbia. He is met with a volley of racist abuse from a large section of Serbian supporters. Onuoha stares and observes the Serbian fans. His head is held high. He appears cocky, arrogant, but above all dignified. He is twenty years old.

At first glance, the different reactions of Canoville and Onuoha may simply be explained by differences in the personalities of the two young men. In reality, enormous changes took place in the intervening twenty-five years that shaped the two players’ responses. Huge strides have been made in British football to eliminate the type of racist abuse suffered by Canoville. These changes reflect growing opposition to overt forms of racism in wider society, which provides a broader context for Onuoha’s reaction to the racism he suffered.

Onuoha would not have been allowed to react that way had he played in Canoville’s era. Almost certainly, he would have received some form of condemnation from within the media and other commentators on the game for making a stand. He may even have received a fine or a ban. Canoville and his contemporaries were expected to take the abuse, say nothing and concentrate on playing football. In Canoville’s time there was no question of support or sympathy; instead, it was expected that these incidents would build a player’s ‘character’. In 2007, the reaction Onuoha received from the media, fellow professionals, football coaches and the FA was overwhelmingly supportive. If only it were always this way.

The story of black British footballers is linked inevitably with post-war immigration to the UK from the West Indies and, to a lesser extent, from west Africa. There has been a consistent black presence within the game in Britain right throughout the professional era. Many notable players were born outside the UK, in British colonies, like the South African Albert Johanneson. Others were from Britain’s black communities, which, prior to the Second World War, were largely atomised and dispersed, with the exception of black communities within British seaports. The post-Second World War migration from the Caribbean and other Commonwealth countries saw black communities settle not in seaports for the most part, but in manufacturing and industrial centres. It was the sons of this generation of migrants who formed the cohort of black players who, by their numbers and endeavours, collectively began to have an impact on the beautiful game throughout the UK.

Of course, there were black professional footballers plying their trade from the beginning of this era. There was the Bermudan Clyde Best at West Ham, who had made his
debut for the Hammers at the start of the 1969/70 season. Local boy and pacy winger Johnny Miller played for Ipswich and Norwich from 1968 until 1976 and was in some, albeit limited, circles touted as a possible first black player to play for England. The East End-born Charles brothers, John and Clive, played for West Ham in the early 1970s. But it was a younger group of players, those who first came to prominence in the mid- to late 1970s onwards, whose impact was so significant. This wave of black footballing pioneers, whose presence paved the way for the normalising of a black footballing presence within the British game, differed in two important respects from those who had gone before.

Firstly, those players such as Laurie Cunningham, Cyrille Regis, Viv Anderson, Brendon Batson and others were born or at least raised in the UK and grew up within emerging black communities. The places they grew up in and the schools they attended were mainly based in working-class areas where football was ingrained within the fabric of the community. Football was, and is, extremely popular in the Caribbean and in Africa, where the pioneers of the black professional game in the UK drew their heritage from. A generation of young black boys played football and flourished, building on the game’s appeal within black communities and in working-class sporting culture, which became particularly potent following the success of the 1970 Brazil World Cup side. This multiracial team, with its style and skill and brand of flowing, graceful and above all exciting football, personified by its stars, Pelé and Jairzinho, provided the role models that this generation could follow and emulate.

Secondly, sport was one of the few areas black communities in Britain were actively encouraged to excel in. Black British footballers remain vastly over-represented in the
professional game compared to their overall proportion within the general population. Some 20 per cent of professional footballers are black, compared to around 3 per cent of the general population. In the 1970s, the experience of black pupils in schools was characterised by widespread and systematic underachievement and discrimination. Black pupils typically received an educational experience that was distinctly below par, to use a sporting metaphor. In London, where the vast majority of migrants from the West Indies lived, some 70 per cent of pupils in schools for the educationally sub-normal (as students with learning difficulties were then termed) were of West Indian origin, in spite of this group making up only 20 per cent of the overall school population. In addition, school expulsion figures were dominated by children of West Indian origin. Parents of these children consistently complained about the low expectations that teachers had for their sons and daughters, and about the unfair application of discipline and sanctions. Sport often remained the only part of school life where teachers had high expectations and actively nurtured and supported any aspirations these children had.

Therefore, a combination of football’s widespread appeal within black and working-class communities, the encouragement and support for black sporting achievement (largely at the expense of academic study), and the inspiration provided by the all-conquering Brazil side would provide the British game with a pool of footballing talent from within its black communities in excess of the handful of black footballers who had participated in the professional game up to that point.

Black footballers have always reflected the changing styles and fashions of Britain’s black community. George Berry and
Vince Hilaire’s afros, Ricky Hill’s ‘wet look’, Les Ferdinand’s ‘flat top’ and Rio and Anton Ferdinand’s cornrows, as well as the young Paul Ince’s quite frankly woeful hairstyle, have provided sources of admiration, amusement and downright disgust amongst black football fans and the wider black community. Black players’ goal celebrations – the high five, the touch, the grip, the bogle, body popping and backslides – all reflected shifts in black popular culture. These symbols were extremely important to black players throughout the 1970s and beyond. In the face of widespread racism within the game, they reflected the solidarity that existed between black players, and their role in helping footballers deal with the racism they suffered on and off the pitch cannot be underestimated.

These ordinary black men from ordinary black communities instantly became role models, pioneers, ambassadors and the focal point for debates around national identity, just at the point at which they got their first foothold in the professional game. Most if not all of the players who feature in this book were ill prepared for the responsibility associated with their new-found status as professional footballers, let alone as role models and pioneers. Many of them managed to live up to the responsibility, but often at a price, both to their dignity and pride, and to their families and close friends. For black communities, an empathy and understanding of their plight, based on often bitter experiences in school, on the streets and in the workplace, is the reason pioneers such as Regis, Barnes and Wright remain extremely popular amongst black football fans regardless of which team they support.

Beyond black communities, the impact of black footballers has played another important role. It provided a glimpse,
albeit a narrow one, into the culture of young black Britain. Fashions, hairstyles, musical preferences all provided a lens through which many whites viewed black communities. More importantly, in supporting their heroes who play week in, week out for the teams they support, many white fans took their first steps towards a stand against racism. Football became the arena in which the stupidity and folly of racism was cruelly exposed, and led to a sea change in football grounds around the country. It is the one place that many if not most football fans receive any kind of anti-racist education or challenge to their racist behaviour and it helped to challenge the most overt expressions of racism not only in football but in society as a whole.

Of course, the level of racism suffered by black players in the 1970s and ’80s differs radically from that suffered by black players today. Today, cases are more isolated and less socially acceptable. Official responses to racism within the game are more likely to condemn the racists as a matter of course. Players have been sent off and clubs have been fined where allegations of racial abuse have been confirmed, but there remain deep-rooted problems within the British game. The lack of black coaches at managerial level is an ongoing issue which those responsible for running the game continue to be slow to address. Sympathy is offered and highly qualified black coaches are told to be patient and that their time will come, yet it seems that the number of black managers never rises past three or four, while younger and less-qualified white coaches are given high-profile managerial and coaching positions. In addition, football clubs and the respective Football Associations have done little to bring their considerable influence to bear to protect black footballers in their care and employ from racist abuse and discrimination,
particularly when those players are representing their clubs and countries in European competitions.

It would, however, be wrong to define the participation of black footballers solely in terms of racism. The life of a professional footballer is a good one, even a great one. It remains the envy of many small and not-so-small boys and has caused untold heartache to those whose chances to join its ranks have been cruelly denied through bad luck, injury or lack of talent. Even before the Premier League era, when the financial rewards for players, including those of modest ability, became downright insane, it was a very good way to earn a living. Football’s golden age can arguably be traced back to the beginning of the 1960s and the abolition of the £20 per week maximum wage. Even then, it wasn’t until stars like Jimmy Greaves and Denis Law decamped to Italy to earn big money that clubs were forced to pay up in order to head off the potential drain of talent to foreign shores. By the end of the 1960s, George Best was earning £1,000 a week, a staggering leap in wages in comparison to what he might have earned at the beginning of the decade. It was the start of the real disparity between the wages of the average footballer and that of their friends from their communities. This ever increasing disparity was firmly entrenched by the mid-1970s, when black footballers were collectively making their way in the game. In addition to the financial rewards, there was the adulation, the very reasonable working hours, the downtime and the myriad off-field distractions. Footballers have lived the lifestyle and black players have been no different in that respect. However, while the lifestyle of a professional footballer has brought great rewards, both financial and otherwise, the experience of black footballers has been materially different from that of their white
counterparts. Although some black players firmly attest that they have not faced racism, or that its impact has been marginal, for the vast majority it has been an important feature of their careers as footballers. For those players, whether they played in the top flight and won international caps or spent their careers in the lower leagues, it is their common experience of racism that forged the solidarity that exists between them and it’s that which makes their stories so compelling.