No Hunger In Paradise Page 3

  ‘I got involved with a whole load of street stuff, fast money and the rest of it. I was selling. I was a name. If you’ve got to have a fight or a tear-up, that’s how it goes, but I’m not trying to kill no one. I was never a bully. I just wanted to live nice and do whatever I had to do. That’s how I threw away my football dreams.

  ‘I’m trying to show these kids you don’t have to do that. Football is about hope, but some are already on the roads, selling drugs, walking with knives. They have no future, because if you have no focus the streets will get the better of you. Sell weed, sell coke, sell heroin. These are the easy ways, but they lead to a dead end.

  ‘When you are in prison, sitting down with a ten- or fifteen-year rack, jail is very, very hard. Some people are just not cut out for it. They become the victims, made to do naked star jumps because they pretended they had a gangster lifestyle. They’re inside with real people, who don’t give a fuck. That’s when you realise you are not the bad man you thought you were.

  ‘If I am totally honest most of my family are gang-affiliated. My cousin was shot fifteen times two weeks ago. He’s still alive. So when people come to me with tales of the glorious life, wanting to be a drug dealer, I give them real-life examples of what is still happening out there. I tell them, “It is up to you. Come to our side of the road and do some productive things.”

  ‘This is people’s lives we are talking about. This is not a game. We have watched people die, people get stabbed, but we have also watched people make something of themselves. Footballers, at a certain level, have a real power in the community. They probably don’t realise what the youth are looking for from them.

  ‘Afewee is something that is heartfelt, for and from the community. Start with Steadman, and you know how to handle yourself at those big clubs. When they are shouting at you in the dressing room it will not faze you. Our boys know how to speak to a man. They have presence, conduct themselves in a certain manner. They won’t be standing there with their shirts hanging out.’

  As if on cue, he broke off to welcome Nathan Mavila and Leo Chambers, two neo-pros from West Ham who had returned to the Rec to pay their respects. They were sleek, attentive, engaged, at ease with the excitable boys they had agreed to train that evening. Each, at 20, had reached a critical phase of his career.

  Their dilemma was instructive and over-familiar to anyone associated with English football: a new contract was unlikely that summer, since academy products are easily disposable. Some are kept on as ‘bodies’ to service anaemic under-21 or under-23 teams; most are allowed to wither on the vine, since homegrown players are deemed to lack the lustre of ready-made foreign signings.

  Mavila, a left back, was doing sufficiently well on loan at Wealdstone in the Conference South to attract interest from Serie B clubs in Italy. ‘Steadman basically made me,’ he said. ‘He talked about being a winner. He told me to be the one everyone remembers, the one who gets signed, the one who makes their family proud.’

  Chambers, a technically accomplished defender in the mould of Rio Ferdinand, and a former England schoolboys captain, was on loan at Colchester United in League One, following a year out with a persistent leg injury. ‘I came here from the streets,’ he said. ‘I’d never played an organised game, never had a training session. Steadman taught me how to hang with the ball, how to move. He was brilliant.’

  Jay Jay rocked back on his white plastic seat: ‘Much love, brothers,’ he said, as they headed upstairs to meet their mentor. ‘Good boys,’ he added approvingly, before heading to his next outreach assignment at the Evelyn Grace Academy, a highly regarded local school where he had that morning confiscated knives from boys aged between 11 and 14.

  Josh Bohui, the school’s star pupil, could be found some 200 yards away, past the One Love Cafe, with its inscription from Scott’s hero, the Jamaican orator Marcus Garvey: ‘Be as proud of your race today as our fathers were in days of yore, we have a beautiful history and we shall create another in the future that will astonish the world.’

  The England under-17 winger, at the time one of Brentford’s best prospects, was on a small artificial pitch in a replica stadium at Pop Brixton, a centre for start-ups, small businesses and community organisations. He was demonstrating the Afewee Way in a one-on-one session with another alumnus, England women’s under-19 forward Rinsola Babajide.

  They were spellbinding, operating in the head space where football meets flamenco. Their session was a fusion of agility and attitude, skill and street smarts, grace and guile. It contained elements of urban basketball, surging athleticism, subtlety at speed, showmanship. They had game, and they knew it.

  Afewee takes pride in developing strong female role models. Karin Muya rejected a professional contract with Chelsea Ladies to take up a scholarship at Notre Dame in the US. Keishana Kelly, a childhood friend of the Clyne family, was personally selected by David Beckham to coach at his Los Angeles academy. She returns to her roots to work at the Rec when two young children and teaching commitments permit.

  Babajide is the future. Though she is working with athletics coach Gorgui Thiam to develop physical strength, her style is intrinsically artistic. She speaks of ‘creativity and freedom’, of ‘being there, mentally’. There is something affectingly ethereal about her description of ‘football taking my mind off everything else’, and of ‘disappearing into myself’.

  I would cherish the memory of her spontaneity, their joy, since it was all too easy to be ambushed by more unsavoury realities. Those closest to Vontae Daley-Campbell, an England under-16 international nurtured by Scott and taken to Arsenal at the age of 9 by Goldring, tried to restrict the circulation of his contact details, but were unable to prevent an agent calling him with the curt order: ‘Get your uncle to answer his fucking phone.’

  At 28, his uncle, Nathan, is another Afewee product. He earned a degree in sports coaching and development at Southampton University after being released by Wycombe Wanderers at 16, and was playing semi-professionally for Grays Athletic, a supporter-owned club in the Ryman Premier League.

  His role is to protect his nephew and shepherd his sister, Vontae’s mother Anna Marie, through a scrum of opportunists and fair-weather friends. His guidance is paternal, informed by personal experience of football’s harshness and an intimate knowledge of the boy’s background and personality. He blocked incessant calls from the abusive agent, one of twelve who contacted him within a week of his nephew’s England debut, because he simply didn’t trust him.

  ‘Steadman gave us both somewhere to escape to, instead of being on the streets, where it is so easy to take the wrong pathway. He also gave us some kind of structure. He made you do what you were meant to do. There were rules that could not be broken. That influence spills over into the rest of your life, your schooling, when you are making that dangerous transition into the real world.

  ‘I try to be on the level with Vontae. I was not perfect. I tell him not to repeat my mistakes. I can see what is happening around him. A young footballer gets so much attention. People are contacting him directly through social media. It is rife. They talk positively because that is what they think he wants to hear. They are just trying to get his buy-in.

  ‘He is a product if we are being honest. He is only fifteen but at the end of the day, for representatives or sponsors, it is about money. I try to filter all the interest; it is amazing how many people want him because of word of mouth. When they admit they’ve never even seen him play they are ticked off the list.

  ‘I’m proud of Vontae, because he is taking a lot of it on board and he is realising he has to do extra if he wants to be a pro, but I am also trying to educate my sister, because people will take advantage where they can. It is cut-throat. If they can find a way to sway her they will do so.’

  Vontae, a physically imposing full back, is watchful and reserved, yet makes a point of kissing his mother on the way to the dressing room after each match. Such unabashed expression of love defies the emotionally constricted
reputation of so many young footballers; the screensaver on his smartphone, a portrait with his mother taken at a tournament in Italy, confirms the depth and interdependency of their relationship.

  Anna Marie is 36, grandmother of two baby girls. She has three children; Vontae is her only son. They have a striking resemblance, since each has a wide, warm face. He has inherited her speed, as she had hopes of becoming a 200-metre runner before she fell pregnant. Her protective instincts are as strong now as they were when he was 10, when she moved the family from Brixton to Clapham ‘because I could see the gangs getting to him’.

  She has a strong social conscience, and works voluntarily with the homeless and the vulnerable at the Ace of Clubs centre, where she is known simply as ‘The Footballer’s Mum’. The charitable community-based operation offers shelter, food, clothing, washing facilities, welfare and employment advice to up to 100 people a night.

  That figure has doubled in the past year, as the human cost of a politically driven austerity programme becomes apparent. More audacious visitors follow Anna around local supermarkets, where she often spends £20 of her own money on biscuits for the centre, and offer to carry her bags in return for something to eat: ‘Some of them have not eaten for days. I don’t scorn them, like some do on the streets. They can get a full meal for fifty pence or a pound, but if they haven’t got the money I give it to them anyway. What’s the harm in that? In return you get their gratitude and respect.’

  Despite early educational difficulties, Vontae is studying for thirteen GCSEs at the London Nautical School with the help of a club-appointed tutor. His has not been an easy journey since he was a relatively late developer in a football sense and went through a socially awkward phase in which he had to learn to control his temper. Anna’s pride is tangible.

  ‘Vontae has lived an up-and-down life. There have been times when he has had a battering, when he has had to grow up quicker than he wanted to, but in a way I am happy that he has had his tough moments. At first, at Arsenal, he couldn’t bond. No one talked to him. It is horrible seeing your son struggle like that, but at thirteen things started to turn. Fourteen was the year of the Big Bang. The other players could see how good he was, how powerful he was. He was The Beast. Suddenly, he became the one they all looked up to.

  ‘If any of my children have a dream I tell them to go for it. I will do everything I can to help. I tell them to have respect for themselves, because without that, how are they going to respect others? Manners go a long way. I’d love Vontae to eventually be in the first team but sometimes just words are enough. “I love you, Mum” means so much. I have never let him down. I have always been with him, no matter how hard it has been. I wanted to make sure I am the first one he turns to whenever he needs anything.’

  The irony of maternal influence being a vital factor in such a macho environment had struck me in that sports hall in Brixton, when my eye had been taken by a lad excelling in a game against boys three or four years his senior. ‘I’ve never seen a seven-year-old like him,’ confided Goldring, who had evidently sensed the intensity of my interest. ‘He has all the attributes to be a superstar, and his mum knows the politics of what is happening.’

  The name of Ezra Tika-Lemba had already featured in countless Chinese whispers. His mother, Lorianne, wanted to give him the broadest possible experience, so he played for Arsenal, Chelsea, West Ham and Fulham. Liverpool, Manchester City, Tottenham and Crystal Palace were equally ardent suitors. He was physically strong, nimble and blessed with an instinctive appreciation of space, but that was an adult, one-dimensional, professional judgement.

  It was only when he snuggled into his mother’s shoulder, as we sat on a low bench in the corner of the hall, that the child emerged. He had worked a hole in his new socks, by picking at a loose thread, and complained his boots, size four and a half, were too tight. Tiredness had chipped away at his natural chirpiness. Lorianne, who juggles two zero-hour-contract jobs with football commitments, smiled indulgently, and reflected on ‘the goofball’ who loved to sing, dance and play the guitar.

  ‘When they come off the pitch, and you see them out of their football kit, you realise, “Oh my God, they are babies,”’ she said. ‘The pitch is a stage that makes them seem five years older than they are. You have to be very careful in terms of the pressure you put on them, remembering they are children. It has to be an enjoyable environment but I let Ezra know it can be serious.

  ‘Most newborn babies are chubby and soft. I swear to God Ezra was born with a six-pack. I said to my mum, “I think I’ve given birth to Superman. I’m just waiting for his special powers to kick in.” He wasn’t one of those children who has had a ball since he was baby. He didn’t understand the game, he kinda learned it here. This is his home, really.

  ‘This is where you learn to be a champion, to challenge, to drive. Steadman and Tony will whip him into shape. This is about growing young men, responsible and thoughtful men who work well under pressure. I know football is cut-throat, male-oriented. A few people are already whispering to me about agents, but I cannot think of giving up any of my responsibilities as a parent. I am Ezra’s advocate, his spokesperson, but first of all I am his mum.’

  Ezra had signed a two-year contract to play for Chelsea earlier that day, five days before his eighth birthday. He posed for photographs with Goldring in a No. 9 Chelsea shirt, worn back to front, over a fawn suit. As journeys go, his will be as hazardous as that of a newly born sea turtle, struggling across the sand towards the sanctuary of the ocean.

  2

  The Missionary’s Position

  THE FULHAM COACHES distilled the threat, defined the tactics and dictated the tempo at which they expected their team to play. It was a tough European tournament, featuring Paris Saint-Germain, Monaco, Marseilles, Inter Milan, Bayern Munich, Anderlecht and Feyenoord, but it was deemed to be winnable.

  Their performance-planning was impeccable, their professionalism admirable. The missing ingredient, perspective, was supplied on the first night away in France, during a routine bed check. Two of the players had a teddy bear on their pillow. A third slept in a nappy. They were, after all, 9 years old.

  Nick Levett remembered the significance of that lesson the following December, when he organised a ninety-minute training session based on the principles of counter-attacking. The response from his squad was so loose as to be incoherent. The lethargy and confusion only made sense when he learned that one boy had been informed Father Christmas did not exist by a teammate just before the session began.

  ‘A ten-year-old kid is not half a twenty-year-old. It doesn’t work like that. Children are not mini-adults. They’re very, very different. We use all these football words, worry as much as we want about winning and all the adult stuff, and we forget that they are kids. Father Christmas made my Xs and Os and all the important football stuff that I was ready to instil irrelevant. Absolutely irrelevant.’

  As the FA’s Talent Identification Manager, with specific focus on the recruitment of players from the ages of 5 to 11, Levett has a missionary’s mindset. He has a responsibility to challenge, an instinct to innovate, a duty to dilute the ignorance and arrogance that seep down from the professional game to junior football.

  He sees the extremes, 10-year-olds released by text message and teenagers prevented from playing for up to eighteen months while clubs haggle over their market value. He seeks to educate those clubs who reject a boy for a sudden lack of physical co-ordination when a simple conversation with his mother would have elicited the information he had grown an inch in three weeks.

  ‘That lad was released at fourteen, after being told he was in line for another two years. He had no idea what his legs were doing. He began misplacing simple passes. His self-esteem was shattered. His mates were telling him he was rubbish. The reason was simple, but no one gave him a break.’

  Levett understands his principal role is to ‘ignite the fire’ that enables a child to fall in love with a simple ballgame. He is a sys
temic version of Brixton’s Steadman Scott, since his sessions include variations of one v. ones, two v. twos and three v. threes, designed to foster natural movement and reward technical skill. As Albert Einstein insisted, ‘Logic will get you from A to Z; imagination will get you everywhere.’

  Fun is all too often regarded as a four-letter word in academy football. Levett seeks to capture the imagination; one deceptively informal drill asks boys to envisage being chased by pirates around a desert island. The ball is their treasure; if they lose control, they will be vulnerable to their pursuers, and the sharks lurking in the surf.

  Boys are encouraged to pretend to be characters they see in films, or in e-games played on their phones. One possession drill is based on the antics of Lightning McQueen, the slot car from the Pixar Cars franchise. ‘You have to understand the child in front of you,’ Levett insisted. ‘You need a different skill set, an empathetic coach.’

  That is a hard sell when one head of recruitment at a Premier League academy continues to insist, against all logic and experience, that it is possible to identify a professional footballer at the age of 5. A creative philosophy exposes the narrow-mindedness of his club, which insists boys are pigeonholed into specific positions from the age of 6.

  Football’s hierarchical structure dictates that coaches in the so-called foundation phase, up to 11 years old, are paid, on average, five times less than those at under-18 or under-21 level. Their wage scale starts at £18,000 a year. Such inequality is overlooked by clubs, who become accustomed to using their economic and emotional power as a blunt instrument.

  ‘Typically the professional game will trawl for what they deem talent to be, at whatever age they see fit. They take what they want from the grassroots game, with very little feeling or empathy towards the kids who are left behind. They might go into an under-7s or under-8s team, take three kids, and all of a sudden the rest can’t play because there aren’t enough to make a team.