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'The threat was that if I played I would get hurt. We all knew that hurt meant getting shot'
Neil Lennon reveals talks about the death threat that forced him out of international football
Tuesday August 29, 2006
The Guardian
The telephone call which changed my life was not even made to me. It was late afternoon on August 21 2002, when "he" called the BBC's office at Ormeau Avenue in Belfast. He didn't say his name – they never do – but left enough hints as to his background. His message was brief and to the point: "This is the LVF [Loyalist Volunteer Force]. If Neil Lennon takes the field tonight he will get seriously hurt."
It didn't matter to the caller that I had lived away from Northern Ireland for 14 years. He didn't know that my family was not associated in any way with political or sectarian groups. It only mattered that, for the first time, a Roman Catholic who also played for Celtic would captain Northern Ireland against Cyprus in Belfast.
The seeds of what happened that night were laid on the evening of February 28 2001. That was the first time I played for Northern Ireland after joining Celtic, in a friendly against Norrway at Windsor Park. When I signed for Celtic a few months earlier I knew it was highly probable that when I turned out for Northern Ireland I would get stick. But nothing could have prepared me for the sheer scale of what happened before and during that match.
A few days before the game, my parents at home in Lurgan were appalled to learn that the words "Neil Lennon RIP" had been scrawled on a wall in the town of Lisburn. It was a terrible shock to quiet-living and fundamentally decent Christian people. My father Gerry had not been well and was to suffer a heart attack in August 2001. He, my mother Ursula and the rest of my family were deeply upset by what some moron undoubtedly thought was a sick joke – or maybe in light of subsequent events, he or she meant it as a shot across my bows, a warning of worse to come. Worse, much worse, did come my way.
From the moment I went on to that pitch to play against Norway I was the target of an unremitting chorus of boos, jeers, catcalls and insults. In a half-empty stadium, the noise seemed to amplify and at times it seemed as though it was the only sound to be heard. Deep down, it was the sheer scale of things which upset me. Later, people would try to play down what happened, saying it was only a minority in the crowd who had hurled abuse. There wasn't a massive crowd at the game, maybe 7,000 or so, and the minority might only have been 500 or 600, but to me the proportion booing me didn't matter – one per cent would have been too much.
Not only could I hear the jeering, but I could also see people in the stands arguing and gesticulating at each other. Sections of the home crowd were having a go at their fellow supporters who were abusing me and nobody was paying much attention to proceedings on the pitch.
Now I have been booed and jeered many times – just about every time I play for Celtic away from home. I had heard anti-Catholic songs being sung at Windsor Park internationals before but, like most Catholic players, played on and ignored them. The fact is you do not mind being booed by the opposition fans or even your own supporters if you are having a stinker. But this was something else again and was, I believe, completely premeditated. I had played 35 times for my country before that night and had a good relationship with most fans, who knew I gave my all for Northern Ireland. So what had happened to make things so different? Answer: I now played for Celtic.
I was aware that joining Celtic might give me problems. Indeed, I had spoken at length on the subject to my mentor and manager, Martin O'Neill, while we had been discussing my move from Leicester City. He had been the first Catholic to captain Northern Ireland.
Martin's attitude was that I should come to Celtic and then we would deal with whatever problems arose. Truthfully, neither of us anticipated the escalation of problems or the lack of support I would get when things boiled over.
Opinions differ as to what took place at half-time, but my recollection is that Sammy McIlroy said to me that he had spoken to Martin about taking me off at the interval before the game in any case. Given that I was relatively new at Celtic and should not be playing every minute of every game, that sounded plausible.
I have to say that in retrospect, I don't think Sammy handled things well. Martin O'Neill has no memory of such a conversation, and perhaps Sammy said this at the time to cover up the deep embarrassment which he and the Irish Football Association's officials were undoubtedly feeling. I would have preferred him to be up front, to have said "we're going to take you off for your own sake and we'll deal with this afterwards".
After the match, Sammy tried to play things down and was so blasé in interviews that unfortunately he gave out the wrong message. He indicated that everyone got booed at some time or another in their career – a remark that angered my family in particular, as they were the ones who had been forced to live with the appalling graffiti. Neither Sammy nor anyone from the Irish FA confronted the issue at the time, and there were no warnings to the crowd that I heard, though to be fair the abuse was roundly condemned afterwards. So the minority got their wicked way. The football pitch can be a very lonely place, and I never felt so isolated in a match as I did that night.
After another two World Cup qualifiers against Bulgaria I missed three games but was picked for matches running up to the European Championships. At the start of what would be a momentous season for Celtic and for me, Northern Ireland played Cyprus. A few hours before the match it was announced that, in my 41st appearance for my country, I would be captain. Michael Hughes was unavailable while Steve Lomas and Gerry Taggart, who would probably have been given the armband, were injured. I was the most experienced player in the squad and pretty much the obvious choice to lead the side.
I was honoured, and my family were proud and delighted for me. At a press conference I emphasised that the events of the Norway game were in the past and that I preferred to look forward. I said honestly that it had been difficult at the time, but I had put it all behind me. The political situation in Northern Ireland had also changed. It was now more than four years on from the Good Friday Agreement, and I thought there was genuine goodwill on all sides. But one man in a phone box many miles away thought differently.
It all went pear-shaped late in the afternoon. We were having our pre-match meal when Sammy took me to one side. He told me straightforwardly that there were two police officers from the newly named Police Service of Northern Ireland outside wanting to talk to me. I asked him what it was about, and he told me there had been a phone call and I would have to talk to the officers about it. I knew immediately what the call was, and my heart sank into my boots. In the run-up to the match I knew I was "fair game" for any madman wanting to make a point and I had anticipated someone trying to get publicity for their "cause", especially after it was announced that I would captain the side. But I had not thought it would go as far as someone threatening my life.
The police officers were very matter of fact. They said that there had been a telephone call to the BBC's offices in Belfast by someone who claimed to represent the LVF. The threat was that if I played that night I would get hurt. Without it being needed to be said, we all knew that in all probability "hurt" meant getting shot.
I asked the officers how genuine the threat was and they said that nine out of 10 of these calls were hoaxes. They were firm, however, that they could not tell me what to do. That decision would have to be mine and they would react accordingly. I presumed that meant if I decided to play I would get armed police escorts to and from the game etc, but my immediate thought was: how would anyone be able to stop someone getting to me in the many public areas I would enter that night, not least the Windsor Park pitch?
My first reaction, nevertheless, was that I should play on. The percentage bet was that the whole thing was a hoax and I would be safe. But a whole whirlwind of thoughts started coursing through my mind, the vast majority of which centred on my family and their safety. And finally it came down to this: how much of a bet do you take with your life? This time Sammy reacted well and sympathetically. He said that if the call had been about his son, he would want him to go home.
I then called my parents. My father said that of course I could not play and he would come and get me. He rushed to the hotel and was angered that no one could tell him where I was. He eventually made his way to my room where I was just finishing packing. A few minutes later I was in his car and on my way home. We had a police escort at first but then some friends met us and we travelled in convoy for the rest of the journey. I have not been back to Windsor Park since and Dad still has his unused tickets for the match in which I didn't captain Northern Ireland.
Before I left the hotel, I told Sammy that I probably would not be returning to play for the national side again. My main thoughts were for my family. It was hard enough for them when I joined Celtic, and the graffiti before the Norway game had been an awful experience. So I just could not in all conscience put them through that strain again. And I had my daughter to think of. We had managed to shield Alisha – at home in England and just 10 years old – from the dreadful facts of her father's life in a divided city and country. How was I now going to explain to her that her daddy's life was under threat because he played football for a certain team?
All these things and more raced through my mind as we hurried back to Lurgan. It was then that I finally decided I would not play for Northern Ireland again. Frankly, given my thoughts for my family, the decision was pretty easy.
It was a relief to get back to Glasgow and the catcalls I get there on a daily basis. I was utterly amazed when the news was dominated by what had happened to me. I had never got used to seeing myself play on television, never mind being interviewed off the pitch, but here I was now featuring in the headlines and main bulletins. It was almost as if I was watching a different person – who was this Neil Lennon they kept referring to along with the words "death threats"? How could a mere footballer gain such attention?
As I lay there contemplating my future I couldn't help but think of quitting the game altogether. Only my desire to succeed at Celtic kept me from walking away. Even so, I had lost something very special. No one except another footballer can really know about the long hard hours of work that go into reaching the top level that is international football. All the other sacrifices such as special diets and the rigours of self-discipline all count towards your achievements, and here was I with the pinnacle of my career to date snatched away by a man with a telephone.
In the aftermath, much was made of the fact that the call was apparently a hoax. One English journalist wrote I was a "big girl's blouse" for not risking death. Funnily enough, he never had the courage to say that to my face. What might have been the most upsetting speculation was that pulling out of the game served some sort of hidden agenda on my part. It's the sort of biased reasoning which has seen me burned in effigy on the tops of bonfires across Northern Ireland on July 12, the great Unionist and Protestant day of celebration – I must be rivalling Guy Fawkes for being "toasted".
I took a long time to recover fully. I had never made public my political views or religious leanings, but here was I, a footballer, being treated as a public hate figure, simply because I was a Catholic who wore the green and white hoops of Celtic.
This is an edited extract from Man and Bhoy by Neil Lennon published by HarperCollins on September 4 2006 at £17.99. Copyright ©Neil Lennon 2006