Former Aston Villa Operations Director Steve Stride writes for BirminghamLive and recalls his time at Villa Park as Doug Ellis’ right-hand man.
For most people my age, football as a kid was all about the FA Cup. We all pretended we were playing in a Cup match, whether we were in the park, on the village green, on the street, or in the back garden. And, as an Aston Villa fan, secretary, and director, I was always excited when the third round arrived – and bitterly disappointed when we were eliminated early.
The consolation for losing was that it freed up the fourth-round weekend, and we were frequently offered the opportunity to spend a few days abroad for a friendly game and some warm-weather training. That’s exactly what happened in 1985. After losing 3-0 to Liverpool in the third round, we were invited to Bermuda for a couple of low-key friendlies.
I shared a hotel room with the club’s medical officer, Dr. David “Doc” Targett, primarily because we were the only two smokers in the traveling party. Were we exactly good role models? As is customary on these trips, we both took advantage of the opportunity to purchase a couple of cartons of 200 duty-free cigarettes, which we stored in the bedroom.
We returned to the room one morning after a leisurely and lengthy breakfast, only to discover that both cartons had vanished. The obvious assumption was that the cigarettes had been stolen because we knew exactly where we had left them, so we called the reception desk, and the manager enlisted the assistance of the hotel’s security staff.
Meanwhile, the players had returned from a light training session, and we informed them of what had occurred. The security guard was about to start an investigation into the theft when he announced that he would first come up to our room to make sure the cigarettes were gone. It’s a good thing he did. The two cartons were still where we had left them.
Doc and I were relieved that no formal charges had been filed, but we couldn’t explain what had happened. The security guard then asked if we had locked a connecting door. When we said no, he said, “Then I suggest you speak to the occupants of the room next door.”
Midfielder Steve McMahon had taken them as a joke and had slipped back upstairs to return them when it appeared that the police would be involved.
That wasn’t the only time I freaked out on that trip. We had all been invited to a cocktail party at the home of one of the British Embassy staff, and I was standing outside on a beautiful warm evening when there was a loud bang inside the house. When I walked in, I noticed one of our players, Nigel Spink, if I recall correctly, lying on the floor with blood pouring from his head. So I reasoned. He had been sitting on a trestle table, which had collapsed under his weight. Fortunately, it wasn’t blood, but red wine that had spilled from a bottle on the table.
Nigel escaped with only a sore head, but my first thought was of the sensational headline that might appear in the press: “Player dies on sunshine trip.”
