When late July 1996 rolled around and it was time to bid farewell, I strolled onto the training ground at Blackburn Rovers. Ah, the thrill of going back home to Newcastle United, my childhood team, who were splurging a world-record fee on me—significant enough to make anyone else question their life choices.
Vividly, I recall our dashing captain Tim Sherwood asking, “How much?” My response? A casual, “£15 million.” He stared at me like I had just suggested we sell the entire team for a pint. “Jesus. No pressure there, then!” Was it any wonder I burst out laughing? And no, the pressure never tagged along for the ride.
It’s hilarious, really. Despite the astronomical sum, I never felt the weight of my hefty price tag. Sure, it was a ludicrous amount for any club to shell out—like paying for a luxury yacht but ending up with a dinghy. But rather than a burden, I felt like a peacock on steroids, bursting with pride and excitement, strutting about like I owned the place.
Imagine a scruff from Park Avenue in Gosforth, who spent afternoons hurling stones at makeshift goals with friends, now the most expensive footballer globally. It made no sense—talk about an inspiring fairy tale gone rogue! It was pure magic, and frankly, I felt honored that someone was willing to mortgage their future for me. But if it was a gamble, I wasn’t the one betting my stake.
Flashback four years to my move from Southampton to Blackburn for a mere £3.6 million—back when that sounded like a king’s ransom but now feels like pocket change. Jack Walker’s splurge was essentially just him betting on me to kick a ball into a net—my typical Monday morning routine. If too much money was at stake, I didn’t notice; all I felt was confidence swelling like a balloon, just waiting for a pin.
Did it raise my sense of responsibility? Sure, but I always held myself to high standards. Goals were my business; scoring was my obsession. It’s what got me noticed and propelled me into the international spotlight. Worried about living up to expectations? Nah. I lived for that gorgeous moment when the ball hit the net. Anything else after that was just icing on a rather extravagant cake.
Now, one might think a pay rise would elevate my motivation, but the truth is, the extra cash just allowed me to buy my family a few comforts. In the end, yay for them! Even if I’d been earning a quid a match, I would’ve flung myself on that pitch, adrenaline pumping and heart racing, just like any selfish footballer chasing glory.
A while back, someone asked me a thought-provoking question: “When did you realize you’d made it?” After pondering like a philosopher at a pub, I concluded I never realized anything of the sort. Sure, I played for England and snagged titles, but all I ever wanted was more—kind of like a footballing version of Sisyphus, if Sisyphus really liked scoring goals.
In football, they say you’re only as good as your last game. For me? It’s always about your next game; it’s like a monkey on your back that won’t let go. What’s done is done and gone; your last game could be as magnificent as a symphony or as dreadful as an off-key performance, but you better hustle for the next gig or risk being forgotten like a worn-out sock.
$15 million may as well be pocket change now. I recall when Trevor Francis became the first £1 million player—everyone gasped, “How much?!” Fast forward to my glorious £15 million, and now we’re talking about fees that would make anyone question reality, like Neymar’s jaw-dropping £198 million transfer. If I were a betting man, I’d wager we’ll see even crazier numbers once Kylian Mbappe and Erling Haaland come onto the scene sans release clauses.
Some names on the historical transfer list still have me gasping, like Dennis Bergkamp for £7.5 million—astonishing and charmingly quaint, isn’t it? Thierry Henry for £11 million? I half-expected a sarcastic “what a steal!” to pop up in the transfer discussions. And I grin thinking of my name lurking at the top of those charts—the equivalent of proudly displaying my childhood participation trophy on the fridge. It’s amusing, really!
For some odd reason, I empathize with Gary Lineker’s sense of nostalgia for scoring charts. It’s nice to remind the world I was once a world-class footballer and not just a TV host stealing the spotlight from perfectly good matches. I’d trade a lot to feel that thrill again, to score just one more goal and find myself celebrating like a madman, joyfully losing track of time in the euphoria of it all.
Football and time seem to have a unique relationship, bending the concept of value beyond recognition. Would I be worth £222 million now? That’s a hard pass. But if I were just a sprightly 24, 25, or 26, I’d still be lining up those goals—count on it!
(Photo: Martin Rickett – PA Images/PA Images via Getty Images)
