How NOT to be a Football Millionaire - Keith Gillespie My Autobiography Read Free

2013. It’s leaving home in Bangor, County Down, on the north-east coast of Northern Ireland, at lunchtime, and embarking on a 149-kilometre journey to my place of work. Longford Town is a semi-professional club in the midlands of the Republic of Ireland, vying for promotion from the second tier, the graveyard of Irish football. A good home gate is 500 supporters, although our 4,000 all-seater stadium is above average for our division, a reminder of better times at the turn of the century when they won a few trophies.
    I knew nothing of their existence when Phil mentioned them as I sought to rebuild after bankruptcy. Now, my football life revolves around this small, community club.
    The straightforward route from Bangor to the City Calling Stadium takes me down a variety of country roads. Sometimes, I take the long way around to get some extra time on the motorway but, usually, I negotiate my way through the towns of Armagh, Monaghan and Cavan until I reach the N55 at Granard, which brings me into the county of Longford, just 30 minutes away from my destination. I arrive at the ground over two hours before kick-off, and head straight for the dressing room to change. At this level, we don’t have the budget to gather in a hotel for a pre-match meal before a home game. I’m expected to have eaten earlier in the day. Afterwards, a local pizza company might dispatch some of their produce to the ground, and I grab a slice before throwing the gearbag into the back seat, and starting on the return journey through the night.
    I break my trips by making phone calls. On the way down, I’ll call my daughters, Madison and Lexie, who live in England with their mother. Madison, the eldest, is five and quick as a flash.
    “Where are you?” I ask.
    “But you know where I am, Daddy, I’m talking to you,” she’ll say.
    After the match, I might call Phil to talk it over. I don’t know any footballer who can switch off after a game. If I’m lucky, I reach my house at 1.30am and then it takes me a couple of hours to shut down, although I know I’ll be woken by my baby son, Nico, when the sun comes up.
    Before I put my head down, I remember to reach into my gearbag for the package I take with me everywhere and pour a glass of water from the tap. I pop a couple of green and gold Prozac tablets into my mouth and wash them down. This is my daily dose of medication, a regular routine when you suffer from depression. It’s a recent development, and a secret to all but a few people. Two and a half years of stress since the bankruptcy wore down the tough exterior, the shield of denial that I brought everywhere. I’ll be seeing a psychologist until they decide I don’t need these pills anymore.
    I can always trust the body to look after itself, but will never be sure of the mind. The grind of driving alone for hours leaves it vulnerable to all sorts of thoughts. To shut them out, I mostly switch the car radio to Talksport, catching up on the news from the world I once inhabited. Craig Short, an old colleague of mine, said I was one of the most knowledgeable footballers he’d ever met. Most people would expect that statement to be followed by a punchline.
    But I’ve always loved quiz shows. Who Wants To Be A Millionaire, The Weakest Link, The Chase, Eggheads, whatever it may be. My idea of a good afternoon in the pub is sipping a pint and testing myself on the touch-screen brain teasers. My competitive instinct always drew me towards them. That’s why I still love the buzz of the Thursday night table quiz down the local with my brother-in-law and the gang. We take it seriously, and it bugs me when I can’t think of a fact that I should know.
    When it came to my own affairs, however, I always pleaded ignorance to relevant questions for as long as possible. I preferred the distraction offered by useless information, the crucial distinction between intelligence and common sense.
    I can recite all sorts of facts off the top of my head. I