MARK WARD: FROM RIGHT-WING TO B-WING
. . . PREMIER LEAGUE TO PRISON

Introduction by MARK WARD

THE radio in the van taking me from court to prison was tuned to the local station and it blasted out the bad news I never wanted to hear: “Former Everton player Mark Ward has been remanded in custody on a drugs-related charge.”

I’d obviously heard my name mentioned countless times before on radio and TV during my years in top flight football, but this was a surreal moment.

I could just manage to see out of the prison van window and recognised what was a familiar route. We had to pass Everton's famous ground on the way to the jail and I reminisced to myself about the many carefree days when I’d driven to Goodison, eagerly looking forward to the really big games playing for my hometown team. I remembered the day I was acclaimed a hero by nearly 40,000 fellow Bluenoses for scoring twice on my debut against the mighty Arsenal. And also my goal against our big city rivals Liverpool.

Now I was on my way past Everton’s famous football ground in Walton, to HMP Liverpool Walton. To me, they were a world apart.

The dreadful enormity of what I’d got myself into hit me hard and fast. Being refused bail in the magistrates’ court that morning came as a shock and bitter disappointment. It was looking bad for me.

I was worried for my family. I’d let them down terribly. How would they cope with all this bad publicity? I knew my daughter Melissa would be devastated. I’d looked across at her and the rest of the family in court that morning and the sight of Melissa’s tears rolling down her face will haunt me forever.

Her dad, her hero, was going to prison.

As I stepped down from the dock, I heard her say: “I love you, Dad.” I couldn't look back, I was too emotional, trying as hard as I could to fight back tears. I didn't want her to see me losing it.

So much was going on in my head. I was living out my very own nightmare.

That short journey to Walton in the confined space of the meat wagon was very uncomfortable. How on earth larger prisoners could travel any great distance in such cramped conditions was beyond me.

There were four other prisoners on my journey and the awful stench of piss was overwhelming. There are no toilets on board where prisoners can relieve themselves, so they just piss on the floor of their own tiny individual cubicle.

When the van came to a halt, a screw came aboard and handcuffed himself to me before escorting me in to Liverpool’s notorious prison. I was led to the main reception desk, where I was confronted by three screws. I could already sense some resentment towards me. The youngest of the screws said: “We’ve been waiting for you. You’re gonna be here for a long time.”

I didn’t react – I was still in a state of shock at being refused bail, although I knew I had to try and retain my dignity as best I could and not take any bait from prison staff trying to further humiliate me.

After confirming my name and date of birth, I was led away to an area set aside for stop-searches. I had to take off all my clothes and put them in the box set in front of me. A screw told me to turn around, spread my legs and open the cheeks of my arse. I did as I was instructed before being given back my clothes.

Undressing in front of anybody has never been a problem. As a footballer, taking off your kit in the dressing room is an everyday occurrence. But to be told to bend over, spread the cheeks of your arse and lift up your b******s so that prison officers could check to see if I was hiding anything, was a degrading experience.

They then asked if I had any valuables on me. The only thing I had to disclose was a Gucci watch, a present from my former West Ham team-mate Alan Devonshire for playing in his testimonial match in 1987. They logged it down on my property card and gave it back to me.

I was then escorted to a larger room where other prisoners were waiting to be told which wing and cell they would be allocated to. I sat down and looked around at the others – all of them looked dog-tired, restless and in need of a good feed. Some of the lads knew each other and were talking about prison and other establishments where they had stayed. Time dragged on and, having not slept properly since my arrest two days earlier and the hours of police interrogation that followed at St Helens nick, I felt shattered.

The door opened and a screw asked if we wanted a welcome pack of tobacco or sweets. Everybody asked for tobacco except me.

The screw left us and soon returned with 11 packets of Golden Virginia and a small bag of ‘goodies’ for me. A young lad asked the screw why it was taking so long sort out our cell allocations. He explained that the prison was full to the rafters.

The same kid approached me and asked if I was Mark Ward, the former Everton player, and I answered ‘yes.’ He told me he also came from Huyton and knew some of my cousins. He was quick to tell me that I’d be looking at eight-to-10 years inside. “Get yourself a good QC and watch yourself when you get on to the remand wing – that’s B-wing,” he added.

As he offered me this advice the skinniest prisoner came up to me and asked for a bar of chocolate. I gave him a small Milky Way and watched him scoff it down as if he’d not seen food for weeks.

The door opened yet again and this time we were asked by a nurse if any of us wanted to see the doctor for medication. Everyone except me joined the queue to see the prison doctor. When the rest had all been given their medication I soon sussed that most of the lads – drug addicts – had been given methadone to calm them down.

The room stank of tobacco smoke and, being a non-smoker, I began to realise that I could soon be banged-up with one of these lads.

Then the youngster from Huyton started to tell everybody that we would be put on K-wing. “If that’s the case,” he said, “tell them to f*** off.”

I asked him what was wrong with K-wing and he just laughed out loud. “Wardy, lad, that’s where all the nonces are. The scum all get put there.”

Another prisoner approached me for a bar of chocolate. I gave him a Snickers before the Huyton kid told me to stop giving away my bag of treats. “You’re gonna have to learn fast,” he warned. “Some prisoners will take the eyes out of your head for a deal of smack.”

We’d been waiting around for four hours and I was feeling overwhelmed with absolute mental and physical exhaustion. Finally, a screw opened the door and my name was called out. I followed him into another room where he told me to sit down. He took my photograph and put the passport-sized picture in a plastic cover with my prison number underneath it.

I used to be proud to wear No.7 on my back in my playing days. Now I was NM6982 – a number I’ll never forget until the day I die. “Don’t lose that Ward and always wear it around your neck,” he told me.

I was then shuffled along to see a more senior screw, who informed me that I was to be put on the lifers’ wing – A-wing. He pushed a bundle of clothing and bedding into my arms but I nearly dropped my belongings at the thought of what he’d just told me. Lifers’ wing! F*****g hell – I hadn’t killed anybody!”

I knew that although the drugs and paraphernalia were not mine, and nor were they put there by me, I’d be held responsible because the property they had been discovered in was rented in my name.

What a dickhead I’d been.

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