Post by mickey on Jan 25, 2023 16:10:00 GMT
Not our finest hour. Interesting article despite that…
BETWEEN THE LINES
I BARELY LEFT MY HOUSE FOR SIX MONTHS AND I BEGAN HAVING SUICIDAL THOUGHTS.
WHAT FOOTBALL MANAGER IS GOING TO WANT TO HIRE A DEPRESSED GOALKEEPER?
Former Chelsea, Millwall and Newport County gloveman Lenny Pidgeley fell out of love with football as he tried to keep up appearances while suffering with depression – then someone else announced his retirement
People wouldn’t have thought that there was anything going wrong with my life. But that’s one of the toughest things about depression.
It’s called a silent killer for a reason.
At my worst, I couldn’t leave my bedroom. I would be crippled with anxiety and fear, even though the logical side of my brain was telling me that I was being ridiculous. It could be the smallest of things, such as looking out of the window and seeing a huge gust of wind, and I would start panicking. I have sympathy for those who don’t understand, because unless you’ve experienced it, it’s pretty hard to explain. But I’ll try.
Depression and anxiety haven’t always had such a stranglehold on my life. I started out on my football journey by going through the Chelsea academy from as early as the under-10s. I was a typical happy kid, from what I remember: just football-mad and obsessed by everything Chelsea Football Club. My whole family were Chelsea – my Dad would hardly miss a game and always be in the pubs around the stadium, so for me to be able to join the club at such a young age was fantastic. Looking back now, it felt relatively normal at the time, as that was all I’d ever known.
In hindsight, I’ve been able to realise how fortunate I was to be a part of such an incredible team at Chelsea. I was still so raw. I’d had a fairly successful [2003-04] season on loan at Watford when I was 19 and thought that I’d probably found my level, until I received an unlikely call during the off-season. I was preparing to head back to Vicarage Road for a second season, but the new manager – a certain Jose Mourinho – was adamant that he wanted me to be third-choice goalkeeper for the upcoming campaign.
I think I was playing pool with my mates at the time. Imagine that: little old me being called by the reigning Champions League-winning manager to play for my boyhood club. I couldn’t possibly say no, even if I’d wanted to. I’d like to think I was pretty level-headed even then. I have no clue what he saw of me at Watford or why he wanted me to stick around, but I was honoured. I quickly accepted that I wasn’t going to be getting much game time; being third in line behind Petr Cech and Carlo Cudicini was fine, and I did all that I could in training to soak up even the smallest bits of advice from both.
The lads at Chelsea were great. Barring the odd exception – William Gallas constantly undermining me in training, say, or being throttled around the neck by Mark Bosnich for leaving his boots slightly damp when I was a youth-team player – I was well looked after. Being the third-string keeper had its peaks and its pits, however you want to look at them. Frank Lampard and Robert Huth would always have me in the sticks after training, just fizzing free-kicks past me until I had neckache, but they were really supportive and grateful.
I know I made only two appearances for Chelsea, but I like to think that the fans remember me. I know exactly why they would.
I made my debut for the club in our final home game of the 2004-05 Premier League season, when we’d already wrapped up the title. Jose had pre-planned it according to one of the goalkeeper coaches, which was such a lovely touch, so I came on at home to Charlton with about 10 minutes to go and the score 0-0.
I’m not going to lie: I was nervous. All I could keep thinking was, ‘Ah no, we haven’t lost at home all season and now I’m coming on – I bet I throw one in or concede something stupid’. But thankfully I didn’t. There wasn’t much for me to do, in all honesty, and Claude Makelele bagged a penalty-rebound winner right at the death so we ended up winning the game 1-0.
So, the celebrations began and we headed back into the changing rooms, ready to be called out for the trophy lift. They did it in squad number order. Petr Cech was first up, followed by Glen Johnson and everyone else and then finally, No.40, it’s Lenny Pidgeley.
By the time that the whole squad had made their way over to the podium, there was no room left and John Terry was about to lift the trophy. I thought, ‘I can’t miss this opportunity – let’s get involved’. I just joined right at the front, alongside the skipper, front and centre and giving it large. And then that was in the archives forever: me with my bleached mullet at the heart of the title-winning celebrations as if I’d won the thing myself!
Of course that stands at the top of my career highlights. Playing only 10 minutes, right at the end of the season, made me question whether I deserved any accolades at all, but John Terry especially was determined to underline the importance of the whole squad in success. Two weeks after that match, I was at the training ground when he came up to me and said, “Pidge, take a look in your locker”. I went inside, opened it up, and hanging there was a Premier League winner’s medal. I wasn’t eligible for one after the Charlton game as I hadn’t made enough appearances, but Terry went out of his way to make sure I got one. He didn’t need to do that.
I had another campaign at Chelsea, bench-warming, until Millwall came knocking in 2006. I’d already played one game at The Den and enjoyed myself there: it was in the League Cup against Birmingham [saving a Jermaine Pennant penalty in a shootout defeat] while on a seven-day emergency loan for Millwall. I felt that my time sat on the bench at Chelsea had come to an end, and a move to east London seemed to be the right choice.
It was at Millwall that I first slipped into what has been diagnosed as clinical depression. On the surface, everything appeared fine: I’d just signed my second professional contract, I was a No.1 at a well-respected club, and I was on the most money I’d ever been on in my career. This is what’s difficult for people to understand. It came out of the blue. It grew and grew over six months until I thought, ‘I really can’t carry on like this any more’.
I didn’t want to do anything. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to live, but I couldn’t face waking up each morning and trying to get through the day. It was that bad, and it led to suicidal thoughts. My favourite part of the day was going to bed and starting to feel tired. Otherwise, my head would be racing for the rest of the day and I’d be thinking about just the most ridiculous stuff. Anything could trigger me into having anxiety and panic attacks.
Despite being pretty confused, I was able to speak to the club, who were brilliant with me. I was told to go to the Priory, where I had an initial assessment with a psychiatrist. He went through a long list of triggers to work out the root of my problems and every question he asked, I responded with a ‘no’ – that made me panic, thinking, ‘What is actually wrong with me?’ He’d ask me if I had any financial issues, any health concerns, any deaths in the family, whether I used drugs – but no, there was nothing in what he said that I could pinpoint as a possible trigger to feeling the way I did. It got to the point where I was thinking, ‘I hope he says something I can say “yes” to, or he’s going to think I’m weird’.
They were unbelievable at the club. They paid for everything and made sure that the right people knew. I couldn’t train or play, but the fans just thought I had a physical injury. I felt it was easier that way – though I did end up getting a back injury due to the amount of time I’d spend lying in bed.
Looking back, I would pinpoint that episode as the time my career trajectory changed forever. I was young and still had the world at my feet, but after that I subconsciously settled well within my comfort zone. My first game back was away at Leeds and I just didn’t want to be there. I was thinking about how I could fake an injury to get off the pitch. I don’t like to reflect and have regrets, but from that moment onwards I was only concerned about obtaining contracts for security and was more than happy to sit on the bench every week. Pushing myself was never an option; it was simply about going through the motions from day to day.
I jumped from club to club after that, not really establishing myself and not really enjoying my football. I was at Woking, Carlisle, Bradford and Exeter, until I found myself at Newport in 2012. I’d been managing myself on anti-depressants and receiving therapy, and could feel improvements within by working on my coping mechanisms. Knowing when and why I could slip into another bout of depression was very important. I had to make sure I wasn’t overdoing things with work and give myself adequate time to rest.
I was flying at Newport. We secured promotion [to League Two] and I was playing well, but one summer I spiralled again and had to come home early from a holiday. I was full of anxiety, I couldn’t eat nor sleep, and I was so frozen with depression that when I returned home, I couldn’t leave my house for five weeks. I had online shopping delivered, because facing the outside world wasn’t an option.
At the first day back at pre-season training, I told Justin Edinburgh, Newport’s manager at the time, and he was amazing. Straight away, he told me that he was going to get me more help through the PFA and that I didn’t have to worry about finances or anything. Justin had been managing Rushden & Diamonds a few years earlier when their goalkeeper Dale Roberts tragically took his own life, so I guess I was lucky to confide in a man who had experience with someone who was struggling with their mental health. Justin himself passed away in 2019 [from a cardiac arrest]. I will forever be grateful to him and how he treated me as a friend.
Even though I was receiving this help privately, I still had concerns about the stigma surrounding mental health. ‘What manager is going to want to hire a depressed goalkeeper?’ I kept asking myself, terrified of the reaction. And this fear eventually led me towards the end of my career as a goalkeeper.
I’d been carrying on playing semi-pro football with teams such as Leatherhead and Hastings United until I found myself at Farnborough – ideal, as it wasn’t far at all from where I was living. I was playing the odd match, but not really enjoying it. At this time, I’d managed to wean myself off anti-depressants as I didn’t want to become reliant on them, but I was able to control my feelings a little better. I was working as a labourer during the day, and one weekend I was shattered and could tell that I was about to have a tough period. I phoned the manager at Farnborough, saying I wouldn’t be able to play an evening game where I’d have had to drive for more than two hours to get there.
I knew my body. I hadn’t been sleeping or eating properly, and I was as white as a ghost as the depression began to kick in. My palms were sweating, my heart was racing, and the thought of even leaving my flat was alien to me. If my girlfriend had asked me to pop down the road to get a Chinese takeaway, I wouldn’t have done, let alone drive to Lewes to play in goal for 90 minutes.
After speaking to the manager, I was told that Farnborough’s other keeper was also unavailable and that I had to play. He tried to give me no option. My attempts to explain myself weren’t getting through to him. I told him this wasn’t simply a phase – I’d completely had it with football and was going to call it a day. His reaction couldn’t have been more polar-opposite to the reactions of previous bosses I’d confided in, so I hung up the call before I got too angry.
Farnborough lost this FA Cup tie on penalties with an outfield player in goal, but before the game they posted this on their website: “Lenny Pidgeley has informed us that due to a ‘significant long-term personal medical condition’ he is retiring from football with immediate effect. This is the first anyone at the club was aware of the condition, and although the timing is shocking we wish Lenny and his family all the best in his retirement.”
That was disgusting. The manager had made me feel so small and suggested it was all my fault if they lost, because I couldn’t play. It wasn’t for him to announce my retirement like that – he completely stole my moment, something that every professional has a right to tell the world when they want to. That could have tipped somebody else over the edge, but luckily for me I had the coping mechanisms in place to put it to one side. The manager received a big backlash after that statement – which the club eventually deleted – and I received lots of support online, but once again, it illustrated how some people view mental health and depression.
Things are better now than they were. The other month, my drinking got the better of me and I felt myself sliding into another episode, but after tweeting about it, I had so much support from random people online. I want to speak about it now as I’ve read so many messages from people who have felt the same. I know it isn’t much, compared to Tyson Fury or someone, but to have 100 people message you is quite overwhelming. Most of them are people that you would assume are OK as well.
When I stopped playing football, my drinking got worse because of how my social life changed. There’s loads more going out now, rather than living the life of a footballer. There was a structure that I had to follow; now I’m running my own landscaping business and everything is on my time. There doesn’t need to be much of an excuse to go for a pint after work. But one pint can lead to two, two to five, and the next thing you know you’ve had 10.
Sky Sports presenter Rob Wotton has reached out to me, as has Chris Kirkland, the former Liverpool, Wigan and Sheffield Wednesday goalkeeper. Both have been extremely generous with their time. Rob is a counsellor and has been taking me for sessions where we chat things through. He’s also a massive Chelsea fan, so we’re never short of subjects to break the ice. Sporting Chance have been in contact too, offering me a 28-day rehab course if I hit rock bottom again.
It’s amazing to have this support network, as I feel responsible for not letting any of them down. I can tick off each week knowing that I haven’t had a drink, and I’m able to manage my mental health a lot better. There were plenty of chances for me to have sunk into a deeper depression over the last few years, especially after losing my father to cancer, but without all the pressures of football in my life I’ve found it easier to strike a balance. I’m in control now.
I’m very proud of my career. It’s tempting to wonder how different it could have panned out if I wasn’t one of the thousands who suffer from depression, but I am where I am and I’m finding peace. After all, not many football fans grow up to lift the Premier League title for their boyhood club 10 minutes after making their debut.
BETWEEN THE LINES
I BARELY LEFT MY HOUSE FOR SIX MONTHS AND I BEGAN HAVING SUICIDAL THOUGHTS.
WHAT FOOTBALL MANAGER IS GOING TO WANT TO HIRE A DEPRESSED GOALKEEPER?
Former Chelsea, Millwall and Newport County gloveman Lenny Pidgeley fell out of love with football as he tried to keep up appearances while suffering with depression – then someone else announced his retirement
People wouldn’t have thought that there was anything going wrong with my life. But that’s one of the toughest things about depression.
It’s called a silent killer for a reason.
At my worst, I couldn’t leave my bedroom. I would be crippled with anxiety and fear, even though the logical side of my brain was telling me that I was being ridiculous. It could be the smallest of things, such as looking out of the window and seeing a huge gust of wind, and I would start panicking. I have sympathy for those who don’t understand, because unless you’ve experienced it, it’s pretty hard to explain. But I’ll try.
Depression and anxiety haven’t always had such a stranglehold on my life. I started out on my football journey by going through the Chelsea academy from as early as the under-10s. I was a typical happy kid, from what I remember: just football-mad and obsessed by everything Chelsea Football Club. My whole family were Chelsea – my Dad would hardly miss a game and always be in the pubs around the stadium, so for me to be able to join the club at such a young age was fantastic. Looking back now, it felt relatively normal at the time, as that was all I’d ever known.
In hindsight, I’ve been able to realise how fortunate I was to be a part of such an incredible team at Chelsea. I was still so raw. I’d had a fairly successful [2003-04] season on loan at Watford when I was 19 and thought that I’d probably found my level, until I received an unlikely call during the off-season. I was preparing to head back to Vicarage Road for a second season, but the new manager – a certain Jose Mourinho – was adamant that he wanted me to be third-choice goalkeeper for the upcoming campaign.
I think I was playing pool with my mates at the time. Imagine that: little old me being called by the reigning Champions League-winning manager to play for my boyhood club. I couldn’t possibly say no, even if I’d wanted to. I’d like to think I was pretty level-headed even then. I have no clue what he saw of me at Watford or why he wanted me to stick around, but I was honoured. I quickly accepted that I wasn’t going to be getting much game time; being third in line behind Petr Cech and Carlo Cudicini was fine, and I did all that I could in training to soak up even the smallest bits of advice from both.
The lads at Chelsea were great. Barring the odd exception – William Gallas constantly undermining me in training, say, or being throttled around the neck by Mark Bosnich for leaving his boots slightly damp when I was a youth-team player – I was well looked after. Being the third-string keeper had its peaks and its pits, however you want to look at them. Frank Lampard and Robert Huth would always have me in the sticks after training, just fizzing free-kicks past me until I had neckache, but they were really supportive and grateful.
I know I made only two appearances for Chelsea, but I like to think that the fans remember me. I know exactly why they would.
I made my debut for the club in our final home game of the 2004-05 Premier League season, when we’d already wrapped up the title. Jose had pre-planned it according to one of the goalkeeper coaches, which was such a lovely touch, so I came on at home to Charlton with about 10 minutes to go and the score 0-0.
I’m not going to lie: I was nervous. All I could keep thinking was, ‘Ah no, we haven’t lost at home all season and now I’m coming on – I bet I throw one in or concede something stupid’. But thankfully I didn’t. There wasn’t much for me to do, in all honesty, and Claude Makelele bagged a penalty-rebound winner right at the death so we ended up winning the game 1-0.
So, the celebrations began and we headed back into the changing rooms, ready to be called out for the trophy lift. They did it in squad number order. Petr Cech was first up, followed by Glen Johnson and everyone else and then finally, No.40, it’s Lenny Pidgeley.
By the time that the whole squad had made their way over to the podium, there was no room left and John Terry was about to lift the trophy. I thought, ‘I can’t miss this opportunity – let’s get involved’. I just joined right at the front, alongside the skipper, front and centre and giving it large. And then that was in the archives forever: me with my bleached mullet at the heart of the title-winning celebrations as if I’d won the thing myself!
Of course that stands at the top of my career highlights. Playing only 10 minutes, right at the end of the season, made me question whether I deserved any accolades at all, but John Terry especially was determined to underline the importance of the whole squad in success. Two weeks after that match, I was at the training ground when he came up to me and said, “Pidge, take a look in your locker”. I went inside, opened it up, and hanging there was a Premier League winner’s medal. I wasn’t eligible for one after the Charlton game as I hadn’t made enough appearances, but Terry went out of his way to make sure I got one. He didn’t need to do that.
I had another campaign at Chelsea, bench-warming, until Millwall came knocking in 2006. I’d already played one game at The Den and enjoyed myself there: it was in the League Cup against Birmingham [saving a Jermaine Pennant penalty in a shootout defeat] while on a seven-day emergency loan for Millwall. I felt that my time sat on the bench at Chelsea had come to an end, and a move to east London seemed to be the right choice.
It was at Millwall that I first slipped into what has been diagnosed as clinical depression. On the surface, everything appeared fine: I’d just signed my second professional contract, I was a No.1 at a well-respected club, and I was on the most money I’d ever been on in my career. This is what’s difficult for people to understand. It came out of the blue. It grew and grew over six months until I thought, ‘I really can’t carry on like this any more’.
I didn’t want to do anything. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to live, but I couldn’t face waking up each morning and trying to get through the day. It was that bad, and it led to suicidal thoughts. My favourite part of the day was going to bed and starting to feel tired. Otherwise, my head would be racing for the rest of the day and I’d be thinking about just the most ridiculous stuff. Anything could trigger me into having anxiety and panic attacks.
Despite being pretty confused, I was able to speak to the club, who were brilliant with me. I was told to go to the Priory, where I had an initial assessment with a psychiatrist. He went through a long list of triggers to work out the root of my problems and every question he asked, I responded with a ‘no’ – that made me panic, thinking, ‘What is actually wrong with me?’ He’d ask me if I had any financial issues, any health concerns, any deaths in the family, whether I used drugs – but no, there was nothing in what he said that I could pinpoint as a possible trigger to feeling the way I did. It got to the point where I was thinking, ‘I hope he says something I can say “yes” to, or he’s going to think I’m weird’.
They were unbelievable at the club. They paid for everything and made sure that the right people knew. I couldn’t train or play, but the fans just thought I had a physical injury. I felt it was easier that way – though I did end up getting a back injury due to the amount of time I’d spend lying in bed.
Looking back, I would pinpoint that episode as the time my career trajectory changed forever. I was young and still had the world at my feet, but after that I subconsciously settled well within my comfort zone. My first game back was away at Leeds and I just didn’t want to be there. I was thinking about how I could fake an injury to get off the pitch. I don’t like to reflect and have regrets, but from that moment onwards I was only concerned about obtaining contracts for security and was more than happy to sit on the bench every week. Pushing myself was never an option; it was simply about going through the motions from day to day.
I jumped from club to club after that, not really establishing myself and not really enjoying my football. I was at Woking, Carlisle, Bradford and Exeter, until I found myself at Newport in 2012. I’d been managing myself on anti-depressants and receiving therapy, and could feel improvements within by working on my coping mechanisms. Knowing when and why I could slip into another bout of depression was very important. I had to make sure I wasn’t overdoing things with work and give myself adequate time to rest.
I was flying at Newport. We secured promotion [to League Two] and I was playing well, but one summer I spiralled again and had to come home early from a holiday. I was full of anxiety, I couldn’t eat nor sleep, and I was so frozen with depression that when I returned home, I couldn’t leave my house for five weeks. I had online shopping delivered, because facing the outside world wasn’t an option.
At the first day back at pre-season training, I told Justin Edinburgh, Newport’s manager at the time, and he was amazing. Straight away, he told me that he was going to get me more help through the PFA and that I didn’t have to worry about finances or anything. Justin had been managing Rushden & Diamonds a few years earlier when their goalkeeper Dale Roberts tragically took his own life, so I guess I was lucky to confide in a man who had experience with someone who was struggling with their mental health. Justin himself passed away in 2019 [from a cardiac arrest]. I will forever be grateful to him and how he treated me as a friend.
Even though I was receiving this help privately, I still had concerns about the stigma surrounding mental health. ‘What manager is going to want to hire a depressed goalkeeper?’ I kept asking myself, terrified of the reaction. And this fear eventually led me towards the end of my career as a goalkeeper.
I’d been carrying on playing semi-pro football with teams such as Leatherhead and Hastings United until I found myself at Farnborough – ideal, as it wasn’t far at all from where I was living. I was playing the odd match, but not really enjoying it. At this time, I’d managed to wean myself off anti-depressants as I didn’t want to become reliant on them, but I was able to control my feelings a little better. I was working as a labourer during the day, and one weekend I was shattered and could tell that I was about to have a tough period. I phoned the manager at Farnborough, saying I wouldn’t be able to play an evening game where I’d have had to drive for more than two hours to get there.
I knew my body. I hadn’t been sleeping or eating properly, and I was as white as a ghost as the depression began to kick in. My palms were sweating, my heart was racing, and the thought of even leaving my flat was alien to me. If my girlfriend had asked me to pop down the road to get a Chinese takeaway, I wouldn’t have done, let alone drive to Lewes to play in goal for 90 minutes.
After speaking to the manager, I was told that Farnborough’s other keeper was also unavailable and that I had to play. He tried to give me no option. My attempts to explain myself weren’t getting through to him. I told him this wasn’t simply a phase – I’d completely had it with football and was going to call it a day. His reaction couldn’t have been more polar-opposite to the reactions of previous bosses I’d confided in, so I hung up the call before I got too angry.
Farnborough lost this FA Cup tie on penalties with an outfield player in goal, but before the game they posted this on their website: “Lenny Pidgeley has informed us that due to a ‘significant long-term personal medical condition’ he is retiring from football with immediate effect. This is the first anyone at the club was aware of the condition, and although the timing is shocking we wish Lenny and his family all the best in his retirement.”
That was disgusting. The manager had made me feel so small and suggested it was all my fault if they lost, because I couldn’t play. It wasn’t for him to announce my retirement like that – he completely stole my moment, something that every professional has a right to tell the world when they want to. That could have tipped somebody else over the edge, but luckily for me I had the coping mechanisms in place to put it to one side. The manager received a big backlash after that statement – which the club eventually deleted – and I received lots of support online, but once again, it illustrated how some people view mental health and depression.
Things are better now than they were. The other month, my drinking got the better of me and I felt myself sliding into another episode, but after tweeting about it, I had so much support from random people online. I want to speak about it now as I’ve read so many messages from people who have felt the same. I know it isn’t much, compared to Tyson Fury or someone, but to have 100 people message you is quite overwhelming. Most of them are people that you would assume are OK as well.
When I stopped playing football, my drinking got worse because of how my social life changed. There’s loads more going out now, rather than living the life of a footballer. There was a structure that I had to follow; now I’m running my own landscaping business and everything is on my time. There doesn’t need to be much of an excuse to go for a pint after work. But one pint can lead to two, two to five, and the next thing you know you’ve had 10.
Sky Sports presenter Rob Wotton has reached out to me, as has Chris Kirkland, the former Liverpool, Wigan and Sheffield Wednesday goalkeeper. Both have been extremely generous with their time. Rob is a counsellor and has been taking me for sessions where we chat things through. He’s also a massive Chelsea fan, so we’re never short of subjects to break the ice. Sporting Chance have been in contact too, offering me a 28-day rehab course if I hit rock bottom again.
It’s amazing to have this support network, as I feel responsible for not letting any of them down. I can tick off each week knowing that I haven’t had a drink, and I’m able to manage my mental health a lot better. There were plenty of chances for me to have sunk into a deeper depression over the last few years, especially after losing my father to cancer, but without all the pressures of football in my life I’ve found it easier to strike a balance. I’m in control now.
I’m very proud of my career. It’s tempting to wonder how different it could have panned out if I wasn’t one of the thousands who suffer from depression, but I am where I am and I’m finding peace. After all, not many football fans grow up to lift the Premier League title for their boyhood club 10 minutes after making their debut.
