Charlie Oatway was born in 1973 and grew up in the Shepherd’s Bush area of west London. He left school at the age of thirteen and became a footballer, first with Wimbledon, then non-league Yeading, before getting his first professional contract with Cardiff City. After being sent to prison for GBH, he played for Torquay and Brentford before joining Brighton and Hove Albion in 1999, captaining them, and winning two championships and three promotions.
After injury ended his career, Charlie worked for Albion in the Community (AITC) as a manager of community relations and a leader of their award-winning adult learning initiatives. He is now the club’s first-team coach.
All proceeds from this book will be donated to Albion in the Community. For more information see www.albioninthecommunity.org.uk
Charlie Oatway has been a fighter all his life. His story starts with scraps on the streets of London’s Shepherds Bush. He’s expelled from school and his family are in and out of prison more times than you can count.
However, Charlie has a talent for football and makes it as a pro. Then he picks one fight too many and ends up in prison himself. Will life ever be the same again? Will Charlie get back into the game he loves? Laugh (and cry) along with Charlie, his love affair with football, and his efforts to escape a dodgy past.
I would like to thank the following people who have helped me in their own way to get me where I am today.
To begin with I thank Ritchie Jacobs from back home who got me into the pro game in the first place. Then the next biggest influence was Micky Adams who signed me for Brighton and Hove Albion. Then following on from Micky I want to thank all of the directors at the club, and in particular Dick Knight, Martin Perry, Derek Chapman, Ken Brown, Tony Bloom (Mr Chairman) and his brother Darren. Also a special mention to Paul Camillin, the Albion’s Press Officer, who has managed to get me through a couple of scrapes! All of these people have been so supportive to me over my career.
I thank my wife and kids who have been through all of the ups and downs together with me.
Finally I would like to thank Alan Sanders who has helped me to write this book, and we had so much fun doing it. He pushed me to focus on my literacy and numeracy skills and also helped me to achieve all of my football qualifications. He has been like a mentor to me and has led me through the difficult times.
For everyone else you are either mentioned in the book, or you’ll be in the next one!
To me, the summons for a court case in London on a Monday morning in 1994 was not a major problem. How could I have known at the time that it was to be the worst moment in my life? You see, I was playing professional football for Cardiff City at the time, and although I had been charged with GBH I was reliably informed (or so I thought) by my brief, that the most I would get was community service or a fine.
I had played for Cardiff on the Saturday, and after the game I told the manager, Terry Yorath, that I had to go to court in London the following Monday. I said that I would be back for training on the Tuesday. I explained that when I was living in London before I’d signed for Cardiff, I had got involved in a fight when my mate, who is Afro-Caribbean, was racially abused. We both piled in, won the fight and didn’t think much more of it. Unfortunately the police did, and if I didn’t go to London they would come and arrest me at the training ground.
Terry was brilliant and promised that he and the club would do all they could to keep it out of the papers. He said that he would see me on the Tuesday when I got back. I was so confident that I would be back in a few days that I told my wife, Sonya, to stay in Cardiff and not to bother travelling with me.
The train down to London was a good time for me to relax. I had only been at Cardiff for two months and in some ways I had become a local hero. I had been playing well and my face had been plastered on the side of local buses to advertise something or other.
Even when the judge said my full name, ‘Anthony Phillip David Terry Frank Donald Stanley Gerry Gordon Steven James Oatway, you are sentenced to six months imprisonment’, I still wasn’t too worried. This was because he went on to say, ‘It will be reduced by one month as it’s your first offence, and another month for helping with the police inquiries.’
I was sure he would continue to reel off the months and let me go, or finish by saying that it was a suspended sentence. Instead, he finished by saying, ‘I hereby sentence you to four months imprisonment. Take him down.’ I was then handcuffed by the two policemen on either side of me and they led me downstairs to a cell and slammed the door.
My mind was racing. They told me I was in a holding cell, and that they would have to ring round the prisons to find out where I would be staying. I had so many things going on inside my head.
For a start I was angry that my mate who I had stuck up for in the fight didn’t turn up at court to tell them what had happened. Sonya, my wife, had tried to get hold of him, and when she did he said he’d got the dates mixed up and couldn’t make it. My mate went on to play for QPR (Queens Park Rangers) and I suppose he didn’t want anything to get in the way of his chance of becoming a professional footballer.
I also felt cheated because, not only did he not turn up, but also there were no witnesses in court and everything was just read out from statements.
I felt very hard done by as my close family friend Dennis Wise had just been let off a six-month prison sentence for GBH towards a taxi driver. If a high-profile footballer like him could be let off, why couldn’t I?
I was now really worried about which prison they would send me to. I was hoping it would be Wormwood Scrubs as I knew a few people in there who could make sure I was all right. I was also worried about Sonya and wondered how she’d cope with it all. I knew I had really let her down and that she didn’t deserve any of this.
People have asked me since whether I was worried about being beaten up or abused by other prisoners, but that was never a concern of mine. I would fight any man if I had to. I had too many other things to worry about, like what would happen to my football career? I had only just made it and now I seemed to have blown it.
After what felt like three or four hours they told me I would be going to Pentonville and not the Scrubs as I had hoped. I still have vivid memories of being put inside the police van. There were other prisoners in there, but everyone was squashed into tiny compartments where there was no room at all. You can see out into the street through a small window but no one can see you. I remember all the noise in the van on the way to Pentonville. The journey only lasted about an hour, but it felt a lot longer as the other prisoners were banging and shouting all the way there.
When we arrived I was led through the gates into the reception area, and once I’d been given my prison uniform, I was interviewed. Things didn’t get any better then because when I told the officer that I was a professional footballer he didn’t believe me. ‘Well, that’s a first,’ he said. ‘I’ve had people tell me they are the Prime Minister but never a professional footballer.’
A few hours later, the prison officer who had interviewed me told me he was also a goal-keeping coach and had worked with Terry Yorath when he was at Swansea. He had done some checking up on me and apologised for not believing that I was a footballer. He then promised he would look after me and make sure I stayed fit for when I got out. This was my first glimmer of hope. He also told me that although I had been sentenced to four months, I would be out in two if I behaved myself.
In many ways I was lucky. I was put in a cell with a Rastafarian who I got on well with and the prison officer who’d interviewed me kept his word and made sure I got the best jobs. The other prison officers were blunt but never rude to me, so there was no problem there, but I struggled with panic attacks and the feeling that I couldn’t cope for the first few days.
It wasn’t long before I was taken to another cell, which I would share with an armed robber. I got on well with him but the thing that helped me the most was a visit from my uncle Terry. He had been in prison many times and said he’d do anything to put himself behind bars rather than see me suffering. He also gave me a reality check, saying, ‘You’re only in there for a shit, shower and shave, then you’ll be out.’
In fact this was the message I got from most of the prisoners I spoke to. They said that as I was only in prison for such a short time, I shouldn’t worry about it. Some of them were serving up to twenty years, so I couldn’t really expect any sympathy from them, not that I wanted any.
Prison was horrible. There were lots of things that made me depressed. When I was first led into prison, the sight of dead cockroaches lying on the ground outside really got to me. I couldn’t cope with the fact that the only topic of conversation in prison seemed to be about the length of time people had to serve. What was I doing in this place?
The jobs I was given included being on reception helping to hand out prison clothes to newcomers, boxing up their own clothes and taking them down to the stores. A plus point of this job was that I was able to spend long periods of time outside my cell, which was a much better deal than most of the prisoners got. It also meant that while I was there I was able to meet every prisoner who arrived. As I was the one to give them their supplies, it meant that in some sense I was doing something for them, and because of that I pretty much got on with everyone. Those who didn’t have jobs, which was about 80 per cent of the prisoners, had to spend long periods of time banged up inside a cell. This, in my opinion, is no good for them or anyone else.