Gemmill may have a pedigree, but age ultimately dilutes its worth. The games, the goals, the performances, the experience, eventually their relevance begins to fade. “I want to carry on playing, so I’ll give that every chance that I can,” he says firmly, as if the emphasis alone could turn the sentiment into reality. “But at the same time, my life affects others. Like the girl I live with, her life’s on hold until I find out what I’m doing and where we are going. It’s a big responsibility and when you’re not in control of it, it’s not a nice feeling. The only way I could control it would be to say that I’m retiring and that would be kidding myself on, I’d be doing it for the wrong reasons. It’s just the whole way I live my life. I’m not married yet, I haven’t got any children yet. I am, if you like, a very immature 34-year-old, so I don’t feel ready to retire.”
A back injury in 2003 and a torn thigh muscle the following year curtailed his first-team appearances at Everton and he made only 11 starts in the campaign just past at the Walkers Stadium. Had Gemmill played a full part in the past three seasons, he might not be so focused on continuing his career. Instead, he feels unfinished, unfulfilled almost, and physically fresh now that he is free from injury. And his commitment? One tale tells the story. During his comeback from injury in December 2003, Gemmill volunteered to play alongside Everton’s youths in a Liverpool Senior Cup match. He scored the winning goal at Tranmere and Andy Holden, the Goodison reserve team coach, described him as “a credit to his profession”.
Gemmill also spent last summer waiting for the phone to ring, accompanied by a sense of helplessness as he hoped for an offer to give him the nod to continue living the only life he has known. Yet he does not look for sympathy, as the game has been kind to him. Vulnerable though his career is, he has no financial concerns to add to the indecision. It is just that he does not know what the next few weeks will bring, and that unsettles him, like the nagging thought that he has misplaced something dear to him and might never be able to find it again. “It basically comes down to my quality of life, it’s not money,” he insists. “I’m in the position where I can pick and choose the likes of where I’m going to live. And believe me, I know how lucky I am to be able to do that. But the bottom line is that I’m unemployed. The only consolation is that it’s come at this age and I’ve had a career. That softens the blow.”
One manager has been in touch, but that was Graham Roberts at Clyde. He asked if Gemmill would be interested in a player/coach role, but there was no concrete proposal to consider, merely a vague proposition. “I don’t think there are many people he hasn’t offered the job to,” Gemmill adds with a dry chuckle. “I just take it on the chin, really. I think they’re in a position where they need players in and they’re going to ask as many people as they can. But I’ve never done any coaching before. I’ve said to people that I don’t know if I can do it, I don’t know if I’ll like it. I’ve just been on the introductory course for my A (coaching) badge and it’s very hard to tell if I’m going to be able to do it or not. I guess that’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?” Self-doubt should not be read into his words. A reflective and thoughtful individual, Gemmill is merely blessed with acute self-awareness. He has a tendency to expect the worst, but that is only a defence mechanism. His outlook is broad enough for him to be considering going to university and, during the general election, he admitted to taking a more attentive interest in politics as the walls of his career started to weaken and the world outside began seeping in. But football has been as much of a constant in his life as family and friends. And so you understand how hard it would be to walk away.
The path to management is the most well-worn course for players to take, some out of necessity, others out of a long-held yearning to succeed on the other side of the white line. Gemmill has walked the walk so far, taking the coaching badges and expressing an interest, yet his circumspect mind does not allow him to view that route as the only one he can take. He is too worldly-wise to assume that when one door closes another automatically opens.
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“I might be kidding myself on a little bit, I might be protecting myself from getting hurt,” he says. “Because given the chance (to become a manager) I would definitely take it, but a subconscious part of me might be getting myself ready for the fact that it’s more likely that I won’t be given the chance. So therefore I need to look at the bigger picture. I’m trying to get myself ready for a life outside football. That’s just the way I am, I try to be realistic.”
So as the sunset begins to fall, what does Gemmill see when he glances back over his shoulder? It is hard for a son to walk behind a successful father. He once booked into a Cyprus hotel only for the receptionist to look at his name and ask “Are you Archie Gemmill’s son?”, and how often has he heard the story retold of him missing his dad’s famous goal against Holland in the 1978 World Cup because it was past his bed time? But he has never looked upon his surname and his background as a hindrance. His dad has provided influence and advice, as well as perspective.
The younger Gemmill has always seemed a player on the periphery, however. An economical passer of the ball, an industrious presence in midfield, but seldom at the forefront of a game or an occasion. Yet there have been highs. The winning goal he struck for Nottingham Forest in their 2-1 win at Old Trafford in April 1992 prompted fans of Leeds United, who would later win the championship at Manchester United’s expense, to send him £5 notes in the post “to buy himself a drink ”. His Scotland caps are also a valued haul for a player christened “Scotland Gemmill”. But these feats cannot paper over all of the cracks.
“I take satisfaction from getting to this age having had a career in football when I was always doubted as a youngster,” he says. “But I feel a lot of disappointment that I never played for a team that won anything. That outweighs the satisfaction of just being a footballer. It’s heavy on my shoulders, especially when it’s inevitable to compare myself with my father. I don’t speak to him that often about what he achieved in the game (two championship wins in the old First Division at Derby and one with Forest, plus 43 Scotland caps). But I can honestly say I’ve never seen him looking at videos or books or things like that. He always says he has his memories. So I shouldn’t need (medals and cups) either, but I probably crave them more because I don’t have them. And if you’d said to me at any age up to 18 that I was going to play for Scotland, I’d have been the happiest kid in the world. But now I’ m full of frustration because I went to the World Cup (in 1998) and Euro 96 and didn’t kick a ball. So I’ve got mixed emotions. But life goes on and I know I can still play.”
As time passes, wishes become more refined. Now, all that Gemmill desires is to command his own fate. And so the wait goes on.