Journeyman (5 page)

I like to think of myself as being relatively intelligent but, the more I look back, the more I realise people at the club were trying to tell me I had a real opportunity to carve out a successful career. Kevin Dillon was always supportive and really believed in me, and he was not the only one. I remember on one occasion, Phil Parkinson – a stalwart of the club and a very combative midfielder – invited me to do some extra running after training. It was not really my cup of tea but I accepted his invitation. In between the work-out we chatted about how football was changing and
Phil kept stressing to me that players of the new era, players like me, could go on to become millionaires from football. I took what he said with a pinch of salt; instead of taking his advice on board, it just passed me by. At that time Phil was not the sort of person I admired – he didn’t go out partying all the time and was a very limited player, although he made the most of the ability he had. Nowadays, players of his ilk are exactly the type for whom I have the most respect. Any player can waste his ability, but very few go on to overachieve.

I was more interested in going out and enjoying myself with the likes of Swalesy, Michael Meaker, Darren Caskey and the rest of my more dubious role models. They, or the legendary former Reading player Robin Friday (who was the local equivalent of George Best), were who I wanted to be like. I’m not criticising them, though – they had, after all, earned the right to enjoy the fruits of their labour. I had not. I’d done nothing in the game but I behaved like a fully fledged first-team player. If I had idolised someone like Phil Parkinson who knows how things could have turned out?

Being a stalwart in the reserves during the 1997/98 season, I often had conversations with Alan Pardew regarding my progress. He was a lot more forthright than most and told me, in no uncertain terms, that I was wasting my ability. I remember, on one occasion, I was having a great day in training and modestly decided to compare myself to Dennis Bergkamp. To my surprise, Pards agreed with me – although he did qualify the statement by saying I was normally more like the old comedian Denis Norden. This slightly took the wind out of my sails.

Pards regularly questioned my attitude and asked me how much I really ‘wanted it’. I always assured him I was desperate to become a success. I thought at the time I was telling the truth, but I obviously wasn’t and he knew it. That dawned on me over time.

He always told me about a player he knew called Peter Garland. He said
Garland was exceptionally talented but wasted his ability by being overweight and lazy. Pards warned me I would end up like him, straddling the lower leagues rather than showcasing my talents at a higher level. Unfortunately, I managed to prove him right.

As my first full season as a professional player progressed, the gap between the first team and myself was getting bigger. No longer was I having the friendly chats with the senior professionals or receiving the bollockings from management.

I was training more with the youth team now and was constantly overlooked when Bullivant was calling players over to make up numbers for the first team. Even at my tender age I could read the script: my days were numbered. I had managed to fuck up a great opportunity, and it was only ten years later, as I struggled to make a living in the lower leagues, that it dawned on me what an opportunity it had been.

By the start of March 1998 I was only honouring my contract and counting down the days to go. There had been no conversation between the management and myself regarding the future, but from the way I was being treated it was clear where my future lay – and it was nowhere near Elm Park.

In those days, before the transfer window was introduced, the last Thursday in March was the final chance for players to move clubs before the end of the season. Pards pulled me to one side earlier in the month and informed me that Yeovil Town, who played in the then Conference Premier, wanted to sign me. He told me he had played at the club at the start of his career and said it was a good opportunity to reignite a fledgling career that was already stagnating before I’d hit the age of twenty.

I had no idea about Yeovil geographically, let alone the football club, but I agreed I had nothing to lose from going down to the club to have a look around and chat with the manager Colin Lippiatt. My advisor – by which I mean my dad – and I made the long journey to Somerset a few days before the transfer deadline.

When I got there I was pleasantly surprised at the quality of the ground: it was a proper football stadium. I had also carried out some due diligence and discovered that Yeovil were well-known FA Cup ‘giant-killers’, who commanded attendances of 1,500-plus. Of course, it was no 27,000 like I’d faced at Manchester City less than a year earlier, but it felt like a big step up from playing in front of a handful of people for Reading reserves.

When I met the manager he told me all the right things and what he thought about me as a player. It turned out he lived in Bracknell, which is near Reading, so regularly took in our reserve games and had seen me play on quite a few occasions. As always, the reassurance a manager had seen me play live and could specifically talk about my game, rather than give some generic bullshit, appealed to me as I think my style of play is an acquired taste. I have always had definite strengths and weaknesses that are not everybody’s cup of tea.

After a period of deliberation in the Reading branch of TGI Friday’s, my dad and I agreed that it was time I started to play regular first-team football. Yeovil offered me £250 a week and a £50 win bonus, both after tax, to sign on a non-contract basis until the end of the season. As I was on a League contract at Reading I was entitled to get paid until 30 June, whereas Yeovil, a semi-professional club, only paid their players until the last game of the season. On this occasion, however, Yeovil agreed to honour that part of my contract and paid me through the off-season too.

At the time I did not realise what a risky move this was. When you sign as a non-contract player there is no job security and the club can let you go whenever they want. When I told Alan Pardew about the deal he was especially angry and said that he had only allowed the transfer to go through on the understanding I was given a two-year deal – although he was not bothered enough to take it any further!

I was oblivious to the gamble I was taking and pretty happy with myself really. I had effectively dropped three divisions but managed to negotiate
myself a pay rise. Moreover, Yeovil only trained once a week so I was getting paid more money for less work.

Another anticlimatic Christmas has been and gone. I have decided Christmas Day is what Sundays would be like without football – very boring. I thought I would enjoy my first Christmas being a ‘normal person’ but it did not really turn out that way. I’m still playing for non-League side Thurrock FC and my football mindset did not allow me to kick back and relax, but the Boxing Day game eventually got rained off anyway so my restraint was wasted.

I did manage to somehow negotiate a full term at school, however, although I’m not too sure how. Even more surprising is the fact I’ve been offered an extension to my contract. I did not want to stay initially as I found myself doing too much of what I knew very little about – as illustrated by the fact that I recently found myself teaching a business studies class to Year 7s and 8s while the school caretaker was taking a football lesson!

The school’s headmaster is a really good guy and had a frank discussion with me about the situation. He asked me whether I would stay if my timetable were based around both business studies and football – which was what I’d been led to believe was going to happen in the first place.

I agreed and my contract has been extended until the end of the school year. I received my new timetable just as we broke up for Christmas. It’s not quite as I expected but I have come to realise that what you are told in the education industry and what actually happens are often two different things (a bit like football). I now have football all day on Fridays, so I’m at least moving in the right direction.

I was still seriously considering moving on, though. I even contemplated starting up my own business or just doing something completely different, but it’s funny how hard it is to take your own advice. If one of my friends came to me and said they’re struggling with a new career, I would tell them:

1) It’s going to be tough.

2) You need to persevere.

3) Keep in mind why you wanted to do the job in the first place. Yet when people I respect gave me similar advice, I tried to find as many reasons as possible to disagree and justify the urge to give up.

However, in a rare moment of clarity I realised that although I’ve managed to get myself into a situation where I’m not doing enough of what I like, I’m gaining experience working with children that will be invaluable in the future. This period in my life has confirmed that I want to coach children in a professional environment. I just have to work out how to go about doing it.

The beauty of being a teacher is, of course, the holidays. School doesn’t restart until 7 January and, to be honest, I’m not particularly looking forward to going back. This is a strange feeling as I loved going to training when I was a footballer. Even on the low days I still managed to see the bigger picture.

This scenario is different – it is not a feeling of dread but it is also not a buzz of anticipation. I need excitement and am determined to find it again. It is not all doom and gloom as there are some parts of the job I enjoy. I’ve started mentoring some Year 7 boys from different backgrounds, which has been really enjoyable so far, and I also like building relationships with the students It’s only when I need to get them to do something that the problems start – motivating teenage boys can be tricky.

I’ve also enrolled on an assessor course, which will help not only with the teaching but also in my quest to improve my future for the better.

I
SIGNED FOR
Yeovil at the start of March 1998 and made my debut on the 7th at home against Morecambe. Unbeknown to me, I made that debut alongside others the club had signed at the same time, including Sammy Winston (a robust striker), Steve Parmenter (a versatile left-footer from Bristol Rovers) and Dave Piper (a right back from Southampton who had a hairline that belied his young years and who became a close friend of mine).

We lost that game 3–2, despite Morecambe going down to ten men in the first half. Not the most auspicious of starts but I really enjoyed playing and was subsequently named ‘Man of the Match’. I went into the game having no idea what to expect and with no respect for my teammates or the opposition – I had come straight from a Division One club so obviously this was going to be easy and I would be the best player on the pitch every game.

On this occasion that happened to be the case, but little did I know that my new level of football was littered with talented individuals who, for whatever reason, had ended up playing below their potential. I was just another example.

Initially I was playing with a freedom I had not exhibited since playing in the park with my pals. I had an arrogance to my game that all players have when they are playing to the peak of their capabilities. I also had the advantage of being parachuted in from a full-time professional environment to a semi-professional one.

In the late 1990s the only full-time teams around at that level were those who got relegated from the League (and only one team got relegated back then), plus the odd ambitious club like Rushden & Diamonds. So I had the advantage of being in a much better physical state than my peers, even taking into account my dubious lifestyle and the benefit of not having to work another job all week.

We only trained one day a week – on a Wednesday evening – so I had plenty of spare time. Initially I stayed living in Reading with Swalesy. It made some sense: I had no ambition to move to Somerset, and Berkshire was a lot closer to Yeovil than my family home in Essex. Also, while I had a driving licence, I did not own a car, so my new boss Colin Lippiatt, who was based in Bracknell, kindly gave me lifts to training and games.

After the personal triumph of my debut, my progress continued on an upward trajectory. The team’s results were not overly impressive but I remember, without blowing my own trumpet too much, being one of our standout performers.

After Morecambe we drew away to Kettering and then beat Stalybridge Celtic at home 2–0. In the next game we beat Telford United away 4–1 and I scored my first two senior goals. This landmark was followed by a boozy Wednesday at the Cheltenham horse-racing festival with my former Reading colleagues, ending up in the Utopia nightclub where one of the lads
performed the greyhound (an act of pulling his trousers and pants down, putting his cock and balls between his legs and roaring around on all fours) while Gareth Davies earned a 3-inch carpet burn on his forehead after being rugby tackled to the floor by one of his teammates. This was pretty much in line with how I spent the majority of my days off.

With the confidence of my first senior goals still coursing through my veins, things continued to go well. Apart from a narrow away defeat at Northwich Victoria, we remained unbeaten for the next month. Part of that unbeaten run was a 1–0 victory over Hednesford Town, which included a spectacular effort from the halfway line by myself. Although it ended up being scrambled to safety by the Hednesford goalkeeper, subsequent CCTV footage showed that the shot had actually gone over the line. I believe this was when the clamour for goal-line technology really started!

I was building some good relationships with my teammates on and off the pitch. Dave Piper and I became great friends. On the pitch he would give me the ball whenever he could and off it he had the same outlook on life as me: enjoy yourself as much as possible, even to the detriment of your football. I also struck up a great understanding with Warren Patmore, who was a strapping centre forward and won everything in the air. I played as an advanced central midfielder so would regularly feed off his knockdowns or play off him in and around the box. Before the end of this season we became travelling partners as I moved back to Essex and he was based in Watford.

Warren was one of many players I came across during my lower-league football career who could have achieved so much more if he had been more disciplined. In his defence, I don’t think he ever really had any ambition to play higher. He was a shrewd man who did very well out of non-League football and he had an abundance of interests off the pitch that have subsequently resulted in him doing very well for himself. He was and still is a Yeovil Town legend.

The club was obviously happy with the impact I had made because they
wanted to sit down and discuss a proper contract, like the one Alan Pardew had assumed I was initially signing. We arranged to have a conversation after the home game against Hereford United on 18 April. I had no one representing me and no real idea what everybody was earning, so I didn’t really have a figure in my head regarding what would be acceptable.

We beat Hereford United 2–0 and I scored both goals in the first half. Even I realised this would do my negotiating position no harm at all.

The meeting itself illustrated just how unprofessional both the club and I were back then. On that particular weekend the players had arranged a team night out so we were enjoying a few pre-drinks in the bar at Yeovil’s ground. I was not the only one discussing a new contract so, by the time I was called for my chat, I had consumed at least three pints.

I went to speak to the chairman John Fry with – and I still cringe thinking about this – a full pint of beer in hand, which I promptly slapped on his desk. He opened discussions by saying how happy the club had been with me and how it would like to tie me to a contract. He explained this meant I would be protected and guaranteed to be paid every week. Moreover, if another club wanted to sign me, they would have to pay a fee unless Yeovil agreed to let me go for nothing.

I was more than happy to do this. I had scored four goals in my first nine games, with a few assists thrown in for good measure. Whether it was slightly drunken bravado or my own self-importance I thought I should be the highest-paid player in the team, as, at the time, I thought I was the best player. The club initially offered me £275 per week, which, if memory serves me correct, also included a small signing-on fee of about £1,500. The problem was all this money got taxed so, in effect, I was worse off than my current £250 a week after tax. There may have been a few little add-ons thrown in, such as appearance money and goal bonus, but nothing significant.

John was not impressed with my claims and was not really budging on the offer. A few of the players who travelled a long distance also had cars
paid for by the club so I decided I wanted a club car in my deal too. I did not feel this was unfair as I was now commuting from Essex, although it may have been a little cheeky as I was still only nineteen and had done nothing in the game.

We did not come to an agreement that night and decided to talk again on Monday. I didn’t mind – I had a big night out planned and did not want to waste time discussing matters that could wait until the following week.

The club seemed keen to get the contract sorted out as soon as possible, however. I was flattered by their attentions but what happened during that week may have been the reason for their haste.

Right on cue I got a phone call from the club on Monday enquiring about my thoughts regarding the contract. I had spoken to a few people about my situation and decided that Yeovil was the best place for me to continue my football education, but I wanted to squeeze a little more money out of any deal. I told them I would sign if they raised my basic wage to £300 a week and included a pay rise in the second year of the contract if certain performance-related conditions were met. Yeovil agreed.

So the final deal was £300 per week, rising to £325 in the second year on the condition we finished in the top six of the League in the 1998/99 season. I also received a signing-on fee of £1,500 paid in instalments, a sponsored car and a goal bonus. This new deal would kick in straight away but meant I would, after this summer, no longer get paid through the close season.

The day after the agreement was made we were due to play Rushden & Diamonds away. When I arrived at the ground I was ushered onto the coach to sign my contract before the game, which I did.

The game itself was an exciting 2–2 draw. I scored one and set up the other to follow on from the two goals I had scored against Hereford the previous Saturday. That made it five goals in my first ten games.

It was by far my best game thus far for Yeovil and I tormented the Rushden defence throughout. They were a big-spending team at the time, backed
by Max Griggs (founder of Dr Martens), who was willing to do whatever it took to get the club into the League. They had a wonderful stadium with top-class training facilities and, for the standard we were playing at, a team to match.

I was really happy with my performance and had that brilliant adrenalin buzz you get after an exhilarating game. I got home at around 11.30 p.m. and almost straight away my phone started going off. An agent, whose name escapes me but who I do remember was northern, rang me and asked if I had signed my contract with Yeovil. I told him yes, I had, thank you very much. He went silent on the other end of the line. I asked him what the problem was.

He went on to tell me that he had just spoken to Brian Talbot, the manager of Rushden & Diamonds, who wanted to sign me immediately.

He said the deal would be two years with a basic salary of £500 per week and a £25,000 signing-on fee. Back then, £25,000 seemed like a lottery win and would have surpassed any individual signing-on fee I would receive in my entire career. Suddenly the buzz I had felt after the game had gone.

I felt sick.

The deal was worth a guaranteed minimum of £75,000 over the two years without contemplating any add-ons for success, which, considering the team they had, seemed a given. It was also a 52-week contract, meaning I would get fully paid over the summer break. Aside from the finances of the deal, Rushden were also full time, which meant I would be training every day again.

The agent believed we could get out of the Yeovil deal as it would not have been lodged with the FA yet. He insisted that I speak to the manager and tell him I had made a mistake.

But I refused to do this.

History shows that many players have used this strategy successfully, but it did not sit comfortably with me – especially when suggested by a man
I hardly knew. He insisted I was making a mistake but I refused to budge and, after all, I hadn’t even spoken to Brian Talbot so I didn’t have any confirmation that what the agent was saying was true.

This agent, like a lot of middlemen, was very persistent and said he would speak to the Rushden hierarchy to ask if they would be willing to pay a transfer fee for my services. After a couple of days of going backwards and forwards it was relayed to me that Max Griggs, much like myself, was not keen on making enemies of other teams and that Rushden’s interest in me would not go any further. I never actually spoke to any club representative so I will never know how strong their interest was, nor how true the figures the agent quoted were, but from what I subsequently heard, I am pretty sure they would have taken me on a free transfer.

After that fiasco I continued with the rest of the season. We still had four games left, which turned into two away defeats (against those big, horrible northerners Leek Town and Southport) and two home victories (including ten goals scored against Dover and Gateshead). We finished the season eleventh – perfect mid-table mediocrity – with fifty-nine points. I hadn’t scored another goal so finished the season with five in fourteen games.

Yet again I spent the summer abusing my body.

I was still friendly with a lot of the Reading players and as soon as my season finished I joined them on midfielder Paul Holsgrove’s stag party. I spent three days drinking non-stop and never made it back to our apartment during the whole trip. I did make one aborted attempt to return for some sleep, but was so disorientated I had no clue where the apartment actually was. I should probably take this opportunity to apologise to the taxi driver who toured the outskirts of Magaluf trying to find my accommodation. As the meter kept going up, it dawned on me that we were never going to find where I was staying and I had no money to pay my increasingly irate chauffeur. We briefly stopped in traffic next to a backstreet and I took my chance to escape. I jumped out of the car and headed for the alleyway but,
as I did, the driver got my shirt and ripped off half the buttons. It was not enough to stop me, however, and I was away.

Unfortunately, I was then left wandering around Magaluf with no money and a half-ripped shirt. This was before most people took mobile phones abroad so I couldn’t easily contact any of the lads. It was FA Cup final day so I pitched camp at a Linekers Bar, reasoning that my colleagues would eventually turn up there. They did but, unsurprisingly, not until about 9 p.m. I hate to think what I looked like that day!

It took me a good four days to recover from that ‘holiday’.

Some may argue that this was immediately after the season ended so there was no real harm done. Nobody could say that about my next decision, however. As I had dropped into ‘non-League’ football, I surmised that pre-season was no longer important and I could go on holiday whenever I wanted. Along with some of my non-footballing friends, I decided to take a two-week holiday in Ibiza in early July.

Pre-season training pretty much always begins around 1 July, give or take a couple of days. So, even though I’d just had two months off, I thought it wise to have another two weeks at an all-inclusive resort drinking and eating as much as I could rather than preparing for a new season. Admittedly I did get the blessing of my manager, but that is irrelevant. It was a ridiculous thing to do and during the 1998/99 season I paid for it in a big way.