Where’s Your Caravan?: My Life on Football’s B-Roads
Back to my French trip, where worse was to follow, as the parents then decided that it would be a good idea to take us on a day trip to San Sebastián in Spain, home of … yes, that’s right, the notorious Spanish terrorist organisation, Eta. And yes, you’ve guessed it – we walked right into the middle of some sort of siege. You would think at this point that I am joking, but no, we happened to be on a train that was held up at gunpoint by terrorists. People furiously ran down the track and down the corridors of the panicked train. The mums were having heart attacks, the dads were regretting ever mentioning a trip to San Sebastián, and we were all wedged under seats with our French bread sandwiches, shouting, ‘Leave us alone.’
It was a brilliant day out, and to top it all we were then given the choice by the officials, who, to be fair, had somehow managed to ward off a major incident, of walking in relative safety down the track for the remaining ten miles to France, or taking the more dangerous option of trying to locate our van (it would mean hanging around the notoriously bad area till we found it, and the official presence had not deterred the terrorists). As the parents pondered over this delightful decision, I then decided to finish them all off by leaning over the station platform, only to be dragged back in the nick of time by some bloke as a train thundered through the station at full pelt.
I was told off for constantly putting us all on edge with my risky stunts, and felt slightly aggrieved – it wasn’t as if I’d been the one who’d taken four children to the home of blood-thirsty killers! The dads finally decided, ‘We think we can make it back to the Transit.’
Despite (or, perhaps, because of) the drama, I loved that trip, and it provided the most vivid and brilliant memories out of any holiday I have ever had.
The only other trip abroad we went on was to, of all places, Africa, and, specifically, to the Gambia. We went when Mark and I were still very young, and I can only remember a few things about it. One was that, for some unknown reason, sleeping in a mosquito net scared me half to death, and the other was that there was an armed guard, not just on the complex, but also at each apartment block. It was an educational trip. In a place that was then still very, very primitive and poor, we did see a side of life that had never even occurred to us as existing, a life of extreme poverty and struggle.
The only time I can actually remember laughing on that trip was when Mark became very scared by a snake, one that turned out to be a piece of old rope. But hey! – who can blame him for being a bit sensitive when there was a guy outside your door holding a Uzi. Of course, during this our parents were merrily eating and drinking away, seemingly oblivious. It’s enough to give anyone the frights.
That was sum total of our trips abroard and for that I am grateful, especially after those two offerings. I will echo the words my dad uses now when I quiz him about any future travel plans, ‘Son, there is everything I need in Cleethorpes.’
Like most professional footballers in their youth, I was the best player at school – modesty and honesty are a heady mix. I also scored bucket loads of goals for the local team, Cleethorpes Borough FC (Cleethorpes). It would infuriate the opposing teams and their players (and especially the parents of those players) who always thought that it was ‘their’ year, only for me to score the winner in a cup final or title decider. The manager of my local club was Ernie Dade, and he was exactly what a local league manager should be like; he made you feel like you were invincible, he was fair, and he had everyone’s utmost respect. One of the lad’s mums, Sue Logan (mum of Jamie), always promised me a Mars bar after a game if I had scored. Poor old Sue got through a lot of Mars bars, as I loved chocolate and I loved scoring goals. More often than not, I ended up top scorer at the end of each season. I dread to think how many Mars bars Sue got through – although doing some quick and easy arithmetic it was around fifty a season. (Sue, I will pay you back for all that chocolate!)
At that age, my footballing dream was to play for England, earn five hundred pounds a week, and buy a BMW. I stopped dreaming of the first one at around thirty (I have always been hugely optimistic!) and the second two didn’t seem as good as I had imagined, probably because the vast majority of players earned twenty times more money than me when I was on five hundred quid a week, and the BMW was leased.
During those early footballing years my will to win, and to play well, was not always appreciated. My secondary school, Lindsey, never really grasped the idea that somebody could want something that badly. In one particular game I went in for a challenge (hard but fair, as they say), won the ball, and ran off towards the opposing goal. The lad I tackled was rolling around as if he had been shot, and I was soon stopped by the ref who immediately motioned for our teacher to come on to the pitch.
They had a quick confab, and I was escorted off the pitch for the rest of the game. It was ridiculous, especially considering that the lad who had been mimicking the amputated leg was now up and smiling and talking to his teammates about his new part in the school drama class. I was even more amazed when the school decided, in their wisdom, that I wouldn’t be allowed to attend the forthcoming rounds of England trials, killing off my chances of appearing as a schoolboy international in one fell swoop. There had been no malice meant in my tackle, but for some reason this incident had escalated into a full blown inquiry. The school also phoned Everton, for whom I had recently signed schoolboy forms, to say that I had been in a spot of bother on the football field.
Even my school reports for sport would say things like ‘Christian has undoubted ability but must curb his enthusiasm and realise that it is the taking part that is important. He must also pass the ball.’ I will never understand how the school couldn’t get their heads round my philosophy – I wanted to win and be the best. This is the big difference between football at school level and when you play it for a living – you soon find out that everybody feels as you do at a professional club.
My first link to a proper club was as a schoolboy player at Grimsby Town. Training involved some very long, and dark, lung-busting nights running from Grimsby Town’s ground, Blundell Park, to the beach and back. I say ‘dark’, as when an old mate of mine, Nic Gallagher, fell behind one night, we just thought he was feeling the pace. It wasn’t until he stumbled back thirty minutes later that everyone realised what had happened. Nick had accidentally run into one of the old mounting poles for Cleethorpes’ ailing and redundant beach rollercoaster, resulting in a huge gash to the mouth and the loss of three front teeth. Imagine the health and safety regulations now – the club would have been sued as soon as you could say ‘Cleethorpes rock’.
Seeing how some modern day academies work, what with their state-of-the-art artificial pitches, video analysis, core and balance sessions, and their attention to every detail, it amazes me how we managed back then. Most of the academies try to follow the newfound rule that if a young boy gets in ten thousand hours of football between the ages of, say, nine and seventeen, then he has a major chance of becoming a professional footballer. If I use Exeter City as an example, where I coach, and where my son plays, they train for seven and a half hours a week and have a game on a Saturday. Cameron is only twelve, and I do worry sometimes that he plays too much football, but I suppose this new thinking has replaced the ‘ball and a wall’ that was our academy when we were younger.
We had moved to a lovely new house in Bradford Avenue, and this is where my skills were honed, much to the distraction of my mum, dad, and neighbours. I would trot down the road like a thoroughbred, with the metal studs on my boots noisily making their way to the local park around the corner. I would also consistently bang the ball against the small wall at the back of our house, hour upon hour, until either it was tea time or it was dark, usually the latter. The worst offence was in the garden though, because as well as destroying most of the flowers and bushes that had once made this oasis the envy of all of our neighbours, I decided that the edges of the grass needed trimming. Over the course of a few months, and after many thousands of kick-ups, I managed to reduce the playing surface by about three quarters. My edging technique single-handedly ruined that garden, and also made sure that all my future kick-ups would be done at the local park.
Having to have a designated ‘garden football area’ has definitely carried on with me through to adulthood. When Fiona and I bought our house off-plan in Northampton, I never once stepped inside during the building process. While Fiona was knee deep in swatches, worktop colours, and dream walls, all I was interested in was the garden, and in particular how much square footage I could eke out of the space, for a football area for me and Cam. I am ashamed to admit that I insisted on having it laser levelled so that the ball would roll true, and that I allowed Fiona to have only a couple of pot plants on the patio.
Strangely enough I ended up at Everton after Mike Lyons, who was then the Grimsby Town manager, had got the sack. He had been an Everton favourite in his playing days, and had signed for Grimsby Town later on in his career, becoming the manager soon after. Things hadn’t worked out for him as manager of the club, and he returned to Everton in a coaching or scouting capacity. Shortly after his dismissal from Grimsby Town, he phoned me. I was a young player who hadn’t even previously spoken to him, I didn’t even think he knew my name, but phone me he did, saying, ‘I want you at Everton son, I think you have got a real chance.’
I was so excited. Everton were a huge club and for me to have the chance to play for them was amazing. I had actually dreamt of playing for Liverpool as a young boy; they were the team I supported, but hey, at least now I could still score in front of the Kop!
The news of my move to Everton was even in the Grimsby Evening Telegraph, and at fourteen years of age that, to me, was a huge deal – it still is now! (By the way lads, please be kind with the book review.)
Coincidentally, Everton reserves were soon to play Grimsby reserves in a Pontins League fixture. After the game, I jumped on to the Everton team coach and headed back to Liverpool with the rest of the squad. I was young, impressionable, and nervous, and I will always remember that lonely journey back. Adrian Heath, who was an experienced striker, but who was also obviously very pissed off that he had had to travel to Grimsby to play in the ‘stiffs’ (a common name in football circles for the reserve team), called me over. With his feet up on a chair, he said, ‘Get me a coffee. What do you think you’re on the coach for?’
I took an immediate dislike to him and, knowing what I know now, should have just said, ‘Get your own coffee, short arse!’ but I had to respect the fact that he was a high profile player, and I was just a schoolboy. Also, being abandoned by the side of the road on the M62 didn’t really appeal to me at the time. I haven’t met him since, but apparently Adrian Heath is a decent fella, so maybe he WAS almightily pissed off at having to travel to Grimsby, but for me back then, it was well and truly a case of ‘welcome to professional football’.
I spent my school holidays and a lot of weekends at Everton, and in that time I had to stay in quite a few different homes: some good, and some bad. My time with the Spellman family was the most memorable and enjoyable, great local banter, homely food, and a top friend in ‘Spelly’ – another young lad on schoolboy forms at Everton.
It was extremely daunting to be at such a big club and to be away from my family at the same time, but mixing with footballing icons was a great experience. Neville Southall was a decent fella, as was Gordon Banks, the goalkeeping coach, and many of their top players at the time, such as Paul Bracewell, Kevin Sheedy, and Trevor Steven, were all top people and bubbly characters, but one person from that era is far from being on my Christmas list: Pat van den Hauwe.
What a nasty piece of work that bloke was: arrogant, rude, obnoxious, and selfish, and that’s before he had even opened his mouth. He was a decent left-back in his day though, with a celebrity lifestyle off the pitch that sometimes got him into hot, if not boiling, water. I was about fifteen years of age and had sneaked into one of Liverpool’s nightclubs, Coconut Grove, with some of the other schoolboys – slightly naughty, but it was only a bit of adolescent fun, and as the average age in there was only about sixteen anyway, it wasn’t a major problem. I remember walking towards some of the lads when van den Hauwe, already having had plenty of pop, shouted, ‘Who the fuck’s he? He’s not with us!’
He looked towards me and said, ‘What are you looking at? You’re not with us.’
The rest of the lads reassured him that I was at ‘his’ club, but I was amazed at how much of a tosser someone in his position could be. I wasn’t the only one. Later that night, just before we were set to leave, I saw him in the toilet being abused and manhandled by a couple of thick-set Liverpudlian lads. They obviously wanted a ‘little chat’ with Mr van den Hauwe, and I couldn’t help smiling as Pat stumbled into the toilet trough muttering something under his breath. He was the first ‘big time’ footballer I had come across, but he was certainly not the last. I haven’t met Pat since those days, and he may well be a decent fella too, but as yet I have had no one step up to vouch for him!
Apart from buying my first record, Yazz – ‘The Only Way Is Up’, I don’t look back too fondly on those days – to be honest, buying that record is not exactly a highlight is it? Yes, it was vinyl back then, and yes, I am going to say it, those were the days!
I do remember being told off for coming back to the digs ‘too early’ one night, which must have been a first – I’m not sure they realised that hanging about on the streets wasn’t the safest option in Liverpool at the time. Accidentally spraying my dad and the whole inside of the car with my strawberry milkshake when he arrived to pick me up, this after a three hour drive and a ten hour day, was also something I remember with great fondness. His glare could have killed a small animal at twenty paces.
I did miss home and playing for my local team, and I honestly didn’t feel like Everton was the club for me. When it came to the decisions about apprenticeships, I had already made my mind up, I didn’t want to sign. I hadn’t really settled in Liverpool and the knowledge that no apprentice had made it into the first team for ten years hardly filled any of the lads with confidence. The youth set-up was pretty crude, with old-school coaches and old-school attitudes, and I think, in the end, it was a mutual agreement that staying on wasn’t the best option for me. Let’s not beat about the bush though, one thing is for sure, I should have stayed and given it a right good go, as trying to get back into a top flight club would go on to prove very difficult during my career. I could have easily taken three or four more years of pain in an effort to play in at least one Premier League game. I know some players that have dined out for years on the fact that they have appeared in the Premiership for thirty-five minutes, but, credit where it is due, it’s thirty-five minutes more than I have.
Before my spell at Everton, I had nearly signed schoolboy forms for both Sheffield United and Leeds United, who had shown huge interest in me at the time. Together with my dad and his friend, Guy Allen, who was a respected football figure in the town, we were invited to both clubs and shown around their stadiums. The coaches told us that I was the type of player that they really wanted, and that they had big hopes for me. I think I had actually been pretty close to signing for Leeds, until Everton stepped in with their offer. Everton were the league and cup champions at the time, so it had been an easy choice to make in the end.
But it hadn’t worked out for me, and such was my dad’s frustration and annoyance at the way things had panned out at Everton that he blankly refused an approach from Man United shortly afterwards. I still rib him about that phone call today, although I understand why he felt the way he did. Still, seeing how those young players at Man United have been nurtured, and how they have developed, they didn’t do a bad job did they?
I was ‘saved’ from my A-levels by Grimsby Town, my hometown club, approaching me and offering to take me back on an apprenticeship. I quickly abandoned my compass, pen and pencil, and joined their ranks. Not telling my then girlfriend (now wife), friends, or any of the teachers at the school that I was leaving for pastures new was perhaps, on reflection, a trifle rash, but I knew what I wanted to do, and that was to play football for a living. I’m sure that if you had offered even the geekiest of students at the sixth form I was attending the chance to play football and earn some decent money, they would have done the same – they may well have finished their game of Dungeons and Dragons first (the Warhammer of the day), but I’m sure they too would have gone. No doubt those same lads are now lawyers, accountants, and architects, who go snowboarding three times a year, and have corporate boxes at Man United – but let’s not dwell on that.
It would be a bit naïve to think that staying on to do my A-levels was a possibility after Grimsby Town’s offer, it wasn’t, but I do hugely regret abandoning all forms of further education. It is always hard to get back into education, especially after a long break. Several years later, and shortly after I had signed for Hull City, I did try to complete an A-level in psychology. I lasted a few months, but the course being on a Tuesday night didn’t really help, and when the tutor announced he was stepping down because he was suffering from a particularly bad case of paranoid schizophrenia, I went off the idea.
After a short spell on a YTS, in fact very short, at three months, it was time for business. I was soon signed on professional forms by Grimsby Town’s manager Alan Buckley, and his assistant Arthur Mann, and, at seventeen years of age, I was soon reporting for my first pre-season training for the 89/90 season. I was incredibly excited to be at the club, and couldn’t wait for the season to start.
At the moment, as I prepare to dig deep and remember my first season in professional football, I am sat ‘home alone’ in Devon. My wife and children are ‘up north’ – although everywhere is up north compared to Devon – they are visiting both sets of grandparents on the east coast. The time is 2.50pm and I am digging through dusty old programmes to try to jog my memory concerning dates and games played. You may wonder why 2.50pm is particularly relevant. Well, I am sat at home and am not in a changing room putting my shin pads on, listening to a few last minute instructions (which is always a tough ask, as, at the best of times, it sounds like a nightclub in most changing rooms), and waiting for the bell to sound.
The fact is I am a bit crocked at the moment, slight tears to both my groin and my knee cartilage mean that I am out of action for a few weeks at least. This, and the fact that the lads are playing in Manchester, means that it is a weekend off for yours truly.
Everything had been going so well since I arrived back at my former club Oxford United, apart from my first game back that is, a dramatic last minute loss while leading, at fellow title chasers, Luton Town.
In his wisdom that night, the referee, and his good friend the much maligned fourth official, added on seven minutes of injury time. Yes, you heard right, SEVEN minutes. I think he added time for both teams’ warm-ups before the game, never mind the injuries sustained during it. As you can imagine, with the ten thousand home fans seeing the number seven raised aloft on the minutes board for the first time in living memory, they started cheering, and inevitably, in the seventh minute of said injury time, one of our lads lost his man at a corner, and they equalised. Straightaway I asked the referee how long there was to go – after twenty two years in this game I sort of have a sixth sense for doom – to which he replied with surprising cheer, ‘I’m adding another minute on for “their” celebrations’, to which I replied, with as much sarcasm as was possible for a slightly tired and disgruntled thirty eight year old, ‘Why don’t you add another minute on for good luck, you know you want to and I tell you what, why don’t you come up for their next corner and head the bloody thing in yourself?’
I escaped the booking, but I didn’t escape the second ‘extra’ minute, or the corner that he gave in the last seconds of the last minute of the added time.
Directly from the corner, with what proved to be the last kick of the game, our keeper Ryan Clarke misjudged the flight of the ball, and we watched on as it sailed into the top corner of the net. The place erupted and I watched in disbelief as their players celebrated as if they had won the World Cup and Champions League, all in one go. I half expected the ref to take his shirt off and start crowd surfing, and I could have sworn I saw him smiling at one point. It was my first game back as captain, and to say I felt robbed is the understatement of the year. At the final whistle, and without the benefit of a sword to fall on, I grabbed the ball and kicked it high into the back row. I lost it in the changing room afterwards, kicking anything that moved, and having a go at some of the lads, no doubt making a great first impression in my first game back at the club.
To make matters worse I had travelled in with Ryan Clarke that night. All ‘Clarky’ kept saying during that return journey was, ‘Fuck me, Chris, how did I let that corner go in?’
I couldn’t have agreed more, but Ryan is a really nice lad so I just kept quiet and offered my support (obviously while thinking to myself, ‘Fuck me, Clarky, how DID you let that corner go in?’).
To prolong the agony, or to give that crushing defeat a bit of humour, whichever way you want to look at it, the following day the local newspaper reporter, Jon Murray, approached me half laughing and said, ‘Should I put the claim into the club or give it to you direct?’
He continued, as I was none the wiser, ‘That ball you volleyed into the crowd the other night rebounded off the roof of the stand, and smashed into my laptop.’
Come on now, what are the chances of that? You can imagine the write up I got the next day.
The following few games went well, with three consecutive wins, but it was in the final ten minutes of that last win that my season changed. I stretched for a ball and felt something go in my groin. I tried to play the next few games, having injections to help me do so, but it was no good, I was going, or should I say limping, through the motions. I did return for another top of the table clash against Stevenage, a sort of title decider, but I tore my cartilage with only twenty seconds of the game gone. It was a bad neck-high challenge by our number five (me), but I wanted my opposing midfielder to know I was there. He got the message, but after forty-five minutes so did I, I couldn’t play on with cartilage damage for much longer, and I ended up hobbling off early in the second half.
I now have three weeks to get ready for what will probably be my sixth end of season play-offs in the last seven seasons, my seventh in all, and another very short summer. Our lead at the top of the table has vanished, and it is now more play-off uncertainty. My body seems to be rebelling against any form of recovery, but I really hope that the miscellany of treatments I am having work. A combination of ice, rehab, and not driving for three hours a day should help.
So, I am sat down beginning to type away; it is now 3.20pm, and I haven’t even turned on Sky Sports News to check the results; it is just too stressful. Who would be a fan eh? I will have a look at around 4.45 though – or more likely 4.52pm when the referee will have definitely blown his whistle! I will also check the results of the other nine teams that I have played for at the same time, as I do every week.