The Smell of Football Read online

  How did I feel when I walked past the noticeboard that Monday morning and saw my name in the squad to travel to Blackpool? Let’s put it like this: I went straight to the toilets. We had a few suspensions for the game so I tried to reassure myself this was probably just a one-off and by the weekend, with any luck, I could be back scoffing fillet steaks with the lads. Yes, I know, an unbelievable, shocking and pathetic attitude – guilty as charged – but that’s how I felt. Believe me, I didn’t feel good about any of it.

  Blackpool were an average side, struggling in the division below, and it should have been an easy night for us but, as you are quickly coming to learn, nothing was straightforward for me as a player.

  Here goes. We lost and I played crap – I was at fault for both the goals and, as such, found myself on the receiving end of several tongue-lashings. The only saving grace was, as a young debutant playing in a not very important game, I just about got away with it, just about escaped all the usual vitriol reserved for such disappointing results.

  As I was only 17, I managed to avoid any real censure for that night and was still very much considered an outstanding prospect for the future. But let’s not kid anybody; I was a million miles away from being anything like a good prospect for the future. The only good thing to emerge from that night was I was quickly dropped back to the reserves – what a relief.

  When I look back, I shouldn’t have been so hard on myself. I had been considered good enough to make my first-team debut at age 17, been a regular in the reserves and played for the England youth team. That was missing the point entirely, however. The fact was I had problems, real problems, and I didn’t imagine them going away any time soon. The stark reality was I had absolutely no confidence at all. End of story.

  Still though, I had to endure the morning ordeal of Willie Bell looking across for me and calling me away from my pals and an environment where I was king, to an environment where I just couldn’t do it, just couldn’t perform at any level due to lack of confidence. People talk about pace, skill, touch and technique, and debate which is the most important. Well, the answer is none of them, trust me. It is confidence because, without it, you will never be able to perform any of the others to your maximum ability.

  I can’t begin to tell the frustration and really deep unhappiness I felt at not being able to produce a fraction of what I was capable of due to nervousness. One afternoon I was told to cross balls for Trevor Francis and Kenny Burns.

  No chance.

  Forget it.

  I couldn’t get a single solitary fucking cross off the deck. What an embarrassment. What a humiliation. What a shame. They just stood there glaring at me and the real tragedy was that in fact nobody at that club could cross the ball as well as me – and with either foot. I think that was what hurt the most. Fair enough, if you are not good enough, you are not good enough, you can accept it and move on. Give it your best shot and all that. But to be rendered physically incapable due to lack of confidence, lack of moral courage – whatever you want to call it – that was the real heartbreaker.

  Amazingly, nobody seemed to notice I was a nervous wreck and they still had high hopes for me. It was mid-autumn when the inevitable happened.

  We had loads of injuries as usual and I knew it would only be a matter of time before Willie Bell’s eyes would seek me out again (there was only so much time you could spend hiding in the farmer’s field). We had a first-team match at White Hart Lane. It was a midweek game and I was in the squad. Even worse, I was selected to be on the bench.

  I think it was the Spurs debut of a player called Peter Taylor. He was a flying winger and an England Under-23 international – one of the most feared attacking players in the land. He was on fire that night. I sat in the dugout with Willie Bell and Jim the physio praying I wouldn’t have to go on.

  In those days, whenever I was sub I used to close my eyes and count backwards from 5400, and then open my eyes and the game would be over.

  Pathetic – yes, I know. Well, I was doing well and had got down to about 600 seconds left when our left back, Archie Styles, hobbled over to the dugout and launched my league career with the immortal words: “My groin’s gone, get that cunt on.” I looked around in vain but, sadly, because this was the ’70s, there was only one sub, so if somebody got injured – too bad, pal, you were on.

  I climbed out of the dugout with legs like jelly (it was like the scene from Bambi when the new-born fawn was trying to get to its feet) and entered the fray.

  And to my surprise, I played OK – actually quite well. I don’t know why or how. Was it because we were already beaten? Was it because I had only gone on as sub? Probably a combination of the two. In fact – whisper it – I quite enjoyed it and some of the players said, “Well played” after the game.

  So without Archie injured, I stayed in the team for the weekend game at Newcastle. But I felt OK. I surprised myself. We lost 3-2 but I played well again. It was quite easy, just like being with the apprentices. What was happening to me? Was I becoming a player? I was picked for the next game too – Bristol City away on a Tuesday night. This time I played very well and we won 1-0. Christ, I was in danger of becoming a regular.

  Now let’s just take a second to quantify the situation concerning my fragile mind. I was still terrified of playing, could hardly sleep the night before a game and would have welcomed a serious injury to get me out of the firing line but, at the same time, I was able to play reasonably well and justify my inclusion in the team.

  I was just turning 18 and it was time to find out if I was going to be offered a professional contract, so I had to go and see the boss in his office.

  Of course, I was sure I was going to be offered one as I had already made my first-team debut at 17 and had represented England’s youth team; it was more a case of what wages I would be paid. The first-year wage for a young pro was normally £45 per week, but I felt I deserved more because I had played in the first team while some of the other young lads being offered the same contracts had hardly played in the reserves. I had consulted some of the senior players (not TF as I still couldn’t speak to him) and their consensus, given the fact I was a first-team squad member, was the princely sum of £100 per week was not unreasonable. Wow. That was big money, especially where I came from – the average wage in the Sheldon area, where I was born, was about half of that.

  Having said that, I was only being realistic. I was a professional footballer at the end of the day. I wasn’t asking for anything I didn’t deserve.

  I was shaking when I went into Willie Bell’s office.

  “Congratulations Mick,” he said. “We are going to offer you a professional contract on £45 per week.”

  “Thank you,” I stammered and turned to go out. No, that was just not fair. I turned around.

  “Excuse me, Mr Bell, I just thought as I had been playing in the first team and for the England youth team I should get more than the minimum wage.”

  “OK,” he said. “Good point, you will get £50 per week, but don’t tell the rest of the lads.”

  “Thank you,” I said and just walked out. When I look back it was a joke and a total injustice, but equally I melted as soon as the pressure was on. That became the story of my life in football. If you don’t ask, you don’t get. I never asked and I never got. That followed me all through my career and, slightly ironically, it was only when I became a physiotherapist that I thought I got paid anything near my worth.

  Even so, I was now a first-team regular, youth international and professional. That period represented a little golden era for me at Birmingham (my only one, sadly) as I played well enough to stay in the squad. Next came my home debut, against West Ham, and then the thrill of playing in the FA Cup match against Portsmouth just after Christmas 1976.

  I played really well in both games and the fans were right behind me. There was even talk of me being awarded the man-of-the-match trophy, but Trevor got it – on both occasions. After the second game I went into the city centre
to a nightclub called Snobs (amazingly, it’s still there). I had my best flares on and boogied away to all the latest disco hits of the time while swigging back numerous rum and blacks. Later, TF himself made an appearance and we stood boozing together with the fans flocking around us – two Birmingham legends!

  How had this happened? It was most likely the result of a couple pints of Double Diamond in the players’ bar after the match than any illusions Trevor and I deserved to share the same oxygen. It would prove to be a one-night stand.

  I didn’t even feel that nervous in those games for some reason; it was as if I had accepted my fate. They were almost like out-of-body experiences. I made some good passes and good tackles, and every time I did something good the applause was deafening for the local lad. I didn’t know it at the time, but it would be downhill all the way from here.

  This all too short ‘golden period’ of a few games represented the high point of my professional career at my beloved Birmingham City – first-team regular, England youth international, local lad made good. OK, there was the slight problem that I was terrified of actually crossing the white line but, for this short, glorious period, nothing could touch me.

  Invited back to my old school to say a few words, presenting the prizes at all the Christmas dos for the local teams, my mom getting her shopping specially packed at Waitrose in Sheldon – I was living the dream. And oh, the money. In addition to the £50 per week I had courageously negotiated during that epic man-to-man confrontation with the manager, more importantly I was now on the first-team win bonus, draw bonus and appearance money.

  It was great – lose and you still got £25 appearance money just for turning out (fancy that, you could lose and get 50 per cent of your wages). If you could scrape a draw, you got an additional £60, and if you could actually perform a miracle and win a game, then the princely sum of £120 was on its way. Sometimes it was so much money it was difficult to blow it all but, by changing my car every couple of weeks and buying lots of clothes, I just about managed it. (Where were the financial advisers?)

  I think there were even times during that golden period when I dared to think I could actually do it – put all the terrors behind me and be a success at Blues – but this was usually only after a couple of pints of Worthington E. I knew I had the natural ability, but did I have the mental toughness to face up to that baying crowd when things weren’t going well? (I believe that is what is known as a rhetorical question.) Unfortunately, you can have all the natural ability in the world, but if you don’t have the confidence to express it then you may as well have no ability at all.

  So, during that 1976/77 season, I embarked on a long period of either being in the squad or on the bench, and even started the odd game. We won some, drew some and lost most. I was just about holding my own now. The euphoria of those first couple of home games had well and truly worn off and the shortest honeymoon on record was officially over. I was starting to struggle now.

  We played at Anfield and lost 4-1. There are two things I will always remember from that game. Firstly, it was on Match of the Day, I was marking Steve Heighway and he scored a hat-trick; secondly, Kevin Keegan spoke some really nice words of encourage ment to me during the game. I really appreciated that kindness and, funnily enough, reminded Kevin of it and thanked him when I saw him not that long ago when Everton played Man City – it meant an awful lot to me.

  Now some people might say, “Yes, you got a roasting and yes it was on Match of the Day, but how many youngsters would give their right arms just to be on that pitch?” Well, to all those people, I would have gladly handed my shirt to any of you as Stevie repeatedly skipped by.

  Suffice to say, it was an almighty relief when I was eventually dropped back down to the reserves and my mates. Fortunately, due to my age again, I guess, and a few half-decent performances earlier on, I escaped the usual vitriol reserved for the off-form players.

  Hallelujah. Back to the ressies and a chance to catch up on three months’ sleep.

  In summary then, in the 1976/77 season, the records will show I played about a dozen times for Birmingham City FC and got capped for my country at youth level. Not bad for an 18-year-old and I should have been mightily proud of what I had achieved and enjoyed the rest of the season back in the bosom of Ken Oliver and the young lads.

  But deep down I knew it wasn’t right; it wasn’t how it should have been. Instead of celebrating a positive start to my career, I was breathing a huge sigh of relief that I was out of the firing line. I had been on those terraces – the Tilton Road and the Kop – and I knew what that crowd was capable of when a player was playing badly. In all honesty, was I made of the right stuff to repeatedly go out in front of those people week in, week out?

  Sadly, I knew the answer to that particular question.

  Chapter Three

  FEAR

  Another long close-season break. But not a break like the previous year, not a period of happiness and relaxation, taking long walks in the park with the dogs and two carefree weeks’ holiday in a caravan in Devon. This time the days skipped by at an alarming rate.

  No, this was not so much a break – more a lull between the storms. Although the last season had been a qualified success, I had been given a brief taste of the pressure involved in playing professional football at the highest level. The previous summer, the days had passed slowly but happily as I impatiently counted down to the resumption of my footballing life. Now, though, the stakes had changed. No more Ken, training with my pals, five-a-sides, cheese sandwiches at St Andrew’s in the afternoon, pool competitions and cleaning out the bath after home games. No, it was back to my new life – nerves, uncertainty and pressure.

  That carefree period of my life had gone forever and I think towards the end of the previous season, when I had been briefly ‘rested’ from the first-team pressure cooker and sent back to train with the apprentices, I did detect even there, in that once cosseted and sheltered environment, that things had changed. I don’t know whether it was their attitude towards me or mine to them – I wasn’t sure. Perhaps it was a touch of jealousy from them towards me because I had progressed much more quickly than them, or more likely envy from me that they had never been touched by the harsh reality that is life as a first-team footballer. The truth is it was probably nobody’s attitude to anybody; the status quo had changed and things could never be the same again.

  I can’t remember the exact sequence of events at St Andrew’s regarding managerial change, but suffice to say, Birmingham, although in the top division, were struggling and underachieving, and the next season brought about several big changes at the club that were to have a profound effect on my career.

  So, after a summer break that flew by in the blink of an eye, it was back to pre-season, the weigh-in and the cross countries. We had a new intake of young players – Pat Van Den Hauwe, Mark Dennis and Kevin Dillon were good players and went on to break into the first team and be successful at Birmingham. They were all from out of town and I am sure it was no coincidence that it was this bunch of players who did the best while all the local lads, despite being equally as good, seemed to suffer the same problems (although to a much lesser extent than me) of trying to establish themselves at their hometown club with all the additional pressures it apparently brought.

  These out-of-towners would all make it at Birmingham – unlike me. They had the confidence, you see. From day one, while I would struggle to cope with the banter and the piss-taking from the senior pros, they would give back as good as they got. While I still could not physically pass the ball to Trev and one withering look from the fearsome Kenny Burns would reduce me to a shivering wreck, they thrived on the cut and thrust. When Kenny glared, they just glared back.

  Things were not going well. As usual with the rest of the young lads, I was the best but, in with all my nemeses, I was hopeless, a bag of nerves.

  Over the next few months, Birmingham struggled even more than usual (hardly surprising if they had to rely
on players with my mentality), and Willie Bell was sacked.

  I was on the periphery of things; with the first team half the time and with the reserves the other half. I had played the odd game in the first team and, to be honest, much of it was just a blur – just hoping and praying to get through the games without making too much of a mess of things.

  In September 1977 Sir Alf Ramsey took over as manager. He was a director of the club and, when Willie Bell left, became caretaker on the understanding he would, under no circumstances, be persuaded to do the job for anything other than a few weeks.

  Wow, Sir Alf Ramsey was my boss. It was sensational stuff. The great man himself, winner of the World Cup with England no less. A man used to winning, a man used to being around winners. What the fuck would he make of me? The names just seem to roll off the tongue: Charlton, Moore, Stiles, Hurst, Peters . . . Rathbone.

  I can remember his first team meeting. Even the ‘big hitters’ were in awe as this legend addressed us. Oh, those classic, clipped tones. The quintessential English gentleman. Somehow, even now, I can remember that opening address.

  First, he introduced himself (I knew I had seen him somewhere before) and then instructed us how we should address him.

  “I don’t like the words boss or gaffer – it smacks of the factory floor – and Alf is far too familiar. If you call me Sir Alf, then I think we should get on famously.”

  Initially, things went well and, as is often the case when a new manager takes over, the Blues rallied and won a few games. The pressure on Sir Alf to take over full time was irresistible and he reluctantly became permanent manager. Then, crucially, he made his first big mistake – he put me in the team. I just couldn’t get my head around that one. Surely somebody who had won the fucking World Cup should have known better?