by Joe Thompson
There was a big ceremony at Grosvenor House in London to announce the winner and various other prizes. I travelled down on the train with the gaffer, his new assistant, David Flitcroft, my agent and our chief executive. I had no idea I was going to win it, and I was stunned when my name was read out on stage. The prize served as a rubber stamp, which gave me confirmation that I had the quality to have a real future in the game. When I stood up to receive the trophy, I looked around the room and saw hundreds of other professionals applauding me. ‘I want more of this,’ I thought to myself. It was a big moment at the start of my career and the trophy still sits proudly on my mantlepiece at home.
I knew that Wigan and Southampton had been watching me, and Rochdale were keen to ward off any potential suitors. They offered me my first professional contract before the end of my YTS deal, worth £150 a week, plus game-related bonuses. It was a lot of money to me back then and meant I could help my mum out by contributing to the running of the house, even if it was only £50 a week, and still have some left over for myself. But I wanted more. At the time, I felt I was probably the best player from my age group in the north-west. I’d been to college with Oldham, Bury and Burnley players, and I knew a couple of them were earning £150 per week. They hadn’t made the same progress as me, so I felt I deserved to be paid more.
I dug my heels in, turned down their opening offer and asked for another £50. They must have thought I was a cheeky bastard for trying to barter with them after they’d just offered me the chance of a lifetime. I had nothing to lose – if I couldn’t squeeze another £50 a week out of them, I’d immediately sign on the dotted line. That’s a part of my character that I like. I’m a nice person, but I know I can dig my heels in and stick to my guns. In the end, they agreed to give me a two-year contract on £200 a week, which was topped up with appearance and goal bonuses. I tried to wangle an assist bonus as well because that was a big part of my game, but they weren’t having it. If I made over ten starts, then my wage would rise to £300 a week in my second year.
The carrot had been dangled in front of me and I was determined to grab it. I didn’t go on holiday that summer and did a lot of additional fitness work so that I returned for pre-season in the shape of my life. Our strength and conditioning coach gave me a programme to build up my strength and power. I did a lot of Olympic lifts, which are full body exercises requiring you to move weight at speed, so you develop explosive power. I was conscious that my body needed to be strong enough to be able to potentially play two games a week and also compete with fully grown men on a more regular basis.
The close-season is a paranoid time for footballers. As a young professional you find yourself wondering what everyone else is doing. As you get older that changes because you know what is required and you understand it’s important to switch off. But for the first two or three years of my career I never really stopped. I’d play five-a-side, go for a run or head to the gym most days so I didn’t lose my fitness. I feared that someone else was doing extra and I’d get shown up when I needed to make an impression. When you’re a teenager, there are question marks hanging over you because the manager still hasn’t seen enough of you to know he can trust you. You have to start building your reputation and show that you’re a reliable professional.
Another threat is the arrival of new signings. When they enter the dressing room for the first time, you welcome them but you also size them up, especially if they play in your position. You’re also wary of too many new faces rocking the boat and changing the group dynamic. If there are too many signings you can lose the identity of the squad very quickly. I think it’s one of the hardest things for a manager to get right. You can identify a talented player, but finding out what he’s like as a character and how he’ll integrate into the group is more difficult. What’s his character like when the chips are down? How does he respond when he gets shouted at? Does he need an arm around him? You want players to come in who will improve the team but also the spirit of the group.
You often see what a player is made of on the first day of pre-season, when you get your body fat measured. If a player has put in the hard yards during the summer, he should be 10 per cent or below. Mine is normally about 7 per cent, but at 18 it was only 5 per cent and there was next to no muscle on me. I was 6ft tall but rake thin. I was physically slight but at least I’d proven the wrist scan I had at United had been completely wrong.
The beep test is another dreaded obstacle. If you haven’t heard of it, it involves running continuously between cones, 20 metres apart, and turning before each beep sounds. At each stage, the time between each beep gets progressively shorter. If you can’t reach the cone and turn in time you have to drop out and you’re then given a score based on the number of shuttle runs you’ve completed. You need to make a good impression or else you look like you’ve been slacking. There’s an element of fear before you do it, which I’ve learnt is a good thing, because it shows that you care. There can’t be many industries like football where you’re subjected to a battery of tests. That’s probably another reason why some players don’t make it, because they don’t deal well with the stress of being judged on a daily basis.
Once pre-season started, I made sure I had very few distractions. I’d see my girlfriend, Lucy, a couple of times a week, but apart from that football was my sole focus. I only lived a stone’s throw away from the ground, so I’d walk there for the morning session and then use the gym in the afternoon. After finishing at 3pm, I’d return home, sleep, eat my dinner and then get an early night. It was a relentless schedule for about six weeks, but I loved the routine and the confidence I gained from getting fitter, faster and stronger.
I’d put in the hard yards and was determined to nail down a first-team place, but I didn’t kick on as much as I expected. The team was doing really well, so I found myself in and out of the side. There were still highlights, though, including my first goal in a 3-1 win over Darlington at home, though it was very nearly a disaster. During the warm-up my boots split and my spare pair had moulded studs, which I couldn’t wear in the wet weather. Ten minutes before kick-off I had no boots to play in. Luckily one of the lads, Simon Ramsden, had a spare pair of size nine Nike Vapors, but they were brand new and were killing my feet. I had a nightmare start to the game and barely touched the ball, but then out of nowhere Tom Kennedy swung a ball into the box and I headed home on the penalty spot, a bit like Patrick Kluivert did in his heyday.
When I was playing well I enjoyed getting involved in a bit of confrontation on the pitch, and I remember celebrating by putting my finger to my lips to the Darlington fans, who had given me stick before my goal. My mum still has that picture of me celebrating at her house. My confidence was high and I set up Glenn Murray to score our second goal. My performance saw me named in the League Two Team of the Week, but I wanted more and wasn’t involved as much as I wanted to be. I was still only 18/19, so I knew I couldn’t complain too much, and the most important thing was that the club was on the front foot. Keith Hill was moving us forward and I’d developed a really good relationship with our assistant manager, Dave Flitcroft. He was a very funny guy and we bounced off each other. You could have a laugh with him during the week, but on a Saturday afternoon he was serious.
We finished fifth in League Two, which meant we faced Darlington in the play-offs. The team spirit was fantastic, aided by a healthy balance of older pros and young lads. Every Friday, after the final training session of the week, someone would be picked out for giving the ball away more than three times and would have to put some money in the team kitty, which we used for a night out at the end of the season. There was a dispute between Lee Thorpe and Rene Howe over who was the worst offender, so they settled it with an arm wrestle on the team coach on the way to Darlington.
They were both strong lads and it was a stalemate until Thorpey’s shoulder popped out of his socket and snapped with an audible crack. The bone just flew out of his upper arm. ‘Err, that’s not right,’ he s
aid. Talk about an understatement. If it had been me, I would’ve cried my eyes out. We had to stop off at the nearest service station, where he was picked up by an ambulance and taken to hospital. The injury ruled him out of the game and he’d also miss the final if we made it through.
It was a huge blow and we lost the first leg 2-1, but we won by the identical scoreline in the return fixture, which meant the game went to penalties. Jason Kennedy had scored two incredible goals in both legs, but his penalty was saved by Tommy Lee in the shootout. Luckily, it didn’t matter, and it was left to Ben Muirhead, who had been in an older age group at Manchester United while I was there, to score the winning penalty. He was our fifth taker and smashed it straight down the middle to send us to Wembley. Rochdale hadn’t experienced anything like it for years and it was great to see the town buzzing and getting behind us.
I had never been to Wembley before and was desperate to be involved. I’d been on the bench for both play-off matches, but on the morning of the game the gaffer pulled me aside after breakfast and said I wasn’t going to be in the squad. I was gutted. Managers have to make tough decisions and someone has to be sacrificed, but that didn’t make it any easier to swallow.
Stockport were our opponents in the final, and they had a quality team, which included the likes of Gary Dicker, Patrick Gleeson, Kevin Pilkington, Ashley Williams and Conrad Logan. Tommy Rowe, who was released by United at the same time as me, and for the exact same reason, also played that day. He’d really worked on the physical side of his game in the gym and had added muscle to his physique, which meant he could handle the physical demands of the division.
The final was a cracking game between two very good sides, but we lost 3-2. There were a lot of tears in the dressing room after the game, and I just wished I’d been on the pitch. The players who were chosen ahead of me didn’t perform, and I felt I could have made an impact, but it’s easy to say that when you’re watching on.
Our heads were down, but Keith was adamant that we would get promoted the following season and told us to return for pre-season in four weeks’ time. It didn’t give us long to recharge the batteries, but we all knew it would give us a head start over our rivals. I was young, but the L plates were off and it was time to put my foot down.
Chapter 6
The missing piece
THE sight of fresh meat went down well with one of the prisoners. ‘Wit woo, haven’t you brought a sort for us?’ he shouted in my direction, as he was led through the grounds in handcuffs by a prison guard. I jumped back in my car, slammed the door shut and waited for help.
‘Get out, you’ve got nothing to worry about,’ laughed the man I’d come to meet. Guy Proctor was Rochdale’s strength and conditioning coach, but he also worked as a personal trainer at Kirkham prison, near Blackpool. Every summer, he invited players to do weights sessions there to prepare us for the rigours of pre-season training. The gym was on the far side of the prison, which meant we had to walk past all the cells to reach it. I kept my head down as we walked through, but out of the corner of my eye I could see the inmates craning their necks out of their cell doors to see who was there.
I was escorted to the changing rooms by one of the guards. Once inside, I pulled on my t-shirt and shorts as quickly as possible. I’d seen plenty of films involving prisons and didn’t fancy hanging about there naked for too long. There was no special treatment because we were footballers; we had to share the gym with the prisoners, who would spot us while we lifted heavy weights. At first I didn’t dare speak to them, but I slowly plucked up the courage to ask them how they’d ended up behind bars.
One of the blokes was in his 20s and told me his story as I completed my fourth set on the bench press. He looked like a normal guy, but it turned out he’d been sentenced to life behind bars for murder. He’d seen red during an altercation with another man in his area and beat him to death with a concrete slab. I gulped and pushed out my remaining repetitions at speed. I didn’t like the idea of getting on the wrong side of him while he was stood over me with a metal bar in his hands.
There was another man called Jimmy, who looked like he’d been born with a set of dumb-bells in his hands. He was 34 and had been in prison since he was 17, though I didn’t dare ask him why. He must have been 6ft 5in tall and had the biggest set of lats I’d ever seen. He’d lifted that many weights his back looked like a triangle and his gigantic frame meant his head was tiny in comparison. I thought it would be funny to christen him ‘Jimmy Pinhead’ behind his back, but my attempts to make my team-mates laugh would come back to haunt me.
After a couple of weeks the prison didn’t seem quite so daunting. We were on speaking terms with a few of the prisoners and they didn’t mind us using their space, so long as we respected the gym and kept it tidy. ‘Jimmy Pinhead’ may as well have slept there, and his constant presence meant I could keep whispering his nickname to the lads and get a few cheap laughs at his expense. Before one of the sessions Jimmy approached me in the changing rooms with a menacing look on his face. ‘Are you Joe Thompson?’ he asked. ‘No … no, I’ve never heard of him,’ I stuttered. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘He’s been calling me “Jimmy Pinhead”; if I find out you’re lying, I’ll make Mars Bars out of you.’
My heart was pounding. I fled out of the changing rooms and back to the safety of the gym. ‘Lads, “Jimmy Pinhead” has just cornered me,’ I said breathlessly. Guy, my team-mates and the rest of the prisoners burst out laughing, as did Jimmy, who had followed me back into the weights room. They’d all been in on the joke. Jimmy grabbed me by my neck and jokingly told me to never refer to him by that nickname ever again. I’d never been more relieved in my life and promised the lads I’d get them back eventually. The prison was a priceless experience and taught me not to judge a book by its cover. Don’t get me wrong, some of them had committed some terrible crimes, but there were also some decent human beings in there who wanted to turn their lives around.
The prison was a world away from the freedom I’d experienced earlier that summer. Towards the end of the season, I’d split up with Lucy on the same day I passed my driving test. I thought girls loved guys with cars, but it turned out she’d had enough of playing second fiddle to football and my mischievous ways and decided it was time we went our separate ways. At the time I was gutted, but I wasn’t down for long. I spent £3,500 on my first car, a Fiat Punto, which gave me the independence I craved, and then booked a summer holiday to Malia with a group of mates. I even managed to persuade my mum to let Reuben, who was only 16 and studying for his A-Levels, to come with me. He brought his books with him and revised during the day between our nights out on the strip.
We met up with another group of footballers who I knew from my time at Manchester United. Reece Brown, Danny Welbeck, Danny Drinkwater, Nicky Ajose, Scott Wooton, James Chester and Robbie Brady were staying at a hotel nearby and the two groups joined forces. There were 15 of us in total, and it was one of the best holidays I’ve ever had. We had a little bit of money, which meant we could stay somewhere half-decent and afford to rent quad bikes to explore the town. There were quite a few good-looking lads in the group and we had a great time letting our hair down and trying to chat up groups of girls. After the way the season had ended, it was the perfect way to switch off and forget about football.
Reaching the play-off final meant we only had four weeks off before we had to return for pre-season training. The work I’d done at the prison gym had paid off. I could see a subtle but definite difference in my physique, and mentally I felt refreshed. I was in the final year of my contract so I knew how important it was to put down a marker early on and cement a first-team place. Even as a youngster, the last year of your contract is a worrying time. All sorts of hypothetical situations entered my head. If I had a great season and then suffered a serious injury, would the club still offer me a contract, knowing that I could be out for nine months? What would happen if the season didn’t go to plan and a new manager came in?
P
olitics also plays a part. Clubs will sometimes drop a player deliberately, regardless of his form, if he is about to activate a new contract but they have decided they don’t want to keep him. One season, a team-mate of mine at Rochdale had played 24 games and needed just one more appearance to be awarded a new contract, only to be left out of the side for the final games of the campaign. He was at the back end of his career and the club felt it was time to balance the books and give a chance to a younger player on less money. It seemed unfair but football is a cruel business and smaller clubs have to make financially savvy decisions.
We went to Marbella for pre-season training, which was a welcome break from the day-to-day grind of the training ground. We got to see a bit of Puerto Banus and how the rich and famous lived, with their yachts and fast cars. The warm-weather training did us the world of good and we started the campaign on fire. We were top of the league for a while, ahead of Notts County, who had spent a lot of money hiring Sven-Goran Eriksson as their manager and bringing in the likes of Sol Campbell, Lee Hughes and Kasper Schmeichel on big wages. The nucleus of our team had been together for a while and there was a real connection between the lads, which showed on the pitch. In the tunnel, we weren’t afraid to have a go at the opposition before kick-off to try and gain a psychological advantage. If one of our boys was fouled we’d loudly order each other to seek revenge on the offending player.
I love that side of the game and it’s sad that it’s slowly disappearing. On the pitch you can pretend to be as hard as you want because nothing serious is ever likely to happen. You have the safety net of a crowd, the referee and officials, so it’s rare that trouble escalates beyond pushing and shoving. But there was one player I’ve faced who I always felt was capable of crossing the line. Over the years I’ve had numerous battles with Morecambe’s Kevin Ellison. He’s probably the biggest wind-up merchant in the Football League. He’ll be 40 in February 2019 but still plays every week because he’s kept himself in incredible shape. He’s a good player, who has scored some brilliant goals, but he loves being the villain and getting in the face of the opposition. I’ve never seen a player use the crowd more to his advantage. He feeds off the hate of opposing fans and lifts his own supporters with his antics.