by Joe Thompson
Unfortunately for Chris, his spell in charge was never likely to be made permanent. In late January, after a winless run of six matches, Accrington Stanley boss John Coleman and his assistant, Jimmy Bell, were given the job of saving us from relegation.
John’s appointment was a coup at the time; he was the longest-serving manager in the Football League, having been at the Crown Ground for 13 years. Only Sir Alex Ferguson and Arsene Wenger had lasted longer than him at the helm of an English club.
John and Jimmy could easily have been a comedy double act. They were both scousers and bounced off each other incredibly well. The sheer force of their personalities brought a fun factor to training and lifted the spirits of everyone at the club. Most managers and coaches stay away from the dressing room and regard it as the players’ inner sanctum, but not those two – they were everywhere, and loved being amongst the banter. They’d join in with five-a-side games and deliberately make controversial refereeing decisions to see how we’d react. Once training was finished, they’d crack jokes at someone’s expense and then revel in their embarrassment.
Their training sessions weren’t as professional as I’d been used to, but their bizarre methods had obviously worked elsewhere. There was one occasion when John took the whole squad to Southport beach to do a running session, but there didn’t seem to be any clear goal behind what we were doing. He’d tell us to run to a tree in the distance and back to the starting point in five minutes, or another time he’d plucked from thin air. It soon became obvious that the idea was just to run us until we were physically exhausted. One thing they did have was an unbelievable passion for football and a win-at-all-costs mentality.
There was a feel-good factor around the place again, but even John’s unique methods weren’t enough to stem the tide of bad results. Our biggest problem was scoring goals, and he wasn’t able to sign someone who could give us an extra cutting edge in the final third. We put up a bit of a fight in the final months of the season with a win over local rivals Oldham and a thrilling 3-3 draw against Exeter. I scored our third goal in that game, which I thought would be the winner, with a little lob over the goalkeeper, only for them to peg us back in the dying seconds. Relegation back to League Two was confirmed in April following a 2-1 defeat at Chesterfield.
On a personal note, I was frustrated to have barely contributed to the fight. After recovering from my quadriceps injury I began to struggle with the same muscle in the opposite leg. Imbalances in strength often occur when you suffer an injury and it was a problem that kept me on the sidelines yet again. I was desperate to show John and Jimmy what I was capable of and felt helpless sat in the stands. I only really featured in the final six weeks of the season, by which time our fate was already decided.
It had taken years of hard work and perseverance to reach League One, and I was gutted to see it all unravel. My contract expired at the end of the season and I had a big decision to make regarding my future. I was 24, which meant I couldn’t leave on a free transfer, and Rochdale could still demand a substantial compensation fee from any team who wished to sign me. Relegation had cost us an estimated £500,000 but we’d been run diligently by our chairman Chris Dunphy and weren’t in any danger of financial meltdown. The target for the following season would be promotion.
Rochdale’s ambition matched my own, but I told John that I didn’t want to commit to a deal until I saw who the club brought in over the summer. I wanted to see if we would bring in the right quality, and despite the offer of a new contract I still wasn’t 100 per cent convinced John fancied me. In the meantime, I was given a week-to-week deal on the same terms of my previous contract, while my agent kept his ear to the ground for any interest from other clubs.
It was around this time that I started working with a psychologist, Martin Robert Hall. I was disappointed I hadn’t kicked on despite doing everything right in training and in the gym, and I wanted to see if I could improve my performance by tapping into the power of the mind. Some of the world’s best athletes use psychologists to learn how to deal with the pressure of elite performance, and I was curious to see if it could give me an edge on the pitch.
On average, I see him about four times a year and he’s become a bit of a mentor, who not only gives me advice about the psychological side of my game, but life as well. My only regret is that normally I seek his help when things have started to go badly. In hindsight, I think it’s best to have progressive chats when you’re on top of your game so you can see what you’re doing right and prolong your purple patch.
During one of our sessions we started talking about where I wanted to go and what I thought I could achieve in the game. I told him I’d had a premonition for some time of me walking around a pitch after a game, wearing a blue shirt and white Nike Vapors, while carrying a little boy on my shoulders. I didn’t know where this vision came from or the success it perhaps alluded to, but Martin told me to keep hold of it and use it as a goal to pursue.
Unfortunately, he couldn’t help me make up my mind about my future, but five weeks into pre-season training a tempting offer presented itself. I played in a friendly against Hull and then scored against Blackburn Rovers at Ewood Park. Tranmere Rovers manager Ronnie Moore was sat in the stands and I saw him speaking to a few Rochdale officials after the game. A day or so later they lodged a £100,000 bid, which was broken down into a £50,000 lump sum and two instalments of £25,000. The contract they put in front of me was a two-year deal worth £1,200 a week, plus bonuses.
Ronnie told me he wanted to get me in the building as quickly as possible, and I was keen to stay in League One and test myself at a bigger club. Prenton Park could hold over 16,000 people and they had a loyal, passionate fanbase. In January I’d also found out that Chantelle was pregnant with our first child and I knew the additional money would give us more financial stability over the next two years. Ten days before the start of the new season, I put pen to paper and waved goodbye to Rochdale after eight years at the club. It was sad to move on but I had to satisfy my ambition and see how far I could go.
On my first day at Tranmere I felt like the new kid at St Vincent’s Primary School all over again. My nerves were jangling as I drove into training to meet my new team-mates. It was a very different environment to what I’d been used to at Rochdale. The dressing room was full of strong characters and big egos, which had been built around a core of players who had been released by north-west clubs like Liverpool, Everton and Wigan. One of the main men was Ian Goodison. He was a club legend, who had been there for over eight years and won over 100 caps for Jamaica. Andy Robinson was another alpha male and a vocal guy who you could hear from a mile away. He’d played for the club’s academy as a kid and had spells at Swansea and Leeds United before returning to Birkenhead.
It was difficult trying to find my place in the food chain. There wasn’t the same team spirit that we’d had at Rochdale and it often felt like it was every man for himself. When you join a new club, you face a dilemma over whether to just be yourself or go in there and put on a confident front so nobody tries to take the piss. Looking back, I was probably somewhere between the two. I certainly wasn’t myself. That didn’t mean I didn’t make friends, though. I felt at ease around the younger players in the squad and quickly became good mates with a young midfielder called Max Power. Like me, he was set to become a father for the first time and we found common ground over the complaints of our respective girlfriends during their pregnancies.
I was relishing the challenge of winning the respect of my new team-mates and fans, but a few days before the start of the new season a strange rash appeared on my face. At first I thought it was a shaving cut but slowly it started to grow. My doctor suspected it was impetigo and prescribed me a course of antibiotics, but still it continued to spread. It wasn’t something that affected my football, but mentally it knocked my confidence. When you’re on the pitch, players are never shy of pointing out any sort of physical deficiency in an attempt to get in your head, and
it’s something I would often do to put an opponent off his game. It took a few months to clear up and I was relieved it turned out to be nothing sinister.
For all of my concerns over our dressing room, we began the campaign with a ten-match unbeaten run. I started pretty much every game and felt I did myself justice. Off the pitch, Chantelle was due to give birth on 10 September but we were taken by surprise ten days early. Ronnie had rested me for a game against Colchester United, so I put the time off to good use, if you know what I mean. After we’d gone to bed, she woke up in the middle of the night in pain. Our first child had grown impatient and was ready to enter our world. We were caught so off guard we hadn’t even packed an overnight bag, and I drove us as fast as possible to Manchester North Hospital. We must’ve done a 20-minute journey in about five minutes.
Chantelle’s labour lasted eight hours. I remember looking at her neck; there were veins popping everywhere. This 5ft 5in woman had turned into the Incredible Hulk as she pushed our baby out. At 11:23am on the morning of 1 September 2012, Thailula Lily Thompson was born. We call her Lula, but we decided on her full name because we had to cancel a holiday we’d booked to Thailand after learning of Chantelle’s pregnancy, which meant she couldn’t have any of the injections she needed when you visit Asia. I picked her up and took a long look at her; she was my double. In that moment, the next 20 years of her life flashed by like a film reel in my head. I imagined her riding her first bike, going to her high school prom, taking her to her first date with her boyfriend, graduation, marriage.
It was the happiest moment of my life, but when Chantelle told me she was pregnant nine months earlier I was excited and scared at the same time. I was 22, but a young 22. Everything had happened so quickly; we’d met, bought a house and were expecting our first child all in the space of 18 months. Chantelle was older and comfortable with it, but I questioned whether I was ready for the responsibility. I wasn’t sure if I’d done enough and learnt enough about myself as a young man to be a good father.
On top of that, I’d been worried about fitting in at a new club, but thankfully my concerns soon evaporated and I loved going to the antenatal classes and buying clothes ready for Lula’s arrival. We wanted to be able to prepare properly for the birth and so we’d made the decision to find out the sex of the baby before she was born. I didn’t mind whether it was a boy or a girl and I started to imagine what she would look and sound like when she eventually arrived.
We were lucky that Lula was a good baby and adapted to a routine very quickly. She began breastfeeding immediately, which meant I was spared the task of doing any bottle feeds in the middle of the night for the first few months. She also moved from her Moses basket and into a cot within about eight weeks and not long after she was sleeping all through the night.
Some high-profile footballers hire nannies to look after their children so they can get enough rest, but even if money was no object I would never have entertained doing that. Those early months in a child’s life are magical and you can never get them back. As a parent it is your duty to shape their life and I’m not sure you can do that properly if you’re only playing a part-time role in bringing them up. I loved rolling my sleeves up and doing the nappy changing and playing games with her as she got a bit older.
My happiness at becoming a father made it even more difficult for me to understand my dad’s absence from my own childhood. I was younger than he was when mum gave birth to me, but he still found it impossible to stop hanging around with his mates and curtailing the carefree lifestyle he’d enjoyed in his teens and early 20s. I know a few footballers who, like him, have struggled to adapt to fatherhood. They finish training and go home and play FIFA on their Xbox and leave the childcare stuff to their girlfriend or wife. I understand that you have to be selfish as a footballer, but that excuse only stretches so far.
Chantelle was incredible throughout. During her pregnancy, she continued to work until one month before she gave birth and somehow still found the energy to do things at home to prepare for Lula’s arrival. I remember her pestering me about painting the nursery, but I kept making excuses about being too tired. One afternoon I came home to find her stood on a chair painting and angrily pointing her brush at me between strokes. She took to motherhood like a duck to water and seeing her with Lula only intensified the love I already felt for her. My two girls were my absolute world and suddenly I felt like I didn’t really matter anymore. As long as they were happy and healthy, I felt content.
On the pitch, we continued to blow away the rest of League One. At Christmas we were top of the division and performing far better than anyone had predicted. Even the players were surprised by how well we were doing. In January we signed Ben Gibson from York City. His personality was black and white and he was a breath of fresh air. He’s a typical north-east lad and one of the most down-to-earth guys I’ve ever met. He fitted in with the rest of the dressing room immediately because he didn’t pretend to be anything other than himself. It takes a lot of courage to let your guard down when you move to a new club, and, in hindsight, I wish I’d done the same thing and then maybe I would’ve felt more of a part of the team. Despite playing a lot of football in the first half of the season, I still felt like an outsider.
Given our lack of team spirit, I always felt like we had a self-destruct button, which would be triggered in the event we hit a rough patch. I hoped I’d be proven wrong, but after amassing 50 points in the first half of the season we struggled to get another 20 after that. Shortly after the New Year, I fell out of favour with Ronnie and decided to return to Rochdale in March, on a short-term loan deal, until the end of the season.
Keith was back in charge following the sacking of John Coleman in January and had contacted my agent to see if I was open to the idea of going back. It was an easy decision to make, but in typical Keith fashion he gave me a verbal dig to make sure I put pen to paper. ‘Do you want to actually play football or just pretend you’re a footballer and sit at home playing families?’ he asked me over the phone. A lot had changed since we’d last met, but clearly the terms of our relationship hadn’t.
Rochdale were struggling in League One and I was determined to make sure they didn’t suffer back-to-back relegations. Keith threw me straight into the starting line-up and I’d played seven games when Tranmere suddenly recalled me in April. They had an injury crisis and Ronnie needed bodies immediately, so I reluctantly headed back, though I at least felt I’d now be certain of a run of games. Keith disagreed. ‘Ronnie wants you back, but after next week’s game you’ll be back in the stands,’ he whispered in my ear. It was classic Keith, he was looking out for me and wanted me to understand the reality of the situation, but I knew full well that he was also sowing seeds of doubt in my head so I’d be keen to go back again in the event that happened. It turned out that he was right. I spent the rest of the season making brief cameo appearances from the bench. We finished in 11th place, which was certainly no disgrace, but I wasn’t happy with my efforts. I felt I hadn’t done myself justice or showed the supporters why I’d been signed. Tranmere fans know their football and I wanted to prove to them that I was a good player.
Over the summer I went away to Portugal for a week or so and took stock of the past 12 months. We stayed at a resort in Vilamoura, which I’d been to before with Lucy and her family. My mum, as well as Chantelle’s mum and dad, came along with us, and I felt like a tour guide as I showed them the best parts of the marina. Chantelle’s parents wondered how I’d amassed such a detailed knowledge of the local area in the space of a few short hours, but I kept the source of my information a secret.
I gave my image a reboot by growing my hair longer and getting a high-top haircut, so I looked a bit like Will Smith in The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. I guess I wanted to refresh myself psychologically with a new look. Bold haircuts and fancy boots can be a big risk, because you put yourself above the parapet to be shot at if you don’t perform. But if you do, it can work to your advantage, because
people will say, ‘did you see the guy with the yellow boots or the haircut?’ I was keen to stand out from the crowd, but something else would do that for me.
Chapter 8
The darkest hour
IT was a sweltering hot August day, the sort that footballers dread when they draw back their curtains on a Saturday morning. We were playing Crewe away. Tranmere fans had travelled in their numbers and we were doing our warm-up in front of the away end, but I already felt like the tank was empty. My throat was parched and my thoughts and movements were sluggish when they ought to have been razor sharp. Something wasn’t quite right.
My pre-match routine had been perfect, which made my lethargy all the more unusual. Every player has one, designed to banish some imaginary force that could somehow affect his performance.
From Thursday night onwards, my focus is purely on football as I shut the engines down ahead of the game. IfLula is doing something at school, Chantelle will attend and also drop her off on the Friday morning. The day before a match I do as little as possible in training and never do shooting practice. I don’t want to peak too soon or go into the game thinking I can’t hit a barn door.
The night before, I eat dinner at 7pm. My meal, before I turned vegan, was normally chicken and pasta and I’d be in bed by 10pm. Chantelle has always worked Saturdays so her mum would pick Lula up and look after her until the Sunday afternoon. That meant I had the house to myself on the morning of the game. I’d have a big bowl of porridge with loads of fruit, raspberries and linseeds, washed down with green juice. This was followed by scrambled eggs on brown toast with avocado and spinach. My pre-match meal, three hours before the game, would be Friday’s leftovers.