by Joe Thompson
A hamstring injury meant I wasn’t there long, but as soon as I recovered I was loaned out to Southport. Their manager, Paul Carden, called me and told me he wanted me to do him a favour and help to keep them up. In return, he said I’d play every week and get my fitness up. It seemed like a fair deal, but again I didn’t cover myself in glory. I felt like I was clinging on by the skin of my teeth. I was on the fringes of games and had to push myself to my absolute maximum just to compete. I just couldn’t play at the same intensity anymore. Inwardly, I thought I was finished. My body had gone. My athleticism had been one of my strongest qualities, but you can’t play as a winger if your pace and endurance have vanished. I returned to Bury for the rest of the season and knew I couldn’t be loaned out again because I’d now played for three clubs in one season. One more would’ve been a breach of Football League rules.
When I returned, my head was gone and I wasn’t enjoying being there. My mood wasn’t helped by the fact I’d never seen eye to eye with Flickers’ assistant, Ben Futcher. We’d come up against each other many times on the pitch and I’d always given him plenty of stick for being a slow, burly centre-back. But in the end it wasn’t him that I ended up falling out with. Flickers had always been a bit of a mentor, but I felt that he’d changed since becoming a manager. I struggled to deal with criticism from him because Keith had always been the boss at Rochdale, whereas he was the one who’d put an arm around your shoulder. I had huge respect for him as a man for helping me out when others wouldn’t touch me with a bargepole, but our relationship was never the same again after we had a furious argument.
The tension between us had been simmering for weeks when he pulled me into a suite at Bury’s ground. ‘I’m not sure you’re going to get back to where you were before,’ he said. I was stunned. ‘You’re my manager, you’re the one who is meant to believe in me,’ I replied. He still had more to get off his chest. ‘What I’m seeing just isn’t good enough, you’re letting your family down Joe,’ he continued. There was a moment of silence. He’d pressed the red button. ‘Do you want me to tell you how it fucking is?’ I shouted. ‘Go on then, get it off your chest,’ he said. ‘I’ve won the biggest fight I’ll ever have,’ I said. ‘I was fighting for them when I was in hospital, so don’t you fucking tell me that I’ve let them down.’ Our row continued until we were interrupted by one of my team-mates, Nicky Adams, who put his head around the door and then quickly retreated. Minutes later the chairman did the same thing, but thought better of trying to intervene.
Flickers told me how tough it had been for him telling his wife and kids he’d been sacked by Barnsley, but he didn’t seem to understand that his problems were nothing like what I’d been through. On a professional level, I’m sure he was devastated to get sacked, but I know he would’ve been on good money and probably received a healthy pay-off upon receiving his P45. Management had changed him. You see it happen with a lot of ex-players when they move into coaching. I’d hoped that he would remember what it was like being a player, but it seemed like he just couldn’t get his head around the fact it was going to take me longer than I thought to get back to my best. We continued to trade verbal blows until I stormed out, fetched my kitbag from the dressing room and drove home.
I knew then that I’d never play for Bury again. In training he tried to punish me for our argument by making me do ridiculous sessions in the gym. One of them involved me lifting weights that were far too heavy for me before doing a lap of the Gigg Lane pitch, alongside our second-choice goalkeeper, Shwan Jalal, who he also wanted to get rid of. I had to repeat it four or five times. He was taking the piss out of me, but I refused to let him break me.
On another occasion he made me do a circuit he called ‘Ultrafit’. It had nothing to do with football fitness, it was just designed to break me mentally. I had to run uphill, do weights, Olympic lifts and then finish off on a machine called the grappler. I was in bits but I bit my tongue and didn’t give him the reaction he craved. Instead, I questioned the coaches and asked them why they were insisting upon me doing the sessions when they knew full well what the situation was. They told me they were just carrying out orders. I felt sorry for them, particularly Jon Lucas, who I’d worked with at Rochdale and knew was a good guy. I knew they were all good at their jobs but if they defied the boss they could be out of work themselves. I spent the final weeks of the season training with the youth team and playing crossbar challenge with the rest of the bomb squad – a term footballers use for fringe players who can’t get a sniff of the first team. I watched on as the first team clinched promotion, ironically against Tranmere. Despite my situation, I genuinely wanted the lads to do well because I knew how hard they’d worked all season. To celebrate, the club paid for the whole squad and coaching staff to go on holiday to Marbella. The lads asked me if I wanted to join them and I decided I would. I knew I’d be leaving Bury at the end of the season and it would be the perfect way to say goodbye to everyone in the sun.
Unsurprisingly, Flickers wasn’t happy. ‘You shouldn’t be here,’ he said during our first night out over there. ‘I tell you what, you stay out of my way and I’ll stay out of yours,’ I replied. He looked at me for a moment and then walked off. I went in the opposite direction and that was pretty much the last I saw of him for the remainder of the trip. He still messages me from time to time, but our relationship has never been the same since. Our personalities are very similar and in hindsight that’s probably why we ended up clashing.
When we got back to Manchester Airport, I said goodbye to all the players and thanked them for pushing me over the past year. I’d enjoyed being a Shaker, even though my stay was only a brief one. Things hadn’t worked out, but the players and supporters had always been supportive, which meant a lot. I jumped in a taxi and headed home knowing that I was back to square one, but I was in a far better position than I’d been a year ago. I had a full season of training under my belt and, although I hadn’t played anywhere near as much or as well as I’d hoped, inwardly I retained the belief that eventually I’d be the player I once was. But to do that, I needed someone else to take a chance on me. I got home, put the kettle on and waited for the phone to ring.
Chapter 11
Survival of the fittest
IT must have been a peculiar sight for the staff at Manchester’s JJB Soccerdome to see a couple of professional footballers meet up for a casual game of five-a-side. The season was over, but the sun was out, which meant it was time for me and the boys to have our annual summer fixture. Danny Simpson had gathered a group of lads on one of the pitches a couple of miles away from Old Trafford, where the two teams exchanged pre-match verbals and limbered up for battle.
It felt cathartic to play purely for fun in a game where there was no pressure to retain a starting place or satisfy thousands of fans who had paid to watch us play. It took me back to a simpler time when I used to kick a ball around the school playground or the local park. Back then I did it for the sheer enjoyment of playing and to escape to a happy place where I could forget about all my problems at home. When football is your job, and I know I’m lucky to call it that, at times you can lose the fun factor and forget why you fell in love with the game. I know I’m not the only player who feels the same way. In previous years Danny Welbeck, Micah Richards and Nicky Blackman have also joined in our small-sided games. Deep down, we all secretly loved being kids again.
There were no points at stake or fans watching on, except for a few bemused onlookers who had gathered to double check that there were indeed two professional footballers in a cage having a kickabout, but the game was still fiercely contested. Danny has been in the headlines a few times for the wrong reasons over the years and you might think he’s a bit of a playboy, but he is without doubt the most competitive player I know. He’ll happily smash you into the fence or put you over the hoardings, because he desperately wants to win at everything. If you’re dribbling towards him he’ll goad you to put you off your game. ‘Come on then, come on t
hen, run at me!’ he shouted at me on this particular afternoon. ‘It’s five-a-side mate, why do you care so much?’ I laughed.
Although he was never a regular at Manchester United, it’s no surprise to me that he made a few first-team appearances and was accepted inside a dressing room run by Roy Keane because he has the same animalistic drive to win. It’s a trait that’s within all players to a certain extent; we’re testosterone-fuelled beings who never grow out of that childlike hatred of losing. It’s also probably one of the factors that separates those who make it and those who don’t. If you’re not emotionally invested in the outcome of a game then you can never match the intensity of a team-mate who is willing to do anything and everything to avoid the humiliation of failure. Talent will get you so far, but it’ll never be fulfilled without that inner fire.
I know that flame burns inside me and that’s exactly why I was playing five-a-side on that summer’s afternoon. Six weeks after being released by Bury, I was still without a club and knew that I needed to stay fit so that I was ready if another team came calling. I also needed a competitive release after spending over a month kicking my heels. There’s nothing better for your fitness than playing five-a-side and my legs were battered when I got home that afternoon. I started to run a hot bath because I knew they were going to be stiff the following day. Chantelle came into the bathroom and asked me if Lloydy had heard of any interest. I told her I still had no news, but just as the words left my lips, my phone started to ring in my pocket.
‘Hello mate, how are you doing?’ asked the voice on the end of the line. It was Keith Curle. ‘Can you get up here tomorrow? I want to take a look at you.’ I quickly tried to recall where he was managing and thankfully remembered he was at Carlisle United. ‘Can I not come up on Wednesday?’ I replied. I could tell that I was on loudspeaker and the rest of his coaching staff were listening in the background. ‘Do you want to earn a fucking contract or not?’ he laughed. I could’ve done with another 24 hours to make sure my legs were fresh but I had no choice. He told me to meet him at their training ground at 10am the following day. I put the postcode into my phone. Fuck. It was a two-hour drive. I hate driving long distances before playing football because you’re never quite as sharp mentally. I decided I’d get up at 6am, stop off at a service station for a bit of breakfast and get there nice and early to make a good impression. But before that, I jumped in the bath for a hot soak, closed my eyes and prayed that my legs recovered in time.
The following morning my alarm went off and I was relieved to find that my legs were in good working order. After a brief pit stop for some pre-training fuel, I arrived at the car park at 8am, where Keith was stood waiting for me. Before we’d even shaken hands we both burst out laughing. We were wearing the exact same outfit; shorts, trainers and a casual shirt. I was impressed with his physical appearance. He was 50 but still looked like he could pull on a pair of boots and do a job if needed. He was lean and healthy and his calves were the size of shot puts. If I look like him at the same age, I’ll be very happy. On the drive up, I’d remembered watching him as a player. He was a tough left-back for Manchester City, Wolves, Sheffield United and a few other clubs, but there was nothing old school about his management style. He was forward thinking, and, though his will to win was still as strong as ever, he didn’t rant and rave at his players unless he had to. Instead, he preferred to deliver his bollockings in small doses when you least expected it.
As I got changed into my tracksuit, I felt like I was backstage preparing for an audition. It turned out I was one of 12 trialists, so there was no guarantee I was going to win a contract. I eyed up the competition and didn’t recognise any of the faces, which I felt gave me an advantage. I’d played against a lot of the Carlisle lads, so they already knew what I was about, while my old Rochdale team-mate Jason Kennedy played for them, so I instantly had a connection in the dressing room. I was impressed with the facilities; they had two training grounds, while their Brunton Park stadium could hold nearly 18,000 people. It wasn’t a million miles away from Manchester, either, so I could already see myself playing for them. The training was intense but perfectly tailored to the demands of a game. The club had a brilliant fitness coach, Lee Fearn, who communicated very clearly exactly how long each part of the session needed to be and how hard we needed to work. We all had to wear GPS monitors so he could measure the physical output of every individual and tailor training accordingly.
After the first day, Keith came up to me and told me he wanted me to stay there for the rest of the week. I rang Chantelle up and said I wouldn’t be coming home until the weekend, so she’d need to sort out childcare while I was away. She was encouraged by the news and told me to give it my all, even though she would now have to be a single mum for the next few days. These are some of the sacrifices that wives and girlfriends of footballers have to make that people don’t see. We couldn’t afford the luxury of employing a nanny, and would never wish to either, so she had to juggle the running of our home and her business, while worrying whether I’d have a new job at the end of the week.
As each day passed, Keith and his staff crossed another name or two off their shortlist of trialists. I was relieved to be one of four remaining players who made the cut for the Thursday morning session. He’d seen our skills up close and how we’d adapted to his style of training and the Carlisle dressing room. But that still wasn’t enough. His recruitment process was meticulous and he wanted to learn a bit more about our characters. He told us all not to over-exert ourselves in the afternoon because we would need to meet at the training ground at 6am on Friday morning. We were all going on a road trip, but the destination was kept a secret. The lads who had worked under Keith the previous season didn’t even know where we were going. This was going to be no holiday camp, we were heading to a boot camp.
The morning sun had risen from its slumber as a weary squad of players wiped the sleep from their eyes and climbed aboard a white minibus parked up at the training ground. For the next hour we rattled down an endless series of country lanes towards our mystery destination. The further we travelled, the further we appeared to be from civilisation. As I looked out of the window, all I could see for miles was green grass, sheep and a beautiful blue sky. We eventually came to a narrow, winding road, leading to a vast country estate, which looked like something out of a period drama. We’d arrived at Graythwaite Hall, a privately-run family estate perched on the shores of Lake Windermere. It’s the most tranquil of settings, where people can come on holiday and rent out various cottages on the site, but that wasn’t why we were there.
The estate has another identity. It’s also the home of Cassius Camps, a punishing boot camp where professional football and rugby clubs send their players to test their physical and mental mettle during pre-season. As we climbed out of the minibus and stretched our legs, three black Range Rovers parked up on a gravel driveway and a group of burly instructors, dressed head to toe in black like something out of The Matrix, climbed out and marched towards us. They were hardened, weathered men who were perfectly built for their surroundings. The blokes had no interest in exchanging pleasantries and immediately started barking orders at us. ‘Drop your bags and get inside,’ one of them shouted. ‘Who do you think you’re talking to?’ I thought to myself. I was tired and irritable and my instinct was to react but I decided to keep quiet; I didn’t fancy getting into a scuffle with any of them.
We all trudged inside a large dining hall for breakfast, with three long wooden tables for the players and staff. On the walls were stag busts from previous hunts on the estates. I wondered whether any of our heads would end up alongside them if we stepped out of line. Once we sat down, the day’s schedule was explained to us. It quickly became apparent that they were going to try and break us. They didn’t care about our ability with a football or what we’d done in our careers. In fact, some of them didn’t even watch the game. Instead, the focus was on our personalities, mental strength and how we operated within a t
eam. Were we selfish individuals or real team players? Our response to the challenges ahead would inform Keith who he could rely on in the winter months when the games were coming thick and fast or when we were going through a bad patch. I was determined to show him I could be counted on.
Our leader for the day was Phil Ercolano, a former football agent who had created the camp in the belief it would help to create successful players and people by testing their response to adversity in an alien environment. Along with his staff, he’d devised ten outdoor challenges, which are available to clubs and individual players. Each one is built around 12 improvement pillars: mental strength, physical performance, team relationships, leadership, communication, self-belief, self-awareness, motivation, career-life balance, self-discipline, personal brand and values. Over breakfast, every player was asked to give themselves a score out of five for each pillar and would be required to do the same at the end of the camp. Some players tried to impress or maybe massage their own egos by giving themselves full marks in certain categories, while others marked themselves down, perhaps to reduce the level of expectancy on their shoulders. I was confident I would come through it, but I was interested to find out who my team-mates really were and how they’d react to what was to come. The day would tell me a lot about the dressing room I hoped to be a part of.
There was a light fog in the air and dew glistened on the lawns as we were given instructions about our first challenge, which involved a hill run from the camp to our first base. An instructor told each of us to set off at ten-second intervals and ordered us to chase the man in front. If we were all fit enough and worked hard enough, none of us should be caught. But to make things even harder, we also had to memorise the route and were warned that half a team of rugby players had spent several hours lost in the woods the previous summer after failing to listen properly. It was a run fuelled by fear. At regular intervals, I had a quick look over my shoulder to see if the guy behind me was making up ground. The terrain was gruelling. There were no purpose-built paths, just grass, country lanes and hills. It took about 15 minutes for me to reach the base, where I collapsed in a heap on the floor. The run was brutal and had left us all shell-shocked. A couple of hours ago we’d all been in bed, but now we were sweating profusely and fearing what was to come. It turned out the run was little more than a warm-up and there was no time to rest before the start of the next punishing stage.