The Smell of Football

by Mick 'Baz' Rathbone

  What could I offer this beleaguered club? I made a mental promise to myself on that first day: none of my players would dread coming into train, like I used to. Training would be enjoyable. I would always treat players as I would wish to be treated myself. They would be as fit as possible, motivated as possible and, most importantly, they would wake up on the morning of the game and want to play.

  Was that achievable, realistic or naive? I would soon find out.

  We had no designated training ground as such and rotated between two or three of the town’s cabbage patches, depending on the weather. We used to get changed at The Shay – or the ‘Stadium of Shite’ as we called it. It was very run down in those days but the playing surface was immaculate. I would compliment Bill the groundsman on the quality of the pitch and the cheeky sod would always reply, “Well, there’s been a lot of shit on it over the years.” Quite funny, to be fair.

  From now on, though, it would be nothing but the best for my lads. I told Bill we would be training on the pitch at The Shay.

  “OK,” he said. “But it is £40 per hour.” Amazingly, it turned out to be true – £40 per hour to use our own bloody pitch. Unfortunately, as the council now owned the ground, they were entitled to charge us that amount. Fair enough then, but not too much goodwill.

  Nevertheless, we broke the bank and hired the pitch to prepare for the next game – my first game as manager.

  The training was brilliant, exuberant and stimulating – it started with a warm-up, then a small-sided game, shooting and finally a few simple shuttle runs, but at an intensity and with a feeling and determination that showed me these lads would give their all for me. I wasn’t going to weigh them down with tactics (I didn’t know any anyway). We would play with smiles on our faces – well, until the first game anyway.

  The first step on the managerial ladder that would probably end up with me lifting the World Cup would be on a Tuesday night at Huddersfield Town in the Autoglass Trophy (at least I think it was called that – the competition has changed sponsors so many times no one ever knows for sure). They were our nearest club geographically, so it would be another local derby.

  However, they were in the division above us, so it would be a tough baptism. As the fixture was local, I allowed the players to make their own way to the match (I say I allowed them to make their own way to the match, but we had no choice because the club refused to pay for a team bus).

  To say I was nervous would be the understatement of the century. I actually picked the starting XI by drawing numbers out of a bag – only joking – but I did have a unique plan up my sleeve to motivate the players. Cue the ghetto blaster and Tina Turner’s Simply the Best. I put that timeless classic on, full throttle, just before the team went out on to pitch and we roared out the chorus at the top of our voices.

  Wow. What a rush. What emotion. Bring them on. We are invincible.

  We lost 5-0.

  I was absolutely devastated. We actually played OK, but without much luck, as Russ Bradley, our skipper and best defender, was stretchered off in the first minute – and I will swear to my dying day their fifth goal was offside.

  Unless you have been a manager, you will never know the feeling of absolute and total despair every time the ball goes in your net.

  1-0 down – we can still win.

  2-0 down – we can still get a draw.

  3-0 down – we need a consolation goal.

  4-0 down – we are fucked.

  5-0 down – please don’t let it be six.

  Talk about being brought back down to earth with a bump. It was time for changes. Tina Turner had played her last game for Halifax Town.

  I drove home alone, deep in thought and deeply, deeply depressed. Not since those times at Birmingham had I felt this low. Why did this setback make me feel so bad? I had been on the losing side many times before. Beaten 6-0 at Manchester City, my name being booed by the Birmingham City fans, roasted by Leighton James, sent off in 1979, getting four out of ten in the Sunday People – all previous lows.

  Jesus, I had never realised just how many lows I’d had. But this was different, this cut deeper, this was me taking the collective responsibility for the whole team – the whole club. Previously, all the bad times had been personal and individual. This failure was on a different scale. At least when you are a player on the end of a bad result you can console yourself with the fact that you gave your best, tried your hardest and, in that pure physical effort, worked the bad feelings out of your system, thus salving your conscience.

  But not as a manager. I felt impotent, incapable, unable to stop thinking about the loss. I tried to rationalise the performance and result (you might call it making excuses?). We were away from home, against opposition from a higher division, and lost a key player in the first minute.

  Stop kidding yourself.

  I soon realised the reason I felt so utterly bad may have been nothing more than the simple case of my ego being deflated. I had been naive in the extreme to think, even for a second, that I could transform little old Halifax Town by simply allowing the players to enjoy their training. I had to be strong now, stronger than I’d ever had to be before in my life.

  I have assumed the responsibility, I told myself. I cannot shirk it. I am not the same pathetic person I was all those years ago. Think Howard Kendall. What would he have done? He would have rolled up his sleeves, marched back into the club and lifted the gloom. Sadly, though, I am not Howard Kendall; I am Mick Rathbone – with all the associated bad memories and baggage.

  I slept badly that night, tossing and turning, dozing off only to be woken up in a cold sweat by bad dreams – players in blue-and-white shirts (Huddersfield Town) scoring goal after goal against us. Cries of “Rathbone out”. The next day the players were off, so I went into the club alone and got changed with the intention of going for a run. Instead, I just sat in the dugout at The Shay. I was hurting like I hadn’t hurt since the horrors of St Andrew’s all those years ago.

  There was, of course, a very simple solution which was becoming more appealing by the minute – just jack it in. Right now. Phone the chairman and tell him you have changed your mind and it’s just not for you. He will understand; everybody will understand. This is the ultimate no-win situation. The club is in dire straights, hanging by a thread financially and staring at the footballing oblivion that would be relegation from the Football League. Why take on the burden? What chance do you have of turning the situation around anyway? One phone call and it’s over. You could probably even revert to being the physio (when I say revert, that’s not technically true because I was still doing the physiotherapy).

  Go to your office now, pick up the phone, call the chairman and get out. Breathe a huge sigh of relief. Save yourself a world of pressure. Don’t let your legacy be that you were the man who took Halifax Town out of the Football League.

  Or, in other words, bottle it, shit yourself, and chicken out.

  No!

  No!

  No!

  I am not that man now. I have changed. Once is enough. Time to stand up and be counted. The lads need me. At the very least I can ensure they stay united, shielded from the pressure, looking forward to coming in every morning. I will not let them down.

  The decision was made.

  I felt euphoric, invigorated, and reborn. We had mountains to climb. Many difficult times lay ahead. It would be rough. I knew I would be under intense public scrutiny. I would almost certainly be criticised – again publicly. The chances of a good outcome for me and the club were remote.

  But all of a sudden, those things no longer mattered. Sat there in the dugout, all alone in that empty stadium, I had just won my finest ever victory. I had finally conquered all my fears and insecurities. I felt a bit like Carton at the end of Charles Dickens’s A Tale of Two Cities (just prior to him getting his frigging head lopped off). Sacrificing himself for the good of others, his finals words were: “It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done
; it is a far, far better rest that I go to, than I have ever known.”

  I just hoped it would work out a bit better for me than it did for him.

  Chapter Eight

  MY PLACE IN HISTORY

  The die was cast then. I had made my bed. I would see it through to the bitter end – and I feared it would get bitter. Although I lacked any experience, I actually felt I could be the right man for the job. These lads had been battered mentally. In all likelihood, any player who ends up playing at the bottom club must have, by definition, been through some tough times and faced numerous rejections. The players needed somebody to care for them, to protect them from the harsh realities of the situation we were in. Somebody to rally them, lift their spirits, breathe life into them. If we were to go down, then we would go down fighting. We had a few days to prepare for the visit of high-flying Bury. We would be ready.

  Twenty-four games to play with the future of this fine little club in my sweaty hands.

  Match 1

  Halifax Town v Bury

  19/12/92

  My first league game in charge. I am introduced to the crowd. Warm applause. Faint chanting of “Mickey Rathbone’s blue-and-white army”. It is a very small army, but a very determined and loyal one.

  I walk into the dressing room at 2pm. With such a small squad, the team has practically picked itself. Even so, the lads are all sitting around nervously, waiting for me to name the starting line-up.

  “Right. I have selected a team I think can get us a result today . . . and it is AC Milan.” That lovely little joke breaks the tension and the players visibly relax (I am a bloody genius).

  My team talk concentrates on doing ourselves justice, not freezing, trying to enjoy the game as much as possible (some hope). I don’t want to be putting too much pressure on the lads by hammering on about the importance of the game or the position we are in. Christ, as if we don’t know already.

  The game is a blur – stand up, sit down, out of the dugout, back in the dugout, kick every ball, question every decision. The lads huff and puff – and lose. Bury’s goal comes from a throw-in that almost certainly should be ours. Everybody can see it. We are robbed.

  I barge into the referee’s room after the game.

  “That should have been our throw-in. That should have been our fucking throw-in.”

  “Maybe,” the referee says candidly. “I didn’t get a good view.”

  “Didn’t get a good view? Didn’t get a fucking good view? That cost us the fucking game!”

  “Sorry, but that’s football.”

  When I calm down, I realise I have learned two important lessons. Number one: Blaming the referee for your team’s and your own shortcomings is pathetic, pointless (just like us) and unworthy of your status as manager and leader. Number two: Football matches are often decided on such marginal decisions. Of course, when I say I have learned those things, I already knew them; it’s just they have really hit home today.

  Count to ten, go see the lads, tell them well done, comfort them and pick them up. No matter how bad I feel personally, this is my job. You promised to see it through – don’t weaken now after only one league game.

  Next, the two worst jobs after defeat, neither of which I have really thought about. First, the press conference – talk the lads up, we will fight on, lots of positive points (Winston Churchill would have been proud). Then, report to the boardroom to be debriefed by Jim Brown and the directors, who remind me we need to be winning home games. That comes as a surprise; I thought we needed to fucking well lose them. But to be fair, I shouldn’t have a go at them; they are good guys who love the club and are just worried and frustrated.

  I tidy up, put the medical equipment away, and lock up. I’m pleased to see my car has not been vandalised. Name still there – in chalk.

  Match 2

  Halifax Town v Doncaster Rovers

  26/12/92

  This game really spoils my Christmas.

  It is cold and the pitch is quite hard. I have to be the physio as well as the manager (my friend Stewart Walker performed the duty at Huddersfield but he can’t do it today). We enter uncharted territory – we are leading 2-0. There are only two minutes to go. Two lousy, fucking, poxy minutes.

  I run on to tend to an injured player and the referee whispers into my ear, “Two minutes to go, Baz. It looks like your very first win as manager.”

  Magic words. My first win as a manager – savour it.

  By the time I return to the dugout, it is 2-2. Unbelievable. The final whistle goes, the crowd boo. I am shell-shocked.

  Nobody speaks in the dressing room. I feel like my very innards have been sucked out. I want to curl up in a little ball and cry. Cry like a baby.

  No, come on, take it on the chin. It was never going to be easy. Lift the lads, throw an arm around them, it’s a good point earned, we are off the mark, one point nearer to survival and all that. Of course, nobody is buying that bullshit. It is an absolute disaster to drop two vital points in such a manner.

  Off to the press – bring out Winston Churchill again. Back to the boardroom where I am reminded we can’t afford to give goals away in such a manner. Really? Why not?

  Match 3

  York City v Halifax Town

  29/12/92

  Yes. Yes. One of the great nights.

  The pitch is frozen. John Ward, manager of in-form York, is gracious enough to seek our opinion on the state of the pitch and if we are happy to play the game on such a surface.

  We are really short of players tonight.

  “No, it’s fine, we play on,” I say. No excuses.

  We play really well. The lads slide-tackle for the cause on the frozen tundra. One hundred per cent effort and grit. York are outplayed, we deserve to win and even hit the post late on. The final score is 1-1. We are clapped off by the fans and praised by John Ward.

  A great performance, a great night, restoring pride in the badge. Everybody is happy. I sprint up the terraces to speak to Pete Barrow, a reporter from the Halifax Courier. I give Winston Churchill the night off.

  Match 4

  Darlington v Halifax Town

  9/1/93

  This job is easy and I am definitely born to do it. We win 3-0. My new signing Dave Ridings (from non-league football, for the grand fee of nothing) scores two. My new assistant (sounds great, doesn’t it?) Alan Kamara, who has just retired from playing, is brilliant. A strong, silent type who is popular with the lads, he helps get the tactics just right – kick the ball into their goal and stop them kicking it into ours.

  There are wild scenes of celebration in the dressing room after the game. The lads are excitingly discussing goal celebrations for the next time we score and one of them asks, “Baz, what celebration should we do next time we score?”

  “Well,” I say, “What’s wrong with the one that we have been doing all season? Wrestle the ball off the keeper and sprint like fuck back to the halfway line!”

  I light up a big cigar.

  “You are all off Monday.” Loud cheer.

  “Fuck it, and Tuesday.” Even louder cheer.

  “Don’t come in Wednesday either!” A cacophony of noise.

  The chairman comes in, grabs me, drags me outside and says, “Don’t get so bloody carried away over one win.”

  It is a bit late for that.

  Match 5

  Halifax Town v Northampton Town

  16/1/93

  This team cannot be beaten. We are 2-0 down with less than 20 minutes remaining and Dave Ridings does it again. He scores two goals to salvage a draw. These lads no longer know the meaning of the word defeat. Is this how Bill Shankly started?

  Match 6

  Scarborough v Halifax Town

  23/1/93

  We are on a run. A very un-Halifax Town-like run of four games unbeaten. We stop at a roadside café on the way to Scarborough for a cuppa and a bacon butty – our nutritionist can’t make it today. Steven Hook, better known as ‘Hooky’, is playing the fruit ma
chine. (Hooky is Halifax Town’s striker, our Johnny Haynes – Johnny was the first £100 a week player and Hooky was probably the last. He was born in the medieval town of Todmorden where public hangings used to take place – and possibly still do. I would pick him up every morning and we became close friends.) He wins the jackpot, but it is paid in tokens only, so we have to hang on a while so he can gradually reinvest his tokens into the machine (the smaller wins are paid in cash).

  I feel good sitting at the front of the bus. At the head of my team – my unbeaten, and now unbeatable, team. I wonder if we can get to the end of the season without losing another game.

  We lose 2-0.

  We actually play quite well and deserve more. I am still doing a good job. The players are doing a great job.

  Match 7

  Halifax Town v Cardiff

  26/1/93

  Another outrageous conspiracy by the officials to halt my rise to the top.

  Cardiff win 1-0. What is wrong with the goal? Well, it’s offside, the ball goes out of play, it’s well past the time for the final whistle, and there is an element of handball. That’s all. Take your pick.

  Into the referee’s room. Shouting and arguing. Hating myself. Knowing it’s too late. Not behaving like a man. If you can’t stand the heat, stay out of the referee’s room.

  By the way, I should mention they completely outplayed us and should have won by three or four. Never mind, Cardiff are one of the top sides; no disgrace there.

  I go back to the dressing room to lift the troops. Who’s going to lift me? I am starting to find the going a little bit tough.

  Match 8

  Scunthorpe United v Halifax Town

  30/1/93

  Ouch. What’s that hissing noise? The sound of an ego being deflated.

  We are beaten 4-1. Well beaten. We never get going and are three down after 30 minutes. The fans are starting to have a go. Somebody shouts, “Resign Rathbone.” Or is it “Re-sign Rathbone?” Probably the former.