The Smell of Football

by Mick 'Baz' Rathbone

  I concentrated on looking after the full-time Youth Training Scheme (YTS) lads who had just joined the club’s new programme that I was proud to say I instigated. Looking after that group of young players was one of the most satisfying jobs I have ever done in football, for all the obvious reasons such as being involved in their football development, working outdoors on the grass, gaining their confidence and trust. But, as ever in the thread of my life, there was a deeper reason – creating an environment for players to enjoy their football free of the criticisms and pressures that I was subjected to. I felt like I was their guardian angel, the man who would ensure they loved coming into work every day.

  Of course, I was having to combine that work with all my other roles at the club. I was still the first-team coach, assistant manager, reserve-team player-coach and physiotherapist.

  John Bird took over as manager. Again, I liked him very much. He, like Wraggy before him, did his level best to turn the club around but, like the rest of us, failed. The club was in a desperate financial plight again. ‘Birdy’ and I were often asked not to cash our pay cheques until after the next home game.

  It was bloody tough, but I was creeping ever closer to finishing my degree. Only 12 months to go. Once I got that qualification and became a fully qualified chartered physiotherapist, I knew I would be successful. Just keep going. Keep going. Keep banging out the hours.

  Towards the end of my third season, with the club again struggling to survive, a new chairman, John Stockwell, came in. The club looked like they were going to have to become semi-professional. They certainly could no longer afford to pay both Birdy and myself, so I was made redundant or, probably more accurately, sacked, in April 1995. It’s all a matter of semantics at the end of the day.

  So ended a tumultuous three seasons at Halifax Town. Sometimes, even today, I sit down and think, “What the fuck was all that about? How did all that happen? How did so much happen to me in such a short space of time?”

  But right at that moment in time, I was faced with the question so many people working in football have to answer: what now?

  If I was to graduate on time in June 1995 then I would have to fit another eight-week work placement in during April and May. Fortunately, by making me redundant, Halifax had done me a massive favour because I now had just enough time and opportunity to finish all those laborious hospital placements before sitting my final exams at the start of June.

  So, to the Halifax board who decided they no longer wanted me, even though I had worked so hard and done so many different jobs on such a poor wage, don’t feel too bad (I am sure they never did anyway); you did me a big favour.

  And John Bird? He bucked the Halifax trend and lasted more than two years.

  I left Halifax with a treasure chest of precious memories: the lads and the camaraderie; those first few months when I was just the physio and developing my own personal style in that role; being the boss, setting the tone, stamping my own personality and set of standards on the club while taking the pressure off the lads; resurrecting the youth policy; taking training every day and winning all the cross-countries; providing an environment not ruled by fear, an environment I would have thrived in as a player, an environment to encourage, reassure and give confidence to the players.

  There were so many special people at that club, from Godfrey Obebo (a loose cannon, capable of flashes of inspiration followed by flashes of desperation) and old Cyril, the lovely tea man who, despite playing his part in building the Bridge on the River Kwai, could never manage to brew up without breaking a couple of cups, to Ossie who looked after the stadium and Bill the groundsman – all terrific people who worked so hard for the club.

  But what was my best memory? Easy. My 30-yard goal. During Birdy’s reign, I used to join in training. I was 36 at the time, but I was still superbly fit and turning out for the reserves so he persuaded me to play in the first team.

  I made my debut at Gateshead on Boxing Day 1994, and we won 2-1. Ironically, it was the first time since I was 16 that I’d played in midfield. I enjoyed it so much, and more than all those games I played at full back. I could just run and run, and tackle and tackle, and get involved in the game all over the pitch – not like at full back, where you waited nervously for the game to come to you, frightened of making a mistake in the defensive third of the pitch. Much as I had enjoyed tearing down the wing as a full back, especially for Blackburn, there was always the fear of messing up at the other end – and if you made an error, that often meant a goal. I played four or five games (just before I was made redundant) and was even awarded Vauxhall Conference player of the month – fame at last!

  My finest moment came in our 4-0 drubbing of Dover Athletic at The Shay in my home debut. Obviously the fans, up until this point, had only known me as the physio who became manager and then took the team out of the Football League. But there I was in front of them in playing kit. It took all my courage to put myself in such a vulnerable position, and even Birdy shook his head in admiration and said, “Fucking hell, Baz, you have got some fucking balls to pull on a shirt at The Shay.”

  If you want hard evidence of just how far I had come as a person, just contemplate those words.

  I played a blinder and scored a sensational 30-yarder. I turned and ran the full length of the pitch towards the far corner where the Halifax faithful were congregated. I stood in front of them with my arms raised above my head. Their wild applause was, I felt, for the great goal I had just scored of course, but also an appreciation of my previous efforts and commitment to what had ultimately, for me, been an impossible task. I think and hope, in that performance, goal and shared celebration, they accepted me as a true Shayman – somebody who genuinely had tried his best for the good of the football club.

  Every player on the pitch ran to me and dropped to their knees as one, to give an impromptu ‘hailing’ of the goalscorer. It was one of the greatest moments of my life. People in Halifax (I am told) still hold me in the highest regard and talk about that goal and the subsequent wild celebrations to this day.

  It wasn’t all good, though. Some of the experiences I suffered at Halifax Town were among the most painful of my football career – quite literally when it came to injuries.

  The injury that pissed me off more than any other was a broken right fibula in 1994 after I’d come out of retirement to play in a pre-season friendly against Tadcaster Town. It was so unnecessary. This fucking arsehole deliberately did a two-footed tackle on me about three weeks after the bloody ball had gone. I tried to carry on but was in terrible pain. The leg swelled like crazy and I could actually feel the ends of the bone grating. However, in a tribute to my namesake and erstwhile alter ego, Rambo Rathbone, I determined just to soldier on and keep working.

  Obviously, I had a good knowledge of sports injuries so I knew it would heal up OK with time. More to the point, as I was doing so many different jobs at the club I was in no position to take any time off anyway. I managed to get by, though, and in fact I never even missed a single day. It’s amazing what you can achieve if you really have to.

  Even so, that injury was an absolute nightmare because I still had to do my physio duties and run onto the pitch when a player got injured, so I had to dose myself up with strong painkillers before every match. I really resent what that twat did to me. He caused me so much pain and suffering, and all for a bloody lousy pre-season friendly.

  The day I suffered a nasty concussion also sticks in my mind (no pun intended). We were playing at Altrincham and I clashed heads with one of their players and was knocked out. A situation of pure farce then unfolded as the referee, seeing my plight, frantically started to blow his whistle to summon the Halifax physio onto the field of play.

  Nobody came.

  Eventually the concerned and exasperated referee turned to one of our players and demanded to know where the physio was.

  “That’s him on the floor”.

  Eventually, I was taken to hospital by ambulance. I started to
regain my faculties in the hospital and, as I came round, could hear a conversation going on outside my cubicle. It was one of the club directors who was questioning the doctor. “How bad is it, doc? We really need him.”

  “Well, he was out cold for a few seconds, so I am afraid to say he must not play football for the next two weeks.”

  “Oh no, we ain’t worried about that. He was playing shit anyway. Will he be fit enough to drive the minibus back to The Shay in about half an hour?”

  Sadly, I was not able to drive the minibus back to The Shay and, to this day, I still feel sorry about letting the lads down so badly.

  Injuries aside, relegation and the heartbreak it brought to the fans was naturally my most painful experience at the club. The lack of almost any facilities made training a daily challenge, but not half as challenging as releasing the young players, reliving that same scenario I had witnessed all those years ago at Birmingham. But this time it was me breaking the hearts and shattering the dreams of others. A different time, a different era, a different level, a different generation – but the tears were still the same.

  Such was the strain on finances during my final 12 months that the team bus would not move from the club car park until the driver had been paid – and no, he would not accept a cheque. Cash only. We had to do a few whip-rounds. We had no training balls, so we used to telephone Mitre, who were based in nearby Huddersfield, and they would kindly provide us with a couple of bags of their prototype footballs – all colours, shapes and sizes. Some were heavy, some light and some not particularly round, while some would just explode if you kicked them too hard.

  Once we stopped at a motorway service station en route to a game for a pre-match meal. We had to sit in pairs so we could share our beans on toast with another player. That is the definition of skint.

  Another time I was driving my club car back from one of the local cabbage patches where we had been training when I was stopped by the police. They had noticed neither I nor my passenger in the back, one of the YTS lads, were wearing a seatbelt. The copper, spotting our training kit, decided to take pity on us.

  “OK,” he said. “I will let you off, you have suffered enough, ha ha.”

  I had to take my documents to the police station, though, so I went to the club’s offices to get my insurance details. The club secretary, somewhat embarrassed, informed me that as money had been so tight they hadn’t been able to afford to insure my car. So, two weeks later I was up in court on the charge of driving with no insurance (luckily the club took responsibility and I was exonerated).

  Similarly, after I left the club, I enquired about signing on the dole for the duration of my final hospital placement as I had no way of getting any income. I presented myself at the DSS office in Blackburn.

  “Sorry Mr Rathbone, but your previous employer, Halifax Town, have not paid full National Insurance contributions for you for the last couple of years and, as a result of that, you are not entitled to unemployment benefit.”

  I had to laugh; they had been taking it out of my wages and keeping it. I bore no grudges, though; they were always great to me and I still hold the club, board and fans in the highest esteem.

  Halifax Town always had a special place in my heart and I followed their progress closely over the ensuing years. They actually regained their league status several years later, but soon lost it again, before finally going bankrupt a few years ago. But now, like a phoenix from the flames, the club have reformed as FC Halifax and are on the up again.

  During my whole time at the club, and notwithstanding all the failures we endured, there was only really one unsavoury incident, and that came near the end of my final season. We had lost 5-1 at Kettering, a truly shocking result and performance, and the Shaymen were understandably having a right go at the players and manager as we trooped off.

  “Bird shit, Bird shit, Bird shit,” they chanted at Birdy. I was walking off behind Birdy with my physio bag in my hand and, even though I liked him, I had to stifle a smile at the nature of the invective hurled in his direction.

  It was a shame he was getting so horribly abused but, at the end of the day, that’s life as a football manager. Rather him than me. I had done my stint as manager. It was the club’s decision to relieve me of those duties.

  But then, just as I was walking up the tunnel, somebody from up above screamed, “Sort it out, Rathbone, you fucking wanker!”

  What a shock. If you don’t know what it’s like in those circumstances, take it from me – you have to look up. I raised my eyes in the direction of those foul expletives and there he was, his face all twisted with hatred and with a little strand of spittle hanging off his lower lip, one of the bloody directors. I assumed that was not a traditional vote of confidence.

  What an experience I had at Halifax Town. In fact, what a lifetime of experiences. Even years later, when I sat on the Everton team bus as we made our way to the north-east (we flew everywhere else – I told you I would get to the top) and passed the town of Halifax – just off junction 23, take the M62 down the hill through Elland – every time I saw The Shay’s floodlights, all the memories would come flooding back and I would often have to wipe a little tear from my eye.

  But it was time to move on. The dream of being a manager had been strangled at birth and I had once again reverted to the belief that my true calling was to be a physiotherapist. I don’t think I ever actually got beyond the caretaker manager stage. I did go to see the chairman about it once and asked him to remove that temporary prefix and officially define my role as permanent. “OK,” he said with complete sangfroid, “from now on you are the caretaker.” To be fair, that was a fucking great joke and we both laughed.

  Having said that, though, I firmly believe, with a bit more luck and a few more players, things could have been so different. When people find out that I, of all people, was once the manager of a Football League club, the reaction is usually laughter followed by incredulity.

  “Baz the manager, you must be joking.”

  However, when I had been the physio at Preston North End for about six years, we signed a player called Chris Lucketti. This was the same Chris Lucketti who had been my skipper at Halifax Town during that fateful season.

  When the players found out he had played under me, and seemingly lived to tell the tale, the first question everybody asked, with a large dose of incredulity, was: “What was Baz like as a manager?”

  This is what Chris said: “It was without doubt the best five months I ever had as a player. There was a great buzz about the place, training was brilliant and, most importantly, you looked forward to playing.”

  Thanks Chris for those kind words. On that note, my conscience is clear and I am proud of my role as manager of the Shaymen.

  PART THREE

  PHYSIO

  (1995-2010)

  Chapter Eleven

  THE ROAD TO GLORY

  There was no time to sit and reflect after saying goodbye to Halifax Town. It was straight back into the hospital environment, 9am until 5pm, for the eight weeks of my final placement. Long days, no wages, revising at night for my finals in June. Not much fun.

  The Ford Sierra company car had gone back – it wasn’t insured anyway. We had to make do with the old Nissan Micra we had bought a few years earlier and were dipping into our meagre savings. It was the spring of 1995 and Blackburn Rovers had just won the Premier League. Great for the club and great for the town but, if I am being totally honest, it left me feeling both envious and totally distanced from the football world I adored. Critics may say the title was bought with Jack Walker’s money and they may be correct, but others have tried and failed whilst spending more money. Either way, it was still an incredible achievement for a small provincial town with a population of roughly 100,000.

  But there was no point in me worrying or getting frustrated about my situation; I just had to get through the next few months, grind it out, get the qualifications, and then all would be fine. I was confident that once I
got those revered letters after my name I would soon get a job, and I was very confident my highly individualistic style of physiotherapy would become popular and eventually make me successful.

  Then a phone call changed my story. Once again – and this is a common thread that has run through my story – something out of the blue occurred and propelled me in a new and exciting direction.

  I was working in the outpatients department of Blackburn Infirmary and had just put an ankle strapping on an old bloke with the most rancid feet I had ever seen (or smelt). I remember feeling particularly low that day, feeling so far away from the environment I loved and yearned for when that life-changing call came. I was surprised anybody would call me at the hospital. In fact, I was surprised anybody even knew I was at the hospital.

  It was Gary Peters, the manager of Preston North End. He offered me the job of physiotherapist at the club on £20,000 per annum, starting on July 1 on a three-month trial basis.

  Since I had left Preston, they had dropped back into the bottom division but, excitingly, they had just been purchased by Baxi Heating, a large local company which had vowed to rebuild the famous old stadium, buy some better players and try to take the great club back up to the higher reaches of the Football League where it deserved to be.

  “Yes, yes please,” I said. “Yes please, thank you so very, very much.”

  If I sounded desperate, then that’s because I was. This was a great opportunity for me. I had just put my foot on the bottom rung of the ladder, but this was a proper ladder – this ladder went right to the top.

  Suddenly, the last few weeks of the placement sailed by effortlessly. The final exams were easy and, hey presto, after four years of solid work and commitment, I was finally a fully qualified chartered physiotherapist. It was somewhat ironic now, at nearly 37 years of age, that I had finally got the medical qualifications my dad and the headmaster had urged me to get all those years ago. So, I walked back into Deepdale on July 1, 1995, barely four years since I had left. The world was only days away from reeling from the horrific massacre in Srebrenica and a bloke in Seattle released something called Windows 95 with MSN and Internet Explorer (it will never catch on). You could now flog anything you wanted on something called eBay, and Oasis, Pulp and Blur were locked in their own little war for chart domination. And me? Still bald, but now with grey sideburns.