The Smell of Football

by Mick 'Baz' Rathbone

  Bolton, at the time under my old team-mate Sam Allardyce, had possibly the biggest and most comprehensive sports science and sports medicine department in the country – maybe even in Europe. On Colin’s first day at Preston, after David and I had greeted him and welcomed him to his new club, he was curious to find out the support staff situation and had a list of questions.

  “Who is your fitness coach?”

  “It’s Baz. He’s still very fit, so he combines that with his physio job.”

  “OK, that makes sense. Who is your chiropractor?”

  “Well, if you have a problem with your back or neck, Baz will sort it out in the afternoon.”

  “OK, fair enough. What day is the chiropodist in?”

  “Baz is in every day.”

  “Masseur?”

  “Baz will give you a rub.”

  “Nutritionist?”

  “Baz will give you a diet sheet.”

  “Podiatrist?”

  “Baz.”

  “Strength coach?”

  “You know the answer to that one.”

  We had a good laugh and it makes a good story but, as I said before, I preferred it that way. It made me feel wanted and needed and indispensable. I put in so many hours at Preston during those seven years I couldn’t help but learn almost everything there is to know about sports injuries and experience virtually every type of on-field emergency, including potentially catastrophic spinal injuries, severe cuts, concussions and serious orthopaedic trauma.

  Of all the serious injuries I have attended on the pitch, one in particular will always stick in my mind. It was a very badly broken leg and it happened at Deepdale to one of our players called Steve Basham. It was one of those injuries that occurs every three or four years when everybody has to look away and is so horrific that the TV channels won’t even show a replay of it.

  I ran on to the pitch. Steve was lying on his back staring up at the sky with a look of agony and fear in his eyes. Some of our players were actually holding his shoulders down so he couldn’t see the state of his leg. Obviously Steve knew he had a bad injury, but he could have had no idea just how shocking it was.

  How the fuck was I going to get him on a stretcher with that injury in front of all those people without him screaming the place down?

  Cue a slice of luck. One of our players, Rob Edwards, came running over at high speed and yelled at the referee, “Not even a fucking yellow card, ref, not even a fucking yellow. Look at his fucking leg, it’s hanging on by a fucking thread!”

  At which point, Steve conveniently fainted, making his evacuation from the field of play nice and simple. Thanks Rob.

  And thanks Preston for seven magical years.

  Chapter Twelve

  DESTINY CALLS

  David Moyes was destined to go to the very top, just as he had predicted on that exhausting training day in 1995 before pre-season started. What is so special about him? A very good coach? Yes. A great motivator? Yes. A master tactician, skilled in the art of preparing his team? Yes.

  But it is much, much more than that. There is an intensity, desire and passion about the guy that makes the Reverend Ian Paisley, Sir Alex Ferguson and ‘Braveheart’ himself, William Wallace, seem meek and mild by comparison. In a nutshell, David does not ‘do’ failure. This fierce, indefatigable thirst for success is tempered by a genuine modesty and humility that probably only a handful of us have ever seen. David is a very nice man.

  As soon as Walter Smith lost his job as manager of Everton in March 2002, in a flash of almost indecent haste David was gone. I knew he’d had plenty of good offers in the past that he felt just weren’t quite right, but not this one – he was off. He left the clubs to sort out the compensation issues between themselves and that was that. He called me into his office and told me he was leaving – NOW. He also said he wanted me to come with him to Everton, and that as soon as he got settled in he would contact me.

  I rather hoped he wouldn’t, if I am being truthful. I didn’t really want to go anywhere else. I was so happy at Preston. In fact, I doubt if anybody, anywhere, in any role in the history of football, had ever been so happy. Well-paid, appreciated, autonomous, a great relationship with the players, fans, board, office staff and ground staff – whatever definition of happiness you care to use, I personified it. I hoped that David would get to Everton and forget about me. I intended to stay at Preston for as long as they would have me.

  Funnily enough, that intention to stay has been a recurring theme at nearly every club I have worked for and is a true indicator of the vagaries of professional football and the transitory nature of one’s involvement at any given club. For long periods I never thought I would leave Birmingham (except for Dyno Rod), Blackburn, Preston or Halifax, but I did, so I could never say never. But this was different; this was perfect.

  David kept Everton up with something to spare in 2002. Preston, meanwhile, just missed out on the play-offs and, in May, the board appointed the highly respected, former Scotland boss Craig Brown to the position of manager.

  Craig is a great fellow, the antithesis of David in terms of approach to the job. David is intense, full-on, squeezing the last drop out of everyone; Craig is calm, relaxed, unflappable. David finds it very hard to delegate, while Craig is the master of it.

  I will give you an example of their completely different approaches. Let’s say, for example, that one of the players had come to see me early on a Monday morning complaining of a tight hamstring. I would report this information to David and suggest, in my opinion, that this player should refrain from training for a couple of days, have some light sessions with me and join in with the rest of the squad on Thursday, to be available for Saturday’s game.

  David’s response to this information would typically be: “Tight bloody hamstring? Did he report it yesterday? He can’t afford not to train. He just wants a rest. Make sure you work him hard in the gym and get him in the bloody swimming pool. Tight hamstring! That’s buggered the whole session up.”

  Same problem to Craig: “Thank you for that information, Baz. I will leave him in your eminently capable care and look forward to him rejoining the squad on Thursday.”

  Can you spot the difference?

  But that’s David, and that’s one of his greatest strengths – never letting go, never giving an inch. Destined for greatness. I liked working for David. The man is a winner and I wanted to be a winner too.

  However, working for such a great guy as Craig certainly didn’t lack appeal. The close season of 2002 was set to be the longest break I could remember, due to the World Cup in Korea and Japan. Even though it was a long summer break for the players, I took just seven days off. During the close season, only the physio and the injured players are at the club, it is a very relaxing and enjoyable environment. This is the ‘no pressure’ time of getting players fit.

  If I am being totally honest, despite not wanting to leave Preston, I was a little bit disappointed that David did not make any contact with me in his first two months at Everton. I assumed he must have been happy with the medical set-up that was already in place. In truth, my ego took a bit of a knock. I would at least have liked the opportunity to make the grand gesture of turning the job down and having the chance to martyr myself on the cross of club loyalty. We all want to be wanted.

  So, I remained at Deepdale with Craig Brown preparing for the start of the new season. Everything was going really well as usual and we were all looking forward to the campaign ahead. Then the phone rang. Just a phone call but a potentially life-changing one.

  “Baz, it’s David. I want you to come to Everton as head of the medical department. Will you consider it?”

  I told him I would think about it for a couple of weeks, but it was important he formally approached the club and everything was done in the correct way. He told me he would do it immediately.

  How did I feel? Excited, nervous – as ever. Wanted.

  David phoned me back soon after and told me there was a po
tential problem because the chairman of Preston, Derek Shaw (nobody loved that club more than Derek), was being awkward and would not release me from my contract unless Everton paid the one year’s notice (£42,000) in full.

  So, that was it then. I was worth more as a physio than I ever had been as a player. I was either a fantastic physio or a shit player. I prefer to believe the former.

  To be fair to Derek, Preston were well within their rights to demand compensation. I had enjoyed, for seven years, the security of a 12-month rollover contract whereby if the club had wanted to get rid of me, they would have been obliged to give me one year’s wages. The flipside, though, was that if I wanted to move on, then they could ask for the same year’s wages as a kind of transfer fee.

  David wasn’t too impressed. He felt that as I had worked virtually every day for the last seven years for Preston they should allow me to ‘better myself’ without all this nonsense – and it wasn’t as if they’d had to buy me in the first place. David also had a point. It was a difficult situation for everybody.

  David advised me that I was well within my rights, morally, simply to walk out and join him at Everton, and there was some justification in that. But I wasn’t prepared to breach my contract, even if there was a strong moral argument for doing so. Preston had been absolutely brilliant to me. True, if I did walk out then they wouldn’t really be able to do anything, but how would the chief executive of Everton feel, when I was over there putting pen to paper, knowing I had just walked out on my last contract?

  I told David I would consider coming but only after the two clubs had reached an amicable agreement regarding the terms of my departure. He wasn’t happy and assured me there was no way Everton were going to pay a single penny for me.

  “OK, David, good luck for the season.” I didn’t have to call him boss any more.

  That worked out well, then. Hopefully, Preston would dig their heels in, Everton wouldn’t budge either and I could revel in the role of the poor, innocent victim of club politics and neatly escape having to make a big decision about my future.

  Worryingly, though, the two clubs did finally agree some kind of compromise and all of a sudden I was free to talk to Everton. But did I want to talk to them? I loved working for Preston so much. It was only seven miles from my house, I had lots of very good friends there, I had played for the club which gave me a special affinity and, to be honest, I was a bit worried the ‘big hitters’ at Everton wouldn’t really buy into my particular style of physiotherapy – all the running and hard physical training. The whole thing daunted me.

  Derek Shaw and I were good friends and I had known him from my playing days. He tried everything to get me to stay at the club. It was very flattering. All the players wanted me to stay and my best pal Brian Hickson, the kit man who had spent almost every day of the last seven years with me, was pretty upset about the prospect too. It was all quite upsetting really (let’s be honest, though, I was loving the attention).

  And still the phone calls came.

  Eventually, in early August, I went to David’s house to talk. I had never been there before. I had a brainwave. Because I didn’t really want to go but, similarly, didn’t want to turn down such a great offer, I would ask for so much money that Everton would tell me to get lost. That would be the perfect solution and neatly save me from making a possibly life-altering decision.

  For the first time in my life, I decided to ask for what I thought I was worth (well, slightly more actually). I could afford to be confident and bold. I had walked out of Willie Bell’s office in the mid-’70s on a derisory wage. Every year at Blackburn, I walked out of Sacko’s office with a pitiful pay rise, despite playing my heart out every week. I managed, coached, played and physioed at Halifax for a pittance. Now, though, it was different because for the first time in my life I held all the cards. They had approached me; I was totally happy and content at Preston.

  I had my speech rehearsed. (I had also had my speech rehearsed in the ’70s, ’80s and ’90s, but never had the guts to deliver it.)

  “Right, David, you approached me. You know I am settled and happy at Preston. You, and all the players at Everton, are earning a fortune. You know if I come I will do a good job, work every day and inject some life into the department, but I don’t come cheaply any more. Those days have gone.”

  Deep breath. Go on just blurt it out. It’s now or never.

  “I want double what I am getting at Preston.” Christ, I can’t believe I actually said it.

  “OK,” he said, without hesitation. That nearly disturbed my flow, let me tell you.

  “And a good quality company car.”

  “OK, you will get a Jag.”

  “And a win bonus.”

  “OK.”

  I was starting to lose my thread.

  “And the same 12-month rollover contract.”

  “OK.”

  Jesus, that was so easy. I should have asked for more. I told him I would let him know in the next 48 hours.

  As I tried to make a decision, I asked my wife’s opinion – she is always right. She just shrugged and said, “Whatever makes you happy. But you will be in the Premier League one day – you belong in the Premier League.” (She is my No. 1 fan.)

  I didn’t sleep that night. As I saw it, I could either be rich and probably unhappy, or not rich but definitely happy. All night I turned it over in my mind – it’s too far, I love Preston, money isn’t everything, happiness is the most important thing. Why risk your happiness and professional contentment for a few bob extra? Eventually, I realised my happiness had to come first.

  So, decision made. I would be staying at Preston. Phew, what a relief. I told Derek Shaw the next day that I had made up my mind to stay and he seemed genuinely pleased, as did Brian and all the lads. That vindicated my decision. Definitely the right decision, no doubts, 100 per cent. It could have, and would have, been a disastrous move. A real close shave, but no harm done, disaster averted. What was it the Queen said in Hamlet? “The lady doth protest too much, methinks.”

  The night after I’d made my decision, my wife and I went to a dinner party at her sister’s house. A chance meeting changed everything. Call it fate if you want. As we only go out about once a year, it made what happened next even more remarkable.

  There were two other couples at the dinner party who I didn’t really know that well, but they were keen on football and I was busily informing them of the job offer, my decision to remain at Preston and the reasons for it. Once again, I went over the points I’d been tossing around in my mind – I told them all about the travelling situation, how Preston was so handy, how I felt a special bond with the club because I had played for them. I explained that I didn’t really think my style of physio would be well received at Everton and reiterated how happy I was at Preston. Everybody was nodding in agreement, seemingly in total support of my decision. I knew it had been the right thing to do.

  But then, out of the blue, the husband of one of the couples, said, “Right, let’s get this straight, you are being offered twice the money to work at the highest level in professional football, but you’re not going because you love it at Preston, it’s too far to travel, you might not get on with the Premier League players and you never played for them? Right, fair enough, but at least be honest with yourself and admit the real reason why you are not going is you don’t have the bottle.”

  Cheeky twat! Who the fuck was he to lecture me? What did he fucking well know?

  But do you know what? He was 100 per cent right. It just needed somebody to say it. I got up, went outside with my mobile phone and called Derek Shaw. It was very late. I told him I was very, very sorry but I would be joining Everton on September 2.

  That guy was called Tim. Thanks Tim – you changed my life.

  Chapter Thirteen

  BACK TO THE TOP

  That was that then. The Preston North End experience was over. My last game as physio of that great club was on September 1, 2002. Ipswich Town at
Deepdale, televised live on a sunny Sunday afternoon.

  There had been some reports in the local paper saying that I was leaving and the chairman had said some nice things about me. I think Derek knew I would leave eventually – everybody wants to work at the top, to test themselves at the highest level. To his credit, on the phone he had sort of sighed and said, “OK Baz, I understand.”

  I received numerous letters from fans thanking me for my contribution and wishing me good luck. Brian Hickson sent me a card – it was so unlike him it must have been sincere. He wrote on it: “Good luck, congratulations, I will miss you. NOBODY, NOBODY deserves this more than you.”

  Needless to say, it was all very emotional. When you spend the amount of time together Brian and I did over seven years, you can’t help but become very, very close. We used to jokingly say after the first pre-season game, “One down, 99 to go.” We reckoned that with pre-season friendlies, cup games, league games and reserve games we would come very close to the 100-match total.

  The players had a whip-round and bought me a beautiful watch which Colin Murdock, the club captain, presented to me on my last day. It’s one of my favourite possessions. It means so much to me. Thanks lads.

  Monday, September 2 was to be my starting date at Everton, but I went into Deepdale first thing that morning to check if there had been any injuries from the Ipswich game that weren’t apparent at the time. Everybody was OK, though, so that was it then, time to go, time to leave.

  But first, maybe just enough time to squeeze in one more coffee with Brian. That was it then, time to go. No, just time for a quick walk around the ground to say a final goodbye to the groundstaff. That was it then, all done, off I go. Hang on, forgot to say goodbye to the girls in the office – Janet, Maureen and Margaret. Hugs all round. A few tears. That was it then, all done, time to go. No, hold on, just pop into the gym under the stand to say goodbye to their staff. All done then, or maybe one last coffee with Brian for old time’s sake.