The Smell of Football

by Mick 'Baz' Rathbone

  Do you think I was trying to put it off a bit?

  “Shall we go and get a sandwich, Bri?”

  “Baz, just fuck off will you!”

  We laughed and hugged and off I went. I closed the big blue door for the last time. It was one hell of a wrench to leave that football club.

  I was very nervous. Brian and some of the Preston players had put the fear of God into me regarding the Premier League players and how unfriendly they could be.

  “I’ve heard the players in the Premier League don’t respect the physios,” he said. “And, in particular, big Duncan Ferguson has a deep hatred of all medical staff.”

  “Fucking hell – thanks lads.”

  I pulled into the car park at Everton’s training ground on the afternoon of September 2, 2002. I was approaching my mid-forties now and still there had been no breakthrough in the search for a cure for baldness. My grey sideburns had been joined by my chest hair. Brazil had just won the World Cup, Jade Goody had become famous, Eminem was at No. 1 in the charts and British roads were about to be swamped by the 4x4 phenomenon.

  I was filled with fear and trepidation. I sat in the car for a few minutes composing myself. At the end of the day, though, I knew I had made the right decision, particularly for the future of my wife and kids, so I took a deep breath and went in.

  I was wearing some faded jeans, a yellow checked shirt and a denim jacket. I stood nervously in the foyer, taking in my new surroundings, when I heard a loud voice, in a strong Scottish accent, bellowing from the adjacent room, “Fuck me. Have you clocked the new physio? It’s Bob the fucking Builder!”

  Oh my God.

  That was my first introduction to Duncan Ferguson. He emerged from a side door and swaggered up to me.

  “I am ‘Big Dunc’ by the way, and I have finished a few physios’ careers.”

  “That’s OK,” I replied. “I’m Baz and I have finished a few players’ careers!”

  He loved that one, laughed out loud, patted me on the back and walked off.

  Then Kevin Campbell appeared, extended his hand and welcomed me to the club, saying he had heard a lot about me and was looking forward to working with me. That was it then. I was in. Simple as that. And I knew from that moment everything was going to be all right.

  And everything was all right.

  I had made up my mind that, whatever happened, I would be just the same as I had been at Halifax Town and Preston North End. The same principles would apply. It was the best way, my way, the only way. If they didn’t respond, then I would leave. I was determined not to change my methods – hard work, with me working alongside the players, leading the way, sharing the load, stride for stride. If I could do it at 43 years of age, then they could do it too.

  Believe me, there is nothing worse for an injured player than to be sent out alone to do the rehabilitation. Even worse, to be exercised by the physio who just stands there with a stopwatch and a whistle. That does not inspire the players. Don’t ask them to do what you are not prepared to do yourself. Try to lift them mentally. It is not a crime to be injured. Don’t make it a punishment. Try to make it a positive experience. Inject some life and energy into the department. No sitting around all day under those machines slowly losing all your fitness and motivation. Come in, be assessed, work hard. Weights, exercise bikes, swimming, running, ballwork, and then let them go home. Quality, not quantity.

  And it worked. Beyond my wildest dreams it worked. Why? Because these lads were no different from the lads at Halifax and Preston – all from the same working-class environments but just slightly better at football, and with a lot more money.

  What a buzz. Working at the top level in my profession with the top players and earning top money.

  Sadly, it is one of life’s great injustices that the more successful you become and the higher up the food chain you ascends, then the less you pay for while enjoying ever greater perks. And so it was at Everton. In fact, this was one of the things that struck me most in those early days – the sheer scale and scope of these fringe benefits. The first thing I noticed on my first day was that there was fresh fruit everywhere. Bowls of it – all types, all ripe, all free. There were baskets of the stuff in virtually every room at the training ground.

  I really couldn’t get over it. As a child growing up in Sheldon, the only fruit I ate was an overdose of unripe apples when you went scrumping after dark in the neighbours’ garden in late August, or on the one day a year when the Rathbones went, en masse, to the Pick Your Own farms in Evesham. We forced so many strawberries into our mouths, stomachs and pockets we could hardly walk back to the car.

  But here in this modern day land of milk and honey, the Garden of Eden that is the Premier League, it was all free, plentiful and delicious. I used to take handfuls of oranges, pears or peaches home every day to stock up our fruit bowl. It was marvellous and, for the first time in generations, the Rathbone family was scurvy-free.

  One day, a bloke from the local opticians came to the training ground and gave everybody a free pair of Armani sunglasses. Who knows why? I suppose that’s just how it was in the Premier League. They must have been worth more than £100 each. I remember all the lads laughing at me because I went out to training with my new shades on, even though it was pissing down with rain.

  On another occasion, a box full of brand new, latest release computer games appeared. Help yourself, lads. Fill your boots. I grabbed a couple for my son Ollie and thought I had done well until I got home and realised he didn’t have the right console to play them on, so I had to go out and buy a new one – hoisted by my own petard.

  Then there was the time some ladies came to the training ground and gave everyone hundreds of pounds worth of Clarins skincare products. Fuck knows why, but I took mine and gratefully started rubbing cream into every accessible part of my body. Why not? Perks of the job. The land of plenty.

  Tommy Gravesen gave me a beautiful watch, Lee Carsley gave me some boots, Dave Weir got Ollie a couple of brand new pairs of boots, Kevin Campbell gave me a bottle of Cristal champagne, RRP £150. Why? Well because they liked me, appreciated the work I was doing and were generous guys, I assume.

  There was a room at the training ground full of Lucozade sports drinks and energy bars that were given out free, and in unlimited amounts, to all the Premier League clubs as part of a sponsorship deal. You could simply open the boot of your car and take boxes of the stuff home. There was a seemingly endless supply. People always used to remark when they saw my son play on the amount of energy he had. “What do you feed him on?” they would ask. If only they knew. He was living on a diet of energy bars, energy drinks and fruit.

  There was so much training gear: hats, coats, tights, gloves, thermal undergarments, wet tops, dry tops and hooded tops. Some mornings I would look at Joseph Yobo all wrapped up in about 20 different items of clothing, looking like he was setting off for the fucking South Pole. And you should have seen him on a cold day.

  When the team travelled away, the theme continued: the best hotels, private planes, the finest foods and, above all, the ultimate example of luxurious living – single rooms. A room each. A whole room to myself. A seminal moment and a lifetime away from those very rare overnight stays at Halifax, sleeping on the put-me-up bed in a room with the coach driver so the players could have the best beds.

  Yes, I could get used to this.

  Actually, it did take some getting used to because I had spent so much time at clubs with much less money and hardly any facilities where nobody gave us anything and we could not afford to buy anything. Now we could afford to buy anything we wanted, but people were queuing up to give it to us for free.

  I felt I deserved it, though. Nobody had put in more hours than me over the past ten years – both mentally and physically. Nobody.

  Those first few weeks were nothing short of amazing – sometimes I had to almost pinch myself. What a thrill when I looked at myself in the big mirrors in the gym, wearing that famous badge with th
e tower and the Latin logo ‘Nil Satis, Nisi Optimum’ (Nothing But The Best Is Good Enough). What a thrill when I looked at the contact list in my mobile phone and saw all those famous names. What a thrill on payday. Sometimes, I looked around at the famous faces of the international players sat in my room – all household names – and felt like I had my own personal Panini sticker book.

  I made an instant impression (I think). The lads were very impressed by my fitness, my football ability and my sense of humour (I hope). Any fears I might have initially had about the ‘big hitters’ in the Premier League not buying into my personality or style of physiotherapy were soon dispelled and, within a matter of a few weeks, the medical room at Everton was the same lively, energy and banter-filled social centre of the club it had been at Halifax and Preston.

  Any why shouldn’t it have been? Players are players and, despite the differences in ability and earning potential, they tend to share those common strands of DNA – those familiar characteristics of wanting to be around each other, sharing funny stories and, in many cases, simply acting daft together.

  I’d always felt that kind of almost immature behaviour players displayed (none more so than me) was a defensive mechanism to protect and insulate against the pressure to perform in the rarefied atmosphere of professional sport. I was delighted to see that each morning virtually every single player would make his way into the medical room just to socialise, as they had done at Halifax and Preston. They would sit on the cupboards talking and laughing and generally taking the piss – usually out of me.

  This is what I wanted. This is what I had intended. This is the hub of it. This is where it begins. This is where the team spirit is nurtured and grows. This is where we start building for success. Put the laptops away and create the right atmosphere. That environment away from the boss – the pressure, the tactics, the press, the worries. That little enclave just for us; just a bunch of footballers enjoying each other’s company.

  Although it had been my ambition to engender this team spirit, I was very lucky that the medical staff who were already there were so good. Jimmy, Matt, Danny, Dom and good old Dr Irving were all equally a part of the whole atmosphere, the whole vibe. Just as well really, because when I accepted the job David had told me to deal with the staff – in terms of who to keep and who to let go – as I saw fit. That was a big shock to me. To suddenly be transformed from the ultimate one-man band, jack-of-all-trades model of the club physio prevalent in the lower leagues, to being the boss, the head of the department.

  The man who hired and fired.

  I honestly don’t think I could have ever sacked anybody, but I also knew that at this level you were only as good as your staff and, fortunately, they were absolutely brilliant – thanks guys.

  In those early days and months in my first season we had so many good laughs in that medical room. Every day something funny seemed to happen and all the players sitting around would join in the fun. One day Tommy Gravesen, a renowned character, blew up one of Nick Chadwick’s brand new boots with a firework and also launched a giant rocket firework through the gym which caused permanent scorch marks to the entire length of the floor.

  And then there was the time Wayne Rooney brought a couple of dogs to training. Apparently, he and Alan Stubbs had been to look at some pups. They were chows – you know, those fluffy dogs with purple tongues – and he liked them so much he bought two of them. However, I think Wayne decided that one was probably enough and he was keen to find a home for the other one. He brought them into the medical room to see if anyone wanted to keep one. I was tempted, even though we have a Yorkshire terrier – that must have been around £500 worth of pedigree pup going begging. Eventually I said, “Look Wayne, you’re going to have to take those dogs out now because Li Tie is starting to salivate!”

  And I’ll never forget the time I was in the medical room, enjoying the pre-training banter, when I was summoned to reception for a telephone call. When I got back, Steve Watson and Gary Naysmith had taken my beloved yellow checked shirt (the Bob the Builder one) and gone to the enormous trouble of bringing a small table into the room and laying it using my shirt as the tablecloth, complete with two sets of knives and forks, two plates, a lighted candle – would you believe it – and a salt and pepper pot. Everyone just laughed and laughed. Great days.

  I really felt at home. I felt I had arrived at Everton and was actively contributing to an ever-growing sense of team spirit and camaraderie among the lads which could only be beneficial for the whole club. And then, after a couple of months, I got the real welcome, the true validation of my belonging – when I felt the sickening pain in my buttock as a famous international player shot me with his paintball gun. Just like the Steve Kindon fart all those years ago, that piercing pain was a clear indication that I had been officially accepted into the dressing room.

  I wasn’t at Everton just to foster team spirit; I made some important logistical changes too. I brought in some of the finest specialists in the country and insisted our lads could have consultations, scans and investigations seven days a week, and get the results immediately. We extended the staff in the medical department so that the players could have as much one-on-one time as possible. As it says on the shirt, nothing but the best is good enough. And that was how it was going to be for Everton players from now on.

  Make no mistake, Everton is a massive football club. With the greatest respect to Birmingham City, Blackburn Rovers, Preston North End and Halifax Town, this club was on a different planet.

  The intensity with which Everton fans support their club borders on the fanatical. I know lots of supporters regularly mouth the old saying about football being more important than life and death but, with Everton, I think they really mean it. You have only to walk past the famous statue of Everton’s greatest player, ‘Dixie’ Dean, and see all the bouquets of flowers and wreaths from the funerals of newly deceased Evertonians to get some idea of how this great club is intricately and inextricably woven into the lives of its fans. The club has an aura, status and function within the community that transcends any idea that the game is simply about kicking a ball on a grass pitch.

  It is a truly great club and I felt truly privileged to be a part of it. And the biggest privilege of all arrived during those first few magical weeks. It is one incident that will always stay with me, a moment that will forever rank as one of the greatest thrills in my life – the delivery of my new Jag.

  The Big Cat.

  My Big Cat!

  The club secretary, David Harrison, delivered it to the training ground. Silver, wide-bodied and mean-looking (the car, not Dave), it was the absolute business. Any of my lingering self-doubts were now finally gone, washed away in a torrent of silver metal and black leather. Low self-esteemers need these visible, tangible embodiments of their success to provide continual reassurances of their achievements. And I was no different. That beautiful machine proved I was good at my job, proved I was a winner.

  I fleetingly wondered if it would be practical to take the rest of the day off and drive the car down to show Trevor Francis, Jim Smith, all the Blues fans, the Halifax directors who got rid of me, Leighton James, Tommy Hutchison and that fucker who ran all the way down from the back of the Kop to abuse me. Better not – got a lot on this afternoon.

  Dave interrupted my daydreaming by starting to show me how to open the boot, how to operate the phone, how to release the fuel cap, how to work the computer, etc.

  I wanted to shout, “Dave, just give me the fucking keys before I fucking well explode!”

  But I didn’t. I retained my dignity and thanked him when he finally passed the keys to me.

  My keys.

  My car.

  My validation.

  Oh my God, the keyring has got a jaguar’s head on it. That meant, even when I wasn’t in the car, people would know I drove a Jaguar and was thus a man of some substance. I couldn’t wait for training to finish so I could drive home in my car. I wondered if anybody had ever
actually dropped dead with excitement before. Oh the smell of the leather, the purring of the engine, the lightness of the steering.

  Halfway home, I stopped at Charnock Richard service station and got out of the car. I climbed up the nearby bank and sat on the grass in the late afternoon sun, just looking at the bloody thing. After a while, I went into the café, bought myself a cup of coffee and sat at a table, still looking out at the car. I remember wishing I had blocked somebody in – maybe an emergency vehicle – so there would be a call over the tannoy.

  “Would the owner of the brand new silver Jaguar with leather seats, walnut dashboard and 20-inch alloys please return to their vehicle.”

  Then I could have got up, slowly, in front of all those people, and they would have known that was my car and, therefore, that I was a winner.

  I’d had dozens of cars over the years and their prestige and newness always neatly mirrored how I was doing at the time – whether I was on the crest of a wave or a slump. In the lean times, I had to make do with clapped out Minis and 20-year-old Ford Anglias while, in the better times, it was Ford Capris and Dolomite Sprints. But the Jag was in a different class to anything I had driven in the past. I deserved it, had earned it and had worked so hard for it. I was never going to let it go (and it was insured).

  I soon realised that driving a Jag, big executive wages and a generous bonus scheme were a direct reflection of the responsibility I had assumed as head of the medical department at such a big club – or, more importantly, for the shit I would be in if I messed up.

  I got my first taste of the realities of my new role at Everton after just one week. Big Dunc had been out for several months with a muscle problem. When I arrived at the club and reviewed the case – with the benefit of knowing that all usual pathologies had been looked at and ruled out – I felt that the problem was possibly not with the muscle itself, but with the nerve running under it. That would explain why the injury was refusing to get better.