The Smell of Football

by Mick 'Baz' Rathbone

  I managed to find one of the very few surgeons in the region who’d had any experience with this admittedly very rare condition, and we all met for a consultation in a private Manchester hospital with a view to the surgical release of this vexed nerve. The surgeon went through the procedure in fine detail but, in his frankness, painted rather a negative picture, explaining that if the operation was not a success, then Dunc’s career would probably be over.

  Naturally, this made us both feel a bit unsure, so the surgeon told us to discuss it while he went to scrub up and, if we wanted to go ahead, then we should inform the sister who would get one of the porters to take Dunc to the operating theatre. The surgeon left the room and, before I could say a word, Dunc said, “Right, it’s up to you. You decide. I will go with what you say.”

  Wow, that was pressure. The penny dropped: I wasn’t getting the big wages for running around the training ground or kicking balls to the players; no, it was to make these crucial, big decisions on the management of the injuries of Everton’s multi-million pound assets.

  I told Dunc I would go downstairs to clear my head and make the decision. I went outside and had a walk around the car park. I went through the whole thing again: right, he can’t play with this injury, it’s not getting better and it’s not likely to get better with time, so medically it’s an absolute no-brainer. The problem was I had only been at the club for a week and wasn’t too keen on fucking up Everton’s star player after such a brief time in the job.

  Fortunately Trevor, Sir Alf, the Blues players, the Blues fans, the ‘four’ in the Sunday People, the Thwaites Bitter, the meat pies, the tribunal, the plastic burns, the coming out of the game with nothing in the bank, the going back to school at 32, the relegation and the crippling workload had all conspired to produce the world’s most mentally resilient person. I bounded up the stairs and informed Dunc the operation would go ahead.

  I watched the surgery. It was a great success. He was cured and, after that, did not miss another game through injury for three years. (Sadly, he missed dozens through club and FA suspensions and altercations with local burglars.)

  So here I was then at the summit of my profession. Being in the Premier League was everything I could have dreamed of – and more. The recent history of Everton had been one of struggle, underachievement and flirting with relegation. Nowhere near good enough for this great football club.

  My first game was away at Southampton and I immediately realised the atmosphere at Premier League games is on another level to that of the lower leagues – the noise, the size of the crowds, the media coverage. The Everton fans never let their team down. Every single away game I attended was the same – as soon as the team bus turned into the main street outside the stadium, it was surrounded by hundreds, sometimes thousands, of noisy Toffees. They made it almost seem like a home game.

  My first home match was against Middlesbrough – and it was simply electric. Nearly 40,000 fans packed into that famous old stadium. Goodison Park is the best ground in the Premier League for atmosphere. A proper football ground, with the fans close to the touchline ensuring a fantastically noisy, hostile backdrop to the action.

  Even in my final season, when I had been on duty for nearly 200 matches at Goodison Park, I still got the same buzz when I was on the pitch before the kick-off. I must admit, in the early days when we were lining up in the tunnel, I had to resist the urge to stare at the likes of Beckham, Henry and Shearer. It wasn’t that I was starstruck or anything like that; after all I had played in the top division myself. I think the reverence and awe I felt, stood alongside some of the greatest players in Europe, was – just like with the Jaguar – a case of me coming to terms with the measure of my success and new-found status.

  As good as it was for me to rub shoulders with the stars, there were also benefits and advantages for my family and friends. They too enjoyed mixing with these famous footballers and circulating in this environment – who wouldn’t?

  Little Ollie was only six when I joined Everton. He is soccer-mad and, on quiet days, I would take him to the training ground to mix with the players. Big Dunc would sit him on his lap and let him steer his Range Rover around the car park, while Wayne would always find the time to have a kick around with him. What a marvellous treat for a young, football-obsessed lad – especially when I think back to the forlorn attempts of me and my brother just to get an autograph from any Birmingham City players.

  My teenage daughters also came to some games and got photos with David Beckham, and even my wife didn’t miss out on the celebrity fest – after one of the games, I went into the players’ lounge to find her holding Didier Drogba’s trophy with both hands (his man-of-the-match trophy, that is).

  I have a German friend who loves English football and once he came all the way from Frankfurt to see Everton play Manchester United. After the match, he was in the medical room having a beer when Wayne came in for a chat, as he always did when he was at Goodison. The look on Wolfgang’s face when Wayne sat next to him on the physio bed was priceless and made me feel proud to be in this highly privileged position where my friends and family could also enjoy this fabulous lifestyle.

  Sometimes, I must admit, when surrounded by these superstars, I just wanted to grab a pen and piece of paper and get their autographs, but this was frowned upon as being totally uncool. A few years ago, however, when we played United again, Ollie begged me to get Cristiano Ronaldo’s autograph on his brand new Portugal shirt that he had just received for his birthday. I really didn’t like to ask and did feel a bit of an anorak, but you know what it is like – you will do anything for your kids, won’t you?

  I kept my eyes open after the game to try and catch sight of Ronaldo passing the medical room. Eventually, I saw him and stepped into the busy passageway, clutching the shirt. I was in my full Everton regalia, so I didn’t feel too much of an intruder.

  “Excuse me, Cristiano, could you please sign this for my son?”

  He didn’t look too pleased, but grabbed the shirt and the pen without looking up or acknowledging my existence, and started scribbling.

  “Can you write, ‘To Oliver, happy birthday’ on it please Cristiano?”

  He still didn’t look up but just kept scribbling.

  “It’s O-L-I-V . . .”

  I didn’t get any further. He just threw the shirt back in my face where, due to the phenomenon that is static electricity, it stuck. He then walked away, leaving me with the shirt on my head.

  There were a couple of the Everton press guys in the corridor that day who saw it all, and we absolutely pissed ourselves laughing for the next ten minutes. Never again.

  This fraternising with the famous eventually extended into our private lives, perhaps most memorably when Big Dunc invited our family to his son Cameron’s christening. The invitation (which only a handful of people at Everton received) asked us to the ceremony at Liverpool’s Anglican cathedral – the biggest in Europe – and then back to his house for ‘refreshments and entertainment’.

  We were expecting a cup of tea, a few sandwiches and a game of pass the parcel for the kids but, when we pulled up at Dunc’s mansion in Formby, we soon realised refreshments and entertainment were on a much grander scale in the Premier League. There were people dressed as clowns, people on stilts, people making balloon animals and people face painting. The theme was Alice in Wonderland and all the characters were there, even somebody dressed as the bloody March Hare. There was also a huge marquee in the garden.

  When Dunc saw us, my wife and I were given a grand tour of the property after he handed us each a glass of Cristal champagne. It was unbelievable luxury. In the marquee, there were fantastically decorated tables. There was a bar made of pure ice spelling CAMERON, with a vodka river running right through it. The food, wine, hospitality and entertainment were absolutely incredible. We sat on the same table as the Parrotts (the snooker player and his wife, not the birds – although they wouldn’t have been out of place at this party). Dunc a
nd his wife were the perfect hosts and made us feel so welcome and genuinely part of the proceedings.

  A jaw-dropping day. I will never forget it, although I can’t remember much about the last bit as my wife tells me I ended up on my back with my mouth open at the bottom of the vodka river.

  Soon after this, Wayne invited us to his 18th birthday party at Aintree – red carpet, paparazzi, soap stars and Atomic Kittens. A great night of splendour and famous faces – the high life indeed. But you know what, it was also very intimate, family-like and, despite the free cigars and champagne, unpretentious because the Rooneys truly are the salt of the earth. I feel lucky not only to know Wayne, but also his fantastic parents.

  Again, we were really made to feel part of it and Wayne, his parents and then-girlfriend Coleen were so friendly and welcoming. My outstanding memory was that my wife got her picture in Hello magazine. When we looked at the big group photo (with a magnifying glass, to be fair) and spotted her right at the very back, we knew for sure we had made it to the very top.

  As much as I enjoyed those events off the field, Everton’s home games were my personal highlight and I quickly developed a routine I stuck to for every match at Goodison.

  I would leave home early on the morning of the match and stop at Charnock Richard service station for a coffee and a cake. This would guarantee victory. I would arrive at the stadium four hours before kick-off because I liked to make sure all the necessary equipment was there and in good working order. It also meant I was in situ if a player woke up with a problem like a stiff neck or a sore throat, so we could get him in early for treatment.

  I would park my car behind the club shop and walk up to the players’ entrance. There would already be activity around the place – hot dog vans, programme sellers, souvenir stalls being set up for the game, TV cameras from Sky everywhere (that didn’t bother me now).

  I would once more be asked the immortal question which has transcended every era and to which there can be no definitive answer, “Are we gonna win today, Baz?”

  That question had been directed at me in the ’70s, ’80s, ’90s and noughties. It had been fired at me in a Brummie accent, a Lancashire accent, a Yorkshire accent, and now a Liverpool accent. It had been asked of me in the Premier League, the First Division, the Second Division, the Third Division and the Vauxhall Conference. And my answer? Still always the same: “I hope so, because I need the bonus!”

  When I got into our dressing room, Jimmy and ‘Sagey’, the kit men, would be putting the kit and boots out in each player’s places. Then the smells would hit home – those familiar friends that had accompanied me on my travels through the years, through the divisions, bringing the comforting reassurance that I was where I belonged, where I was needed.

  At the risk of sounding pedantic, it is worth pointing out, while the old smells could never change, there were some minor olfactory tweaks to some of the more cosmetic smells. In the ’70s, it was the great scent of Brut, the ’80s gave us Aramis, while the ’90s produced the sweet aroma of Lacoste Sport. That was, in turn, replaced by Hugo Boss and now I do believe Chanel is the choice for the discerning player. Similarly, the foreigners imported their own exotic aromas to add to the traditional heady mix. Spices from deepest Africa, herbal rubs from the southern Mediterranean and manly musks from our former colonies. All welcome, all embraced, but never could they overpower those time-honoured smells of football.

  I would get changed and sit in the medical room waiting for the lads to arrive. They would turn up in virtually the same order every time, wearing their club suits. First Phil Neville, next Tony Hibbert, then Leon Osman. They all looked so relaxed. Maybe I looked relaxed all those years ago at Birmingham?

  It would be busy by this point, with groups of sponsors being guided through the dressing rooms, getting autographs and photographs. Then the opposition would arrive, usually wearing tracksuits.

  With one hour to go, it would start to get serious – team meeting, get changed, paddings and strappings in the medical room. Forty minutes to go – everybody ready, boots on, out for the warm-up, manager and coaches evaluating their line-up. Fifteen minutes to go – everybody back in the dressing room for a final briefing from the boss.

  Then the superstitions. Premier League superstitions were just the same as the Conference superstitions – Phil Neville’s lucky socks, Tim Cahill’s special shinpad tape, Tim Howard with the smelling salts just before we went on the pitch, Steve Pienaar with his head bowed in final prayer (I know how he feels).

  Next, there were handshakes, pats on the back, high fives and words of encouragement, as we headed into the tunnel. Side by side with the opposition who, as at every level of the game, always looked bigger.

  There would be a last-minute opportunity for one of the players to tell me they thought they’d picked up an injury in the warm-up. It happened every week and was merely a sign of pre-kick-off tension, and a quick word of reassurance from me would promptly settle their nerves. The buzzer would sound and out we’d go.

  And then the roar.

  Different grounds have different songs – the magic of the West Ham fans belting out I’m Forever Blowing Bubbles, The Kop with You’ll Never Walk Alone, Manchester City’s Blue Moon, Wolves with Hi Ho Silver Lining, Delilah, Blaydon Races, Keep Right on to the End of the Road – the list goes on and on. All proud clubs, proud fans and proud songs. All belted out with ear-numbing ferocity. Keep Right on to the End of the Road was Birmingham City’s anthem, their tribal chant. I used to sing my head off to that song many times with my brother Martin next to me. I don’t remember hearing it too much when I was actually playing, but I fear that was because the song is only sung in a celebratory fashion and God knows when I was playing there wasn’t too much to celebrate.

  Even though I was not a player any more, I still got really nervous before the kick-off. It was a combination of a lifetime of classical conditioning à la Pavlov, the importance of the result in every Premier League game, and the possibility of having to run on to the pitch in any of these fixtures, in front of tens of thousands of spectators, to deal with a life-threatening incident.

  Just as my first sortie on to the field to tend to the legendary Jimmy Case all those years ago at Halifax had been traumatic, a couple of my early forays on to Goodison Park stretched my chronically taut nerves to breaking point such as when Tommy Gravesen went down in a heap.

  In football, people want to find out who is the fastest, toughest, most skilful, the friendliest, the fittest, etc. Well, Tommy was the maddest. But mad in the nicest possible way and a good friend to me. Once I was taking him for a scan and we stopped for fuel on the way. Tommy got out of the car and stood next to me as I filled up the tank. He then followed me into the shop and stood next to me while I paid. Then he followed me back to the car and got back into the passenger side – without saying a word.

  Tommy was a great bloke – but this was only up until the game started. Then he turned into a complete headcase. On the occasion in question, I ran over to him and asked what the problem was.

  “What’s the problem? What’s the problem? You fucking tell me, you fucking idiot, you are the medical man!” he screamed in his perfect English, but with the Danish accent that made him sound even more crazy.

  Nothing, no amount of teaching, can really prepare anybody for that kind of reaction, and I didn’t have a clue how to react, so I asked Tommy if he wanted a drink. That really infuriated him.

  He screamed, “A drink? A fucking drink? The game is only five minutes old, you fucking moron!”

  Fortunately, he was beginning to recover from the knock and got up. I took his arm to escort him to the touchline, and he went berserk.

  “Take your fucking hand off me! Take your fucking hand off me or I will fucking knock you out!” He pushed me away.

  By this time, most of the players and the fans nearest to the incident were having a good laugh at my expense. Eventually, we got to the sideline at which point he politely than
ked me for my help and trotted calmly back on to the pitch.

  The incident was never mentioned again, but it really spooked me, and I used to sit in the dugout praying Tommy never got injured.

  A few weeks after that ordeal, I was subjected to another equally disturbing incident – this time courtesy of the extremely funny and likeable Steve Watson. ‘Watto’ was playing right back over on the far side of the pitch. He had got a knock and was hobbling a bit, so the boss told me to run round there as fast as I could and check if he was going to be OK to carry on.

  I ran about 200 metres in the latest Olympic qualifying time and screamed at the top of my voice, “Are you OK, Steve?”

  No reply, but it was, as you can imagine, really noisy, so I screamed the same question again. Still no reply. He must be OK, I thought. I sprinted all the way back around to the dugout and told David I couldn’t get any response from him, so he was probably fine.

  “That’s no good, Baz. I need to know. Go and ask him again.”

  Fuck me. Off I went again, another couple of hundred metres flat out, and shouted, “Steve, Steve are you OK?” No reply.

  I stepped on to the edge of the pitch and bellowed the same question at him. He must have finally heard because he just waved his hand. I sprinted all the way back to the dugout and explained to the boss he had waved his hand, so I thought he was going to be OK.

  “Baz, that’s no good. I am going to use my last substitute now, so I need to be sure he is going to get through the 90 minutes.”

  For fuck’s sake. Off I went yet again. I was breathing through my arse by now. Another lung-busting run and once more I screamed the same question.

  “ARE YOU OK?”

  That same wave of the hand again. This time I walked right on to the pitch and yelled, “We need to know if you are OK because we are going to put the last sub on.”