Stillness and Speed: My Story

by Bergkamp, Dennis

  One aspect of the new regime Dennis did not favour was the use of mineral and vitamin supplements. Gary Lewin: ‘Arsene felt that, due to the wear and tear of the season, players needed them, so you’d have Vitamin C drinks and Vitamin B tablets. Yann Rougier, a nutritionist from France, came over and did blood and hair tests to see which minerals and vitamins the players lacked. But Dennis really didn’t like that. It wasn’t his ethos. He felt he ate healthily so he didn’t need supplements. But they didn’t argue about it because Arsene was a bit like Dennis really: a discussion person. Rougier would sit down with every player and go through the blood tests and say: “You’re low on that, so I’d like to give you such and such supplement.” Dennis would say, “I don’t like taking supplements,” so Rougier would say, “Well, in that case we need to think of another way.” So he’d ask Dennis to eat more liver, or spinach or whatever it was. That went for the whole team. About a third of the players didn’t take all the supplements Rougier offered them. Another third took some. The others, with all respect to footballers, they’ll just do what they’re told.’

  Dennis’s approach to injuries and treatment was also unique – and at odds with English tradition. For one thing, he was fascinated by the workings of muscles, ligaments and other parts of the body. As his physio at Ajax, Pim van Dord, noticed a few years earlier: ‘Even as a junior player Dennis always wanted to know everything there was to know about injuries. That was striking, especially because he hardly ever seemed to get injured himself.’ Lewin was also struck by his attitude: ‘Dennis was much more aware of his body than any other player I’d met before. I mean in the medical sense. For example, he’d say: “My calf feels really tight,” so I’d work on him. I’d say it might be a risk to train but Dennis would go: “No, I know how it feels. I can train today but if it feels a bit tight, I’ll tell the manager.”’

  What’s unusual about that?

  ‘Well, Dennis’s idea was: “Give the manager and medical staff the information and they’ll make their own decision – and so will I.” But in the old English football culture if you were injured you would never mention it. It was drilled into you: “Don’t show any sign of weakness!” You didn’t want to give the manager any reason to not play you. In those days it was still survival of the fittest. You’d never get on a stretcher, you played on like Bert Trautmann with his broken neck in the Cup final. Don’t worry about the long-term consequences.’ He remembers what happened to Bob Wilson in 1972. ‘Bob absolutely slaughtered his knee in a Cup semi-final and while he’s on the floor in agony the other players are swearing at him: “Fucking get up! There’s nothing wrong, you tart!” Bob’s knee is wrecked! It shortened his career! And they’re shouting at him.’

  Bob confirms: ‘It was at Villa Park against Stoke and I knew immediately I was badly damaged. I’d snapped the cartilage and tendon. I tried to play on but I was absolutely disabled and a complete liability in goal. But there were no substitute goalkeepers in those days so everyone wanted me to carry on. Bertie Mee [the manager] came round and said, “You’ve played through injuries before, so come on, Willo, you can do it!” And I remember Peter Storey standing over me, effing and blinding, shouting at me that I was a “coward”. The injury still causes me problems: I walk with a limp because of that one.’

  Lewin continues: ‘But that was the culture in the seventies. Even into the nineties that was still there. I’ve seen Tony Adams play with fractured bones, torn ligaments . . . He’d say: “I’ve gotta play, gotta play!” He was so competitive. A bit like John Terry later.’

  That wasn’t Dennis’s approach?

  ‘Dennis would say: “Well, actually I’m having a career in football. I’m not going to jeopardise that for the sake of one game.” And he’d be thinking of the team as well.’

  At the end of the 1998 season Dennis had a muscle strain. Would he be able to play in the Cup final against Newcastle? If they won, Arsenal would clinch their first Double since 1971. Dennis was desperate to play . . .

  Lewin: ‘We went through all the rehab and the running sequences and he felt really good. On the Friday he was training normally, with a view to playing on the Saturday. He trained and trained, and after about forty minutes he stopped and said to the manager: “I’m not right.” As he walks in I say: “Has it tightened up again?” and he says: “No, but it doesn’t feel right.” And then he goes: “I’m not going to cheat those guys tomorrow. It’s not about me.” That was eye-opening for me because most players would have said: “Sod it, I’ll start the game and if I come off, well, I played in the Cup final.” But Dennis was so aware of his body and his limitations. And he knew the expectations of the team from the fans. You could call him dogmatic, or honest, but I saw it as him being aware. From a medical professional’s point of view it’s what you dream of when you’re working with a player.

  ‘He never had any very serious, long-term injuries, just the usual footballers’ injuries – hamstrings, thigh, calf. Two or three-weekers, never more than that. With rehab, where other players would just ask: “How long is it going to be?” Dennis wanted specifics. “When am I going to progress into jogging? When am I going to progress into straight-line running?” Then he’d be very methodical about it. Other players put it all on you. They don’t take responsibility. They just say: “OK, what are we doing today?” then moan that it’s too much. Dennis would talk it through. Let’s say I was planning a six-minute jog then some straight-line running. He might go: “I’m not sure I’m ready for that yet.” So I’d say: “OK, let’s do the jog first. If you don’t feel it, we’ll do another six-minute jog, keep it at that pace and see if you get a reaction. If you don’t get a reaction, we’ll step it up tomorrow.” “OK, that’s what we’ll do then.” He was always so aware of everything around him, analysing it all. You saw it tactically and in the way he managed the speed of the game. That’s something they talk about in Holland and Italy, whereas in England it’s all one pace for ninety minutes. Dennis could hold the ball, pass it simply to slow the game down, then speed it up when that was needed.

  ‘Another part of what Dennis brought to the club was his education, and habits he regarded as being normal for a footballer. If training was at ten-thirty he would usually be there not later than ten, often at nine-forty-five or nine-thirty. And he’d check his equipment. If the shorts weren’t right, or if the socks weren’t right, he’d ask the kit man, Vic Akers, to change them. Not maliciously, just: “Vic, have you got a pair of these?” or “Can I have a pair of those?” And his footwear was meticulous! I’ve never known a player who knew exactly what he wanted from a pair of boots. He’d involve the company that made the boots for him. Remember, this was an era when players started changing their boots for fun, but Dennis was old school. He broke in a pair of boots during pre-season and wore them for the season because they were his boots and they were comfortable and if you change something in them it might change something in you. You could argue that was part superstition, but I think it was more what I call good habits, and the awareness that by changing things, subtle changes, it can affect you physically, mentally, technically.

  ‘He was the same with strappings. He was the first player I’d met who wouldn’t wear strappings during the week but would wear them for a match. I found that very interesting. From a medical perspective you don’t want players to wear strappings unless they have to. Strappings are to stop you turning your ankle but usually, when an English player has had strappings once, that’s it, he’ll wear them for the rest of his career. But he’s doing that for non-medical reasons. Partly it’s superstition and partly he thinks: “If I have a strapping I won’t sprain my ankle so I may as well have the strapping.” What they don’t understand is that when you strap a joint you restrict the range of movement, and by restricting the range of movement you affect the sensation – we call it proprioception, the sensation that comes through that joint. It will affect your balance, which could affect . . . everything. So what Dennis did was to train wit
hout strappings – because he wanted all the proprioception – and then, for games, when you are at three times’ greater risk of getting injured, he’d wear a strapping, to protect his ankles from cuts and kicks and stop his ankles twisting. And I’d never seen a player do that before. That’s an example of where I was learning from him.’

  * * *

  DENNIS IS INTRIGUED by Gary Lewin’s take on his ‘good habits’. I put to him a story involving Bill Shankly when he was manager at Liverpool.

  Lewin’s talk of manly old English football attitudes reminds me of Bill Shankly, who regarded injured players at Liverpool with something close to contempt. When one had a knee injury, Shankly got angry: ‘Get that poof bandage off! And what do you mean your knee? It’s Liverpool’s knee!’

  Dennis [appalled]: ‘I don’t know about the psychology of that, but I would never have accepted it. I own my own body and I’ll be the judge of whether I can play or not. And the coach has to leave that decision to the player. I never had a problem in that way. I always wanted to play, always. And I don’t say everything has to feel perfect. Ask any player: “Did you ever play without pain?” That situation doesn’t exist! There’s always something. And if you’re limping, that’s different. But if you feel something but it’s not going to do you damage long-term, then OK, you have to play.

  ‘Even in my time, when I came to England it was not accepted any more that a player had to play no matter what. I know those pictures of people like Terry Butcher with the bandage round the head, blood streaming down. But come on! To have a player limping on the pitch or who can’t run? No chance! You need one hundred per cent players.’

  Is that why you missed the 1998 Cup final?

  ‘I’d had a hamstring injury towards the end of the season and missed the last few league games, including the Everton game, when we won the title. The week after was the FA Cup final, so I got my physio over from Holland, Rob Ouderland, to work with me. Gary Lewin was fine with that. He was really open-minded, and I appreciated it. All through the week I was getting better and better. I even missed my wife’s brother’s wedding because to play in the FA Cup final at Wembley was my dream since I was a boy. This was my first chance and who knows if I’d get another one? On the Thursday, it felt OK. Green light! I can do this! But Friday was team training and we thought: “OK we’ll decide after that.” I took a free-kick and I felt the muscle again. I stiffened up straightaway and that was it. And of course I was thinking as well that it wasn’t the end of the season because the World Cup was coming up afterwards. The next morning that proved to be the right thought because it got worse. I felt pain just walking, so really it was impossible. I couldn’t have played.

  ‘Gary talks about my career. Well, yes. It was my ambition to play for as long as possible at the highest level, to enjoy the game and give everything, to put my name in the books, so to speak. You want to be the best there is. You want to make history. But you can only do it if you do it for a long time, and if you do it at the highest level and if you stay healthy. On the other side, I understand about the old English idea of manliness, but I know players who played when they shouldn’t have done.’

  The playing career of Pim van Dord, the physio at Ajax who became a close friend, had been destroyed by corticosteroid injections on an Achilles injury. Dennis took the lesson to heart. ‘I learned that when it’s a muscle problem and you put an injection into it, you don’t feel the pain but it can tear. I always said: “I’m not going to do that. I want to feel my body. I want to know what’s happening.” There are certain injuries an injection won’t aggravate, so I’ve had injections. I’ve had them in my knee a few times, in my groin a few times at Inter. When I was at Arsenal I had a problem with my toe once and played four or five games with injections. They put the injection in quite deep so it was really painful and it took out the feeling in two toes. But that was OK. It’s inside my shoe, no problem. I knew the difference between what could cause me damage long-term and what wouldn’t. I was never going to take cortisone injections just to play a game, but it’s different if you use them therapeutically, like “take this cortisone and then have three days no training..’

  How did you become knowledgeable about medical matters?

  ‘I was always interested in physiotherapy and, even without that, I was interested in how the body works. I wanted to learn about its structure. How do muscles work? That was the most intriguing question for me. I studied physiotherapy for two years at school and even when I got my first contract at Ajax I carried on studying and playing professionally as well. I always wanted to do something with sports so if my football career didn’t come off, I could be a physio. Where did that come from? I really don’t know.’

  Gary Lewin became a physio because injury ended his playing career. I’m imagining it the other way round: you get injured instead of him, he’s the player, you run on the field to help when he gets hurt . . .

  ‘[Laughs] I was always conscious of my body and what it needed and how to prepare myself, and that got more and more towards the end of my career. And I was always OK with food, with sleep. I took my rest. I’d love to be able to say I never got seriously injured because I looked after my body. Partly it is, but I was lucky, too. Of course, some of that comes from being aware of defenders around me, knowing when the tackle comes, knowing when to jump up, and knowing when to put your foot in. Sometimes I made a mistake and got injured. It’s a combination of luck and awareness. Timing is important, and having quick feet. That was my main thing, really: “Stay away from the silly stuff.” Paul Gascoigne hurt himself with a stupid tackle in a Cup final, didn’t he? And Marco [van Basten] did something like that, diving into a tackle with a Groningen player when he was twenty-two. He was never quite right after that. That’s where his ankle problem started. In the end, at twenty-eight or twenty-nine, it finished his career.’

  Things changed for the better at Arsenal, didn’t they?

  ‘Oh completely. I give Gary a lot of credit. He was very open to new ideas. He thought things through and it all changed very quickly. Like having a masseur. In my first season David Platt had a masseur, and that was new. In my last year at Arsenal we had three masseurs who came in the day after a match . . . So in ten years it changed from “Why do you want a masseur? To work on your muscles? Get lost!” to three masseurs! And of course all the clubs copied. Now everybody does that. It changed very quickly.’

  So you got on well with the medical staff at Ajax and Arsenal. But how was it at Inter?

  ‘Different! In late 1994 I had a groin problem. I’d had it for a few months and it was starting to get really annoying. I’d seen lots of doctors and tried everything. In the end I told the club I wanted to get a physio over from Holland. They wouldn’t accept that. A physio flew down and came to the training ground and tried to be friendly and normal, but they just wouldn’t let him be there. So he treated me at home instead. In the end, around Christmas time, I said: “OK I’m going home for a week and I’ll get my treatment there.” They said: “No, no! You must stay here!” I said: “No, I’m going home to my family. That’s what I need and that’s what I’m doing. And I’ll get my treatment there.” They said: “In that case we’ll send a doctor over.” “Fantastic!” I said, “no worries!” So back in Holland I’m finally getting the treatment I need and the Italian doctor comes over. It was just silly. While the physio is treating me, this young doctor from the second team is sitting there with a notebook, watching and hardly speaking. Why? For their files? I never found out.’

  11

  THE JOKER

  IT IS LUNCHTIME at a pub in Kensal Rise and Ian Wright has begun to sing in Dutch. Quite loudly.

  ‘IT WAS in a discotheeeeekk! Zat ik VAN DE WEEEEEEKKKK!!! . . . En ik VOELDE mij daar zooooooo AARRLLEEEEEEEEN!!!!’

  No one even looks up. Impersonating André Hazes, the sentimental, diminutive, melancholy, alcoholic, late Dutch crooner probably happens all the time in Kensal Rise.

  How do you
know that song, Ian?

  ‘Cos of Dennis! Or rather, Glenn Helder and Dennis. Glenn taught it to me and when I sang it to Dennis he nearly died. . . . AND IT WAS warm en dreeeeee-EUUKKK! Ik zat eeen LEVEN CROOOOOK!!’

  You’ve caught its emotional overkill perfectly . . .

  ‘Yeah, I’m not bad like that. So then Dennis is on at me: “You’ve got to sing that on Dutch TV!” “No, I’m not going to do that.” “You have to do it! They’ll love it. They’ll love you!” He’s egging me on. So after that game at Leeds, that’s what I did. I sang André Hazes on Dutch telly.’

  Is there a video?

  ‘There most probably is a video.’

  IAN WRIGHT AND Dennis Bergkamp were not only a football act but also a comedy duo. As on the pitch, Dennis was the instigator, the ideas man lurking behind, setting up Wright for glory or, in this case, laughs.

  Wright: ‘People don’t know that side of Dennis, but he was really a mischievous joker. I love that! I love that about him because it is a side I will be able to remember forever, but other people won’t see it. All other people see when they look at Dennis Bergkamp is just pure genius. But I saw the man and I knew the man and feel very honoured. So you don’t see that side of him, but he is really . . . funny!’