I’m Not Really Here

by Paul Lake

  Stan Ternent, like most managers I worked with, wavered between these two extremes. A taskmaster extraordinaire, he was one of the most committed and conscientious people I’d ever come across in football, yet he also happened to be one of the most volatile. From players to physios, anyone who failed to match his high standards would be subject to a monumental bollocking, screeched at high volume in his broad Geordie accent.

  Stan and I generally worked well together – there was plenty of mutual respect – but from the outset he made it abundantly clear who was boss. This was certainly the case when we travelled to Bournemouth for the first away game of the new season.

  Conscious of my elevated position as first-team physio – and having kittens at the prospect – I made titanic efforts to ensure that all the pre-match arrangements were in order. Packing the medical supplies: done. Loading the energy drinks onto the coach: done. Checking the first aid kit: done. My final chore was to fax our breakfast and pre-match meal requirements to the hotel. Having never arranged this before (I remembered Roy Bailey carrying out this onerous task at Maine Road) I spent hours familiarising myself with the FA’s guidelines on diet and nutrition and picking the brains of my physio friends, Mandy and Philippa. So keen was I to demonstrate my highly professional approach that I even sought advice from a top sports scientist at a Premier League club.

  ‘Breakfast is the most important meal of the day,’ he’d stressed, ‘so go heavy with the carbs and proteins. Lots of cereal, wholemeal toast, fresh fruit, that kind of thing.’

  An hour or so before we set off for Dorset, I faxed over our super-healthy menus to our hotel, satisfied that all my hard work would gain me a few brownie points from my new gaffer.

  Having been woken early the next morning by the cacophony of Bournemouth seagulls circling the hotel, I came down for breakfast slightly earlier than planned. However, as I walked into the restaurant area, all I could see was a large serving hatch groaning with bacon, sausages, fried eggs, baked beans, black pudding and mushrooms. Not a banana or a bran flake in sight.

  I was just about to wipe the floor with the kitchen staff when I heard a familiar Geordie voice coming from the other side of the room. There, sitting alone at a corner table, was Stan, mopping up a pool of orange egg yolk with a slice of fried bread.

  ‘Can I have a word, Lakey lad?’

  ‘Sure …’

  ‘Let’s get one thing straight,’ he said, his voice laced with menace. ‘I choose the f***in’ food at this club.’

  I just burst out laughing. This was one battle I knew I wasn’t going to win.

  ‘Pass us the HP will you, Stan …’ I asked, once I’d helped myself to an egg and bacon doorstop and drawn up a seat opposite him.

  At Dean Court that afternoon, with their stomachs lined with ketchup and bacon fat, the Burnley lads played out of their skins and beat Bournemouth 2–1.

  ‘You know where you can stick your FA diet sheets, don’t you?’ snorted Stan as we filed into the dressing room, and I made a mental note to never get above my station at Burnley FC.

  The manager and I only ever had one major run-in, but when it came it was a humdinger. And it involved the visit of Manchester City to Turf Moor in March 1999.

  City had undergone a huge shift in personnel over the previous year or so, with Francis Lee being unseated by a new chairman, David Bernstein, and Frank Clark being replaced by Joe Royle. Unable to avoid relegation to Division Two in May 1998 – he’d arrived too late in the day to halt the decline – Big Joe set about reinforcing and revitalising the side, drafting in grafters like Andy Morrison and Danny Tiatto, the strategy being to get out of this purgatory as quickly as possible. By the following spring, his plans were well on track, and City remained unbeaten in the league throughout January and February.

  In contrast, Burnley were having a dreadful start to the new year, the low point being a 5–0 thrashing at home by Gillingham. Stan, unsurprisingly, was like a bear with a sore head. Not only was there talk of his job being under threat, his next league opponents – my former club – had hit a rich vein of form.

  On the morning of the game, once training had finished, he called me into his office.

  ‘You know how important this match is tonight, don’t you?’ he said, drumming his fingers on his desk.

  ‘Course I do.’

  ‘My bloody job might be on the line if we lose this one.’

  ‘I’m sure the boys will raise their game for you, Gaffer …’

  ‘Now, the thing is, Lakey, I know you’re a City fan. I know how much that club means to you. But you work for Burnley now. So just think on …’

  ‘I get the message, Stan.’

  ‘I hope you do, because if I see you acknowledging the City fans, I’ll knock you out.’

  There’s no answer to that, as the great Eric Morecambe once said.

  City came, scored and conquered. The irrepressible Shaun Goater ran rings around the Clarets, and the visitors found themselves 3–0 up after half an hour. It took all my self-control not to leap up when the Blues hit the back of the net but, mindful of Stan’s eyes lasering into my head, and out of respect for the Burnley lads, I sat on my hands, bit my tongue and watched on impassively as the goals rained in.

  It took some time for the City fans to twig that I was the opposing physio. I’d slipped away from Maine Road quietly and without fuss – few people knew that I’d left for Turf Moor – and it was only when I jogged onto the pitch to treat Burnley centre half Neil Moore, who’d collapsed in front of the away end, that I was rumbled. Once one supporter recognised me, the news spread through the stand like a domino rally, and the banter came thick and fast.

  ‘Look who it is! It’s only f***in’ Lakey!’

  ‘Oi, what you doin’ working for this bag of shite?’

  ‘Get yer kit on, mate, we need a fourth …’

  I tried hard to stay calm and collected, ignoring all the comments from the stands as I strapped up Neil’s knee and beckoned for the stretcher. However, as I walked around the pitch perimeter, only yards away from a sea of sky blue shirts and scarves, my resolve crumbled.

  ‘Lakey, Lakey give us a wave, Lakey, give us a wave,’ the City faithful sang gleefully. How could I not acknowledge them, for chrissakes? I adored these fans. So I acquiesced to their request and gave them a wave – a little covert one, like Mr Bean – which was met with thunderous applause.

  I realised my grave mistake within a millisecond of raising my hand. Over in the dugout I could see an enraged gaffer angrily gesturing towards me and bouncing off the Perspex canopy, like a bluebottle battering itself against a kitchen window.

  ‘What did I f***in’ say to you this morning?’ he spat as I sheepishly returned to my seat.

  The game ended in a 6–0 whitewash, with ‘The Goat’ grabbing a hat-trick as a chant of ‘your best player is your physio’ rose up from the away end.

  Stan didn’t utter a single word to me, or the rest of the players, for an entire week. I couldn’t blame him, to be honest. But he didn’t lose his job, and I didn’t get my lights punched out, so it could have been much worse.

  The next time I watched Manchester City was on a pub TV screen. In May 1999, having missed out on automatic promotion to Fulham and Walsall, the Blues found themselves up against Gillingham in the Wembley final of the Division One play-offs. It was, by far, one of the most surreal games I’d ever seen.

  With five minutes to go City were trailing 2–0 and, like the thousands of travelling supporters, I felt utterly dejected as I watched our promotion hopes go down the pan. Many Blues were so disconsolate that they left the stadium early, unable to stomach defeat by the Gills. I was in two minds whether to slide off myself, but a little masochistic voice in my head told me to stay the distance.

  I’m so pleased I did, because the next hour saw Joe Royle’s men stage one of the most amazing football fightbacks in the club’s history. Kevin Horlock pulled a goal back in the dying seconds of the game, only for
Paul Dickov to equalise four minutes into injury time, rifling the ball into the top corner. A fruitless period of extra time led to a torturous penalty shoot-out. The Blues held it together, thankfully, and emerged as 3–1 victors, my old pal Richard Edghill showing nerves of steel by calmly slotting his effort home. The scenes that followed – at Wembley, as well as my local pub – were of total delirium.

  With my whoops of delight, however, came pangs of envy. Appearing at Wembley in a Manchester City shirt would have been the ultimate honour for a home-grown player like me, and this do-or-die final, packed with so much excitement and incident, would have been tailor-made for my game. Running out of the tunnel as a fit and healthy 30-year-old, I’d have probably been at my professional peak, in the prime of my career, playing the best football of my life.

  Feeling sorry for myself, I opened a bag of Scampi Fries and downed another pint, wishing that I was on a pitch in north London, not a pub in south Manchester.

  I felt similarly down-in-the-mouth six months later, not long after the turn of the Millennium, when I was asked to appear on ITV’s Tonight with Trevor McDonald show. I took part in a football-themed edition titled ‘The Arthritis XI’, which focused on the physical after-effects suffered by such former players as Tommy Smith, Ian Hutchinson, Peter Osgood, Kevin Beattie and Allan Clarke. As I cast my eye around the TV studio I realised I was by far the youngest there, with most participants well into their 50s. Comparing creaking knees and dodgy backs with blokes who were two decades my senior wasn’t the best feeling in the world.

  Whilst all ex-footballers tend to experience some degree of wear-and-tear later in life, this group of old pros had found themselves suffering more than most. The programme alleged that some players had been the victims of slipshod medical practices, and had borne the brunt of poor surgery and shoddy rehabilitation, many having their careers curtailed as a result. It went on to examine the amateurish aftercare that had prevailed unchallenged at clubs throughout the years.

  I did a piece to camera about the numerous medical procedures that I’d undergone at a relatively tender age, all to no avail. I outlined the hardships of being a 30-something arthritis-sufferer, and also raised concerns about the amount of pre-op anaesthetic that I’d had to consume (inhaling all those toxins can’t have been good for me).

  The other stories disclosed that day, some on-camera, some off-camera, were jaw-dropping. I heard accounts of non-medical staff injecting players with cortisone simply to get them onto the pitch anyhow; of lads being fed cocktails of painkillers to ensure that they made the team sheet on a Saturday afternoon; and of players with broken legs being roughly dragged onto stretchers as if they were carcasses. Anecdotes were swapped about the inexperienced (and occasionally reckless) bucket-and-sponge men who dealt with injuries in the 1960s and 70s. These fellas – usually members of the coaching staff who’d once been sent on a first aid course – were charged with match-day medical duties and tasked with caring for footballers worth hundreds of thousands of pounds. Back then, nobody bothered to question the fact that these designated ‘trainers’ probably knew more about tactics than tendons. It was scandalous, really.

  Fortunately, such archaic practices were outlawed in the mid-1990s, when the FA and the PFA intervened to raise and regulate standards of medical treatment. As a result, it became mandatory for all Premier League physios to be Chartered (in possession of a physiotherapy degree) and obligatory for every club doctor to have a recognised sporting qualification. This influx of qualified practitioners coincided with huge scientific and medical advances that allowed professional footballers a much improved quality of care. It’s just a shame that this breakthrough came too late in the day for Osgood, Clarke, Smith and the rest of the Arthritis Allstars.

  It was with some reluctance that I left Burnley FC after just one season. I was finding it impossible to juggle my day job with my evening studies and, for the sake of my future career path, university had to take precedence. There were no hard feelings between Stan and I (he totally understood my predicament) and I was pleased that we were able to part on good terms. I’d thoroughly enjoyed my year at Turf Moor – the change of scenery had come at a good time – and I appreciated the opportunity that I’d been given. But the time had come to focus on my studies.

  Founded and funded by the PFA, the Chartered Physiotherapy course at Salford University was geared towards training up retired footballers to become Premiership-level physios. The game’s authorities, it seemed, were aware that some NHS-trained professionals were getting eaten alive in this most demanding of arenas, and that a new breed of physio with a solid football background was required if standards were to be upheld. They needed lads who knew what made this unique little industry tick, and who knew exactly what it took to make the grade.

  The class of ’98 included ex-pros such as Everton’s Gary Stevens and Tranmere Rovers’ Chris Malkin, as well as some lesser-known players, like Andy Barr and Matt Radcliffe (Altrincham and Bury respectively). There was even a former actor among us, a scouser called Neil Davies who, after leaving Lincoln City, had bagged the part of Robbie Moffat in Brookside. The camaraderie among this close-knit band of brothers was fantastic. Sitting in the campus coffee bar before a lecture was like sitting in the dressing rooms of old, as we’d share stories, swap banter and support each other through what was an extremely demanding degree course.

  A large part of our curriculum comprised hands-on hospital placements. Since everyone on the PFA degree was planning a career in football, not the NHS, many tended to view the six-week blocks in respiratory or neurology wards as a bit of an inconvenience (‘I want a job at Leeds United, not Leeds bloody General,’ being the common consensus). Only the orthopaedic placements – the closest thing to being a sports physio – aroused much enthusiasm.

  Though some elements of my NHS training were boringly repetitive (the amount of paperwork was ridiculous), I found other areas enriching. Treating so many brave patients – people who suffered severe head injuries or serious strokes – hammered it home to me how talented the NHS physios were, how trifling my own problems were in comparison, and how trivial the cosseted world of football could be. That said, having paced up and down hundreds of male wards in Manchester, I can vouch for the fact that the main topic of conversation was, nine times out of ten, City or United related.

  Sometimes I’d get recognised by Blues’ fans who, until my name badge gave the game away, would scrutinise me with a ‘don’t I know you from somewhere?’ expression on their faces. The following day, these same patients would often produce an old match programme (or a leg plaster) for me to sign before their morning constitutional. I didn’t mind, of course; it was nice to still be remembered.

  As it happened, it wasn’t too long before I found myself back working in football. This was due in part to a conversation I had with David Pleat at a sportsman’s dinner. We harked back to the good old days – in the late 1980s, when managing Leicester, he’d been quoted as saying he’d have signed me up if he had a spare million – and also got chatting about my fledgling physio career. Having spent years at football’s sharp end, he offered me some valuable advice.

  ‘The best physios I’ve seen are those lads who’ve worked their way up the divisions,’ he said. ‘Gives you the best grounding. When you learn how to manage on a shoestring, you can cope with anything.’

  With those wise words ringing in my ears, I decided to make a start with the football Conference and accepted a part-time job with Altrincham FC. Working at a cash-strapped semi-pro club, I learned how to budget and economise, snipping tubes of Deep Heat in half to extract every last globule, and buying re-usable bandages and ankle strappings.

  The general manager, Graham Heathcote, was a multitasking workaholic who oversaw everything from PR to personnel, from scouting to accounting. Graham was supremely organised, especially when it came to the business of recruiting players on loan, a common practice among semi-pro clubs and often the only way for them to
remain solvent. By forging fruitful relationships with lower league clubs like Stockport County and Wigan Athletic, Graham ensured that a steady stream of promising youth teamers or out-of-favour reserves passed through Moss Lane.

  I spent a full season with Altrincham before climbing another rung of the career ladder. I got a job with Oldham Athletic, joining forces with head physio Paul Caton (younger brother of the late Tommy Caton, City’s celebrated centre-half) and the newly installed boss, Iain Dowie. An astute tactician and a fantastic man-manager, Dowie impressed me greatly. He realised that the only way a hard-up club like Oldham could compete with the bigger, wealthier clubs was by fielding a side bristling with tenacity and team spirit. With this in mind, he set about breeding a culture of invincibility, convincing the players that they could beat anybody, especially on their home turf.

  ‘Make Boundary Park a fortress,’ he’d bark at his charges, telling them to take full advantage of its inhospitable location. Perched atop the Pennines, this bleak, windswept stadium – one of the highest professional football grounds in the country – was the nemesis of many away teams, especially those travelling from balmier southern climes.

  With the manager’s plans and tactics coming to fruition, and with influential pros like Darren Sheridan and David Eyres buying into his philosophy, Dowie’s team propelled themselves up the division. However, just as things were perking up on the pitch, Oldham hit financial problems. Being forced to flog the best players in his squad, and being prevented from buying any replacements was a bridge too far for this highly principled man and, much to the dismay of the Latics fans, he left Boundary Park in December 2003 to take the top job at Crystal Palace.

  A few weeks beforehand, I’d also decided to head for the exit door. The club’s cost-cutting measures were going into overdrive and, as the newest member of staff, I reckoned I was ripe for the chop. So I jumped before I was pushed, landing a more stable job as first-team physio at Macclesfield Town. Going for security, albeit in a lower league, was definitely the sensible option, especially since I’d recently got married again.