The day that did eventually happen was a strange one. We had won away at Blackpool on the Saturday before, it was the last game of the season and the Hull City faithful had sung my name after a decent performance as left wing-back. This was a rare good performance, rare because it is not a position I play most comfortably in. I reckon that if I had played in midfield at Hull City, I could have had a decent future there, but for now I was still seen as a striker, and as such, hadn’t done the business. End of story.
I entered the office and the manager gave me the news of my transfer. Considering my performance over the season, I couldn’t argue with the decision, but I was nevertheless still shocked. In those days, being given a free transfer had a bit of a stigma attached to it. Dolan was laughing nervously, and the words that came out of his mouth didn’t match his demeanour.
‘I’m going to be letting you go, Chris.’
I said it was no problem and that I understood I hadn’t done it for him. I then got up and said, ‘All the best then.’
However, he carried on, obviously feeling he had to justify his decision, ‘It’s just the lack of goals, and the money you’re on.’
Again, I said, ‘No problem.’
I just wanted to get out of there. I was actually very upset and embarrassed, but didn’t want to show it, especially as I still had to face the lads and say my goodbyes. Jeff mumbled something like, ‘If there is anything I can do, just let me know.’
There was – fuck off mate. If he’d tried treating me like that again in a few years, the outcome would have been very different.
Despite my anger at Jeff, I felt guilty that the faith and money the club had invested in me had not been rewarded. Because of this, I wrote a letter to the then chairman, saying that very thing. He was a good man who knew I had given one hundred per cent, but had had the luck of a blind, one-legged dog. I got a great letter back from him saying not to worry about it, and wishing me all the best.
I returned to my house in Beverley that day, thoroughly pissed off for having failed to do myself justice. Pretty much everyone agreed with this assessment – the next day’s papers basically said ‘Hargreaves has been crap; it was a fiasco signing him, and now he is off’ or words to that effect – the sports writer was a guy called Colin Young, who now writes for the Daily Mail. Although he wasn’t a bad lad, and his assessment of my time at Hull City was spot on, it still hurt to see it in print. I just hope he thinks more of my writing than my football.
That afternoon it got even worse. My phone rang. (It went to answer phone as I was in no mood for picking it up.) I picked up the message and it was the North Ferriby United manager saying that he had spoken to Terry Dolan, who had said that I might be in need of a club. I bet he had. Thanks for that, Terry. Yes, I would love to play for a team in the non-league, thanks for that glowing recommendation. While you’re at it, why don’t you put your name forward for the manager’s job at the same time?
I phoned my mum and dad to break the news about Hull City; they were obviously gutted for me, as was Fiona. I was more upset for them though, once again feeling as if I had let them all down. The next day, as I was returning from a therapeutic thrashing of Chatty on the tennis court, the phone was ringing again. Who was it going to be this time? The Beverley Arms FC manager? The Dog and Duck chairman? I left it to go to the answer phone, unwilling to receive the news first hand. I picked up the message, and what a message it was!
For all the problems I had had with Alan Buckley, this phone call couldn’t have come at a better time for me. The message was left by Arthur Mann, still Buckley’s loyal friend and assistant, now at West Bromwich Albion. Buckley’s successful exploits at Grimsby Town had not gone unnoticed either by other clubs or their chairmen, and West Bromwich Albion had secured his services. The message went something like this, ‘Chrissy boy, it’s Arthur. The gaffer spotted that you had been released and could not believe it, and neither could I, son. Give me or the gaffer a ring as soon as you can, as we are interested.’
I felt like crying.
Arthur was a proper gentleman; he had always treated me really well. As I have said, I sometimes thought he could have stuck up for me a bit more with old Bucko, but he was extremely loyal to his mate, who was also his boss, so that was fair enough. Arthur taught me a lot, not only about football but about life, and about being a good person. On Buckley’s second return to Grimsby, Arthur politely rejected the role as Buckley’s assistant. I honestly think he was fed up with the constant pressures of football, so instead he took up a job as a forklift driver. Soon after taking up his new post he had a terrible accident, resulting in his death. He left behind his lovely wife Sandra, two sons, including Neil, a good footballer and great lad whom I played with at both Hull City and Grimsby Town, and his daughter, Georgina. A terrible end for such a great man, and a tragic loss.
1995/96
I didn’t need a second invitation to drive to West Bromwich Albion football club. The Hull Daily Mail, the same paper that had given me a bit of a battering on the back of my release from Hull City, was now reporting the news that I was signing for the Baggies, a big club in the league above Hull City, and with a huge ambition to return to the top flight as quickly as possible.
I know Jeff Lee, for one, would have definitely choked on his Coco Pops while reading the paper that morning. I should have phoned him and told him to pick his chin up off the table and take another couple of Valium, or whatever he was on at the time.
I got another call from the manager of North Ferriby asking me if I was interested in signing for them. This time I had no need to let the answer phone filter my calls.
‘Hi, yes, thanks for the interest and the “kind” recommendation from Terry, but I think I’m going to be signing for West Brom.’
His reply: ‘Oh Chris! I think that would be a good decision.’
It was an amazing twist of fate; once again, by sheer coincidence, I would be following my childhood sweetheart Fiona, this time to Birmingham.
For all the grief that Buckley had previously put me through, he had now given me an escape route for which I was extremely grateful. If I played for Alan now, or, in fact, anytime after 1996, I’m sure he would be delighted to have me. I would run through brick walls for most of my managers, and vice versa, but while I still had that rebellious streak in me, Buckley and I just clashed, and would again at West Bromwich Albion.
I’m not sure whether he felt sorry for me, seeing that I had been released, felt guilty about the harsh way he had treated me at Grimsby Town, or did, in fact, think I had talent. Whatever his reason for signing me, his Hargreaves bashing tendencies would return. But for now, I was driving to a big city delighted that I might be signing for a massive club, West Bromwich Albion.
To sum up my time at the Baggies is easy: it was short.
The journey down to Birmingham was filled with both excitement and apprehension – excitement that I might be on the verge of joining a big club, and apprehension that I would be reunited with Mr Buckley. Still, I was just happy to be getting away from Hull.
Fiona and I drove through Handsworth on our way to meet Alan and Arthur, and West Bromwich Albion’s imposing ground was soon upon us. My reaction was, ‘Wow, this is a big club!’
We entered the ground and soon were both sat down in Alan’s office. Fiona came with me as she knew Alan from my Grimsby Town days, but it didn’t stop me feeling like I did back at Grimsby Town, nervously sat in the headmaster’s office! …
Buckley began: ‘Young Christian! How are you, and what went on earth went on at Hull? Me and Arthur thought that you would set that place on fire!’
So did I, was my reply. He went on to say that I would be the replacement for a striker he was letting go, and that this was a chance to start learning the game again. There was no doubt the second statement was the truth.
I signed a two-year deal that day, and I was absolutely bloody delighted. With the benefit of hindsight, the move down to Birmingham shou
ld have been made easier for me, but at that stage I was just happy to be at such a big club. You see, the only thing that the club, or Alan Buckley, did to help me with accommodation was to provide one night in a hotel. Really, we should have had a little bit of relocation money, or at least have been given a couple of weeks in a hotel to look around and get ourselves sorted. However, at this stage I just accepted anything. Luckily for us, a friend of Fiona’s from back home, Deborah Thompson, was also studying in Birmingham, and had a house in Retreat Road, so we gladly accepted her offer of crashing there for a few nights/weeks.
It was also through Debs that I met a group of lads who would really show me the ropes in Birmingham. Paul Lawes, Wayne Gidden and Andy Boo were certainly well versed on the finer parts of the social scene; they seemed to be on the guest list of every bar and club in town. Wayne was a fantastic singer, first with the band ‘And Why Not?’ and then as a solo artist, and Paul was his manager. Andy was a roadie for bands such as UB40, the Bootleg Beatles and Joe Strummer. We had a great time in Birmingham, seeing it grow into a real cultural city, enjoying many balmy nights sat outside the famous Ronnie Scott’s or the Rep bar along the way. Once again, the nights out would become too frequent. They say ‘never go into business with friends’, and that sentiment rings true from my days in Birmingham. I was later to invest in Wayne’s career, a move that saw our friendship, as well as our finances, strained.
Fiona and I eventually found a place to rent, a small terrace house in Smethwick, which was close enough to the city centre, an OK area, and also a stone’s throw from the football ground. We should have bought a house at this point, as over the years we have spent far too long in, and wasted far too much money on, rented accommodation.
On the field, first team opportunities were very limited, but I was training day in, day out, with good players. As I was still a striker, the competition for places was tremendous. I always find it frustrating looking back, as I’m sure that if I had played in midfield then, as I have for most of my subsequent career, there would have been a lot more appearances for me in a West Bromwich Albion shirt. As a player on the sidelines at a big club there are two choices, stay on your decent wage and contract but never play, or sacrifice the level you’re at, to play week in week out at a smaller club. Again, there is no right or wrong answer. If you have a desire to play football every Saturday afternoon you will make the move, if you don’t, and we see lots of players doing it, you will warm the bench for a few years.
Personally, I found it almost impossible to train all week and then have to watch the lads on a Saturday afternoon.
While writing this book, I have looked through lots of snippets and programmes, and one set of programme notes from West Bromwich Albion was very interesting. It was the stats page of the club’s reserve team. In the space of eight weeks, I had scored against six Premier League clubs, including Liverpool and Man United. Some of these games would be attended by a few thousand fans, and it was a good way of showing you could do well, in order to get into the first team. Despite my efforts and successes in training and in the reserve team, my experiences at Grimsby Town would soon be revisited. I couldn’t buy a game in the first team for love nor money.
I would go in to the changing room the morning after these reserve team games and the lads who were in the first team at the time would just laugh. Kevin Donovan, a talented right-winger, used to shake his head and say, ‘You scored again! Chris, you are on fire, any danger of him playing you or what?’
Even a fan, watching at a reserve game with his son, came up to me afterwards and asked, ‘Are you ever going to play in the first team, son? Have you shagged the manager’s wife or something?’
The answers were no and no. Apart from a few substitute appearances, and a trip to play in the Anglo-Italian Cup in Brescia, I was seriously on the sidelines at the ‘Baggies’, and as for Mrs Buckley … no.
Again, my rashness and impatience cost me dearly. I could have stayed there on decent enough wages and sat it out, but that just wasn’t me. Ironically enough, Alan Buckley got the sack soon after I left, so maybe I would have played in the end. At the time, however, I felt that I was never going to get a look in. The club had some great strikers, Bob Taylor, Andy Hunt and former Grimsby striker Tony Rees, to name but a few, so it was always going to be tough. When I added to this that once again the manager seemed to be on a mission to break me, playing anywhere was more important than not playing at all.
There were a few classic instances of old Bucko’s temper tantrums. One such flare-up happened at Millwall. I was on the bench, we were well in the game and it looked as though it would end a draw but Paul ‘Eddie’ Edwards, a Scouser who could dig himself a hole with the best of them, made a mistake at the death and Millwall nicked the game 1–0. Buckley came in and started his trademark rant, screaming at the top of his voice, with his face changing colour from red to very, very red, within seconds. Eddie came in for some hellish abuse, as did a few of the lads. He just made things worse by continually saying in his Scouse accent, ‘Err sorry boss, I thought …’ to which Bucko would shout, ‘I don’t pay you to fucking think.’
After about twenty-five minutes of ranting he paused and turned to me, an unused sub, and shouted, ‘And when are you going to get your fucking hair cut?’
It was a random shout and I think it was just a show of dominance to the rest of the lads, but it was totally uncalled for, unnecessary and very bizarre. My answer (which I chose, very wisely, to keep to myself) was, ‘I’m not; it’s going to be like this for the next fifteen years, mate, now get off your high horse and put your dummy back in.’
You swiftly learnt to stay out of his way after defeats. Unfortunately, after one such game, the West Bromwich Albion physio tried too hard to stay out of the way. Again, it was a late defeat, and again, there was a whirlwind waiting to happen, so the physio hid behind the door hoping to avoid any backlash. Buckley came charging into the changing room and nearly kicked the door off its hinges. Behind it was our physio in a heap, with a bleeding head. A couple of stitches and a lesson learnt there.
As a coach, Buckley could put on great sessions, and did improve lots of players but, unfortunately, he also destroyed lots of players over the years, by wrecking their confidence.
That may sound a bit defeatist, in that you have to show a bit of character as a player and dig in. Anyone who has known me over the years, on and off the pitch, will know that as a player and as a person, I have done my fair share of digging in. The problem with Bucko was that once he had ‘lost’ a player, he had truly lost him; his management skills did not stretch so far as building bridges. Ultimately, as the game and players’ attitudes moved on, I don’t think his did. Maybe if he had been able to change the way he handled players, he would still be a successful manager.
As a player, Alan Buckley knew were the goal was, but he was also a player who had never quite made it to the top. As a striker for Walsall he was prolific, breaking a few records in the process, but at Nottingham Forest he didn’t quite reach those heights. I don’t know if that is what gave him his fire, but his most furious outbursts were always directed towards front players. It was often the case with managers who had played in a certain position when younger – they focused on players in that position now. For him, strikers always came in for the most scrutiny.
Petty as it may seem, the hair issue had clearly become a problem. It became a symbol of the conflict between Buckley and me. Maybe I should have got it cut, but at that stage in my life it felt right for me. It was as if I had given myself a new identity along with my move to West Bromwich Albion, and it had no effect on my performance either, which was the main point. I was staying behind after every session to do extra training, whether it was shooting practice or fitness work, and I was at the gym every afternoon lifting weights. I had my own little routine and I grew my hair to give myself a new angle – I don’t know, I suppose it was me wanting to be different. At one point, Buckley even shouted at me i
n the club corridor after training. He was belittling me in front of the lads.
‘If you don’t get your hair cut that’s it, I’m fining you a week’s wages.’
I did get it cut, but only a few centimetres off the length mind you. My hair would remain.
I got on really well with all of the players at the club, players like Daryl Burgess, who was later to became a close friend, Andy Hunt, a prolific striker with a student’s attitude to life (I mean no offence, just that he appreciated chilling out, having the odd cigarette, and nipping down to the student union), Kevin Donovan, a tricky winger and a really funny lad, and Stacy Coldicott, a local boy made good, fitness fanatic and, again, a great character.
As with most squads we also had an older set, players such as Bob Taylor, Mike Phelan, Paul Peschisolido and Richard Sneekes; players who had seen it, done it and got the T-shirt. Bob was, and is, a Baggies legend, but that guy could walk under a black cloud with the best of them. If he hadn’t scored for forty-five minutes he would suffer from mild depression. I could have tried reminding him, ‘Come on Bob, you have a lovely house, the fans love you, and you’re on the most money at the club.’ But it would have been to no avail; he would have found a reason to remain down.
We also had an influx of the Grimsby Town old boys. Former captain Shaun Cunnington signed from Sunderland, along with Paul Agnew, Dave Gilbert, my old mucker Paul Reece and the Welsh wizard Tony Rees, to name but a few. In the end there were fourteen ex-Grimsby Town players or staff there. Understandably, Buckley wanted people he could trust, he knew and who had done well for him, hence bringing in almost the entire Grimsby Town squad. However, ultimately the Baggies fans tired of this, and in the end it was a hugely influential factor in Alan’s undoing. More on this, later.
Where's Your Caravan? Page 10