Training at the football club was similar to that at Grimsby Town; Buckley had his way and it had, over the years and in the main, been very successful. The difference at West Bromwich Albion was that players such as Bob Taylor, Andy Hunt, Richard Sneekes and Mike Phelan were not going to take the same sort of shit that the lads at Grimsby Town had. These players had been successful at a good level, and, although they still showed the respect and professionalism required, were not going to be screamed at face to face, or do back-to-back twelve minute runs on a Sunday.
For anyone who hasn’t done or heard of a twelve-minute run, it is basically a classic football fitness run – a case of running as fast as you can, usually around a pitch, for twelve minutes. It doesn’t exactly sound hard, but believe me, with a squad of twenty-two very fit players, the pace is fast. Add to that Buckley’s demanding all players get in nine laps, and it wasn’t a jog.
I am fortunate to have been a pretty fit lad throughout my career but, of course, it still hurt like hell. While setting off on a running session at Northampton Town, John Hodge, a skilful, if a trifle overweight (sorry Hodgie, I couldn’t resist it) winger, said to me, ‘It’s easy for you, you’re always at the front.’
I laughed and said, while still panting away myself, ‘It fucking hurts twice as bad at the front mate, you should try it sometime.’
Back to the 95/96 season, and Alan Buckley. The worst days were when we were made to do back-to-back twelve minute runs, either as a punishment for a recent loss, or for someone not going fast enough on the first one. Even Arthur Mann sent us on a run one day, but this time it was my fault. He had put on a session for the apprentices, where the defending players would line up on the eighteen-yard box and clear balls sent in by players on the halfway line. It was a very windy day, and the balls had gone absolutely everywhere. At the end of the session I joked to Arthur, ‘Good idea that, Arthur – we will have to collect the balls for the rest of the day!’
I didn’t expect that reaction at all. To say he exploded would actually be an understatement. I had utterly unintentionally put this normally mild mannered Scotsman in a total rage. Put it this way, we were all soon heading away from the training ground in the van, destination unknown. Someone asked Arthur why training had finished, and where we were going. His answer still makes me laugh today, and I’m sure it would him, God rest his soul. Arthur shouted at the top of his voice, ‘You’re all going to run your bollocks off, ’cos of that cunt in the back of the van.’
Boy, he was mad. All the lads stayed quiet, no more questions asked.
We got out of the van and Arthur shouted, ‘Right, now get running back to the ground, and you had better feckin get there in twenty minutes.’
We were near the Fitties, a local caravan site for holidaymakers, and it was a twenty-five minute run at a sprint.
I just said sorry to the lads, then set off at full pelt, after telling them I’d explain back at the ground. I got back in nineteen minutes flat, and Arthur was there waiting. I walked up to him and said, ‘I’m sorry Arthur. I honestly didn’t mean to—’
He stopped me talking mid-sentence, put his arm on my shoulder and said, ‘You did that run in nineteen minutes, and that’s why you’re going to make it in the game, my son, because you’ve got heart.’
Nothing else was said.
As I type these words I am actually welling up (which is rare as my wife says I have an iron heart and never show any emotion). Thinking about that time in my life and of Arthur has certainly stirred up plenty of emotion for me. When the rest of the lads arrived back I apologised to them as well, but they didn’t really mind. They found Arthur’s reaction hilarious when I told them what I had said to him to prompt it. He was a great man. I had made a harmless comment, but I can see now how it might have hit a raw nerve, especially coming from a cocky sod like me. If you are up there Arthur, sorry again, but it was a very windy day.
So while the manager’s old school ways were becoming a problem for some of the players, the second issue at the club was of bigger concern, certainly for the fans anyway. In the end it would go on to be a huge contributing factor in his dismissal. With his success at Grimsby Town had come a reliance on the players that were there then, ones that had done the business for him. To get them all at West Bromwich Albion was impossible, but to get a few of them was more than achievable. As I have said, fourteen players ended up making the move to West Bromwich Albion from Grimsby. Unfortunately, many of these players, whom I’m sure were delighted to be joining West Bromwich Albion, were either coming to the end of their careers, had suffered bad injuries, or just couldn’t manage to find their previous form. This meant problems lay ahead. Our old captain at Grimsby Town, Shaun Cunnington, was the prime example. Brought in for a decent fee, and on a bloody good wage, he had suffered some bad injuries to his ankle, and as much as he tried would always break down. He couldn’t go more than a game or so without suffering a recurrence of his ankle injury, or getting a new injury altogether. Along with Shaun came the likes of Dave Gilbert, Paul Agnew and Tony Rees, all good players, whom I don’t blame Buckley for getting. But for the Baggies faithful these relatively unknown players neither satisfied the club’s ambition, nor calmed their impatience for Buckley to achieve. Success just didn’t happen quickly enough.
The bollockings from Buckley were getting more regular, but less effective. I’m not saying that this meant a lack of respect. I, like all the lads, respected the gaffer and, of course, still valued his opinions and advice on football, but it was just the manner of his rants. We started to ignore them.
Aside from a good trip to Italy, for the game against Brescia, my time spent with the first team was minimal. This trip was also the first time I had encountered the word ‘core’, at least when it came to fitness training.
My roommate was a lad called Stacy Coldicott, a young combative midfielder who was as fit as a fiddle. After the game against Brescia we had nipped out for a beer, albeit a quick one, as the locals were far from accommodating. I was woken very early the next morning to some sort of grunting noises (and no it’s not what you might think, Stacy hadn’t had the fortune of meeting a signorina the night before). I turned over expecting to see Stacy in the opposite bed, but there was no sign of him. I shouted to him, thinking he might be in the bathroom, and I heard, ‘I’m down here mate.’
I looked down, and saw him on the floor between the two beds. He was balancing on his elbows doing the ‘plank’, at six in the morning.
‘What the fuck are you doing down there, you weirdo?’ I asked.
‘Core mate, core yeah.’
When he signed for Grimsby Town on Buckley’s return to that club a few years later (there is a theme emerging here), rumour has it Stacy went swimming for two hours every morning before training – in the swimming pool that is, as takes thirty minutes to walk to the sea in Cleethorpes, and, if you did happen to brave the waters, you would be advised to take some antibiotics afterward.
Still in 95/96, and remaining at West Bromwich Albion, there were a few more bollockings for me. These were after reserve team games, or sometimes after first team games in which I had not even played.
He was mumbling something to himself after a practice game. I hadn’t heard him, and as it was an incredibly hot day I was quickly walking over with some of the lads to get a drink before the next session. Over he strode screaming at me, not any of the others with me, ‘Who the hell told you to get a drink? Who do you think you are?’
I had no reply. I don’t think I had any fight in me with him any more, but someone else did, and he was not about to back down. Richard Sneekes, a popular Baggies midfielder and Dutch international replied for me.
‘He is getting a fucking drink, the same as me, we are not animals, we need to eat and drink.’
Total silence followed; all the lads knew he was right and Bucko was not about to challenge a character like Rich, so he let it go. Rich had been at Ajax, and had seen some great training facilities a
nd fitness set-ups, so he clearly wouldn’t stand for any shit. However, Buckley was probably seething inside, and undoubtedly annoyed at my involvement.
As at many clubs, the lads got on really well. At every club great friendships are made and close bonds created. In some cases bonds form between lads who aren’t playing and who are disgruntled with the manager, as well as those between lads who are playing and are more than happy.
While I got on well with all the lads on the team, it is worth mentioning a couple in particular. Mike Phelan, who had previously played at Man United, was on good money, was also not playing, and was certainly not prepared to take any abuse from Buckley. I always enjoyed our early morning chats. We had an arrangement that I would bring in a paper in the morning, in return for a few stories from his time at Man United. He had some great tales from those days, from both on and off the field. To be fair to old Mickey Phelan, he hasn’t done too badly since has he? Please feel free to call me Mickey, or have you lost my number?
Another lad out of the team, Tony O’Brien, was a natural comic; in fact, if he isn’t a stand up comedian by now, I would be both very surprised, and very disappointed, as the public really need to see him in action. A few of us had our own Christmas party, as the club’s official party had been cancelled because of recent results being poor. As the likes of Tony, Mickey and I hadn’t even played, it seemed wrong not to get into the Christmas spirit. We were joined by Paul Reece, who had become the official club comic at the Baggies. He started every day rushing into the changing room toilet and shouting, ‘Exorcism!’
‘Leave me, leave me nowwww’ could be heard ringing around the ground. I’ll leave the rest to your imagination.
With my situation at the club worsening, and with my newfound friends in Birmingham constantly on the phone asking me if I wanted to pop out, the temptation to join them was always there. As well as my ‘Birmingham three’ (Paul, Wayne and Andy), my old mate Paul Reece was around. He wasn’t exactly shy of a good time, although he now lived in Nottingham, making regular nights out difficult. The times we did go out were always full on, to say the least.
I sometimes make it sound like I was out every other night – I wasn’t. Believe me, you cannot sustain a football career for long if you are out drinking constantly; I highlight the nights out and mistakes as a lesson of how not to do it. The majority of the time I was sat at home relaxing on the sofa watching Emmerdale, and then retiring early for the next morning’s training.
Fiona and her sister had gone to Ibiza for a week and so, with the house being free, Reecy and I decided to go out on a few occasions for old times’ sake. Unfortunately, one of the nights out we chose was a Friday.
We were both in the squad for Saturday’s game, and although we both knew we wouldn’t actually play in the game, going out was definitely a bad move. In fact, it was a bloody stupid move.
The night progressed quickly and before long we had both had far too much to drink. We had ended up at a nightclub. Reecy had sloped off somewhere and I was heading back to a party with an old mate called Sam, whom I had bumped into that night. There were about six others, none of them friends of mine, and we ended up at a hotel on Broad Street. The drink was flying, and so were the drugs.
The next thing I remember is a girl in some sort of cat suit saying, ‘Come on, it’s your turn now’, while pointing at an industrial size line of cocaine on top of the TV. I had never touched cocaine, so I just gave it the big one saying, ‘No thanks, I’ve had enough already tonight. I’ll have this instead, and then I’m off.’
With that, I picked up a random bottle of vodka and pretty much slugged half of it down. Why, I don’t know, but I think it was the combination of wanting to act it up a bit, and to get the hell out of there. Before long the room started to spin, and it was time for me to exit the premises.
The rest of the night is hazy. I stumbled down the corridor and out onto the street, then nothing. The sound of a train whizzing past woke me in the end. Unbelievably, I was laid on a grass bank, in broad daylight. It was the morning and I had been lying there like a bloody tramp. I was in shock, I was on an embankment with one of the worst hangovers I have ever endured, and that was not the worst of it. I looked down and to my surprise, and horror, I had no shoes on, just a pair of socks that had been worn through on each toe, with ten little piggies looking up at me. I had either not been able to flag a taxi down due to my inebriated state, or, more likely, had stubbornly refused to admit defeat and had just started running home – something I had done many times to restore a balance when well and truly pissed. When I think about the route I took that night though, my body must have finally given up and stopped.
Worst of all I had no idea where I was, I had no money on me, and I had to be on the team coach in an hour.
Looking back, this was the last time, and only time, I have ever been so drunk as to be totally out of control. Suffice to say, I eventually got home, although it’s very difficult trying to flag a taxi down with no shoes and hardly any socks on. I rang Arthur, and as it mercifully clicked to answer phone I thought some sort of sorry excuse – the cat was ill (I didn’t have one) or that there had been an earthquake in Smethwick (that one did happen a few years later!). However, I just said I was really sick and that I couldn’t make it. I was completely disgusted with myself. I knew I would not have played, and I knew I wasn’t even going to be named as a substitute, but to go out on a Friday was bad enough. To go out, get utterly smashed, and to miss the coach was crazy.
I collapsed on the bed and slept for the rest of the day. On the Sunday, Fiona returned to a house of destruction. I had let everyone I knew crash there and party for a week! Beer bottles everywhere, and, unforgivably, used condoms (not mine I hasten to add) left in bedrooms – imagine trying to explain that one to your girl-friend. I might as well have had a loaded gun in my hand and no alibi and had Lieutenant Columbo looking at me saying, ‘Just one more thing.’
Fiona was absolutely livid, and I don’t blame her.
I did get my shoes back in the end, if you are wondering where they got to. A week or so later I popped out for a meal at a restaurant-cum-nightclub with Fiona and a couple of friends. The same guy who had been at the party manned the door at this place, and my shoes were pride of place on top of the reception desk. This amused one of our friends, who knew that I had well and truly scarpered the week before. Again a tough one to explain to Fiona who just looked at me and said, ‘Tell me they are not your shoes.’
I squirmed – ‘Erm … well it’s a long story but yes, they are.’
One pastime that didn’t involve drinking or football and was, later on, to improve me as a footballer and as a person, was my daily pilgrimage to Fitness First in Bearwood. It was a release to go there on an afternoon after training, either to run a few miles, or just to lift weights. It was something that I could control and see a benefit from. It became a mental thing, my daily thought would be ‘fitter and stronger and bigger’. From those first few days of going to the gym, thirteen or fourteen years ago to now, I can honestly say I have benefited in a huge way, both physically and mentally, from lifting weights. I know it’s not for everybody and I don’t recommend young players under twenty-one going and straining themselves doing bench press routines, because their bodies are still growing, but for me at that time it gave me a huge focus and the belief that I would get my career on track. Meeting Tony Ford a few months later would only reinforce that belief.
The final straw at West Bromwich Albion came when the team went on a trip to Ireland for a few games and a bit of team bonding. I was omitted, and told that I would be staying and training with the youth team lads. It was a bit heartless of the manager to leave just one player at home, and I don’t know why he did it. I was giving it my all while training and during games for the reserves. For me, it signalled the end. Strangely enough though, in his and the first team’s absence, I had a brilliant week. I rolled up to training, helped to coach the young lads, offering a
few words of advice and encouragement, and really enjoyed my football. And I was able to tie my hair back without fear of a monumental verbal assault.
When the team returned, I knocked on the manager’s door and asked him if I could go on loan somewhere to get some games. I knew a few clubs were interested in taking me on, and with Buckley’s agreement it was decided that I would go out to Hereford United, a side currently struggling fourth from bottom of the lowest division. I had been hounded by their chief scout for ages, and had spoken to the manager, the ex-boss of Wolverhampton Wanderers (Wolves), Graham Turner. He had done extremely well for Wolves on a tight budget, and had now ended up taking over at cash-strapped Hereford United. The thought of just playing a game of football was driving me on, and playing at Hereford United did not bother me at all. They had some decent players and characters there at the time, people like Keith Downing, ex-Wolves, Dave Norton, ex-Northampton, Steve White, a Hereford United legend and current top scorer, and Dean Smith. They were all still plying their trade at the club.
I arrived at Edgar Street and immediately thought, ‘Right, you had better roll your sleeves up here, sunshine.’
After a shaky start, I found my feet and started to make an impact. We rose up the league, I managed to bag a few important goals and, amazingly, we made the play-offs, an unbelievable feat considering where we were when I had joined at Christmas. Steve ‘Chalky’ White’s goals and our will to win were big factors in our push for promotion. The likes of Smith, Downing and Norton were experienced pros, and mixed with keen young players like Murray Fishlock, John Brough, Gareth Stoker and myself, we had a decent side.
It was incredible really, in a very short space of time we made up an unbelievable amount of ground on the leaders. We played a couple of teams near home towards the end of the season, sunny ‘Scunny’ being one of them. It was nice to be back near my old stomping ground, with my parents and friends in the crowd. It was 9th March and although we were still a fair way off the top on thirty-six points (Wigan Athletic held the last play-off spot, on forty-six points), I scored the winner against ‘Scunny’ that day, and, in the changing room after the game, we suddenly had the feeling that it could be done.
Where's Your Caravan? Page 11