Back on the field of play the ‘doomers’ were rapidly proven right. The team behind us, Brighton and Hove Albion (Brighton), were picking up points and clawing back the ten-point deficit. Before long, and after a penultimate game lost at Leyton Orient, we knew that our fate would be decided on the last game of the season, against, of all teams, Brighton. The stigma attached to relegation back then was huge, especially relegation to the Conference. The media was obviously on the side of Brighton, their history and glamour, against lowly Hereford United. The week leading up to that game was pure agony. It was a media frenzy and, with the public’s affection for Brighton growing daily, by the time the game kicked off every single TV company was there. Police horses and dogs separated the fans, helicopters circled overhead, and the ground was packed to the rafters.
The team we had out that day should have won, even with a few players missing. I would never blame anyone for not playing in that last game, such was the fear and pressure upon them, but some didn’t and that was their choice. A few of the lads were physically sick before the game, but with sun shining and helicopter noises above, the game soon kicked off. We started well, and after about twenty minutes we took the lead, a cross in to the box was cleared, I went up for a header and the ball dropped down to Tony Agana. He controlled it and fired us into the lead. The dream was on. But then came the moment that would stay with Hereford United and Brighton fans for years to come. Our keeper, Andy De Bont, struck a goal kick badly and in the space of a few seconds Robbie Reinelt was clear on goal. He dispatched the chance, and the Brighton supporters went crazy. The fairytale had happened, but for Brighton.
Brighton have certainly made the most of their survival since then though, what with Gus Poyet now in charge, another promotion on the horizon, and with a new stadium developed. That last day desperation for a victory is now a million miles away.
Minutes before the end, I played a ball over the top for Adrian Foster. I honestly thought he was going to smash it in and give us the victory, but the keeper saved his shot, the whistle was blown and we were down. Fans on the pitch, police dogs everywhere, and cries of ‘staying up’ from the Brighton supporters marked the end of the game.
The changing room was silent but for the sound of a few tears. Andy De Bont was inconsolable, Dave Norton, an experienced pro and good friend, was crying as were a fair few of the lads, and the manager was stood there motionless. I locked myself in the toilet and dropped my head in my hands. This was certainly not the outcome I had expected when I had signed.
We were relegated on goal difference, tied with Brighton on forty-six points. It was a surreal experience. I had never felt so much pressure on a football field and I never wanted to do so again. It was the worst thing I had ever experienced – even worse than being beaten biking by that tough northern girl all those years ago!
Football being football though, I would have to go through it one more time.
That night my family, who had travelled down to see the game, and that of Dean Smith, a central defender who was injured on the day of the game, went out to a restaurant in Birmingham. It was one of the quietest meals I have ever had.
The next season would be spent in the Vauxhall Conference, something I could never have contemplated as a footballer. I spoke to Graham many times over the course of the summer, each time saying that I didn’t think I could play in the Conference. To me, it was a league of part-timers who spent most of the match kicking you up in the air (several players preferred kicking other players rather than the football), and back then I was probably right. It is very different now. Many Conference clubs have bigger ambitions and larger budgets than teams in League Two or even League One. You still get kicked up in the air plenty of times though.
Graham was adamant I was staying at the club, citing the need for him to keep his best players to help get Hereford United back in the league. Obviously I wanted that to happen, and that, combined with the fact that no one would pay the amount of money Hereford United were asking for me at the time, meant I would be staying at the club.
I was going to be a non-league player.
1997/98
So, here I was, playing the 97/98 season in the Conference. I’ll be honest, I felt pretty low about it. It was only a couple of seasons ago that I was in the Championship, albeit hardly ever getting a game.
Hereford United started out with an OK squad, but not one good enough to take the title. The fact that we wore ‘On Loan to the Conference’ T-shirts in the warm-ups meant that opposing teams were already ‘up for it’ before a whistle had even been blown.
The team began how it had finished the previous season – averagely. There was no real cohesion, and it was clear that the year ahead would be tough. I had found my position, though, and was enjoying my left wing role, but the nights out off the field were still too frequent. The seminal moment in my career, as far as my future attitude and commitment was concerned, came unexpectedly one sunny afternoon. Graham had brought in an old mate of his, a fitness trainer by the name of Tony Ford. He had worked with the likes of Peter Withe and Gordon Cowans, both previous Aston Villa favourites.
Tony came onto the pitch like one of those American life coaches, with music blaring and a pretty full-on motivational speech. Most of the players were having none of it. The way they saw it, this old man (Tony was over sixty) couldn’t help them. How wrong they were. I knew straightaway that Tony was great for the club, and for me. Tony went on to play a massive part in the club’s two recent promotions, but at that moment some of the boys just thought it was a waste of time.
The first day he arrived he gave us a weights circuit on the pitch, told us about power gains, the importance of weights and fuelling the body, and how he could help us. I had a quick chat with Tony after the session, mentioning that I was into my weights, nutrition and so forth, but nothing much more. Over the next few weeks Tony came to all the games we played, and after one in particular he said to me, ‘Chris, I have been told about your career path, and I think you have got something, son, and I can help you get to the top.’
Because of Tony’s help I have been a gnat’s cock hair away from just that, the top, on a couple of occasions. Bad agents, bad decisions and bad timing (and, maybe, a lack of talent) stopped me from taking that extra step, but nevertheless his help has been incredible in my career and in my life. As a player and a person, the discipline and drive that I developed were because of Tony, and, for that, I am forever grateful to him. I have no doubt at all that if I had met Tony at seventeen, I certainly wouldn’t have to work now, I’d have probably retired a wealthy young man – the only problem with that though, is that proper retirement at thirty-five would be no fun, would it? Surely it would be boring trying to fill the day (what with holidays abroad, time spent on the yacht and wining and dining!)?
I am getting philosophical here, but don’t they say that you spend most of your life rushing around, only to spend the remainder wondering what to do with the time you have on your hands. Well, imagine if you had to fill even more time, having retired at thirty-five.
Tony suggested that the next Sunday morning I meet him in Birmingham at Temple Street Gym, the home of the then ‘Mr Universe’, Dorian Yates – you may laugh at his name, but you wouldn’t if you met him – this is the guy who equalled Arnie’s record of six straight Mr Universe titles, and could bench press half of Birmingham. It was a real spit and sawdust gym, lots of sweat, grunting and protein drinks. The first morning I met Tony there I had, of course, been out the night before. Tony must have known this, but he said nothing; getting me there was the main thing at this stage. I can honestly say that that first workout we had knocked me for six. I was probably the fittest lad at the football club at the time, but that first blast at Temple Street taught me a couple of lessons: one, that it’s gonna hurt like hell if you have had a late night; two, that it’s gonna hurt like hell even if you haven’t. It was the only time I have ever had to sit down during a weights session. As Tony would
put it over the course of the next five years, ‘That workout was bone deep, son, bone deep.’
That season I really ripped it up on the pitch, scoring quite a few goals, and much to the amusement of the lads, receiving far too many ‘man of the match’ bottles of champers. Initially, the Birmingham night scene was abused to its maximum by our group of friends, and with Fiona working for Bass breweries at the time, and being rewarded each month with plenty of beers or wine, we certainly didn’t need an excuse to have a party.
Meeting Tony on those first few Sunday mornings was tough. I had usually been out until very late the night before, but while everyone else was still in bed I crawled out, after only a couple of hours’ sleep, and met Tony for a workout.
The scenes in that house in Bearwood were really a sight to behold sometimes, especially the ‘morning after’. It was a challenge to workout who was in which bedroom and how many were in each bed. Fiona and our friends thought I was completely mad to go off and lift weights but, even after only a couple of hours’ sleep, I knew it was right. The back pain had subsided enough for me to blast weights with Tony, and the high standard of the workout and the equipment used meant that it was safe.
Another huge change in my life was also on the horizon. I had returned home after a Saturday game, and, as normal, the house was full of people ready to go out and party. I nipped upstairs to get changed myself, and there was Fiona on the landing holding a ClearBlue testing kit.
‘Oh my God!’ I said, wondering whose of our many friends in the house it was.
‘Whose is it?’ I asked. A short pause and then Fiona whispered, ‘It’s mine. I’m pregnant.’
We looked at each other in shock, smiled, and then went downstairs to let the others know that we weren’t heading out straightaway – we would meet everyone later on, as Fiona and I needed a chat. I think they all thought it was the old ‘need a break’ chestnut, and so before long it was just us in the house. We drove around to Debbie’s house and told her the news; we all just stood in her kitchen in complete shock. Were the original party animals eventually going to be tamed? The answer was yes. The three of us stayed in that night, had fish and chips, and just sat there in silence with only the occasional ‘I just can’t believe it’, coming out from one of our mouths. It was, as I am sure many people would agree, the single most important moment of our lives. Nowadays, my family really are my life, and this was the start of one of the most amazing gifts, a child. Sorry if that sounds a bit trite, but my little beauties really are everything to me.
I still find it incredible looking back to that weekend. At the time Fiona and I had not been getting on very well. I had already decided that on the Sunday it would be time for ‘one of those chats’, one of those make or break ones. The combination of our social lives (constantly out with the same group of friends, but never together), my football and Fiona’s work meant that we had drifted apart somewhat. I was thinking of suggesting a bit of breathing space to work out how, or if, we could sort the relationship. I’m sure it was fate, Fiona telling me that night, because if we had parted I would have lost the most important person in my life, my best friend, wife, and mother to our three amazing children.
Tony and I used to chat after the workouts we had, about me obtaining a move, and in the days before he was properly employed by Hereford, about getting Tony into a club full time. As it was, he already ran a successful body tune workout, but he wanted to work at a football club. I knew that he could make any club more successful, getting the players fitter and mentally stronger, but breaking down preconceptions has always been difficult in football. I have been at clubs where the coaching staff have thought I was crazy doing weights, yet if you walk into any Premiership club now the weights room and fitness equipment would rival any David Lloyd. Tony had recognised the importance of weight training to footballers years earlier, but trying to persuade old school managers to employ a fitness instructor was like banging your head against a brick wall.
It is no surprise that AC Milan have enjoyed such success in recent years, having spent money employing several fitness trainers, chiropractors and even club dentists. A friend of mine, Richard Carr-Hyde, is a chiropractor. I have seen him several times (well, about seventy times in two years!) while at Torquay United. He works for AC Milan a few days a month. I have labelled him ‘the guru’ after his constant and brilliant work in keeping the old body out on the pitch. While working for AC Milan, he has seen that club reduce its playing squad to around twenty, saving countless millions. They have also, over the same period, employed lots of older players (my type of club!), all of whom have benefited from this type of care. David Beckham is just the latest golden oldie signed by the club.
That season in the Conference was tough, but, with Tony’s help and my desire to do well, I did enjoy it. We had a half-decent cup run, but ran out of steam in the league, in the end finishing just outside the play-offs. This was a major disappointment for everyone, players and staff, as well as the fans, who deserved so much more. Financially, the club was never going to be able to challenge for promotion that season.
On evaluating my decision to leave West Bromwich Albion and join Hereford United, I had conflicting thoughts. On one side, the fact that I was playing week in, week out was great. Another good point was that I had found a new role, and loved it. However, I suppose the overriding feeling regarding the whole thing was that I must have had a screw loose to leave a First Division club where I was on a decent contract. Buckley had been sacked a few weeks after I left; I had played in one of the most stressful football games ever, had been relegated to the non-league, effectively dropping four divisions in a season, and was now on the lookout for a league club, as a non-league player. I curse the day that the old Hereford United scout persuaded me to join the club. Other than that tiny niggle, I think it was a decent move.
Joking aside, Hereford United has a brilliant following and should never have been subjected to that relegation. The fact is, like most relegations, they are more often than not the result of a club run badly off the field.
After the season had finished I met Graham Turner at the Belfry in Birmingham. He asked me to stay with the club, but knew really that I had to move on. I have only got the utmost respect for that man, reinforced by the work he did turning the club around. He has pretty much single-handedly rescued the club and subsequently steered it to two promotions.
Once the season was over, and my decision to leave Hereford United had been made, I contacted the PFA (Professional Footballers’ Association). They are a great body for current and ex-professionals, but at this point they weren’t able to be much help. I have benefited from the PFA financially, which, in times of dire need, has really helped me, and the pension fund they set up for all players is very good. The money and education is there if you want to search for it; I was able to get my coaching badges sorted through the PFA. The only negative is that though the money and education are available, equally needed advice and guidance is harder to come by – what little there is around it not being given properly.
Of course, some ex-pros do come to the clubs every so often to tell you that there are courses available etc., but these brief talks happen irregularly, and are not particularly persuasive or informative. What they need to do is throw a bit of reality into the mix for players young and old. I’m talking about someone going into a club, speaking to the lads and saying, ‘Listen, if this all goes tits up, you will be struggling, you will go from good money to no money, you will have no form of higher education, and life will be very, very tough.’
The message has to be simple, and the advice has to be realistic. Put this amount of money away now, every week. Do this qualification. If you don’t, or can’t, go back into education, then here are the trades you can learn. Here is where to do it, and here are the numbers you need. It is not patronising to speak to footballers this way – it is simply that when football is your life, it is impossible to conceive of a realistic end to it, to an ex
istence beyond it.
As I say, the PFA is truly a great organisation; I don’t want to suggest otherwise. Educational course fees are paid for, as are non-contributory pension payouts for each year you are in the game. I have definitely benefited from their help and am really grateful for that. However, the fact that no one knows about the information they have available, and that the situation commonly arises where, if you are left without a club, as many players are in the summer, you are pretty much on your own, shows that there is a major problem. Lads are not given the skills or tools to find employment, and that is why so many footballers struggle when their playing careers come to an end. They need to find work but can’t get it. Whether a player is on a hundred grand a week, or one hundred pounds the information needs to be given.
The target audience for the PFA complimentary magazine highlights the problem. If you want to purchase a yacht, a Rolex or just a decent Ferrari, then yes, it could be very handy. But for the normal footballer, most of the information is irrelevant, as it is really focusing on the big boys. I am delighted for the boys who are on a hundred grand a week. I honestly couldn’t care less if they earn double or treble that, because, come on, none of us would refuse it were it offered. However, for the poor young lad trying to make it in the game at Barnet on a few hundred quid a week, what does he actually do if he can’t get a club or a contract? He is usually up the Swannee without a paddle. You may say that it is his own fault for not getting an education, but don’t forget that these clubs have spent a long time persuading lads to sign for them, only to let them go, sometimes a few years’, or sometimes a few months’, later. The solution is out there somewhere and I hope that I can use my experience to help other, younger, lads, get it.
Where's Your Caravan? Page 13