Where's Your Caravan?

by Chris Hargreaves

  With Cameron newly born, and with the busy Christmas fixtures about to start, it was a very hectic time. The club’s Christmas ‘do’ went without a hitch – that is until the morning after the night before. I had eaten with the lads at a restaurant in town, but my order was a bit late and I had to remind them about it before it arrived. My chicken dish (alarm bells ringing already?) appeared far too quickly, but we were all in a rush so, without a second thought, it was scoffed and off we went. In the morning, however, I had the start of stomach ache. My parents were staying over for Christmas and I was just sent back to bed with a ‘suspect’ hangover. The thing is, I didn’t really suffer from hangovers (a bad fault, I feel – it took stupid amounts of drinking to make me feel it the next day) and still don’t, and before long I was in no doubt that a hangover it was not. I spent the next week in absolute hell. Cam was three weeks old, my parents had come to visit us with a twenty pound turkey, and I had a horrendous case of salmonella. I should really have been in hospital; I didn’t know that the phrase ‘shitting through the eye of a needle’ could actually be true, but it was. I was violently sick, had an arse that was in danger of setting fire, and honestly had tears in my eyes for a week. It was definitely cold comfort on Christmas Day; all anyone could hear were my moans from the upstairs bedroom as my parents and Fiona tried to tuck into their dinner.

  To make matters worse, Kevin Hodges, our manager, who was paranoid at the best of times, didn’t actually believe I was ill. Instead, I think he thought I was just trying to buy a few days off over Christmas to spend with our new arrival. Even the club’s physiotherapist, Norman ‘I’m not sure what injury you have, but get yourself to the café for a breakfast, and ice it when you get back’ Medhurst, was sent round to ‘visit’ the patient. When Detective Inspector Medhurst arrived, I was still able to walk about, believing that it was just a bad tummy bug and would eventually get better. I don’t think he reported back that I was very ill, but when eventually the agony of the next six days was over and I was physically able to visit a doctor, I think they got the message. Salmonella poisoning, and a stone lost in weight.

  That poor old doctor must have wondered what had hit him that day. I was still a bit delirious when I saw him – I hadn’t eaten for a week and was feeling dizzy. He asked me to go into the toilet and give a sample, in the form of a scoop into a bottle. The combination of having never done it before and not being entirely with it was probably the reason why I decided to fill the whole sample bottle up. I actually held it under my arse and such was the consistency of you know what, I topped it right up. I hadn’t even noticed the delicate little scoop inside the bottle, designed to take a tiny little drop of what they needed. Here I was, in the middle of a busy reception saying, ‘Could you give that to the doctor please?’

  The receptionist just looked at me in shock as I trudged off unable to walk normally without fear of another movement. There was just a big bottle of shit resting on the counter for all and sundry to view. God knows what they said when it arrived at the lab.

  I could have thrown a brick through that restaurant window for what they had put me through, but there was no point; I would probably have been prosecuted for criminal damage or, worse still, been made to eat there again.

  Apart from that Yuletide disaster, things on the pitch were good – I was enjoying my football and playing every week. The season ended badly though, a few annoying injuries curtailing my progress, and with the team not really fulfilling its potential. It is amazing how often a player gets injured while kicking the last ball of the session, lashing out while in a bad mood, or just over-egging it in training. My first injury at Plymouth Argyle was a combination of the last two. The weather had been poor, so we were training indoors in a sort of five-a-side gym. I was really buzzing, with a game the next day but, as with most five-a-sides, it got a bit tasty.

  As I was going full on into a shot, one of the lads tugged me back and I felt my groin pull and start burning. It turned out I had ripped my adductor muscle, and would be out for about six weeks. Shocking timing to say the least. I was doing well, and had a few clubs interested, but would now be sidelined for a while. I got back playing within a month, but was then sent up for testing at Lilleshall as Kevin didn’t think that I was as fit as I normally was. OK, maybe I wasn’t running like a gazelle in every game, but I wasn’t that bad.

  The testing basically involved me doing an eight hour round trip to Lilleshall, running my bollocks off on a treadmill until I nearly passed out, and then being told that I was probably a bit jaded with the effects of the injury, having no sleep, and having had a bad case of salmonella. No shit, Sherlock. I tore the same muscle again towards the end of the season, so it was a frustrating finish to a really promising start at Plymouth Argyle. That season also ended with Paul Gibbs getting a badly broken leg in the last game. Carlisle United won that game, with their keeper, Jimmy Glass, famously scoring the winner. It was a tremendous day for them, but for poor old ‘Gibbo’ it would mean a long road to recovery.

  Life down in Devon was brilliant, and I couldn’t wait for the new season to start. Fiona and I did have our fair share of problems, and with us having just had our first child, me being away most weekends, and with neither of us having family close by, Fiona did feel a bit isolated. Nevertheless, it was still worth being in Devon. The lifestyle was great and it was a fantastic place for us to bring up our little family; it just happened to be a marathon to get anywhere else. Incredibly, considering how busy and tired I was, I was still driving back to see Tony for a workout in Birmingham on Sundays, which also stacked the pressure on Fiona. I was so keen to do well that I thought it worth the six hour round trip.

  I had to get to the top and, for me, seeing Tony and working hard on a Sunday morning when everyone else was in bed was part of it. I managed to carry on seeing ‘Fordy’ for about twelve months, but with the games coming thick and fast and with the team only getting home at 2 or 3am some Sunday mornings, something had to give. I was beginning to feel shattered on a Monday morning, having had no day off, so the additional workout was having the reverse effect to that desired. The mental side of what I had learnt from Tony still remained though, as it does today.

  My routine, after, in my eyes, having blown it as a youngster, was to give myself just a week off at the end of every season. A week of doing nothing, and then I would start my pre-season training. That particular season though, I was so pissed off that I had got injured that I just carried on. I ran almost every day of that summer, and was soon ready for the new season. Absolute madness really, and a banker for a Christmas burnout, but it didn’t seem to register with me then. It does now, I can tell you that much.

  This morning I went for a run and for the first mile or so I was actually running like Steptoe. It must have looked as if I was running for a bus, and I had to really dig in at one point when an old boy on his mobility scooter seemed to want a race. After a couple of miles I actually managed to run upright, and then felt pretty good for the rest of the route. I still have to run at a pace which hurts – unless I feel the onset of a heart attack coming on I just don’t feel like I am fit. Like many, I also sprint the last section as if I am Usain Bolt. Perhaps this training is pushing myself a little too hard, but that is what I have been used to, the pressure to keep fit, keep playing and keep going. Still, going outside and doing a few kick-ups with my son, or joining in with the young lads I coach, still gives me a great buzz. It is good to be enjoying football again, and I mean that in the nicest possible sense!

  1999/2000

  Well I haven’t been at my ‘desk’ for a few weeks. I will try to pick up where I left off. Once again, Cameron is arguing with my daughter Harriet about what’s on the TV. Once again, Harriet wants Peppa Pig on, and Cameron wants Top Gear. Both programmes are on a loop in this house, but this time Harriet will win. Her age (four) and the fact that I have just told Cameron to let her watch what she wants are the deciders.

  The fact that if Harrie
t doesn’t get her own way World War III will start, and my writing will therefore have to stop, was the clincher in my ruling on this battle.

  My wife has just gone to work, begrudgingly, and I can see the neighbours drifting off to work themselves, one by one. I do feel a tad of self-pity sat here drinking tea, eating my porridge (credit crunch), and listening to the children batter each other with balloons (somehow Top Gear is now on), but as it stands, I think I have finally accepted that my playing days are over. I had imagined that I would know the exact game and time that I would make the decision to finish, but it has just sort of happened – there was no one deciding moment.

  I did have quite a few niggling injuries last season, and when I wake up every morning I do struggle to bend for the first twenty minutes or so, but generally I am still as fit as a fiddle and feel like I could play. The reality is though that I can’t justify signing for a club three hundred miles away with no certainty of getting a proper contract. Oh, and the phone hasn’t exactly been ringing off the hook. I suspect people do think I have retired, as towards the end of last season I did mention to a few reporters that it would be my last year, but even while you say that, you still have that thought in the back of your mind that you could play on, that you could still do a job for someone.

  That said, and even with all the money worries that stopping playing has brought – that is, going from decent monthly money to no monthly money – I am as happy and relaxed as I have ever been. The fact that we are ten minutes from a beach may help; after all, sea air does do funny things to you. Don’t get me wrong, having an irate wife and three children looking up at me expectantly for provisions, treats, school shoes and mortgage payments (well, perhaps the children don’t worry about that last one), does slightly put the pressure on. Despite this, on the whole, it hasn’t been as bad as I thought it would be. Perhaps it’s because it has only been a month of not earning any money; I’ll get back to you after three!

  I miss the day-to-day training, and the banter that goes with it, and I miss the buzz of a match day, but I don’t miss some sides of the game. From the chairman, to the manager, to the players, the selfishness can be extreme, and you only really realise how bad it is when you are out of that bubble. To succeed in football you do have to be a little bit selfish, and very single-minded. I am not naïve enough to think that it should all smell of roses, or that Nobel peace prizes should be given out, but dealing with people outside of the football world does give you a bit of clarity.

  As far as money is concerned, with the combination of coaching at Exeter City, some local TV ‘punditry’ work, and my on-off gardening project, we are surviving. With Fiona having just started a full-time job as well, the wolves are at bay for the moment.

  Oh God! Harriet has found the boxing gloves and pads, Isabella has now woken up and is distraught that her hamster is hardly moving, and Cameron has just remembered that the tooth fairy should have been. Shit, give me ten minutes …

  OK, I’m back – the hamster isn’t dead, I have given Cameron some money and told him that the tooth fairy stops coming when you are eleven, and I have sparred with Harriet for five minutes (she has a decent left hook!).

  Being at home with the children (it’s the school holiday) is great, but trying to get stuff done (by that I mean writing) is almost impossible. We have always been an outdoors type of family, but trying to entertain the troops, write this book, provide constant snacks, take calls, send emails, and do the chores is tough. Housewives all around the country, you have my utmost respect. I now fully understand the term ‘multi-tasking’.

  I have also come to understand the word ‘budget’, as our weekly shopping bill is now being scrutinised to the last baked bean (still Heinz, but that may soon change). As far as long term work is concerned my CV is waiting in the wings to go out to clubs whose unfortunate managers have just been given the boot. I have also applied for a couple of broadcast journalist roles at the BBC, and written to most of the daily papers asking for work. I am doing a bit of personal training, which is great; I passed a course a few years back and hadn’t really made the most of it. I am now putting fifty-three-year-old ladies through intensive military style training which will make or break them! I have also offered my gardening skills (chopping, strimming, sawing, raking and regularly cutting myself) on a cash-in-hand basis to anyone who will listen. Did I mention the coffee shop idea? Stop it ‘Greavsie’, just stop it, back to the football.

  Two momentous things happened during the ’99–’00 season: one was the total eclipse of the sun and the second was the birth of our first daughter, Isabella. My football also happened to be very good that year too. Apart from my younger days at Grimsby Town, my second year at Plymouth Argyle was probably the time when I got the closest to making it to the top.

  Before the season had kicked off, I had become good friends with a lad the club had just signed from Nottingham Forest, Paul McGregor. He had played several times for Nottingham Forest, but after having had a really promising start things had soon gone a bit pear-shaped for him. Partly due to having a bit of a reputation, partly due to him wanting to be in a band, and partly due to the amount of decent strikers on their books, he was released and had found himself in Plymouth Argyle, and in our kitchen – the club always asked the players if they would take in new signings for a few days, cost cutting and all that.

  Paul McGregor, Macca, is the least bothered person I have ever met, regarding football that is. He could take it or leave it; win or lose, play well or play badly, he would still carry on as normal. If I ever lost a game, or had a stinker (no comments please from those fans that have seen both happen to me on a regular basis), I would be in a coma of depression for a week – unless there was a Tuesday game, of course. I would not go out after the game as I felt embarrassed and disappointed. I also felt that fans would think, and rightly so in my opinion, ‘What the hell is he doing out? – They were crap today.’

  Of course, it depends on the circumstance, club, and player. At Northampton Town, I could have had an absolute blinder, or I could have been sat with the St John’s Ambulance men and women for the entire second half, the fans would still have had a chat and a laugh with me if my wife and I had popped out for a meal or a drink on a Saturday night. It is a sort of mutual respect that is formed between a player and a club, and players and fans.

  Fortunately, I have had that rapport at quite a few clubs I have played for, but I fully understand why fans can get so angry at players. If I had paid at the turnstile to watch my team play and subsequently seen them lose, then fair enough, I could take it on the chin and look forward to the next game. But if I saw a few of the players laughing away in a bar that very night, ‘giving it the large one’, then it would no doubt piss me off too.

  I would even get wound up on the coach after a game if we had lost, and the lads were laughing or messing about, but each person is different, and Paul McGregor certainly was that. Nevertheless, he wasn’t the sort to go out publicly after defeats, as he had a bit of a complex about crowds, or ‘the general public’ as he put it, but he would still want to party and have a good laugh. The difference being it would probably be at a house party, a student union or some sort of fetish club.

  McGregor was unique in the fact that he was so anti-football and anti-establishment, and yet he was very funny and likeable at the same time. We both started the season playing every single game, playing on either wing, and playing well. It still amazes me to think that during that season Macca scored sixteen times, predominantly from the right wing, won the player of the year award (I was robbed!) and was lauded by several clubs, and yet only two seasons later he was out of football for good.

  More of that later, but by the Christmas of that season we were still near the top of the league. Had we bought a couple of the loan players who were at the club at the time, and doing very well, or had we been able to purchase a few more players to bolster the squad, I really think we would have been promoted that year. As it wa
s though the season petered out, the team had injuries, form dropped, and we were just too thin on the ground to mount a serious challenge. At the club’s Christmas ‘do’ the manager said a few words and then Micky Heathcote, our captain and centre-half, stood up and, in his broad Wearside accent, said, ‘Listen lads, I’ve never won fuck all in my career, and now is my time and our chance to do something.’

  He was dead right, but the ambition of the club, or the money to make the ambition a reality, simply wasn’t there. There were, however, some great moments from that season, both on and off the pitch, moments worthy of remembering.

  One such memory came from a cup game against Reading, a match that affected our chairman in such a way that he too wanted the big stadium he had seen, and the success that he had spotted before him. In a roundabout way he got it. The club did go on to build a new stadium, and had back-to-back promotions. It’s just a shame that neither of us were able to see both processes through.

  It was the FA Cup and we had been drawn to play Brighton in the second round. As it was a night game, we had travelled down on the day, which, as always from Plymouth, was a real trek. It was also very hot that day, so by the time we got there, the lads were a bit subdued, to say the least. Brighton’s stadium was loaned from the council at the time, with a running track around it and temporary grandstands in place, but it still held six or seven thousand, and there was a decent atmosphere on the night. This was bolstered by the fifteen hundred or so Plymouth Argyle fans present. By the time kick-off approached we had eradicated any pre-match – or post-coach journey – blues, and were ready for battle to commence.