‘The deal’s off son, the clubs couldn’t agree terms. I’m sorry, but neither of them will budge; it won’t be happening.’
I put the phone down and just laughed. I laughed at the ridiculous nature of football. In twenty-four hours a deal had gone from a reality into a dream.
‘Isn’t it usually the other way around,’ I thought.
As it turned out, my agent was reportedly asking for fifty grand for himself, non-negotiable, or there would be no deal. However, as is the norm in football, I only found out about it five years later when I had signed for Brentford, and it was just a little bit too late. The Brentford manager, Martin Allen, had been the assistant manager to Alan Pardew at Reading at the time the deal was called off, and they had discussed my agent’s demands. If I had known back then what was going on, the deal would have gone through, without a shadow of a doubt, agent or no agent. I would have walked to Reading and played for nothing, to have a chance of playing in the Premiership. As it was though, I got the feeling that my one chance had passed. Don’t get me wrong, I nearly tore myself a new arsehole over the next few years, trying to make sure that I got another crack at it (excuse the pun there), but when your time is right, your time is right, and during the season of 99/00 that time was unmistakably right.
The rest of the season carried on much the same really. I was still enjoying my football, I got a new agent after sensing something wasn’t quite right with the one I had, and Fiona and I had celebrated the birth of our second child, Isabella. Having had two children in such quick succession, and without a great deal of help from either her or my parents, as both sets lived around three hundred miles away, this period was a test for us, but especially for Fiona, who doesn’t actually think she was seen in Plymouth without being pregnant.
While Fiona was ‘out of action’, I obviously had to keep the flag flying for the Hargreaves household on a social basis, and although I didn’t abuse it that much, I did stumble home on a couple of occasions from our next door neighbours’, Sonia and Rich, having had absolutely no idea what alcoholic cocktail had been ‘forced’ my way – it was just a slight release from the pressure of parenthood. The only thing I do remember from one of those nights is a large crowd of people, nakedness, some grass and a rugby ball. Or was that a dream? It’s slightly worrying that I’m not entirely sure.
Apart from the immense financial burden, the constant family arguments, and Fiona’s annoyance at the inevitable stretch marks, we really did hit the jackpot having children. Much to Fiona’s despair, every day had to be an adventure – you don’t get the nickname ‘Superdad’ by sitting in your armchair moaning about the weather and eating fudge all day, now do you? I suspect she doesn’t like the entirety of her spare time being consumed by constant bike rides, surfing trips and circumnavigations of the British Isles.
Other memorable Plymouth moments included the time when I lost Macca’s cat. I was cat-sitting and had accidentally left the door to the roof terrace (labelled ‘KEEP SHUT AT ALL TIMES’) open. The cat ran straight through the door, and, as I looked on in disbelief, it started jumping from house to house like a crazed gazelle. I gave chase, and jumped over the first gap, which was way too long and had a seventy foot drop below, but I had to give up when I checked out the second gap – it had doubled and my bravery had halved. It was all good in the end though, it returned after a WEEK’s absence, all safe and sound.
A slightly more severe incident involved breaking my nose, gashing my face, and nearly losing an eye. Again, Macca was involved. I had stooped to head a ball and had received a World Cup stud to the face. I was in shock, and there was blood everywhere. I looked up and walked towards Macca to ask him how bad it was. His reply was tremendously comforting, as while immediately looking away after seeing it, he said, ‘Oh mate, that’s fucking nasty! You are going to be scarred there – there is a sort of flap on your nose.’
Thanks Macca, you’re a great support!
That particular scar healed up OK in the end, but I did get a few funny looks the next day as I sat in a café drinking coffee with Fiona and our neighbours Sonia and Rich. I looked as if I had had a nose job and my lips done all in one, and for good measure I was also wearing an eye patch!
A non-football-related moment, but one that was profoundly moving was watching the total eclipse of the sun, from the top of a cliff face in Devon. While many around the UK will have seen this, few will have had such a beautiful, or memorable, view. This was a definite highlight of my time at Plymouth.
Unfortunately, life down in the southwest had to come to an end. I got on well with Kevin Hodges, and do now, but I know he still thinks badly of me from when I left Plymouth Argyle. I can understand that, and had there been any sort of a decent contract offer on the table then, I would have signed it; it’s as simple as that. Even though the interest from the few big clubs had died down, I knew that come the end of the season, I would probably be off. The team’s form had dipped, the club’s lack of ambition at the time was still a problem, and I suppose my transfer talk had wound me up more than it should have done. It all boiled over in a training session one morning. It was a ‘keep ball’ drill, and bad decisions by the ref (Hodgy) were really winding the players up. In the end, after seeing tackles flying in all over the place, I had had enough. As the ball neared our left-back, Jon Beswetherick, a great lad, but the closest any human will ever get to being a real-life zombie, I launched into a ridiculous swipe-cum-tackle that resulted in a bit of pain for poor ‘Bessie’, but six weeks out of action for me. This was six weeks when interest for possible transfer dampened, and six weeks which probably signalled the beginning of the end for my time at the club. The injury came at a really important time in the season, which didn’t help my transfer possibilities. Nevertheless, come the end of season, there were still a few clubs interested. Northampton Town was one of them. They had just been promoted to the division above, and their interest gave me a chance to play at a higher level.
Northampton Town were able to offer me more than double the money I was currently getting at Plymouth Argyle, as they would be benefiting from the Bosman ruling, and, much as I loved playing for Plymouth Argyle, with two young children in tow, I had to take their offer.
I still remember going into the office at Home Park, and Kevin Hodges saying, ‘Well, I’m going to give out a press release saying that we have released you, you have to understand that.’
I know it was his way of showing his annoyance at my departure, but there really was no need for it. It tarnished what had been a great relationship, and I am still a bit gutted at the way my time there ended. He had no backing and the club had no money, and for that I felt for him, but to suggest that I had been released was a bit poor. I think Kev also firmly believed that I had milked that late season injury because I knew I was off, but I can categorically say that playing at any point, and at all times, was my only priority.
Even though the memories included the ‘smashed face’ incident, and despite the way I left, I count my time at Plymouth Argyle as nothing but positive. As a player, they were some of the happiest times I have ever had, and for my family, it was a period in our lives that we would always look back on very fondly. As we packed up the van to move northwards, I somehow felt that it wouldn’t be the last time we would live in Devon.
Well, back to reality and it is Monday, so I have been over to Plymouth to do my punditry slot for the BBC. I suppose I am yet to find a ‘proper’ job, and I am getting fed up with people asking me what I am going to do. If anyone asks me that now, I just say, ‘I’m going to get a pub and become an alcoholic.’
They obviously aren’t even listening, as the normal response to my answer is, ‘Oh really? That’s nice.’
Well, either they’re not listening, or they genuinely think that it is probably a pretty decent option.
Also today, I have had my hair cut. This is a major event in my life at the best of times, but it may become a problem when writing a book self-mockingly ti
tled Where’s Your Caravan? I deliberated over how much hair to have cut off for so long that the girl who was attempting to cut it started on her next client. My worry was confirmed when I got the bill for thirty pounds; I must have paid for her next client as well – surely the amount of hair cut off doesn’t affect the price? It does look a lot tidier, although I am now waiting for someone to shout down the street, ‘Where’s your mullet gone? Where’s your mullet gone?’
As far as home life is concerned, the children are back into the swing of school. Isabella is on a school trip tomorrow, complete with sleeping bag, torch and midnight snack (home from home); Cameron is sorting his kit out for the endless after-school clubs he has at secondary school, which now include Ultimate Frisbee (a new and exciting school game that can be played by anyone … as long as they are quick, can throw and can catch); and Harriet, our little pocket dynamo, is still insisting that she has created most of Devon.
‘Dad, I painted the whole of Sidmouth including all the walls and inside all the houses, and I planted all the trees, and laid all the pavements.’
I asked her who helped her and she said, ‘My baby, of course, Megan Concrete.’
Indeed.
Yesterday she said to me, ‘Don’t stand there Dad; I only laid that grass yesterday.’
And my wife? She just has those same five words of wisdom ready for me at any given time:
‘HAVE YOU SEEN THIS BILL?’
I will now turn the laptop off, as my eyes are closing and my wife is making funny noises (not that type!). I think it’s a hint.
2000/01
Back at the laptop, a cup of coffee by my side, and a few hours to spare, so here goes.
Well, I’m still stuck at home! It is frustrating at the moment; I feel like the guy at the circus who juggles the plates. My head is in a spin. One minute I get a phone call from someone asking me to play again, the next minute I am coaching, then I am trying to set up a bit more personal training stuff, all this while trying to find a decent place to open up a coffee shop. Moneywise, I am slowly reaching the edge, something needs to happen pretty sharpish, otherwise I will be listing all household goods (including three children) on eBay. The reason I want to open up a coffee shop is that I want to work, and work hard. I know it’s a tough industry but I am up for the challenge, and with so many businesses ready to throw in the towel, I am waiting for the right one to take over and, hopefully, improve. One reason I am not jumping at the chance to play again is that I have damaged my Achilles playing in a charity game last weekend – the other reason being that I played as if I were the charity needing help.
Even the personal training has hit a minor snag. For the last two years or so I have been writing a daily blog for the local paper, the Herald Express. It involves me writing about football, life in general, world politics, you know the sort of stuff. Anyway, as the blog site attracts a few people to it, I thought I would promote my personal trainer service on there, so I put an email address on the site to enable any potential clients to contact me for sessions. Very soon after I had set it up, I received a couple of emails. As you can imagine I was really excited to be getting some early business, but alas, the first email was from a guy, I actually have in my phone under the name ‘Stalker’, wanting to meet up if at all possible to ‘catch up’. The second email was from a woman asking me if I would like to come to her wedding reception. Seriously, what chance have I got, with this kind of response? (In case you’re wondering, I decided against going to the reception!)
As far as the football world goes, I am still waiting for some poor soul to get the bullet; my CV will then be going in faster than a chairman could say, ‘Your job is safe; I am fully behind you.’
It seems quite apt really; as I sit here starting to write about my days at Northampton Town, it is only a couple of days since they pulled off one of the biggest victories in the club’s history. Northampton Town’s manager, Ian Sampson, an old teammate of mine, and now the boss there, took his team to Anfield and beat Liverpool, in a penalty shoot out and in front of the Kop, no less. It must have been a brilliant night for the four thousand ‘Cobblers’ fans who made the trip up to Merseyside, maybe a rather different night for Roy Hodgson and his underperforming stars!
We had shoe-horned the last piece of furniture into the rental van and were heading back up north. We had loved our time in Devon, we had two belting little babies, lots of new friends and a load of great memories, but with football as it is, it was time to move on. The day I officially signed for Northampton Town, two other players were signing as well. Marco Gabbiadini, an experienced forward who had enjoyed a great career with Sunderland and Derby County, and Jamie Forrester, another striker who had scored a bucketful of goals on his travels. It felt like a proper set up the day that we all signed. An official press launch, all our families made welcome, and even a bottle of bubbly in the boardroom. The manager at the time was Kevin Wilson, yet another striker, and yet another footballer who has had a decent career, banging in a load of goals in the process. At this point in time, he also still had his impressive eighties moustache intact. (Sorry Willo, I couldn’t resist!) I got on brilliantly with Willo, Marco and Jamie. Willo and Marco were the last of the old school at Northampton Town; they had played at the top but were not ‘big time Charlies’ in the slightest. Jamie was a little pocket dynamo who had a wicked sense of humour, but who also had paranoia at the highest level – to be honest all strikers I have come across suffer from this type of mindset: ‘Will I score? Will he pick me? What’s for tea? How much sleep have I had?’
Northampton Town, ‘the Cobblers’, had been promoted the previous season, and the buzz around the place was great. I had a good feeling about the club which was proven right, and it lasted the entire time I was there. Fiona and I quickly bought a house (finally!), a little cottage out in the country, and I set about meeting yet another set of lads and doing another pre-season. You meet some real gems at a football club and Northampton Town was no exception. We had the little winger John Hodge, who was as much of a weirdo as you would ever wish to meet, but very funny with it, and midfield favourite Roy Hunter, who had been everywhere and knew everything about everything (even if he hadn’t been there, or didn’t know anything about it at all). Then we had the Geordie/Wearside/Tyneside crew of Steve Howard, Richard Hope and Lee Howey. Between them they had probably consumed a good twenty thousand bottles of Newcastle Brown Ale in their time, Lee having had fifteen thousand of them. I remember one night out with the lads where Lee got a bit confused as to what was going on – either that or his standards were really slipping. We had picked out costumes for the Christmas do, and I had been stitched up with the hooker outfit. A pair of stilettos, some fishnets and a bit of lippy later, and I was away – and before you say it, no, with my hair I didn’t need a wig. After a couple of drinking games, I walked into the toilet, and there was the big man, Lee Howey, at the sink. He had obviously spotted a ‘young lady’ coming in, and thought it might be a decent opportunity. Let’s just say I hurried up and got out before we both had a bit of a fright!
Off the pitch, I became good friends with quite a few of the lads. Together with Marco and Jamie, I knocked about with our left-back Duncan Spedding, who only spoke in ‘Alan Partridge’ for his entire three years at the Cobblers and my fellow midfielder, James Hunt. Dunc is the only pro footballer I’ve met who hated football more than Paul McGregor. He had started his career at Southampton and was a decent player, but by the end of his three years at Northampton Town he had gained a pretty bad foot injury, one which eventually forced him to retire. Dunc was absolutely delighted the day the specialist told him he would have to retire; there was a huge flag waving over his house the day he got his insurance cheque through. As you can guess, I was delighted for him!
You may think it unusual for professional footballers to hate football. Obviously, they hadn’t started that way, but football can be a high pressure game and sometimes this gets to players. This pressure, combined
with a host of downsides to professional football, such as dealing with the results of managers’ decisions, having to cope with injury after injury, the constant battle for adequate pay (in the lower leagues), the stress of moving around the country year after year, and having to train even on Christmas Day, regardless of your family status, would often put players off ‘the beautiful game’. There is also the fan element – while having fans on your side is an amazing feeling, getting abuse from the terraces can make some players absolutely miserable, and spoil any enjoyment they get from playing. I suppose it was a combination of all these factors that saw off both Paul and Duncan.
Hunty was a proper Derby lad, and although sometimes seeming only a hair’s breadth away from being a psychopath, he did have a heart of gold. It took him nearly two years to tell me that while playing for Plymouth Argyle, I had put him out of action for four months by shoving him off the pitch. When I asked him why he hadn’t spoken to me about it in all that time, he just said, ‘I was weighing you up pal.’
I replied, ‘Jesus, you took your time!’
Trigger from Only Fools and Horses could have been based on James Hunt; he was brilliant though, a real battler on the pitch, and hilarious off it. Or was it the other way around? He was great to be with on the pitch, tough tackling but fair, and a decent player with it. Off the pitch, he always had some bizarre story to tell; he was once convinced that a young girl had ‘tricked’ him into going home with her after a night out. I asked him why, and he replied, ‘Well pal, in the morning when she turned over to me and said “good morning”, she only had one eye.’
I laughed, as did all the rest of the lads, and we asked him how he hadn’t noticed.
Where's Your Caravan? Page 17