Where's Your Caravan?

by Chris Hargreaves

  Aside from a small incident involving a TV, a near deportation and a thirteenth-floor balcony, the trip went like a dream. As always, I was glad to get back to my family, but it was one hell of a laugh. With the likes of Chris Marsh, Jamie Forrester, James Hunt and Paul McGregor around, it was always going to be a good crack.

  That summer we also took the children on their first holiday, to Puerto Pollensa in Majorca. We had a lovely time in an apartment near a belting little patisserie and it was great to be able to relax on the beach without the pressure of football. That is, it was until I got a call from the club, saying that although we had survived the drop, they needed to save money, and asking whether I would be prepared to take a twenty-five per cent pay cut to stay, as the financial situation was dire. Why couldn’t anything just go smoothly? I can’t tell you how many times I have walked along beaches in the six weeks after a season has just finished, with my mobile wedged to my ear and an agent or a manager on the other end of the line. My family will testify to it being a hell of a lot. Whether you are in contract or out of contract, it is always the same. The end of season scramble is just crazy. I have signed for football clubs a week after the season has finished, and a week before the season has kicked off, without even having a medical, such is the madness caused by the Bosman ruling. It has worked both ways for players, and in my career it has provided both benefits and negatives. Even ignoring the Bosman ruling, I think it is a lot harder for young players starting out now though, certainly at lower league clubs anyway. With budgets being very tight and squads being cut to the bare minimum, there are so many players on the market that it is inevitable plenty will fall by the wayside.

  Despite the pay drop, I decided to stay at Northampton Town. I had spoken to Kenny Jackett at Swansea and Ian Holloway at Queen’s Park Rangers (QPR). They were both very good managers at good clubs, but my heart was with Northampton Town. As I’ve said all along, maybe that was my problem, the heart always ruling the head. Moving on may have furthered my career, and would have given me more money, but I loved the club I was at and thought that a bit of loyalty (for a change) was the way forward. How wrong I was! The club was in turmoil the following season, on and off the pitch. I have never really been very Machiavellian with my decisions about contracts and clubs, some players are always scheming to get away, and some do get what they want, but for me in this case, wanting to stay so much probably clouded my judgement.

  As good as that summer was, and that previous season had been, it was around then that I realised my dream of playing in the Premiership was over. My hopes of playing for England had only just gone the season before. Like most players though, I was desperate to do well, and took my job extremely seriously. I would imagine that the public perceive footballers as lads who train for a few hours in a morning, and then play golf or go to the pub in the afternoon (and yes, in quite a lot of cases they would be spot on!), but I can tell you that most don’t. I have played for many clubs and have come across a lot of lads, and the majority have been obsessed with the job, and are driven to be the best they can. They are disciplined, they maintain a careful diet, they train hard, and they try damn hard to keep fit so that they can keep playing each week, and keep earning money. You become so focused on the season in hand that everything else is on the periphery of your life, the job is everything.

  Each season you set yourself a goal, whether it is a club level goal – to gain promotion, to get in the play-offs or to survive, or one on a personal level – to play in every game, to get a move, to score goals or to get clean sheets. There is no doubt in my mind that the lads playing at a lower level are just as professional and determined, if not more so, as the lads playing at the top. I’m not saying that the lads in the Premiership are less focused, but if you have a badly bruised and very painful ankle on a Thursday afternoon and you play for Accrington Stanley, there will be more chance of you playing on a Saturday than if you are at Man City. Yes, the medical staff at the top may rule these lads out of playing, but if it comes down to will, then the lad who needs to play to stay in the team, or pick up his appearance and, hopefully, win a bonus, will definitely play. Those in the Premiership will be on salaries so much higher that these bonuses are unlikely to be much motivation to a player undecided about playing on an injury.

  There is no less commitment, desire or will to succeed, at the lowest level than at the top. The only real difference is that, at the top, there are thirty thousand more people watching. As far as players at all levels are concerned, they just want to win and to do as well as they can. Yes, the public may see a player swanning about on a Wednesday, but I can pretty much bet that they have run themselves into the ground the night before in a game, or that they are still recovering from a ‘terror Tuesday’ training session the previous day. During the season, training is relentless, and every day is planned to maximise the benefits. Wednesday is usually a much needed day off, and one of relief – relief that a mid-week game has been played and (hopefully) won, so that you can lift your head up high and spend a day without that overriding thought of football constantly flying around your head. It is also a day when, if you have had no Tuesday night match, you see the build up to the weekend game. You know that the next day’s training will be geared towards the weekend game, and you will already have put in some decent work early in the week in preparation for it. Regardless of club or league, it is the same across the land. If Tuesday doesn’t have a game, then you will run, and you will run hard. At some clubs this training may involve a ball, and at some clubs it definitely won’t. On rare occasions this training may not happen, but only if you are on one hell of a winning streak and the manager has given you a few days off, or if you have had four or five games in ten days and need to heal. But the norm for a Tuesday is to run, to open the lungs up and to feel a bit of pain, so that come Saturday your first fifty yard track back doesn’t have you reaching for the oxygen.

  Over the years, I have done some running sessions that would honestly shock a few athletes, such is the intensity. As well as twelve minute runs, sets of ‘doggies’ are classic drills in football. Doggies are not to be confused with the exercise where three people get a bit steamed up in a Ford Fiesta near a local beauty spot. Doggies are sets of sprints to a certain number of cones and back – the number of cones and the distance covered is determined by your current form and league position, but it’s never easy.

  The game of football has changed dramatically in the last decade or so, and the attention to detail has increased significantly. The focus is now on how long a player has been in the ‘red’ zone (the point of optimum heart rate for fitness training), and how he performs at the weekend, not how many discs can collapse in his back during a morning’s running session. This change in focus has brought, if anything, a greater concentration on fitness. Mondays tend to be more flexible than other days, changing week to week. If the team won on the Saturday, the lads will be buzzing, training will be intense but there will be a relaxed atmosphere going into the next day’s game, or the next day’s training session. If the team has lost, the atmosphere will be tense, training will be full on, and there will be a bit more of an edge to it as everyone will be desperate to get to the next game and to put it right. Tuesday is your fitness day and after that you only have Saturday in mind.

  It is then usually a Wednesday off – which is why I mentioned it being the day that you might spot a footballer swanning around – although even on this ‘day off’, most lads pop in to do some weights, or maybe a bit of shooting. That is, unless you are over thirty-five, and are popping into the club for a much needed rub and a handful of Ibuprofen. Thursday will be another hard day, although one which is much more team related, involving shape and tactics rather than individual fitness. ‘Shape’ involves the team setting up as it would appear on a Saturday (i.e. 4-4-2 or 4-3-3). The players then run through drills and set pieces (corners, free-kicks etc.) to get a feel for the game. The Friday will be a day of final preparations: set piece,
and drills and a bit more shape, and then a small-sided game (normally a five-a-side) for a bit of sharpness and fun.

  After the Friday session, it is home to relax and prepare for the game. Some players like to be active and go for an afternoon out, or even a Saturday morning trip somewhere, while some like to get in their beds and not be seen until it is time to report for the game the following day. I have done a bit of both in my career, sometimes choosing to go to bed, other times wanting to do something to relieve the boredom and distract from constant thoughts about the game. This changed as soon as my children appeared on the scene (so for basically half my career). My only option became family activities, such as building dens or going for bike rides on a Saturday morning. Some lads cannot function if there is noise and fuss in the house, and plenty of players totally isolate themselves from their families on a Friday night and Saturday morning. It can be a bit hard to concentrate on the morning of an important game when Bob the Builder is on full pelt, your wife has decided to do the hoovering and the washing machine is turned to max, but I got used to the chaos and came to enjoy it. My wife and I did have some almighty arguments which always seemed to happen on a Saturday morning. I think it was just the tension in my body snapping when I was being vacuumed around at 7.30am. I would like no comments about my wife doing all of the housework, and me doing bugger all, because I can assure you that my OCD, combined with her working full time, and three children to help create unimaginable amounts of mess, means that the miles I have completed with the hoover have been long and arduous.

  It was only when I had arrived at the club before a game, and was in the changing room, that I could finally turn off. Strangely enough, it became a sanctuary for me, and after the mascots and fans had been in, and before the disco had been cranked up, it was the one time I could breathe a sigh of relief and mentally prepare for a game. Being in a changing room before a game, finally being able to put your kit on, and together with the other players prepare for a match – it gives you a great feeling. Later in my career, at Torquay United I used to mess about by wearing just my boxers, but with my match socks, shin-pads and boots on and ready for action. I would stand at the entrance to the changing room door and turn to the lads and say, ‘Come on then, let’s get into these lot.’

  I never pushed it further by going in that state to see the referee before a game to do the normal ‘captain’s chat’ and team sheet swap, but I have to say I was highly tempted. It’s a good time to release a few match day nerves, but before long, when the warm-up has been done, and you have had a last minute chat, you are waiting, waiting for the bell or buzzer to sound, and for the battle to commence. When it does sound, that old gladiatorial spirit kicks in and you are up on your feet and out – the rest is in the hands of the gods … oh and the referee, and the twenty-one other players out there, of course.

  The post-game atmosphere depends on the result. Win it, and the changing room is on fire; lose it, and the atmosphere is deadly. There is often a thin dividing line between the two, which is why having a philosophical approach can help, because nothing is constant in football – however, good a team, it cannot always win. Players’ immediate reaction to winning or losing will differ from person to person. Over my career, I have been horrendous when a game has been lost or I have played badly; I cannot function properly until the next game is won. Many players are the same. It may be the reason why so many players turn to drink after a match, whatever the outcome. Winning gives you such a euphoric feeling that you want to celebrate and release all the tension in your body, and losing makes you feel so awful that the only way to erase it for some time is with drink. I think we have become more aware of the post-match psychology, meaning it is not as bad as it was, but for many the demon drink has been their only escape.

  2002/03

  Having agreed to take the pay cut to stay at Northampton Town, I decided that I would need to do something to make up for the loss in wages, and so having sold our little cottage a few months earlier, while Fiona and the children were away at her parents, I did the logical thing and bought a house that needed doing up! Very rash, I accept, and when my wife eventually saw it she nearly punched me, but I thought that it would be a wise move. Unlike most of my rash decisions, it paid off – I only had the house ten months and, even after including the costs of buying, renovating and selling, I cleared a profit of nearly fifty grand. It’s just a shame that I blew nearly as much the year before on holidays, cars and a wedding.

  The previous owners of the house had a menagerie of animals, from baby crocs to parrots, lizards and snakes. I even saw a Komodo dragon wandering about at one point. They were the oddest couple ever; they had met on the internet, but were totally in love, and appeared insistent on keeping every animal known to man in a cage. My wife didn’t speak to me for three days after visiting it, and I can see why: it was like a small zoo, but once all the animals had been rounded up and cleared out she did mellow a bit. I could see the potential in the house and was prepared to do the work to it, and in the end it was a great place to live, just around the corner from Abington Park where we (I) would teach Cam to ride his bike (as a proud parent, I’m sure he must be a record breaker, learning before he was even three) and where most afternoons we would pop in to see Tony Ansell at his lovely park café. Tony had done some catering for the club a few years earlier, and was still a strong supporter, so as well as popping in for a bite to eat, we’d always have a good chat.

  The house also had a sort of farm at the back of it where the kids could mess about and feed the donkeys, horses and (vicious) geese. It was also the place where I taught Cam to ride his first motorbike (at only three), to the disbelief and horror of my wife.

  After my little renovation project was done, we moved again, this time to a village called Mawsley, on the other side of Northampton. We bought a big house with a large garden, in a village with a lovely pub and good school. We were as close to living our little dream as we ever had been, but it could not last for ever – football has a knack of moving you on. While based in Mawsley though, I met a great lad who remains a good friend today. At first, I would just say hello to Carl Andrews on the school run, and nothing more; he lived on the other side of Northampton so we never met in any other context. After a while we got chatting a bit about football, and discovered his wife Ange’s love of drinking wine and spending matched Fiona’s (giving us something in common), and I quickly came to know that he was a top bloke. Carl is one of those people who would do you a favour even if it meant him driving out in the middle of the night to pick you up (he did that a few times), or looking after all our children, and his, at the same time (he had four from his first marriage, and two from his second, so, with ours, that regularly made it eight. When we had a third child he would be outnumbered nine to one!). His wife Ange spend at an international level, so obviously she got on very well with my wife Fiona, and together we really did have a good laugh.

  Carl was at home one night when the phone rang. Ange had been out with her friends and wanted Carl to pick her up. She had absolutely no idea where she was, and when Carl asked her where he could find her, she shouted, ‘I’m here, stupid!’ and just held her phone aloft.

  Poor old Carl drove around for an hour before he found Ange, still with her phone in the air, waiting for some sort of satellite signal to be picked up. We still do have some adventures with the Andrew’s, and long may that continue.

  Our spending was as unrealistic as ever. (How I wish I had saved those pennies now, as I dunk my Tesco Value biscuit into my tea.) I had bought a big jeep and then a Jaguar, and Lee was still on speed dial at the Vivienne Westwood shop in Leeds. I’m sure it’s better to have lived a bit of a life, though. I always used to have this argument with my old teammate Chris Willmott, a very good centre-half who could well have played at the top had he not had a very bad injury early on in his career. Motty (you will notice that a lot of footballers’ nicknames end in ‘y’) was not one for spending. To say he was t
ight is a bit harsh, but he really could save with the best of them. He also had all his pockets stitched up, along with his mythical (well, no one ever saw it) wallet. I always used to tell him to live a little, that he should take his wife out a bit more, but his answer was that he didn’t like going out, or spending money. My argument was that he wouldn’t look back in twenty years and say, ‘Oh do you remember that Sunday we nipped to the garden centre? What a day that was,’ and that he should spend some of his money on ‘living’. He was adamant that saving was the way forward. I haven’t seen Motty for a while and I’m sure that now, as I turn the heating off under instruction from my wife, he is having the last laugh, as he drives to the garden centre with his wallet bulging and the heating at home turned on to max. I’m not entirely convinced – I still believe that life is for living – perhaps there’s a compromise between the two positions.

  More changes at the top happened during the 02/03 season, and with the club not happy with our league position and fearing that we would be sucked into another relegation dogfight, Kevan was sacked just after Christmas. I had had a bit of an argument with him before he left, but I think it was the tension just spilling over. He wanted the perfect footballing team, which we clearly weren’t, and the perfect footballing midfielder, which I clearly wasn’t. But, during a long-winded shape session, I had a go at him.