Where's Your Caravan?

by Chris Hargreaves

  Darren was just what we needed at that time; he was well aware of the problems off the field but he could also really relate to the problems on it. He was still a young man himself, and with his energy and motivation, he quickly created a new team spirit in the camp. He was massively up for the challenge, and his no-nonsense approach simplified a lot of things. The team shape was planned out, the players knew exactly what was required of them, and he assured us that we would get out of trouble. I’ve known Darren for a few years now and he is one hell of a lad – he is a winner, and he is dead honest, and he was the same as a manager. He asked me to come and see him after training on that first day, and his words were simple, ‘Chris, you’re my type of player. If you play like you did in the last couple of games, you will drag the team out of trouble. I want you to believe in me and, if you do, we will be all right.’

  I already did believe in him, and I wanted to do well for him because he deserved a go at management. Those four games he was in charge were great; we fought for every ball, blood was shed for the cause, and the team spirit and unity required had returned.

  Talking of bloodshed, in one of those games I got one almighty boot in the face at Notts County away. It was a great Terry Butcher moment as I was bound up and sent back on. I had dived in for a header on the edge of our box when a dozy someone’s size nine boot, complete with its six metal studs, found its way onto my forehead. You should always worry about the extent of the cut and the stitches required when you look at the ref, and he says, ‘Oh hell, I think you may need to see a doctor.’

  This wasn’t the only painful incident of the season. As I mentioned earlier in this book, this was also the season when James Hunt got his revenge for the Plymouth Argyle incident. He had gone to Bristol Rovers by this time, and Oxford United was playing against them. Towards the end of the game, with it being a tight but uninspiring 0–0 draw, we both went to challenge for a header. Hunty mistimed his header (as usual) and barged into me. I was badly winded, but was just about able to laugh, saying that he had finally got his own back. He apologised and laughed as well, but at that time little did we know how bad it actually was. I managed to get through to the end of the match, but was in real pain afterwards. I returned home late and tried to get to sleep but soon realised that was not going to happen.

  Sleeping after any game is a near impossibility for a footballer. I’m quite sure that this is the same for most sportsmen and women after they have competed. The combination of adrenaline still pumping through your veins, the nervous energy still being expended regardless of whether you won or lost, and the litre or so of Red Bull still flying through your system means that trying to get your head down is a definite struggle. Add to this the fact that you might have an injury that interferes with sleep. This could be something minor, but painful, such as a classic leg burn – this is a grass burn from making a sliding tackle, which inevitably takes off a layer of skin on the side of your leg. It then becomes difficult to turn over in a bed, as each time you move, the fresh flesh is exposed and it is agony. When you take a shower and water hits the wound, you scream. Getting two grass burns, one each side, is very common, and means you have to lie very, very still. Any sort of muscle trauma can have the same effect. With all this, you can end up not sleeping at all, and it gets worse as you get older. Not the injuries or the Red Bull intake, just the inevitable fact that, when playing for a Devon club anyway, when you get home, no one is up! You can’t talk to anyone about the game (not that my wife would want to anyway) so there is no form of release. This is why so many players go and get slaughtered on a Saturday or Tuesday night – not only can they finally turn off from the game, but they can also sleep on their eventual return home!

  After an hour of wriggling about in agony I got up. It was about two in the morning, but I said to my wife that I was struggling to breathe, and that I would drive myself to the local hospital. She turned over and grunted, which I thought was very supportive! After a quick consultation with a young doctor in A&E, I was given an X-ray and told to wait. The doctor returned and reassured me that it wasn’t too bad after all, and that I would be fine in a few days. I was relieved, but still in a lot of pain. The following morning, after having had an extremely uncomfortable night, I travelled to Oxford for treatment. I was sent for another X-ray – this time privately, which is a privilege I know, but also a necessity when a club needs to know about a player’s fitness. After a short time I was given the results. I had broken three ribs and punctured my lung! Thanks Hunty and thanks Kettering General.

  So, back to Darren’s short stint at Oxford United. If Darren had remained in charge there is no doubt in my mind that we would have survived that season. However, after only four games at the helm he was told that although he would still be needed at the club for the youth team, he would be replaced as manager of the first team. Jim Smith would be taking over. With Jim’s arrival imminent, the atmosphere in the town was incredible. Their hero was coming home, the club would be saved, and everything would be rosy.

  That was certainly the feeling outside the club, but on the inside things were a little different. The lads had really taken to Darren Patterson, and, at such a delicate time of the season, yet another change was not good. We were really playing well for each other, and had turned a huge corner on the field. As much as we all had massive respect for Jim, the general feeling was that it was a really bad move. Darren was obviously gutted, and felt like he’d had the rug pulled from under his feet, and half of the lads were shitting themselves again at the prospect of a new manager coming in, one whose reputation definitely preceded him. So, with new tactics, a new team, new back room staff, the whole process of trying to get it sorted again was going to be another uphill challenge.

  I had lots of run-ins and disagreements with Jim over those few months, and I think there was a great deal of misunderstanding between us during that time. I obviously knew he had been a legend at the club, he had a great track record, and, without doubt, he wanted the best for Oxford, but his approach to players already low on confidence was harsh. Yes, he had worked with better players, and yes, he got frustrated, but waving the Racing Post about while telling your striker he’s shit, in the middle of a shooting session, can have its drawbacks.

  Since those days, I’ve got to know Jim a lot more, and I know what a brilliant character he is. Like many involved in the game, he is bloody funny, and bloody generous with it, and he could have given Oliver Reed a run for his money in any drinking establishment. I also know that he was under the most extreme pressure, as a former hero of the club, to keep the now struggling team in the division. At the time, though, I just looked at the basics; if you tell the lads they’re crap, they will be crap. It was a really difficult time, and one that I hate looking back on. Jim brought in a couple of loan players and dropped a few of the regulars to the bench, as is the norm when a new manager takes over, but the tension was high from the beginning, and these changes weren’t taken well.

  In hindsight, it’s almost funny, but one night I even heard Jim hammering me in the hotel bar. I didn’t mind the hammering; what I did mind was that I had a game the next day, and all this was happening while I was laid in my bed, which incredibly was next to the wall where Jim was sat – how’s that for bad luck? He didn’t stop yapping till around one o’clock in the morning. Jim could really blow his top with the best of them – it could be with a player, with his assistants Andy Awford and Shaun North, or even with the bus driver, who took the wrath of Jim’s anger on several occasions.

  We played Boston United away once, and the driver had gone the wrong way and, as a result, we were stuck in heavy traffic. We had to abandon the pre-match meal and get sandwiches from a garage. Jim absolutely caned this poor bloke, ‘Fucking useless, I’ll drive the fucking thing myself you twat! One fucking job to do and you piss that up the wall!’

  It didn’t help that the team were all shouting the usual insults from the back. ‘Have you shagged the sat nav girl, beca
use she is all over the place?’

  This would be followed by, ‘Can you turn that fucking traffic finder off, driver?’ and, ‘Put it in second, Nobby; it’s not a night game!’

  When we eventually got to Boston, Jim was still in a bad mood; he strolled into the club, a club he had once managed, and said, ‘What a fucking shithole.’

  He was right though, it was!

  Even when we went in to see the ref for the captains’ meeting, Jim piped up and said, ‘Well I’m sure we will get fuck all today, because you officials at this level are all fucking useless.’

  I laughed, but I knew there was only one certainty from now on – we wouldn’t get anything that day, and we didn’t. The ref turned down a huge penalty shout, Billy Turley was fouled for their goal, and Jim spent the entire afternoon stood on the touchline with his head in his hands. It always made me chuckle though – win, lose or draw, you’d see the cigar smoke wafting down the coach after a game and hear Jim muttering, ‘Fucking useless, eh?’

  (I have to apologise again about the language, and believe me, my mum has told me off for the ‘excessive use of obscenities’, but, in my defence, they are often all other people’s words.)

  Even on the eve of the last game of the season, Jim wasn’t fully behind his choice of team. It was the biggest game in the club’s recent history, and I still didn’t know I was playing until an hour and a half before the game, and I was supposed to be the captain! Jim pulled me into office and said, ‘I’m not sure about playing you, Chris, but the lads seem to want you to play, so off you go.’

  Wow, you’re really making me feel special Jim, nice one!

  Our Player of the Year presentations took place on the pitch before the game, and it was the quietest handclapping I have ever heard as the names were announced. Lee ‘Lamb’ Mansell (named for his wool-like hair) took the fans’ Player of the Year award, and I took the players’ Player of the Year award. During both these presentations, you could pretty much feel the tumbleweeds passing by. We were all, fans and players alike, more concerned with knowing our fate.

  I don’t want to talk about the game and the relegation too much, because it is just too frustrating, and there’s no need for me to relive all that torment again. However, in brief, after taking a lead through an Eric Sabin goal, Chris Willmott was sent off, we conceded a couple of goals, and ended up losing the game. Leyton Orient was promoted and Oxford United, with its big stadium, famous manager and history, were down. I knelt down on that pitch and watched as the jubilant away fans celebrated their promotion. I just felt broken. I had rejected the club that had sent us down – what a horrible twist of fate. After the game, I said to the lads that they had tried their best, and that they could at least say they gave it a go, but I also said that Jim hadn’t helped them at all with his attitude. That comment would come back to bite me on the arse, and I was wrong to say it without him being there, but I was mad – mad that I was captain of a team that had got relegated when it could, so easily, have been avoided.

  After being sat silent in the dressing room for about an hour and a half after the game, I, with the rest of the players in my car school, walked out of the club. As we did so, an irate fan came up to me and shouted, ‘It’s your fucking fault, Hargreaves – you’re the captain and you have been shit. It’s your fault we are down.’

  As much as I would have loved to have taken him around the back of the stand and given him a few lessons in politeness, I could understand where he was coming from. I was angry as well though, so let him have both barrels back, reacting by threatening to rip his head off (Oops!), saying that it was the fault of other people at the club who had more control than I did, although in reality I felt the fan was right, and I certainly did blame myself. I had always looked at myself after defeats and blamed myself for pretty much everything, and this game was no different, I felt responsible. The only funny part of the whole day was when the same fan noticed Digga, and after shouting at me turned to him, ‘And you’re even worse, Dempster, you can’t even play!’

  John Dempster was actually a really good player, but it was funny how he always seemed to be on the receiving end of abuse.

  We had a PR shoot towards the end of the season at the Little Chef, and the photographer asked me to pile my plate up for the shot. I turned to him and said, ‘Are you sure mate? You’ve got no chance – we’re in the middle of a relegation battle, and you want the captain to smile and say cheese while munching down a double breakfast and chips? That will go down great with the fans, won’t it?’

  Instead, I turned to Digga, and told him to smile, while putting my two sausages on his plate. A few of the other lads had done the same and the next day Digga was pictured beaming away in front of six sausages, six rashers of bacon and four eggs. At a game a few days later another fan shouted, ‘It’s no wonder you can’t move, Dempster, you fat bastard; you’re too busy ramming sausages down your neck!’

  He was subbed after thirty-five minutes that day!

  After the final match, we parked up on the way home and all had a pint and a bite to eat, in silence. It had been a shit day in a shit season, and, even now, I still find it hard to believe it happened. However, it had, and we were facing life in the Conference. I had suffered this fate for the second time in my career, and it was no easier to bear – it hurt like hell. I came out of that season with a punctured lung, three broken ribs, a four-inch scar to the forehead, and a relegation to the Conference. I was like a bear with a thorn in his paw that summer, so annoyed that I couldn’t think about anything else. I don’t even remember going away, which we must have done to get away from it all. I only remember returning home to see Sky Sports News still on loop, saying ‘Oxford United – Relegated’.

  2006/07

  Sometimes I wake up and really feel like writing; today is not one of those days. I don’t know if it’s because everything seems to be annoying me today, or whether it’s because writing about life with Jim as manager brings back awful memories, but either way I am a little subdued. The fact that my wife is on stress alert might not be helping; she seems intent on making herself feel as bad as she can. Comments such as, ‘Well I’ve just been so busy, you know, it’s just “the situation” we are in’, don’t help. What situation? As far as I am concerned, no one has beriberi, we are all able to read, write and walk, and at the last count there are still just a few people worse off than us in the world. I obviously didn’t say this out loud because it would cause a daylong sponsored silence, but I certainly feel as if I am being made to feel bad about ‘the situation’. The fact that I am coaching 6–9pm every night, I am trying to do a bit of TV work, and I am writing a book for HarperCollins just seems to be a right pain in the arse!

  Maybe I shouldn’t talk about this, but, since my retirement, I have seen large changes in lots of colleagues, friends, and even my family. Some are delighted I have retired (no comments about fans at this stage, please), and for others it is a strange mix of pleased one-upmanship and fear. One-upmanship, that they now seem to delight in telling me they are earning decent money, or that they are buying this or that. I’m pretty damn sure I never did that when I played, and if I did, it was never, ever intentional. If I had twenty pounds and was on a night out with somebody with ten pounds, we now had fifteen pounds each; that was my take on things.

  I can understand the fact that being a footballer, at any level, immediately propels you to a certain status, whether it’s warranted or not (and it’s usually not), but for me now, not having that is fine. For some, me not having that status is great.

  The fear of the unknown is more understandable; my wife has looked into me working as a driver, a barman, a gardener (I took her up on that one for a while, as you know!), a postman, and into my going on the dole. Talk about having faith in someone! I won’t do the last one, because I believe there is always work out there if you are willing and able, and I don’t particularly want to do any of the others. Don’t get me wrong, I will do anything to provide fo
r my family, and I would work bloody hard, but I want to either stay in football or work in the media, two jobs that I love, but in two industries that are both fickle and unpredictable. Getting work in either field is going to be tough. This is why, as I mentioned, I have pulled some of my pension money out; I am going to try to buy my way out of trouble with the money I grafted all my career for. I am going to try to set up a business so that I am answerable only to myself, and hopefully, when I have done that I can silence a few of those who have doubted my resolve. The only thing this temporary blip in my career has done to me is to make me stronger, and more resilient, and that can’t be a bad thing can it?

  With the season before being an almighty crock of shit, the new 06/07 campaign had to have more to offer. The club had come to terms with the fact that it would be in the Conference and with Nick Merry and Kelvin Thomas now in charge of financial matters, the off-field problems were very much in hand. Nick was a great guy; he looked like J. R. Ewing, complete with Stetson and Rolls Royce. Both he and Kelvin were astute businessmen who wanted to get the club on an even keel. That meant promotion and it also meant, somehow, buying the ground off Mr Kassam.

  We had moved to a new training ground, and straightaway there was a better feel to the whole club. We had the Mitchell brothers from Eastenders keeping a close eye on us, in the form of Paul and Neil Sullivan. Neil was our brilliant physio who could repair prolapsed discs in a couple of minutes, and Paul was our kit man and camp comic – don’t worry Paul, not in a Louis Spence way. We also had Lindsey on board, our masseur, agony aunt and fitness trainer all rolled into one, and finally we had our main fitness ‘guru’, Jordan Milson. He was fresh out of Liverpool University, thought he could still be a player and was absolutely bloody hilarious. He took some monumental hammerings but I have to say that the 06/07 pre-season was one of the most enjoyable I had ever had. The fact that Jim wasn’t around probably helped to calm the nerves, but with Jordan attempting to control the lads it was one hell of a laugh. The team spirit was spot on; Turley, Quinn, Dempster and Burgess were back on form, and we had also just signed a moaning, unfit, young Welshman called Rob Duffy, who slotted into the car school like a slipper on an ugly sister, but who, before long, was in the circle of trust, and, more importantly, was banging the goals in on a Saturday. Experienced players Gavin Johnson and Rufus Brevett had signed, as had a great little midfielder, Carl Pettifer, another new striker in Yemi Odubade, and a new captain in the form of experienced campaigner and former Oxford United stopper, Phil Gilchrist – after one pre-season game it became clear that he was the ideal man for the job.