Where's Your Caravan?

by Chris Hargreaves

  Before the last game of that season I also had the honour of being presented with the fans’ Player of the Year award, as well as the players’ Player of the Year award. It capped a pretty good season for me on a personal level, but it would go on to be a bittersweet few weeks. It had been a tough but enjoyable season, and a lot of people had put a lot of work into helping make it successful – from Pete Morgan and his team of masseurs, including Gareth Law, a good local footballer who could so easily have made it as a pro (your words Gareth – get that cheque in the post for the mention), to the staff in the offices, who had kept faith, even after the relegation. Even Andy Ryan, the club doctor, went through the mill for the team, what with the players’ personal problems, and the amount of drugs it took to keep us all going. He was also tasked with saving my hair, when a nasty gash to the head during a game had meant a quick trip into the treatment room for a few stitches. As the game was going on, and the management were telling him to hurry up, he said to me, ‘Chris, I’m going to have to shave off part of your hair to get these stitches in.’

  I replied, ‘No, you’re bloody well not Andy! Stitch the lot together; I’m not going out there looking like one of the Bee Gees.’

  We laughed, he did exactly what I’d asked, and, although I looked as if I had dreadlocks in for a week, the hair had survived.

  The first leg of the play-offs went well; it was a great advert for the game at that level, with over ten thousand fans packing into Exeter City’s St James Park. We won the first game 2–1 and felt pretty good about the second leg. Bucks had wanted to be solid in the first leg, which was the right move, but, with hindsight, we were too defensive in the second leg, and it ended up costing us. I still thought we had the game in the bag in the second leg, as we had extended our lead with a goal from Kevin Hill and were comfortable. My old mate Steve Basham, who had signed for Exeter City after Oxford United, and who was sat in the stands that day, said to his fellow teammates that Exeter City had run out of ideas. Even Paul Tisdale, the Exeter City manager, had apparently nearly given up hope, but a couple of substitutions by the away team, and a bit of sloppy defending by us, saw us concede a poor goal. Our keeper, Paul Raynor, then gave away a dubious penalty which was dispatched, and we were well and truly on the rails. Bucks took our then captain Stevie Woods off, and we changed our shape, but the damage was done; trying to break forward to get a winner we were caught out, and they scored a third goal, and settled it with a fourth in the final minute. For the second successive year I had been fifteen minutes from a play-off final, only to be mugged in the last few minutes. I was in a daze on that pitch as I watched the two thousand or so Exeter City fans celebrating.

  I knew some of the Exeter City lads well, and they came up to shake my hand, themselves in disbelief at having turned the tie on its head. Football can be a cruel game, and meeting my family after the match, with the children’s eyes very blurry, was tough. I was big enough and ugly enough to handle the shit that would hit the fan, but for my wife and children, especially Cam who, ironically, was and still is at Exeter City’s academy, it was hard to take.

  If there was a funny moment in a day of such disappointment, it came as I was walking off the pitch. One of the local radio stations had situated a presenter by the side of the pitch ready for interviews, and, as I walked off the field of play, disconsolate, the woman concerned asked me one of her normal crap questions – she would often come to the training ground and start the interview with, ‘Is there anything you would like to say?’

  ‘Yes love, I am worried by nuclear weapons testing in Iran, and the rising price of a barrel of oil, oh and your questions are shit.’

  She pushed the mike in my face, minutes after this bitter loss, while smiling, and said, ‘How do you feel about that then?’

  Jesus Christ, talk about employing someone with no idea whatsoever about sport – what did she expect me to say?

  ‘I feel magnificent, get the champagne out, I can’t believe how much I feel like partying, I cannot wait to see the kids’ faces, and our fans must be delighted.’

  I actually replied with, ‘Oh yes, I feel great, now get that ferret out of my face!’

  I saw Steve Basham after the game and he was at a loss for words as well; he was obviously delighted that he was now off to Wembley, but he said he felt terrible that this had now happened to me two years in a row.

  Only thirty-six hours after that devastating defeat, we were back at it, holed up in a hotel for four days before playing Ebbsfleet United in the FA Trophy final at Wembley.

  Not only were we still gutted about the loss in the play-offs, we were now stuck in a hotel away from home dwelling on it. It was worse for me as I was sharing with Lee Philips. Lee is a great lad, but is also the biggest worrier out there. I had to endure three days of him saying to me, ‘Greavsie, surely I’ll play in the final. I have to play, what do you think, I should play shouldn’t I?’

  I think you should leave me alone, as I want to be at home with my family, preparing as normal in a relaxed way, not being questioned by a nutter of a teammate in a hotel with no air conditioning, and a squad of pissed off footballers. Again, with the benefit of hindsight, we should just have travelled up the night before, and in the first tense chat I had ever had with Bucks I did stress that we were going too early, but he was adamant that we should go up and train for a few days beforehand.

  Ebbsfleet had done some sort of club shares sale in the previous couple of weeks, so that each person part-owned the club, and it swelled the attendance on the day to just under fifty thousand, which was a great sight. Even though the play-off defeat was fresh in our minds, it was nice to walk out at Wembley. The weather was incredibly hot though, the hottest so far recorded at Wembley, and the pitch was all over the shop. With all the rumours and hearsay about the state of the pitch, it was still a genuine surprise to find out that it was actually giving way underfoot; the lads were changing their boots quicker than Steve McClaren had thrown his brolly away. We played OK that day, but nowhere near our best, and unfortunately at one point Chris Todd misjudged the pace of the ball, and, as he tried to let the ball run out for a goal kick, their striker nicked it off him, crossing the ball in for an Ebsfleet player to score what turned out to be the winning goal. ‘Could’ve, should’ve, would’ve’ is a saying that epitomises that season. But for a few bad decisions, and a few twists of fate, we could have gone up automatically, we should have gone up through the play-offs, and we would have won at Wembley against an inferior and very average team, but we did none of these, and what was a high-achieving season, in so many respects, ended with nothing.

  I met my family after the game and their disappointment was obvious; I felt so mad that I had let them all down that I found it hard to even talk that night. I remember hugging the children and saying to them, ‘I will get you back to Wembley, kids and I will lift a cup, I promise.’

  It was a bold statement for someone who had now lost five playoff semi-finals! Now you may read this and think, ‘Jesus, it’s only a Conference play-off game’ and you may be right, but to our fans, our families, and to us as players, it was as important as any cup, or any competition, in any league in the world. It was also a bastard of a league to get out of.

  As disappointed and angry as I was, I spoke to Bucks a few days later and he said, ‘Do you want to give it one more go?’ and, after agreeing that we needed a few more players, I said, ‘I’ll see you at pre-season.’

  I had played fifty games the previous season, and it felt like a hundred and fifty, but with Devon giving us the escapism that only it can, I recharged the old batteries on one of the many beaches on offer, and thought about nothing but surfing, eating, and … having my heart ripped out with ten minutes to go against Exeter City!

  And that really is all I thought of for about three months. They say that you sometimes take your work home with you, and when it comes to football they are most definitely spot on. There may be a common misconception that footballers
play a game, and then forget about it, but for most the game is always on your mind. As usual, with the summer break rapidly vanishing, we were soon reporting back for pre-season training.

  I am back at the laptop this morning after what seems an eternity. It is all systems go for the sports shop; I have made the owner of the shop an offer for the current stock, which we will take on for reasons of goodwill as much as anything. I am currently planning the refit and the orders. The two guys I am going in with are good people who have had, and still have, good businesses themselves. I have turned down quite a few offers to play part-time. For one thing I want to finish football on a (relative) high, having had a couple of promotions, and second, I don’t want to listen to the bullshit any more. I need to decide my own destiny and the sports shop is the first part of that process.

  It is actually really exciting to be planning the look of the shop, designing the website, and getting used to the hundreds of products we will be stocking. I keep nipping in to see the current owner to look through the different rackets, bats, sticks, studs, bags and whistles, and whatever else is tucked away in there; it’s like being a kid in a sweet-shop, although the romance part of it will no doubt soon be gone after we start trading. I want to turn it into a really fun place to visit, and to bring back a bit of cool to the sports shop. We will have wooden floors and really good props for each sport. I’m not saying I will spend all day shooting baskets in there, but with the addition of a few hoops, goals and posts, it will be a little bit different from the average sports store. Chris Hargreaves’s SPORTS REPUBLIC – shit it really is happening.

  To get some ready cash in the old skyrocket I have also revisited the jungle to trim Carol’s bush (oi oi!). I have spent the last few days chopping, sawing, and strimming, all while answering the mobile to agents and managers wanting opinions on players. Yesterday was deadline day, and if I had a pound for each call and text I received from managers and agents all desperately clambering for late purchases and loans, I would have just about enough to buy a ticket to watch Chelsea – and they may need the money after shelling out a mind boggling fifty million quid on Fernando Torres.

  It is definitely the busiest deadline day I can ever remember, the desperation for last minute acquisitions was massive, and, as far as the Premiership was concerned, it was as if they were using Monopoly money. Around the other leagues a few of my old teammates also got moves to various clubs – no need to thank me lads for giving you all glowing references – I’m sure many more were waiting by the phone and hoping.

  It did make me smile as I spoke to the various football people on the phone yesterday. They would be asking about the various attributes of a certain player they were interested in, and then suddenly ask, ‘What the hell is that noise in the background?’

  As much as I wanted to say, ‘Oh, I’m doing a bit of cash-in-hand, part-time landscape gardening, and that’s the sound of the strimmer I’m using to get through the fifteen feet of hawthorn bushes I’m currently attacking; it’s a bastard to start so I leave it running. I have just nearly killed myself with an axe, which flew back off a granite-like tree stump and clocked me right in the face. I don’t think my nose is broken but I have definitely drawn a fair bit of blood.’

  It would have been much too long, and none of it would have actually been digested by the listener, and so it was far easier just to say, ‘I’m in a park.’

  When you are in the game, and at a club, transfer deadline day is important, but when you’re knee deep in shit in the middle of a small forest, it doesn’t seem that relevant. Still, my detachment meant that at least I gave honest advice!

  2008/09

  With the previous season having had such a disappointing end, we turned up for the new season a little jaded. There were soon a few new faces in the camp though, which always brightens up a football club. Wayne Carlisle joined us from local rivals Exeter City, Lee Hodges arrived from Reading, and Nicky Wroe from York City. The ‘Bunionater’, Tyrone Thompson, arrived from Crawley Town, and six-foot-six inch giant Scott ‘The Bevanator’ Bevan, from Shrewsbury Town. Tyrone always managed to kick the ball with his bunion, and Scotty Bevan was a tattoo-loving, weight-lifting obsessed, protein-eating giant, who openly advertised the fact that he hadn’t had sex for over a year! They were all good additions to the squad and, as so many players I’ve got to known have been, great lads with it.

  Wayne was a proper Irishman complete with ‘so it is’ after every sentence, and Nicky was a proper Yorkshire man with ‘down pit’ in every sentence. Lee was, like me, an old-school veteran and was, like myself, as stiff as a board. The final in this list of new signings was Michael Brough, who had cheeks like Thomas the Tank Engine, and who could sweat at an international level. Again, the squad looked great, and again, we would give it a right good go.

  Paul Buckle pulled me to one side after another immense ‘beasting’ during pre-season and said some very nice things. He said I epitomised what he was about, and that he wanted me to lead the team and be the new team captain. He said he had wanted to make the change sooner but that Stevie Woods had been the captain when he arrived. Stevie was a good mate of mine, but we both knew the game and he was fine about it. While Bucks was telling me what I meant to the club and the team, he also told me about his new plans: ‘I’m going to play you centre-half this year, Chris. I want you to lead from the back.’

  I had finally arrived in the back four after twenty years of playing the game!

  It didn’t last too long, however. Although I really enjoyed playing there, and felt pretty comfortable in that position, I did do my best to get myself back in midfield. I was trying to let the ball run out of play one game when the same lad who mugged Toddy at Wembley did it to me and scored, so my days as a centre-half were numbered. To be fair, the manager was far from happy with his new midfield, which meant that I would be stepping back in there to solidify things. At least that’s what I tell myself, and others who will listen.

  We had an awful first few months of that season and without the last minute penalty scored by Tim Sills against a team at the foot of the table, Paul may well have been sacked. However, after that we got ourselves together, found the right formation, and team, and went on one hell of a run. We were unbeaten in seventeen games, winning the majority of them and pushing ourselves right back in the frame in the league. During this time though, the whole club was rocked by something that came as a total bolt out of the blue.

  I happened to find out the news totally by chance. I had been to a show in Plymouth and was returning home. I phoned Chris Todd to see what time we would be meeting for the normal morning car share, and he was very quiet – something very rare for Toddy, as he usually sounds like he is either on the set of Gavin and Stacey or an extra in the film Trainspotting – I asked him what was wrong and he replied, ‘I think I’ve got leukaemia, pal.’

  My roommate, and the lad that epitomised your typical ‘run through a brick wall’ centre-half, had cancer. I have to say it was a pretty traumatic time at the club. A press conference was given a few days later, and he spoke to the whole team the day after he had been given the diagnosis. It was before a home game, one that he was due to be playing in. Toddy bowled in with his dad, Steve, and broke the news to the squad. It was pretty emotional stuff, and on such a highly charged evening, it was very fitting that his shirt was raised when the first goal was scored by Tim Sills. In true Chris Todd fashion though, he was very upbeat, his jokes remained horrendous, and his gear was still shocking. Seeing how he handled the situation was truly inspiring for all at the club.

  We didn’t see him for a couple of months, as he had to go on a long course of drugs, but, after recuperating fully, he rang me and said, ‘Greavsie, I think I will play before the end of the season.’

  It was fantastic news for him and his family that the treatment had worked, and tremendous for us that our teammate, and friend, would be returning fit and healthy. Chris Todd is one hell of a lad and it was a real pleasure t
o have been with him during my time at Torquay United. He never failed to make me laugh, and anyone who knows him would agree that he may not know what the capital of Iceland is, but he certainly knows how to pull off a diamond-encrusted fake Armani belt!

  The team were playing really well and it felt like we now had a plan B in games. Again, we had a great FA Cup run and again, we found ourselves in the fourth round. We had beaten Championship side Blackpool in the third round, and were playing Coventry City in the fourth, very confident that we could beat them and get to the fifth round for the first time in Torquay United’s history.

  The Blackpool game had been a great day; even before the whistle had been blown I knew we would win. I remember seeing their captain waiting in the tunnel to go into the ref’s room before the game – for our ‘meet and greet’ pleasantries and the ‘do’s and don’ts’ chat – I left our disco-like changing room and strolled down the tunnel, and, as I shook his hand I said, ‘Fucking Hell! I thought my hair was bad, but you can’t be serious going out there with that barnet.’

  He laughed but I think the old psychological trick must have played a part, walking out with very bleached blond hair suddenly mustn’t have seemed like such a good idea.