‘Listen, Timmy is a top bloke, and I intend to thrash him at tennis.’
Now, I may have a vivid imagination, but playing tennis with Timmy Mallett and Chris Evans cannot be made up. Him playing with his mallet, now that is another thing entirely. Incidentally I never made it on that occasion, as my fucking groin was no good for tennis either!
Oxford United had led the division for most of the season but was now having a bit of a wobble, and they wanted me back to steady the ship. A lot went through my mind at that time, and it was a bloody hard decision, but in the end I came up with a pretty strong conclusion. I had done my bit for Torquay United, and I had had a brilliant time at the club and no one could ever take that away. But I honestly felt that if I turned Oxford United down, I would feel that I had let them down. I felt that I would look back and say to myself, ‘You shithouse.’
It was definitely a case of unfinished business at Oxford United, and if I could have even a smidgen of a hand in getting them back in the league, I could then rest easy about that stage of my career.
The next four months turned out to be as testing as they could possibly be. My wife was going in for an operation the week I left, which was a bit stressful, and I had to spend the next four months in a hotel room and a car – a pretty lonely existence. But, to cut a very long story short, Oxford United were promoted and I am proud to have played a part in that promotion.
It started as crazily as you could imagine. I went from being the captain of Torquay United to the captain of Oxford United in the space of that first week, and my first game back at the club would have tested even the most optimistic of players. And this takes us back to where this book started, to the game against Luton Town, when the referee added on vital minutes which contributed to our defeat, and my unfortunate angry kick of a ball smashing John Murray’s laptop.
We recovered and won three quick games on the bounce; the ship was eventually steadied, and I felt very positive about our promotion chances. As I described earlier, it was the last ten minutes of that final game that did it for me. I had torn my groin and, after driving home to Devon late at night after the game, my body just seemed to stop functioning. As so often in my career, I had been doing a hell of a lot of driving and it had taken its toll. My body was again saying, ‘enough is enough’. It was so fucking frustrating. I still felt that it was my mission to get Oxford United promoted, but the more I tried to get fit, the worse my injuries got. I saw Richard Carr-Hyde almost every day, I took more tablets than Shaun Ryder in his heyday, and I even tried the injection lark once more, but even that was to no avail. We had a night game against Hayes & Yeading United, and before the game I had an injection in my groin as I was really suffering with it. I played the first half, but was absolutely off the pace. Of all people, Steve Basham turned up again, and bagged a couple of goals, and we were all over the shop.
I came off at half time and sat on the treatment table. I said to John, our physio, that I couldn’t feel most of my right leg – the injection had worked too well. I clearly couldn’t feel a thing, because, as I pulled my sock down, I realised I had a two-inch gash in my shin. The doctor stitched it up, and as I walked back into the changing room I felt gutted that my body had finally let me down.
The rest of the season was a washout for me as far as playing was concerned. I was in and out of the club and the hotel like a yo-yo, and even though I tried my best to get my body fixed, I think the efforts of the previous two years had finally caught up with me.
When the lads clinched their play-off place, I drove down to see the boys and the manager. Along with Mickey Lewis and Andy Melville, Chris Wilder had done a great job at Oxford United, and if the only help I could give now was going to be with my voice, I was going to bloody well give it. I trained with the lads before the first play-off game, and I could sense the tension. Chris had hammered the lads in training, and, to be fair, he was feeling the pressure. He pulled all the lads in for a chat, and after asking Mickey and Mel to say a few words, he asked me what I thought. I remember clearly what I said, because it was pretty much what I told Chris Robertson the day of Torquay United’s play-off final. I said, ‘Don’t think of anything other than lifting that trophy, because this is your year, and this is the year Oxford United are going up. Just smile and stick to the game plan, and you will do it.’
This relaxed the manager, never mind the players, and if that was all I could do, it turned out to be enough.
There were some really good lads at Oxford United, and whatever they thought of me as a person or as a player, I wanted to help them get promoted. The same went for the fans; some liked me and some didn’t, but for me it was about the club going back up, no matter what. It hadn’t all gone according to plan, but so what, the club going up was the main objective and that was again, as far as I was concerned, what had to happen.
The play-offs were duly won, in no small part due to the fact that Matt Green was on top form. It was then to Wembley again and although I wouldn’t be putting my boots on, I had a good chat to the boys before the game. I told lads such as James ‘Beano’ Constable and Mark Creighton to take what was theirs, and to enjoy lifting the trophy at the final whistle. They were awesome that day, and both Beano and Matt Green scored. I took my turn in lifting the trophy since I had played ten games in my second spell at the club. It didn’t feel the same as the win for Torquay United the previous year, but it didn’t matter, I felt that some sort of previous wrongs had been righted at the club, for me anyway. After the game I spoke to Jim Rosenthal and Timmy Mallett, who both thanked me for having the balls to return and to help. I turned up at the civic reception to join the lads, but as they went on to party to enjoy their success I said my goodbyes to Chris Wilder, and returned to Devon.
Oxford United soon announced that I had been released, which was odd, as both myself and Chris Wilder had known that my involvement at the club was a short-term one, and had already finished at the end of that season, but clubs like to have the final say. Though it was poor that they announced it in that way, I had to smile to myself because, by now, I knew as well as anyone how the game works. When you are needed, your phone is white-hot and the desperation for you to sign and play for a club is huge, but when you have served your purpose and are surplus to requirements, that changes ever so slightly. I wasn’t bothered; I was just delighted that Oxford United had returned to the football league.
Another highlight of 2010 came at the end of the 09/10 season. After snagging/grooming the lovely Jenny, Kev Nicholson then managed to persuade her to marry him. Tim Sills, who had moved on to Stevenage, Lee Mansell, who was still with Kev at Torquay United, and I were chosen as best men – Kev didn’t like one of us quite enough to have just one best man!
With Kev an occasional drinker, and afraid of any wrong doings on a stag do, he decided that we would all go to Alton Towers for an ‘exciting’ few days.
I actually travelled up late on a Friday night, after an interview for a Tiverton Town job – I handed my CV in on that Friday (having decided that I would be probably be retiring from playing) and I was offered the job the following Tuesday, but although the directors were a fantastic bunch of people, and it was a decent little club, I knew that the league, and the small budget, were too much for me to take on. By that, I mean that the budget was extremely tight, and that I had no experience of the players in that league. For the record, they were relegated that season.
On arriving at the hotel at Alton Towers late, I soon found out that the lads had already gone out, but had found it dead, and were already heading back. The next part is hilarious. The boys (including Nicky Wroe, a great northern lad and Torquay United player, all the best men, and Kev’s mate from back home in Nottingham, Mark Stallard, who had also been a player at Notts County) all sat down together in the very quiet hotel bar.
We were hammering on Kev for bringing us on the worst stag do ever, when the unthinkable happened. Some Torquay United fans recognised us, and we invited them ove
r for a drink – it was then that the fun and games began. Kev was feeling a bit rough, so I ‘kindly’ suggested that he have a fruit juice from the bar. He was chuffed at the care shown by Mr Hargreaves, and I was only too happy to order a 5 Alive orange drink. The fact that I asked the barman to put a double vodka in it is really neither here nor there, but, as Kev had lost his sense of taste, he gulped it down, and I quickly got him another for the Vitamin C that he so obviously needed. To cut a long story short Kev was soon in a great mood, and really enjoying the ‘fruit juices’.
One of the Torquay fans then happened to tell me that he had a camel costume in his room. (Come on, seriously, what are the chances of that?) I saw an opportunity that could not be missed, and, before long, a mild mannered, teetotal, quiet lad, called Kev Nicholson, was being ridden around the hotel bar dressed as a camel.
It was truly a sight to behold. Kev, all dressed up in a furry suit, on all fours, being ridden by Torquay United fans at Alton Towers. I don’t think I have laughed that much in a long, long time, and when Mark hurled the line of abuse, ‘Take it like a bitch, fur boy, that serves you right for being a total gaylord’, I knew that the trip had exceeded any of our expectations.
The fact that Kev was sick three times the next day, and had to change his T-shirt for a very tight-fitting pink number, kindly bought for him at the gift shop by the boys, made it even more memorable. The final insult for Kev was being dressed up as Jimmy Saville that night, and being severely manhandled by a lady boy/girl in a spit and sawdust den of iniquity. It was the least we could do!
I recently bumped into one of the fans we met on that fateful ‘camel’ night (it was the lad who lent/gave me the suit), and he said that it was the best night of his young life, so far. Admittedly, the lad probably didn’t expect to see one of his footballing heroes dressed as a desert animal shouting, ‘Yee Haa!’, but he was right, it was one hell of a sight, and one hell of a night.
The wedding itself went without a hitch, Jenny looked amazing, Kev looked hot, and I wore a T-shirt under my suit, which I revealed after my speech, that simply read ‘Tarzan and Jenny for ever’ (my nickname at Torquay United was Tarzan). What are friends for?
Anyway, whether it was the end-of-season injury at Oxford United or the way I had left Torquay United I don’t know, but that summer at the end of the 09/10 season was different. I suddenly realised I wasn’t prepared to go to a club on a ‘maybe’; I didn’t want to drag the family anywhere else, and I certainly wasn’t in the mood for more bullshit. For the first time in my twenty-two-year career I had my doubts about carrying on. On one hand, I wanted to keep playing, but on the other, I knew I had to retire at some point. It has been ten months now since my final game, and you know what, I’m still not sure whether I have retired. As I said in my introduction, I certainly don’t like to say it. I half want a manager to phone up and say, ‘Give me a season, and see how we do.’
But it would only delay the inevitable – and the phone hasn’t exactly been ringing off the hook.
As I mentioned earlier, I did speak to an ex-player turned successful businessman, Steve Massey, about playing for his local club. He even offered me five grand as a signing on fee, which was mental, but I just couldn’t do it, I didn’t want to drag myself around the local leagues. Fiona choked on her Pinot Grigio when I told her, but she understood.
I still coach the under-16s at Exeter City’s academy with fellow ex-pro Shaun Taylor, and I join in as often as I can. I still love playing football and that will never change. I talk to the boys a hell of a lot about their efforts in trying to make it in this game, and I hope my advice helps. These boys are so refreshing in that they really want to learn and, as a result, really listen. They have no agenda whatsoever. It is a very rewarding job; it just doesn’t pay very well.
I have found it incredibly difficult to finish playing and waves of disappointment still hit me every so often – but that’s life. I knew it had to happen one day, I just didn’t know when, or what I would replace it with. I get quite a lot of calls from old teammates who are in the same boat as me, asking for advice. I try to give them the right advice for their own situation, when really I don’t even know how my own will pan out. What I do know is that I have already been one incredibly lucky boy to do a job that I have loved doing for twenty-two years. I may not have played at the top or earned big money, but I have some great memories, and, as I don’t play golf, I don’t need to have a couple of million in the bank to be able to ‘retire’ now. I do have a few plans in place and one is to cycle to the ninety-two football league clubs, to raise money for hospice care with Mickey Taylor, a local fireman. (I was originally thinking of running it, but with the state of my knees, and the time it would take, I thought better of it.) The second plan is to sell plenty of football boots, tennis rackets and ping-pong balls. The third plan is to do the second best thing in football, become a manager.
I didn’t make it to the top and I didn’t play for England; maybe I wasn’t good enough after all, but as we all know, ‘God loves a tryer.’
And where is my caravan? Well, it has been taken to a nice little field with a lovely view of the sea in Devon, where it has been unhooked, and it will definitely not be moving, as my family are staying here. I, on the other hand, may well be seen very soon, flying, driving or training to a club near you, as the last few months have told me how much I love this game. Maybe this time, though, it’ll be as coach, and I will be the one with the whistle.
Epilogue
It’s 11.45pm and I am writing the epilogue to this book on my daughter’s laptop, having left mine at the shop. The keys are tiny, and my fingers are big, so you can imagine my frustration (and the language I’m using to express it!). I was at the shop at 7am this morning, ready for the first day’s trading of Chris Hargreaves, SPORTS REPUBLIC, Sidmouth. After a big, late, push at the weekend, helped by big Mr and Mrs Hargreaves (my parents), Mrs Hargreaves (my wife) and the baby Hargreaves (my children), I opened the shop this morning and gave it a go. I fumbled through the card machine and chip and pin instructions, smiled, and opened the doors at 9.30. I sold trainers for walking, running and watching, I sold tennis balls for a dog, racket tape for a pushchair, and a whole host of weird and wonderful items. I wrote down the things I didn’t have in stock, but were being requested. I trained a young lad in the ways of the shop (and of me!). I cleaned up, put another display in the window, cashed up, ordered some stock, and returned home at 9.59pm, having not eaten or sat down all day. A fifteen-hour slogfest, with the best of them. On a quiet day in sunny Sidmouth the till rang out to the tune of seven hundred and sixty-seven pounds – not a bad first day for a shop that people still think is under a refit; so fingers crossed, signs are good.
Still, the future is, as ever, unpredictable. Over the last seventy-two hours, I have been a Sky pundit (Torquay United v. Shrewsbury Town play-offs), a writer and a shop owner. Over the past year, I have been a footballer, a coach, a cash-in-hand gardener, a shop refitter and a football coach. Who knows what else the future will bring?
I have enjoyed writing this book (at all hours of the day and night), and the process has certainly brought back a lot of memories. I am indebted to all the people who have read the draft of this book to give me some pointers (my mum!), and to all the people mentioned in the book who have advertently, but more often inadvertently, given me such great material. I must thank my wife Fiona for being very, very, very patient, my children for being very, very funny, and I must thank myself for writing the best football book this year (OK, probably the best football book this year). Finally many thanks to the Stout clan for their help with the business, their laughter and their red wine!
Good luck to all you players, managers, coaches and fans out there for the season ahead. I cannot wait to join you again.
I will finish with the only motto that my mind will allow at 12.20am: ‘Do not ask, just thank if you receive.’
Copyright
The Friday Project
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WHERE’S YOUR CARAVAN?. Copyright © Chris Hargreaves 2011. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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ISBN 978-0-00-736414-5
EPub Edition © AUGUST 2011 ISBN: 978-0-00-737125-9
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