No Nonsense

by Joey Barton

  We have warmed up. Kick-off approaches. It will be a strange experience, since Charlton have erected mesh fences around the pitch, to prevent their fans causing chaos. Their banners proclaim ‘We Want Our Club Back’. I understand where they are coming from; a traditional family club has been soured by Belgian owners who know little and care less about its heritage.

  I take a final glance at a short list of my responsibilities to my team-mates: ‘Talk. Direct. Encourage. Act as Their QC.’ Our confidence is high, because we are unbeaten in 22 games, since a 3-0 defeat at Hull on Boxing Day. That loss prompted a team meeting in which everything was up for grabs. I argued it was too simplistic merely to promise to work harder; we had to work smarter.

  I’ve been pretty low-key this season. The first time I showed my teeth in the dressing room was at MK Dons on a cold Tuesday night, 12 January. I had given us a half-time lead, but I ripped into our back four. I’d been on at them throughout the first half. They were casual, slack, and I wasn’t having it.

  I was walking around the changing room, which is nothing unusual at the interval, because I do so to control my lactate levels. No one appeared in any hurry to visit the toilet, just around the corner. The atmosphere was expectant. My team-mates, sitting at right angles to one another in the main changing area, had evidently been wondering when the explosion would come.

  The gaffer’s response proved the relevance of those psychometric tests. He used the insight they provided into my methods of communication to frame his team talk. ‘He is absolutely spot-on,’ he intervened, after I’d had my say. ‘Joe is on the pitch. He can smell what I see. He’s having a pop at you, but that’s not personal. It’s a professional opinion. It’s blunt, and it is what we need to do, now.’

  We won 5-0. It was the start of a run of 10 victories in 12 unbeaten games which took us from fifth to first. The pivotal victory, 1-0 in the return fixture against Hull on 6 February, was secured through a late goal by Sam Vokes. Excerpts from my diary in the build-up to that match, which began with a 1-1 draw at Sheffield Wednesday, give an indication of our mentality:

  The lads were happy with the draw at Hillsborough but that’s not us. We can’t be like that if we want to win the league. I’m really pissed off. We go into the Thursday meeting and the gaffer’s like, ‘OK lads, how do you feel?’ I tell them I’ve been sulking, walking around for two days as if we’d been beat. We pumped Sheffield but I can’t help but feel we’ve dropped two points. That’s got to be our level . . .

  Just be really positive. You’ve been moaning at the lads because they weren’t doing what they needed to do, but go back to pre-season. You came here to learn, to enjoy your football again and get rid of the QPR experience. Let’s get back on track. Look at the strengths and weaknesses in the building. What’s the level of consistency? How do we plan this?

  Interact with the coaching staff. Ian Woan and Tony Loughlan are very good for the gaffer. They’re his eyes and ears and they’ve got a good process in place. I go into their video meetings, and they are on it. Where is this Hull game going to be won or lost? Going back to Boxing Day, they’ll play a back four, get behind the ball, screen our front two. They’ll try to win a set piece, or catch us going forward, because their fullbacks, Odubajo and Robertson, will push on . . .

  Today I am going to get on the front foot. I am going to play exactly how Livermore doesn’t want me to play. He’s big, done lots of weights, and is very, very strong, physically, on top. But being that big comes with a consequence. He’s got to carry that muscle mass around the pitch for 90 minutes. The more muscle you have, the more oxygen you burn. I believe having big muscle, big arms, is one of the reasons Kompany was poor last year.

  No one picked up on it. He was too big. If you look at him this year, he looks leaner and he’s still picking up injuries. He set off a chain of events by being too big, too immobile. I’ve got to tell the lads to keep our tempo very high because if we get it up there Livermore is in trouble. Huddlestone, Dawson, Davies. They’re in trouble.

  We know we are fit enough to do it. We play at our best at that level. It’s not great football. It’s not pretty on the eye. But keep the tempo up and they’ll break. I need Livermore to track me. I need to get him into my game. I need him to chase me, run after me. If he keeps trying to get to me I will tire him out . . .

  We are potential champions because we know what our skill set is. We train smartly. We know the opposition, and what they hate. Scotty Arfield pulls me up because I am fond of a boxing analogy, but they work for me. I’m not going to trade punches with someone who has a bigger punch than me, but I see so many teams with a weak chin doing just that.

  The Championship is a 15-round title fight. With five games to go, I feared we were out on our feet. I used as my inspiration a book called Relentless by Tim Grover, who cited Michael Jordan as an example of a leader dragging his team over the line. That entailed straying across boundaries, and challenging authority.

  Our training on the Monday and Tuesday, in the build-up to the Saturday game at Birmingham City, was poor. The gaffer was so tetchy I wondered, for the first time, whether the pressure was getting to him. I’d been named in the Football League Team of the Year, and had to resist subtle pressure to attend the awards dinner on the Sunday, 48 hours before a key match against Middlesbrough.

  I spoke to Blackie, had a text exchange with the manager, and resolved to be proactive on the morning of the Birmingham game. During the coach journey to St Andrew’s, I quietly studied a two-page summary of my thoughts before passing it on to Ben Mee, who sits next to me. I told him to read it, and pass it on. It went around everyone on the bus. When we arrived at the ground I made a point of taping it to the mirror in the bathroom. It was a heartfelt call to arms:

  TEAM

  • This team’s strength is its tried and tested resolve

  • We deliver for 95 minutes

  • That’s our team personality – that’s us in action

  • When the fight starts we stay in it

  • That’s a great, great habit to have

  • Go out and get competitive – we refuse to yield (unbeaten this year!)

  • We get the job done

  • We take the initiative and we don’t let go

  EMBRACE THIS

  • Embrace this feeling

  • Not everyone gets the opportunity to feel like this

  • It’s caused by the potential to achieve exceptional things!

  • 5 Wins – Champions

  • 5 Wins – History

  • It starts today – let’s go . . .

  One of Blackie’s theories is that leaders create leaders. The proof of that principle became clear that afternoon, when I had to go off at half-time with a calf injury. We conceded an equaliser, but the team seized control of its destiny. Individuals found their voice, rose above themselves, and were rewarded by Andre’s late winner. A crisis of confidence had been averted.

  So many things in football are underutilised. Take substitutions. They are rarely positive. It’s usually, ‘Fucking hell, he’s not doing well. Let’s hook him and hope the next guy does all right.’ Very few coaches take a step back, and analyse the potential advantage of changing a technical or physical match-up.

  I’m trying to learn from other sports. I’ve been invited by Shaun Edwards, who is a coach’s coach, to watch the Wales rugby team train. We’ve had a couple of conversations. His take on his relationship with his players strikes a chord with me. He’s passionate, infectious, inspirational. He cares deeply about his craft, and his players.

  Why are we conditioned in football to seeking distance between players and coaches? As so often in the game, it comes down to mistrust. Coaches are told their openness will be used against them if they get too close, or care too deeply. They’re brought up to believe emotional intelligence has dangerous limitations.

  Rugby may change, because of the money that is creeping into the game, but generally it is less dog eat
dog. Coaches realise they cannot make huge strides unless and until players realise they have their best interests at heart. It is completely different in football, where I see a great many coaches manipulate events and relationships so that it becomes solely about them.

  Shaun is a strong personality. He was an offensive player in rugby league, creative and nuggety, but not exactly renowned for his tackling. In union, he is regarded as a brilliant defensive coach, whose players willingly put their bodies on the line for him. That’s a fascinating storyline, so the media inevitably try to make everything about him. He won’t let them, because he knows he is fucked without his players.

  He places them in three categories, but insists he can only work with one type. The perfect player doesn’t exist. The indolent, disinterested player is a waste of time, and must be driven out of the club as soon as possible. Shaun commits himself solely to the player who is a positive presence, the individual who is not afraid of constructive criticism and is open to anything designed to inspire improvement.

  I’ve studied Bill Parcells in the NFL. There is another strong-minded coach, who understands he is nothing without his players. American football is a very clinical sport, with more than its share of superficial people, but Parcells has been successful because of the human connections he has made. Others shied away from the NFL’s drug problem; he made a point of helping players like Lawrence Taylor, who had well-publicised issues with crack cocaine.

  Great coaches and tacticians see the big picture, but also recognise small, simple things. The rest stay in their comfort zones, hoping to get away with it by doing the basics. Their approach to the group is comply or die. I’d love to work with Jose Mourinho, who sees everything. We’ve exchanged emails and I think I’d get on really well with him. Where better to learn the art of management?

  I’ve worked with a classic bunch of managers: Kevin Keegan, Stuart Pearce, Sam Allardyce, Chris Hughton, Joe Kinnear, Alan Pardew, Neil Warnock, Mark Hughes, Elie Baup, Jose Anigo, Harry Redknapp, Chris Ramsey and Sean Dyche. They’ve needed to be strong and some, to be blunt, haven’t been very good.

  Sean is a very good coach but also gives his teams room to self-manage. Right now, for the first five minutes of the interval at the Valley, he is in an anteroom with his coaches. The few punters in the stand who aren’t launching stress balls, toilet rolls, paper aeroplanes and plastic bottles over the netting can hear me, in the centre of the dressing room, in full flow.

  We are ahead through a well-worked team goal, but should be behind. Tom Heaton is the only player beyond criticism, since he has made several outstanding saves. We are conceding space, lacking pace and intensity. Do we really want to be champions? I go mad, kicking the skip to try to create a reaction. The gaffer comes in, lets me finish, and then loses it.

  The bollocking works. We fly at them; confirm the title by scoring twice more in as many minutes, and ease up as the circus cranks up. Five flares, fired into the penalty area we are attacking, are collected, slowly, by a jobsworth with a bucket. Someone throws his shoes on to the pitch in protest. There’s an invasion at the final whistle and the so-called Fans’ Sofa, which is bizarrely close to the touchline, is torn to shreds.

  Mad, but not as mad as us having to parade an inflatable trophy for the celebratory pictures. The Football League, in their infinite wisdom, have taken the real one to the Riverside, where Boro beat Brighton in the shootout for the other automatic promotion place. They obviously don’t want to damage their precious brand by giving it to us at a troubled club.

  But here’s the thing. Winning is not about lifting trophies. It is about making progress every day. It is about the subtle pleasure of being part of a group of people who have a common cause, a will to get better. It is about sharing experiences, pulling others along the pathway. It is about taking the rough with the smooth.

  Medals are mementoes, shiny symbols of success. Memories may be less tangible, but they mean just as much. You cannot put a price on the joy we see in the away end at the Valley. You cannot forget the freeze-frame images of fans, waving as we pull out on the team bus, heading northwards through south London’s sprawl.

  I think back to the uncertainty at the start of the season. Fortunately for Burnley, football is a ridiculously lazy industry, full of poseurs, people who want to posture and pontificate. Sean Dyche is about as far removed from that world, of fake tans and false teeth, as it is possible to be. He did his research, and realised that anyone who got me was going to get a positive me.

  Being voted as the club’s Player of the Year is a great personal honour, but I’m genuine when I insist that an individual prize misses the point, because we are a collective. I praise my team-mates and tell the audience at the awards dinner: ‘I’d go through brick walls for every single one of them.’ The following morning’s hangover makes me wonder whether I took that too literally.

  That clears, soon enough. I attack a new day as a champion, and that’s good enough for me.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CALL ME JOE

  I joined Burnley because of Sean Dyche. We sat in his kitchen and made mutual promises which were more than fulfilled. He accepted me as the finished article, the older, wiser person I have always wanted to be in a dressing room. I responded to him, as one of the few managers I felt was a friend. Together, we reached the Premier League.

  It is very rare to find our level of honesty and human connection in football, an industry infected by fear and restricted by a lack of emotional intelligence. Perhaps that’s why Sean understood, intuitively, why I decided to join Rangers instead of accepting Burnley’s more lucrative offer of a new two-year contract.

  It might not have made financial or football sense to those who misunderstand my motivation, but Sean followed my logic. I have been overpaid at times, and been incredibly unhappy. I’ve made career choices governed by money, and entered a world of pain. This was a kaizen moment, when I asked myself where best I could improve myself, day by day.

  Burnley was the perfect football experience. I was overwhelmed by positivity and humbled by a lack of suspicion. The fans took to me and I made lifelong friends, from Daisy the tea lady to a group of proper professionals. As strange as this might seem to anyone who has never experienced true team bonding, the saddest part of my departure involved withdrawing from the players’ WhatsApp group.

  There was a huge temptation to remain as a stabilising influence in what realistically will at best be an initial campaign of consolidation, but I’ve been there, worn out the worry beads. I would have learned little in another sustained struggle against relegation. Rangers promised something different, something compelling, something elemental. To be honest, they had me at hello.

  Ibrox is one of those spiritual football grounds, a stately home which symbolises custom, strength and endurance. The place speaks to you as you walk through its wood-panelled hall, up its marble staircase, and into a gleaming trophy room, where championship pennants proclaim former glories.

  The main stand, its red-brick facade decorated by the club crest in a blue-and-gold mosaic, is named after Bill Struth, one of the great managers in football history. A noted disciplinarian over his 34 years in charge, he demanded his players ‘be true in their conception of what the Ibrox tradition seeks from them’. I felt the power of those words from beyond the grave.

  There are a lot of similarities in the recent trajectory of my career and Rangers’ progress from their lowest point, in enforced relegation to the Third Division in 2012. I have had my troubles, but am at the peak of my powers. I feel perfectly primed for the challenge of contributing to the winning culture instilled by Mark Warburton, Davie Weir and Frank McParland.

  Anyone who chooses to belittle last season’s achievement of winning the Scottish Championship betrays a basic lack of understanding of the professional game. The tired old ‘pub league’ smears are a reflex action by those who lack insight and basic footballing intelligence. Pressures obviously intensify as standards are e
levated, but I appreciate how hard it is to win any title. It requires planning, perseverance, consistency of purpose and above all good people.

  Rangers may be a work in progress, but I quickly recognised those constituent qualities once I was given permission to speak to the club. The approach was measured, thoughtful, respectful. The human chemistry felt right. Davie impressed me hugely with his unforced warmth and the depth of his coaching knowledge. As a relative youngster, I was suitably impressed by the example he set as a player, by winning his third league title with Rangers in the week of his 41st birthday in 2011.

  Just as I appreciated Davie’s passion for the club he epitomises, I related naturally to a manager of Mark’s diversity and outlook. Coming from a background in the City of London, he doesn’t think in straight lines like most football people, who decried him as an oddity from the moment he began coaching at Watford’s academy.

  He was a team leader in a different, but equally highly pressurised, environment. He understands the power of ambition, but has a bigger perspective, greater life experience. I will literally be learning on the job with him because I am trying to become a true leader, someone who develops people. My emotional baggage will always be with me, but I know who I am and what I am about.

  That helps me communicate, be a better team-mate. I had moments of lucidity at QPR but it wasn’t until I got to Burnley that I consistently had the confidence to praise others, to tell them how well they had played and how much they were appreciated by the group. There’s no point in worrying about people who want to tell me I’m shit. I have no control over them, no interest in their views.