Journeyman

by Ben Smith

  We waited around in the hospitality suite until 7 p.m. for the video nasty, but it never materialised. We just got another bollocking and were told the whole result was down to us not working hard enough. (So nothing to do with us giving two penalties away, being tactically outsmarted by the opposition or regularly squandering possession – we just needed to run around more!)

  Football is a simple game but theirs was an overly simplistic approach that absolved the coaching staff of any blame. They were acting like big babies and that was further illustrated by the fact they said we would no longer be getting our kit cleaned or any food provided after training – a rather petty type of punishment, if you ask me. It was like they thought we enjoyed being outplayed and then verbally assaulted in the dressing room.

  Steve then surpassed himself by saying we were all in for training on Sunday at 7 a.m.

  Unsurprisingly, everyone was in on time the next day and we commenced the second post-mortem of the Gateshead game. Right back Simon Rusk was the first to suffer Steve’s wrath. Evo blamed Simon’s positioning for one of Gateshead’s goals and then called him a cunt. Simon is an intelligent and opinionated person who played for the gaffer for many years at Boston United so he was used to these frequent outbursts and took the majority of them with a pinch of salt. However, on this occasion, he was not willing to take it.

  Rusky: You are just a fucking bully, but you’re not going to bully me.

  SE (in a thick Scottish accent): What did you say?

  Rusky: You are a bully but you ain’t going to bully me.

  SE: You fucking what? Me? A bully? (Incredulous expression; looks at Paul in amazement.) Get out of the fucking room, fuck off! You are finished at this club.

  Rusky: You can stick your club up your fucking arse! (Storms out.)

  SE: Did you hear that, Rayns? He’s fucking finished.

  The manager went on to say, with a totally straight face, that Rusky had shown him a lack of respect, even though Evo had started off by calling him a cunt. His lack of self-awareness was brilliant.

  I was totally ignored in the meeting, received no criticism and was not asked for my opinion – maybe he’d really meant it when he said I wasn’t going to play for Crawley again.

  After the meeting we went to the training ground, which was closed, and eventually ended up at an adjacent park, where we were made to just run and run – the sort of prehistoric punishment I’d been expecting.

  On Monday we had a third post-mortem – sitting down to finally watch the DVD. It confirmed what I thought: I was not brilliant but I didn’t give the ball away when I had it. I was not at fault for any of the goals either, but my set-piece deliveries were crap.

  As everyone suspected, by the end of Monday, Steve had made up with Rusky and put his toys back in the pram. We were all getting our kit cleaned and food provided after training again too.

  It was the first week we didn’t have a midweek game so Emma and I went to Worcester to move out of our house. While carrying some stuff down the stairs I managed to misjudge a step and got one of my toes stuck under my foot. Within a couple of minutes it had turned black and was killing me.

  I was in agony the next day. I knew I couldn’t tell Evo the truth so I hatched a plan with Jamie Cook during a practice match I was attempting to hobble through. We were doing some work on the shape of the team and it was pretty evident I wouldn’t be playing, so I marked Jamie from a corner and we pretended he’d stood on my foot.

  After training I went to the physio to tell her what had happened and both she and the gaffer took the bait. At the time I don’t think he was too bothered as he wanted me out of the picture anyway.

  During my spell out injured, Steve was handed a thirteen-match touchline ban for an incident that had occurred the previous season. He was not allowed into any stadium for the first three games and, for the remainder, he was not allowed into our dressing room before or after the matches. This meant that Paul Raynor took the team on match days – the main implication of which was the absence of a rather rotund Scottish man shouting expletives at us from the sideline.

  I never actually got to the bottom of whether my toe was broken or not. The club didn’t have a private healthcare policy for its players – well, not one they were going to use on me, anyway. I’m pretty sure I broke it in some way because I wasn’t fit to start another game until the end of October.

  What I always used to find funny were the gaffer’s comments to the press: he always said the right things but did the exact opposite in the dressing room. One of his favourite mantras was: ‘We never get too high when we win or too low when we lose.’

  I can think of countless occasions when this did not ring true but one of the best was when we were playing away at Kidderminster Harriers upon my return from my toe injury. In the hotel before the game, Evo told us there would be no harsh words or recriminations after the game as long as we all worked hard. The lads did just that and we almost earned a draw until we succumbed to a last-minute winner. To be honest, Kidderminster deserved the win and it was only hard work and determination that kept us in the game.

  Steve seemed to have no recollection of his previous promise and went off on a post-match rant. He and Paul had meetings with certain players at the front of the coach, which resulted in six of them being put on the transfer list. We were also summoned for Sunday training at 9 a.m.

  We didn’t get too high when we won or too low when we lost though, did we, Steve…?

  On that occasion, however, he came into the dressing room on Sunday, saw how severely pissed off we all were and promptly gave us Monday off.

  I got back in the team for a home FA Cup match against AFC Wimbledon. They brought a large number of supporters, which made for a really lively atmosphere inside our ground, and I was playing ‘in the hole’, which I did quite well, before tiring near the end and being replaced with fifteen minutes to go. I always enjoyed playing against AFC Wimbledon as they played expansively and gave you time when in possession of the ball. The game finished as a 1–1 draw and meant we had a Tuesday night replay at Kingsmeadow.

  Our line-up for the replay was the same, other than one change due to an injury, so I retained my attacking role. We dominated the first half but, against the run of play, they took the lead. We equalised when I put a measured pass through to Jefferson Louis to score.

  I played seventy minutes but was annoyed at being subbed because we were chasing a goal and I was one of our most creative players. Wimbledon continued their patient approach even after having a player sent off and ended up winning 3–1. As you can probably imagine, Steve was not happy and we were called in for training the following day. I knew the script by now. We got in at the allotted time and waited until the gaffer and Rayns were ready to grace us with their presence.

  However, on this occasion, things went a little differently. Yes, we had a meeting, but it was not to sort out the previous day’s deficiencies. We were instead told we were no longer getting our kit cleaned as people were not paying for it on time. We were also no longer getting food after training.

  You may remember I mentioned this kind of tactic being pretty common, but the only people who seemed particularly bothered about it were the management staff. We all had washing machines at home and food in our cupboards so it really only meant we were £75 a month better off.

  What about the game, Steve? I was thinking. When are we going to address that?!

  Evo went on to talk about what was really annoying him. Apparently there were two ‘snakes in the camp’ who had been going to directors and telling them about some of his more left-field methods. He said he would announce who they were the next morning unless they confessed.

  It was pretty obvious he had no idea who the ‘snakes’ were and was just trying to scare them into revealing themselves, although, to be fair to him, it nearly worked until us players had a chat and the more switched-on members of the group explained what he was doing.

  Before dispersin
g the meeting, Steve told us we were no longer allowed to use club kit and had to supply our own. Oh, and we were training two hours later so needed kit for then.

  Barry Cogan (my normal travelling partner) and I were going to the gym later that day so had some training gear with us, but the rest of the lads had to go down to a local shop. They came back with lots of Slazenger and Donnay gear before we all got our own lunches and had a picnic in the dressing room.

  I often look back on that day and still can’t decide if it was lunacy or a brilliant piece of management. The reason I say this is because it brought us all together with one common objective: resentment of the gaffer.

  We went out to train looking like Rag Arse Rovers. I had my gym vest on and the rest of the lads looked like poorly dressed 1980s tennis players – all that was missing were wooden rackets and headbands. Training consisted of a very tedious run around the pitch.

  The next day we bounced into training, waiting with baited breath for the public unveiling of the ‘snakes’. Guess what – it never happened. In fact, those mythical creatures were never mentioned again. Were they a figment of Steve’s fertile imagination or did they actually exist? We’ll never know – unless he decides to release his own memoir someday.

  We’d all turned up with our own kit and packed lunches but, before we went out to train, the gaffer made another demand: every player was required to buy their own private medical insurance and show evidence to prove it had been done. Those who didn’t do it would not be selected to play.

  Surely it’s a club’s responsibility to insure professional footballers? What was he going to do if nobody bought insurance? It was another idle threat and we knew it. There was no chance of me paying out of my own pocket and, being honest, I couldn’t afford to.

  Training once again consisted of a plod around the pitch and a picnic in the dressing room. Balls must also have come under the category of ‘kit’ as we hadn’t seen one since Tuesday!

  Training on the Friday was a jog around the pitch and some half laps at three-quarter pace. At the end of the session, the gaffer announced we would get our kit and food back on Monday (surprise, surprise) under the caveat that he and Paul wouldn’t drop their professional standards for anyone! He then went on to say that if we won the next game against York we would either get the week off, as it was the FA Cup the following week and we had no fixtures, or we would be going on a club trip to Egypt.

  Where had that come from?!

  As I have alluded to, if you scraped away all the bullshit, Steve was no idiot. I think he realised that his behaviour had meant he was losing us lads and he couldn’t afford for that to happen.

  I was pretty sure the Egypt trip was not going to materialise and, to be honest, I wasn’t particularly bothered. I was desperate for a few days off, however, so that tactic definitely helped focus my mind.

  Sometimes things happen to contradict all conventional thinking. We hadn’t had a day off for seventeen days and hadn’t been near a ball since the previous Tuesday, yet we were playing a York City side that was on a long unbeaten run and near the top of the League. We started the game well but still went a goal down before half-time. Evo made an astute substitution at the break though – and I managed to get my first goal for the club – and we went on to win 3–1.

  The gaffer stuck to his word and we got the next week off. It was now early November and I was starting to feel settled both on and off the pitch. For the preceding three months, Emma and I had been staying with her mum, but that week we moved into our new house.

  Mansfield were our next opponents and, after a two-week break without a match, we lost 2–0 in a pretty unremarkable game. Steve typically went off on one afterwards.

  Looking back, I had some of my funniest moments at the club during those tirades – and that time was no exception. Chris Giles and Evo had a mutual contempt for each other, which they both struggled to hide. Their dislike normally reared its head during heated discussions. On this occasion, the manager wasn’t happy with Gilesy for taking a corner late in the game, even though we were losing.

  SE: I told you to stay back.

  Gilesy: But we were losing, I was just trying to get us a goal.

  SE: I don’t care what you thought – I wanted you to stay back. Are you fucking illiterate?

  Gilesy: I think you’ll find ‘illiterate’ is when you can’t read or write.

  I struggled to stifle my laughter when Gilesy came out with that and it totally knocked Steve out of his stride. Evo then went on to have a moan at Thomas Pinault and me for ‘playing too much football’. Thank you very much! I thought – although it wasn’t meant to be a compliment.

  The answer to our latest defeat was, as always, to bring us in on a Sunday. I wouldn’t have minded if we’d used the time to address the issues in the game but, more often than not, it was just a punishment.

  Next up was Hayes & Yeading away, where I managed to score again despite the fact we lost 2–1. Even though we were losing games, I was happy with my own performances and was starting to reach the level I expected of myself.

  I reaffirmed this feeling when I scored again in a home win against Salisbury City – a match we actually struggled to put out a team and a full complement of substitutes for due to mounting injury problems. That result was quickly followed by a defeat at Gateshead. Steve went mental and told us we were all shit, which was lovely to hear as next up was top-of-the-League Oxford United. The gaffer clearly had a very short memory as, after that scattergun appraisal of our performance against Gateshead, he told us how good we all were before the Oxford game.

  I went on to have my best game for the club, causing Oxford all sorts of trouble playing just behind striker Charlie Ademeno. We went 1–0 up, but sadly wilted in the last ten minutes and lost 2–1.

  On Thursday’s training session, the boss gave everyone marks out of ten on the white board and it was all very positive. He gave me a nine, adding I was brilliant going forward but could’ve done better defensively – where had I heard that before?!

  Our form started to pick up as we won at Tamworth and then made heavy work of beating Bashley in the FA Trophy – a game in which I gave my first rubbish performance since coming back from injury.

  As alluded to before, when any team I was playing for was performing well, the intensity of training would often drop as players relaxed – this was no different at Crawley. In the management’s defence, we had such a small squad at the time that I think they were more concerned about injuries than our training programme. We ended up doing a lot of non-contact stuff, such as using the spinning bikes or working in the gym.

  I could see the thinking behind it, but I thought it actually had a detrimental effect – the only way you get really sharp and confident as a footballer is to play football.

  Due to a cold snap in the weather we didn’t play again until Boxing Day when we drew 2–2 against Eastbourne Borough. We gave away two crap goals and should have scored about five. I could’ve scored a hat-trick myself. We had two more games over the Christmas period: a 3–2 win away to Grays Athletic and another victory, 2–0, against Eastbourne Borough on New Year’s Day.

  The poor weather returned and we didn’t play again for nearly three weeks until another FA Trophy tie against Chelmsford City – my local club. I was desperate to perform well and for us to win. Unfortunately, neither happened! I was deployed on the left of midfield where my painful lack of pace was highlighted by our direct style of play.

  As usual, we were in the day after and the gaffer criticised our performance – though on this occasion it was fully justified. Steve then asked us why we didn’t create any chances. I commented that we were playing too directly; he took great offence to that and started attacking me for totally unrelated events.

  It always made me laugh when managers asked for opinions but then went on the defensive if they didn’t like the responses. In Evo’s defence, while he never acknowledged anything we said at the time, I think when he
went home and calmed down he did take some of our comments on board.

  My form had dipped since Christmas but the gaffer kept faith in me and I started the next game at home versus Kidderminster Harriers. It was a mixed affair as I performed really well but was partly at fault for both their goals in the 2–2 draw. I got a right bollocking after the game from the boss but kept my mouth shut as he was making a valid point. I’ve always been willing to argue my side, but I also know when I’m in the wrong.

  Our good League form continued with a hard-fought but ugly 1–0 victory against Cambridge United. I was pretty anonymous and my substitution with ten minutes to go was met with a clear ‘about time’ from the main stand – I’m still not sure whether it was aimed at me or the substitution in general, but either way it was not a glowing endorsement of my performance.

  That win was followed by an almost identical one against Altrincham the week after. Steve was not happy at half-time and tried to lift us with a Churchillian speech (which wasn’t particularly motivational). No doubt he sat at home that evening, cradling a picture of Sir Alex Ferguson to his ample chest, with a Mars bar and Irn-Bru in hand, telling his idol how his powers of motivation had made the difference once again.

  Our run of form came to a resounding halt, however, as we were comfortably beaten at Wrexham. Next up was Luton Town at home, who had suffered a massive fall from grace.

  These were the sort of games I loved: big matches against big teams who brought a large away support with them. It led to a great atmosphere and some banter between the two sets of fans. That game also saw a sudden improvement in my form, although not until the second half. In the opening forty-five minutes I was well and truly cancelled out by Luton’s Keith Keane who, incidentally, I thought was the best midfielder in the League. He was playing in a deep midfield role so the majority of the time we found ourselves in direct competition – a battle he won hands down. At half-time I got a fully justified kick up the backside from the gaffer and responded by scoring both our goals in the 2–1 win.