Journeyman

by Ben Smith

  The only downside to our success was that it wasn’t shared by the neutrals. Normally the underdogs were embraced by the nation but, because of our financial backing and the unpopularity of our manager, we were receiving the opposite reaction. Everyone but our own fans seemed to want to see us get a very public hammering.

  That was illustrated during ITV’s FA Cup highlights show in the evening. The panel, which included Chris Coleman, seemed to take a very dim view of Crawley. They highlighted an argument that Paul Raynor had with Torquay’s groundsman before the game. Our strikers had wanted to practise some finishing in goal – a fair request really – but the groundsman had thought otherwise. We’d gone ahead and practised regardless, which the TV pundits said showed a lack of respect.

  They then went on to point out our robust tactics, which, incidentally, were no more combative than Torquay’s, and also highlighted Jamie and Macca’s disagreement over the second penalty.

  What were they expecting? We were never going to get another chance to reach the fifth round as a non-League club. Were we meant to just go there and let Torquay roll us over? In their eyes, we didn’t deserve any credit, despite the fact we had beaten teams from League Two, League One and the Championship to get where we were.

  Theirs was not the view shared by other media outlets, though, as I did a great interview with Danny Kelly for TalkSport radio on the coach home.

  The next day I was at home by myself when the fifth-round draw was made. The numbered balls were slowly being whittled down and we had not yet been pulled out. The two teams I’d really wanted, though – West Ham United or Arsenal – had already been drawn, so we just had to wait and see.

  In the end, we were one of the last two remaining and then it dawned on me who else was left at that point.

  We were going to play Manchester United.

  The penultimate ball was lifted up and shown to the nation. We would be playing at Old Trafford!

  The phone calls started coming in straight away and they didn’t stop. I was getting requests for tickets from family, friends and people I hadn’t spoken to in ages.

  On the Monday I went to my local BBC studio and did an interview for Radio 1, then, later that evening, I did another for Radio 5 live, not to mention interviews with several local papers. There were still three weeks to go so I wondered how mad everything would be in the week leading up to the game itself.

  I felt the pressure mount almost immediately. This was going to be a great occasion and I was absolutely desperate to play. During my career I had seen former teammates play in similar sorts of games and I really thought such a chance had passed me by. I certainly wasn’t going to get another opportunity to play at Old Trafford.

  One problem we had was there were still three important League games before our glamour tie. As much as the gaffer told us to concentrate on those games, he knew everyone’s focus was on making it to the week of the big game injury-free and in good enough form to be selected.

  Just before the transfer window closed, another player was added to the squad. Willie Gibson, a whinger – I mean winger – joined us from St Johnstone. He seemed nice enough, but, for someone who’d just signed for a new club, he was a bit of a miserable git – something that didn’t really change during his time at the club.

  Our game on the first Saturday after the draw had been brought forward to Thursday because it was being screened by Premier Sports. We laboured to a very uninspiring 0–0 draw with Kettering. As a result of the rescheduling, we had a free weekend and were to be treated to a short training trip over in Portugal.

  I personally, without wishing to sound ungrateful, would have preferred a few days’ rest – I wasn’t sure whether the trip was a treat or just something the gaffer could quote in the press to show how ‘professional’ Crawley were.

  Evo, as usual, did not let us down with the accommodation. We stayed on the Algarve at a lovely resort. The complex had also just had a brand new pitch laid, which was better than anything we were used to. It would’ve been immaculate had it not been re-turfed just a few months before and not quite knitted together properly.

  We had a night out on the Saturday and, although the town was quiet, some of our new signings made their mark. Two players drank a fair amount of urine – more than a shot and less than a pint – as part of their initiation, and another new recruit, who was a little worse for wear, had to be carried home to bed before midnight just after being showered in urine, seemingly the theme of the night.

  We returned to Gatwick on Tuesday evening and, despite my initial doubts, I’d really enjoyed the trip. The weather was nice, I hadn’t missed my daily commute and I’d even been able to forget about the Manchester United game for a while.

  The next two games were, strangely enough, both against Wrexham – firstly at home, and then in north Wales the following Tuesday.

  I started in the first game but it was a disaster. We were 2–0 down at half-time and I had one of those games that could be an occupational hazard when playing ‘in the hole’. I received very little service and found myself constantly trying to battle for balls that seemed to be endlessly up around my neck.

  The gaffer was, quite rightly, not happy with us and he said he had to make a change at the break. He admitted it could have been any one of a group of seven or eight players, but that was no real consolation when he revealed I was to be replaced. I wasn’t happy but I also accepted that when a manager wants to change his formation, it is often the so-called ‘luxury player’ who is sacrificed.

  I’m going to be really honest here and reveal that things didn’t get any better for me: we went on to win 3–2. The fact we turned the game around, in my mind, vindicated the manager’s decision to take me off. In reality, we hadn’t really played much better in the second half than in the first, but the sheer will to win that had been instilled in us by the management was enough to drag us through. Well, that – and Tubbsy’s brilliance in scoring a hat-trick.

  There was only a week to go until the biggest game of my life and I had been dragged off at half-time – I was sweating over my place in the starting line-up.

  We went up to north Wales a day early to prepare for the return game against Wrexham. I was named on the bench, which further confirmed my doubts. It was hard to decipher the thinking behind the decision, though, because there were players who were cup-tied for Saturday, so they were more likely to play in Wales. We ground out a 0–0 draw in a game watched by the then Manchester United manager Sir Alex Ferguson and his assistant Mike Phelan.

  Maybe the gaffer knew they were coming and purposefully put me on the bench so I could be unleashed as our secret weapon on Saturday?

  All joking aside, their presence showed the level of detail someone as successful as Sir Alex went to during his career. He could have easily sent one of his coaching staff to Wrexham on that wet February evening, but the fact he went himself gives some insight into why he enjoyed such longevity at a single club during an illustrious career.

  Although we hadn’t been playing at anywhere near our top form, we had negotiated our three League games since that FA Cup draw without defeat. We were ready to concentrate on the biggest game of our lives.

  CHAPTER 23

  ‘WHO YOU PLAYING SATURDAY?’

  ‘MANCHESTER UNITED AWAY…’

  We had the day after the second Wrexham game off and I woke up feeling stressed. After not playing any part in the previous night’s game I was worried I would not be playing at Old Trafford. But I resolved with myself there and then that, whatever happened, I would make sure I enjoyed what promised to be a great experience.

  We were due to travel up to Manchester on the Thursday but, before we could leave, we trained at our Broadfield Stadium before having a rare press conference. I climbed the stairs to our lunch area and it was packed wall-to-wall with journalists, ranging from tabloids to broadsheets to individuals from all around the world.

  I had the customary chat with The Sun about what
cars we all drove so they could compare them to our opponents. They particularly loved me because I was, and still am, driving a battered old Ford Focus. The reporter was unsurprisingly not as keen to talk to the lads who drove the BMWs and Audis – after all, that would have broken the lazy stereotype that all lower-league footballers earn just above minimum wage.

  I then did a rather more insightful piece with Henry Winter for the Daily Telegraph and spoke to football magazine FourFourTwo.

  Sergio Torres was the darling of the mainstream media, portrayed as an Argentinian Dick Whittington who had come to England to find fame and fortune. The first time he told me his story I had found it fascinating but, after hearing it for the thirtieth time on this cup run, even I was getting pretty blasé about it.

  After an hour or so of these people treating us like superstars and pretending our opinion was important, we began our journey to Manchester. One thing that time with the media gave me was a little taster of what it must be like to be a top Premier League player. Those types of players have a press conference like ours every three days before a big game. Don’t get me wrong, I really enjoyed myself, but I could see how doing it on a regular basis could become boring and monotonous. I was already looking forward to Monday when I could go back to a life of anonymity.

  As soon as we arrived in Manchester we went straight to Old Trafford to have a look around. That was a good idea because it allowed the lads who wanted to act like tourists to get it over with. Once Saturday arrived, we could just concentrate on the job at hand.

  To be honest, I had never been one for all that. Whoever I was playing – whether a Sunday League player or Wayne Rooney – I had to, at least on match day, believe I was their equal. If you start believing you’re inferior to someone then you have no chance.

  We entered the stadium and someone was immediately on hand to show us around. Two things really struck me.

  Firstly, the away dressing room was quite basic. I could have been in any changing room in the Football League. It was not terrible but I was expecting more opulence.

  Secondly, the pitch did not seem that big. Whenever I had watched games at Old Trafford, or even seen it on the TV, I’d always thought the pitch was huge. Once standing on it, however, it didn’t seem to be much different to ours size-wise.

  As we wandered around, we asked our steward what sort of crowd they were expecting on the day. I’d imagined a figure of around 50,000, but he replied that it had sold out!

  Cue twenty players taking a big gulp of breath…

  We checked into a lovely hotel called Mottram Hall. I roomed with Sergio and the magnitude of what was about to happen really begun to sink in as we unpacked.

  I would often get apprehensive before games but not nervous. This was a different scenario though. We were still two days away and I was already nervous. I was concerned about whether I would be starting and, if I did, I was then worried about my performance. I hadn’t been in great form leading up to the match and I was desperate to play well in front of a capacity crowd and millions of people watching live on ITV.

  We trained at the hotel on Friday morning. The gaffer had originally told us we would be training at Man City’s training facility, but that was another one of those occasions when he was being a little economical with the truth.

  During our session we did a lot of work on the shape of the team and the manager looked at different formations. I was in and out of the first eleven depending on the shape. If we played a 4–4–2 I would be on the bench, but if we played a 4–3–3 I would start.

  The rest of that day dragged, followed by an anxious night when I hardly slept a wink. As the game was not due to kick off until early evening, we did a light training session on the Saturday morning before a pre-match meal at 2 p.m. The gaffer, as always, did not name the team until just before we set off for Old Trafford.

  However, before that happened, he pulled Sergio outside for a private chat. Sergio returned stony faced but gave nothing away. All the lads were shocked: surely he had not been left out?!

  On this occasion, rather than read the team out like normal, the gaffer just flipped a sheet of paper over and revealed the line-up.

  My heart rate was going at about 180 beats per minute as I scanned the sheet for my name. I looked for where it should be, just behind the strikers, and there it was: 7) Smith.

  I could relax momentarily: I was in. I just had to make sure I performed!

  Turning my attention to the rest of the team I noticed Sergio was in and wondered what his chat with the gaffer had been about. There were two shocks within the selection – a really big one and another that had been on the cards for a while.

  The big shock concerned Glenn Wilson. He had played the vast majority of games that season and had still only missed a couple when David Hunt had joined to compete with him for the right back slot. It was Glenn’s fourth season playing under Steve and I always joked with him that one year with Evo was worth two under anyone else.

  Glenn had been a loyal lieutenant to Evo, regularly translating his rants to players not as familiar with them as himself. He would let people know what bits to take on board and which to let go over their head.

  What made it even more galling for Glenn was the management did not even have the decency to tell him face to face in private. Instead he found out, like everyone else, when the team was revealed. Glenn and I were talking the day before about our fears regarding not being selected but I was convinced he had no worries. He had his doubts but I am pretty sure that, deep down, he thought he would be in.

  I know managers have to be ruthless sometimes but that was ridiculous. David Hunt was a very good player and also a great guy and he was not going to turn down such an opportunity. He was the first to admit that Glenn deserved to play though.

  To compound matters, the gaffer did not even get Glenn on the pitch. It was a measure of what a well brought-up guy Glenn is that he managed to repair his relationship with Steve enough to play for him for another eighteen months. I know many players who would have never played for him again.

  The second, more predictable, shock was the fact new signing Willie Gibson got the nod ahead of Jamie Cook on the right wing. Scott Neilson, who regularly held that position, had broken his foot at the end of January and the position had been up for grabs ever since.

  Jamie was another that had history with Steve, having played for him at both Boston United and an earlier spell with Crawley. It could have been argued Jamie had not done enough to earn a place – he was a very talented player but lacked the heart and motivation to really make the most of his ability. I loved playing alongside him though as he was intelligent and a ridiculously composed finisher.

  I felt he was definitely more deserving of a start than Willie, who was a ‘glass half empty’ kind of guy. Jamie illustrated how pissed off he was when he came on during the game with the bit between his teeth to make a really positive impact.

  Once we got to Old Trafford everything settled down and each player went into their usual routine. Striding out on to that pitch for the warm-up was a great feeling and it could have gone on for two hours – I just loved being out there soaking up the atmosphere.

  People still ask me now what it felt like and I still say the same thing: it was a surreal experience, none more so than when we lined up in the tunnel and I looked over to see the likes of Michael Carrick, Javier Hernández and Rafael da Silva.

  All I could hear in my head was all the people telling me I should enjoy the occasion. Easy for them to say but I knew I would not enjoy it if I played crap or we got hammered. I did not care who we were playing against, I had my professional pride and did not like losing.

  There was a loud roar as we emerged from the tunnel. The atmosphere was great but it did not seem a great deal different to a lot of crowds I had played in front of. I think if you play in front of a capacity crowd of 5,000, 20,000 or 75,000, then yes it was a bit louder, but all you hear is noise. Plus if, like on this occas
ion, you know you have to be on top of your game to be competitive, then you just try to block everything out.

  The game started off quite tense and we were holding our own before my own Ronnie Radford-esque moment came.

  Tubbsy battled for possession and cushioned the ball into my direction about 30 yards from goal. It sat up perfectly and there was no way I was going to turn down the opportunity. I hit it well, on the volley but just slightly off-centre, which meant it was always just veering off to the right. I was right behind the shot and could see it was going to deviate just wide of the post – although it was close enough to have United goalkeeper Anders Lindegaard scrambling across his goal.

  United then took hold of the game and, although we were not getting battered, we were sacrificing territory while trying to hit them on the counter attack. My job was to pick up Michael Carrick when we lost possession. This was easier said than done as, I am sure you can imagine, he used some cute and sharp movement to make that yard of space for himself.

  The United player that really impressed me in that half was Brazilian midfielder Anderson. He was willing to take the ball in any situation and, when he received it in tight areas, he displayed strength and composure on it.