Читать книгу Where’s Your Caravan?: My Life on Football’s B-Roads - Chris Hargreaves - Страница 10

A trip to Tenerife followed at the end of the 91/92 season. Again not much sleep. In fact, I think the most time I spent sleeping was on the plane journey back, only waking when the wheels touched down. While fun, these trips to Tenerife were wearing a bit thin. As I’m sure anyone who has been to the Las Americas ‘strip’ will tell you there are only so many times that you can do the nightly pub crawl with pissed up Brits falling on you constantly, being sick while walking or shouting the much maligned holiday chorus of ‘Ennngaalaand.’

Sitting around the pool with the lads in the day was a great laugh though. The team spirit we had at Grimsby Town in those days was incredible. We were all great friends, and I’m sure that is why we had such success. Characters like Mark Lever, Kevin Jobling and Paul Reece always had us in stitches, and all the older pros were top lads too. Dave Gilbert, Gary Childs, Tony Rees, Andy Tillson and Garry Birtles not only did the business on the pitch, but also had fun off it. We had a fair old mixture of accents as well; Arthur Mann was Scottish, we had John McDermott a Geordie with Tourette’s (or perhaps, just a Geordie!), Paul Agnew, who was Irish, Tommy Watson – a Scouser, Gary Childs, who was a Brummie, and Murray Jones, a Cockney. As a young pro it was a great environment to be in, and I found it hilarious how you just couldn’t understand anyone. The banter between the players was great, and the friendships strong, although the affection was generally shown in abusive ways.

When I first returned to Grimsby Town from Everton, I initially took up an apprenticeship. The first team lads would often come in to see us in the tiny boot room and have a bit of banter. If it was one of the apprentices’ birthdays the normal bumps or chant of ‘Happy Birthday’ was definitely not the order of the day. No, these celebrations were replaced by any number of surprises! Sometimes it would be the boot polish treatment – this would involve a tin of polish, a few brushes and a few uncomfortable minutes as the ‘meat and two veg’ would get the ‘cherry blossom’ finish. Or it could be either the panda or pylon treatment.

I first witnessed the panda treatment on our young keeper, Paul Reece. He was held down by some of the lads while Kev Jobling and Paul Agnew, two lads in the first team, took turns to suck his eye sockets. This resulted in a couple of great shiners, hence the ‘panda’. Pylon treatment was a little less abusive, but hurt more. A young apprentice would be asked into the changing room and the questions would start.

‘What are those things in fields called?’

The nervous young lad would struggle to give an answer.

‘You know, the big metal things.’

Again, a blank from the victim in question.

‘Come on, the big metal things with wires on the top, that birds sit on.’

Finally, the words that everybody had been waiting for were uttered: ‘Oh, a pylon!’ and with that the entire twenty-two man squad would ‘pile on’ the poor lad for about five minutes, leaving him a bit battered but safe in the knowledge that he now understood how to answer a trick question.

Occasionally, a walk of shame would be the order of the day. On returning from his shower a birthday boy would find his clothes missing. What followed would be an embarrassing hunt for his kit. You can imagine how funny a sight it was seeing a naked birthday boy, in his birthday suit, running across the pitch to fetch his clothes. They would usually be situated on the halfway line, and all you would hear was the groundsman shouting, ‘Get off my fucking pitch, you weirdo!’

I have even seen a naked apprentice clamber up a floodlight to reclaim his clothes’. Imagine doing that sort of stuff now, the health and safety regulations back then were great: don’t get caught, don’t fall off and don’t moan. Things have certainly changed.

Even the big team baths at clubs around the country have been abolished; still that is probably a good move, as I would not fancy getting into a bath with all my teammates now. I swear to this day I must have caught something from the boys at Grimsby Town, so God knows what it would be like now, with the amount of ‘interaction’ going on. The number of women some footballers pick up – I would want an immediate vaccination as soon as I stepped out of the bath.

At Grimsby Town, in both home and away changing rooms, the big baths would be run, so that after a game all the lads would pile into their respective baths. These were huge and about four feet deep, and similar could be seen at football clubs all around the country. You would relax, chat and mess about in the bath, and many a time the odd bottle of Fairy Liquid came out, filling the changing room with foam, and causing the management and ground staff to fume. It was always a relief after a game to sit in these big old baths and relax.

I remember the first time I sat in the first team bath after my debut. Running the bath would have been started at half time, ready for full time for the lads to jump in. I was elated to have scored, and I was now with the first team having a laugh, where I wanted to be (not like that!).

One incident on that day reveals some of the pettier side of football, it being the competitive beast that it is. Most of the lads said, ‘Brilliant Chrissy, well done!’ However, after my two goal start, Tommy Watson, one of the younger lads in and out of the team at the time, said, ‘Jesus, you jammy bastard.’

Such was some people’s desire to do well themselves that they almost wanted you to do badly. Perhaps particularly so in my case, I suppose, as I was so cocky. Still, we got our own back on old Tommy; a few of us would leave presents on his kit every day, extra strong mints and chewing gum (slight halitosis issues!).

On my first trip away with Grimsby Town, Reecy and I had snuck up to the top floor of the hotel, and waited. When all the lads had settled, with their many drinks, we let rip. Twenty water bombs flew down with a crash from ten floors up. It was carnage down there, but Reecy and I were in stitches, oblivious to the mess we had created. The lads did see the funny side of it, but, of course, they got their revenge. When we were all dressed up and on the way out that night, Garry Birtles and Shaun Cunnington, our inspirational captain, dragged us to the pool and chucked us in. Revenge is a dish best served cold, eh? Cold and wet! Unfortunately for the big fella, Mark Lever, while laughing his head off, he got too close and also fell in.

On these breaks away the older pros would just sit back and watch, as we would provide the entertainment, performing ridiculous back flips into the pool and equally ridiculous dance moves in the clubs at night.

It must have been hard for any new player signing for and coming into a club like Grimsby Town, the bond between the lads was strong, as was the banter. One player, Ian Knight, a former Sheffield Wednesday starlet, had joined us towards the end of the season, and so came on the club holiday to Tenerife. We were all congregated in the foyer of the hotel, in jeans and T-shirts, ready to go out. Imagine the sight when ‘Knighty’ entered the room in light blue sports trousers, a formal shirt and shoes! It was pure Alan Partridge. He got slaughtered, with shouts of ‘What time’s dinner?’ ‘What’s your dad wearing?’ and ‘Taxi for Knight’ ringing in his ears. He recovered though; a quick change and he was back down to join us.

The banter was ruthless but harmless and before long newcomers were welcomed with open arms, but only as long as they did the business on the pitch! With the ten clubs that I have played for I know firsthand that until you play, and play well, your teammates will remain a little undecided about you. It is about gaining respect on the pitch, and the sooner you can do it, the better.

I look back fondly on those Grimsby Town days, time spent with great teammates and close friends. Had it just been my teammates that I hung about with, I think my life would have been a lot calmer. As it was, nights out with my non-football mates were always an accident waiting to happen. One of these ended particularly badly for me. It was the night before the 92/93 pre-season team photo and I had decided to take it easy with a quiet night out with Fiona but, as usual, we ended up in Pier 39. We only stayed for a few drinks though, and as we were leaving the premises, a lad came up from behind and, utterly unprovoked, smacked me in the mouth. It was totally unexpected. As he hit me he shouted, ‘You’re Chris Hargreaves aren’t you, you want some?’

I certainly did now! In fact, while I am writing this, my blood is starting to boil again about that incident and its repercussions.

I was fuming and raced after him only to be confronted by about five or six of his mates. For once, I wished I had been out with the lads! As much as I wanted to start windmilling, I knew it would be a bad move, especially as I was with Fiona, who at this point was a tad distressed. I knew most of these lads and they knew me. They knew that their mate was very much in the wrong but, mates being mates, stuck up for him saying, ‘Sorry Chris, he is drugged up, he doesn’t know what he is doing.’

I left telling them that he had better watch his back, and that I would not forget it.

The result of the following morning’s photo shoot was a glum-looking Hargreaves sporting a very fat lip. For the whole season I had to look at that picture, as did my friends and family, and lots of fans! Yes, I’m vain, but that wasn’t the issue. This photo, in my and many other people’s eyes, would represent me and my lifestyle in a bad light. And it was a lifestyle I wanted to end. To my manager, peers and family it just looked bad, end of story. It was merely a continuation of the reputation that, for the promotion memorabilia of 89/90, had resulted in a caricature of me standing outside the Pier 39 nightclub!

By the way, as I had promised the lad, I had not forgotten! The following week I specifically went to the same club and waited and waited for this group of lads to enter. As luck would have it, while I was speaking to an old school mate, the lad who had punched me strode in with his mates, acting the big hard man, and walked towards me. He said, ‘I was a bit out of order last week.’

As he did this he held out his hand. I walked towards him, holding my hand out too, while saying, ‘Just a little bit.’

Just as he thought I was going to shake his hand I pulled my arm back and smashed him over a table and into a heap on the floor. I could have carried on and completely battered him, but it wasn’t my style. Still, now it had really kicked off, a ten-man brawl started, and we were soon hurled out. He never bothered me again.

This fighting culture was endemic. Cheap beer and drugs meant that violence often escalated and with that sometimes came dangerous situations. There was still a lot of fighting on the football terraces across the country, and there was also localised violence, especially if you went to the right (or wrong) places. If you put yourself in these situations you are always likely to find trouble.

I remember one incident during the 92/93 season, with a good friend of mine, and a good footballer at Doncaster Rovers, Nick Gallagher. Yet again, at the same nightclub, but this time we had actually defended somebody, even if it was a lad with whom I had a bit of history as a schoolboy. (Let’s just say he ended up on the losing side, and never returned to the school after that, much to all of the teachers’ delight!)

So we had helped this lad out after a scuffle with a group giving him some hassle. They, in turn, had been thrown out, but we soon realised that they had gathered at the entrance of Pier 39 and were waiting for us. I tried to round up a few mates, as our normal group were at another club, but when it came to chucking-out time we found ourselves walking towards them all alone. Fiona, bless her, was still there, and would probably have tried to jump on one of them, such was her loyalty.

I am still amazed at Fiona’s loyalty, particularly over this period in my career, and that is one of the reasons why I still love her so much. Not only was I constantly linked with girls, but I was always out and getting into trouble. The circles I mixed in were shocking. She must have put her parents through hell at that time, as her studies would have suffered. Add to that the fact that I would screech up to the house in my latest car (in three years I had bought three different models of boy racer cars: an Audi GT, a Peugeot 205 GTI – the 1.9 flying machine – and a Ford XR2). I can’t have been the flavour of the month with Fiona’s parents! As a father now, I know that it would really have wound me up to see some young footballer roll up at the house, particularly in the manner in which I did.

Sorry Iain and Joan (Fiona’s parents, and two of the nicest people you could meet), I hope I have turned out OK in the end, and that you think I have looked after your daughter well. I know you still had your doubts up until the wedding! And sorry about the house parties we had when you went away (only winding you up, Iain!).

But, back to the impending fight at Pier 39. Seeing these lads waiting did make me and Nick feel like a bit of a beating could be on the cards. To top it all, some of them were holding glasses, a favourite tool back then and something that I will freely admit scared (and scares) the hell out of me. Vain of me, I admit it, but the last thing I wanted was to look like the guy who got slashed by the Krays and ended up with a permanent smile. Crazy I know, and again, looking back now as a dedicated football professional, and a devoted family man, I cannot believe it happened, but I even squeezed Fiona’s rings onto my fingers, ready for battle. (Fiona and her friends returned home in a taxi, exasperated that I was getting involved in yet another fight.)

The next bit is a bit of a blur, lots of windmills, punching and ducking. All I remember is getting away in the end, and stumbling back home. I had escaped with just a bloody nose and a bad black eye. I saw Nick later on, and he was pretty much the same. We also saw the lads in question a few weeks later and, by the looks of them, I think our efforts at self-defence had been more effective than we realised at the time. It was a lucky escape, though, and one that I didn’t want to happen again. The next nine months, and the rest of the 92/93 season, were spent pretty much at home in my room. I was sick of the nights out, sick of the bullshit, and just wanted to get my career back on track. One final night out made my mind up for good.

I was always thought of as a bit of a lad, but I didn’t realise to what degree until this night. They say looks can be deceptive and maybe they can, but the perception that I was just like the lads I hung around with was horrendous to me. Yes, I had done stupid things, as most lads my age had, together with a few world leaders, Members of Parliament, royalty, corporate bankers and Premiership footballers, but I wasn’t particularly involved with drugs – it was usually just the demon drink. However, as I was dancing away (very badly, I might add) one particular night, someone I knew, and a Grimsby Town fan, came up to me and said, ‘Chris, are you all right? People think you have lost it mate.’

I turned to him and said, ‘No, I’m OK.’

I looked around and saw my mates all off it on drugs, I saw an awful nightclub littered with people I had nothing in common with, yet I was in the middle of it. I finally saw myself as someone who had gone so far off the rails it was laughable. I knew it was time to stop this lifestyle. Over the last couple of years I had partied way too hard, drunk way too much, and I had veered severely off the career path. Where had that young lad gone, the one with the ball and the world at his feet? The same young lad who only a few years ago had polished his boots and left them at the end of the bed, and carried out a gingerbread man ritual for luck. The lad who did hundreds of kick-ups in the garden and spent hours at the park pretending to be Marco van Basten, and the same lad who had scored on his debut in the league and cup for his hometown club.

If I didn’t sort myself out, my career could end, and pretty quickly.

Buckley’s harsh rule had, without doubt, destroyed my confidence and stifled my personality, but I have to hold my hands up and say that I certainly did not help myself, and my mates were certainly not going to help, as they knew no better.

As luck would have it, Fiona was about to start her degree at Hull University. Was this the change we both needed?

I was extremely happy at home with Mum and Dad and I loved them both very much; we had a great laugh and hardly ever had cross words. These were tough times for them though. My mum’s mum had died when I was very young (only one day old), but now her dad, Sidney, passed away, shortly followed by her beloved sister, Lily, who died of cancer at fifty, after a long battle. Her being a non-smoker, made the cruelty of cancer, if anything, even harder. A few years later my mum was to lose a second sister, Bobby, to a brain haemorrhage, which rocked her and the family to the core; it is something my mum has never really got over.

It must have been a very testing time for my parents. The business suffered badly because of the recession, and they also had a pretty traumatic house move, after taking out an extortionate bridging loan. Despite all this, they rarely let the stress show. Dad would return home from work, initially a bit stressed, but before long we would all be sat down for tea chatting and laughing, usually after Dad had overdone the pepper and was coughing away. Who wouldn’t be a bit stressed though after a day at work, especially a day in Neptune Street? As anyone from Cleethorpes knows, that street has a business survival rate of around six months. Over the years and in different premises Dad has kept his business running, and it is now the longest surviving business in Cleethorpes, over thirty years and still going strong. No mean achievement. Or as my dad would say when asked how things are, ‘It’s steady, son.’

As happy as I was at home, there was only so long I could spend cooped up in my bedroom, trying to avoid getting into any more trouble. With Fiona’s degree course starting, and her finding a shared house with some of her university mates, I now started to spend more and more time there.

I would drive over to Hull, and Fiona and I would walk down to the local, The Victoria, or a bit further to The Mainbrace. With ten or fifteen pounds between us, we could buy a few drinks, a packet of Embassy No. 1 cigarettes, and then later on walk home and cosy up back at the house, away from everybody, and away from trouble. It was a quieter, but much less complicated life. In fact, come to think of it, it was normal student behaviour!

The end of the 92/93 season approached at Grimsby Town. Survival in the First Division represented a decent achievement for a club so small, but I hadn’t played anywhere nearly enough first team football, and even a short spell at Scarborough on loan did nothing to help matters. After breaking my ankle pretty badly against Preston North End reserves and spending a fair few months on the sidelines, I needed games and Ray McHale, the Scarborough manager, hoped I could help him out. The ankle injury really halted my progress in the 92/93 season, and harmed my Grimsby career.

The ankle break was the result of an awful challenge by Sam Allardyce’s son, who at the time played for Preston North End. It was before the ‘tackle from behind’ rule had been brought in, and since I had scored four goals against Preston for the reserves, a couple of weeks earlier, on their plastic pitch, Allardyce junior was in no mood for any more humiliation from me. This time, as before, I ran rings round the Preston defence, in particular Allardyce junior, but soon after I had scored an early goal he launched into the back of me with a hefty lunge. I got the classic numb feeling in my ankle but I still played on until half time – remarkably resulting in me scoring another goal broken ankle and all.

This could sound like a great old war tale of bravery and courage, but in reality I should have seen some sense and come off straightaway – I told the physio at half time that I was in real pain. Buckley came down to have a look, at which point I said that I wanted to play on, as I really wanted to impress him. I was really keen to play on, as I was flying at that point, really looking to returning to the first team and staying there. The physio had other ideas though; he took my boot off, and my ankle immediately swelled up. I was told it was broken, and a couple of days later it was put in a pot. To make matters worse, I really struggled with the cast; they had made it too tight, so I returned to the hospital hoping that they could do something about it. At the hospital, the cast was taken off, and I was told to return in twenty-four hours to have it reset. Unfortunately, in those twenty-four hours I managed to slip on the stairs at home, and do even more damage to the ankle. The pain was incredible, and as I reflect now, I wince at the thought.

After a long rehab, and with no first team action forthcoming, I decided to go on loan. I lasted nineteen minutes of a ‘memorable’ loan to Scarborough; playing a match against Bury, I was sent off in what the manager said was one of the worst decisions he had witnessed in football. I went up for a header against the centre-half Peter Valentine and, on landing, he held his face while kicking me in the bollocks. It looked as though I had elbowed him, I hadn’t, but I was off and subsequently banned for the next three games. Loan over! Funnily enough I have never enjoyed Valentine’s night since.

Towards the end of the 92/93 season I had a phone call from Terry Dolan, the then Hull City manager, saying that he wanted me at the club. I was excited, but apprehensive. I told Alan Buckley, and at first he said I should stay, but I could not see any way of getting in the first team and, much as I loved that club, I had to get away. I remember saying to him, ‘It is just nice to be wanted by someone’ – it was a bit of a dig, but it got no real reaction.

With that chat over, there were just a few emotional farewells to the players and staff, and then I was soon off to Hull City. I think, with a few additions, it turned out to be a fee of around fifty thousand pounds. For someone who was told he might go for a million pounds only a few years earlier, something had gone wrong somewhere.

Probably the toughest part of my transfer was saying goodbye to my parents. I was finally leaving the nest, and as they looked at me, my mum with tears in her eyes, I think we were all thinking the same thing. I was the player they had watched in cup finals, scoring endless amounts of goals, the young man they had watched score at Blundell Park, and the boy who, only a few years ago, in the back garden, had pretended to be on Match of the Day. I had realised my dream of becoming a professional footballer and to play for my hometown club, but now, for so many different reasons, I had to leave.

We all knew something had gone pretty wrong but nothing was said. That chapter in my life was now over, and I had to move on.