Читать книгу Taking le Tiss - Matt Tissier Le - Страница 11

WE WERE ALL LISTENING OUTSIDE THE DRESSING

ROOM AS IT ALL KICKED OFF AND CHRIS NICHOLL

THUMPED MARK DENNIS.

There was just one great big obstacle: I’d been suspended for the first two youth matches. All the bookings were for dissent and I had to appear before the Guernsey Island FA where we argued that a ban could harm my prospects at Southampton. Thankfully they voted by six votes to five to overturn the ban and give me a severe warning about my future conduct. So that obviously worked well!

I had always been quick to voice my opinion. I still remember one schools match which we struggled to win away. The ref was one of the teachers at their school and he did all he possibly could to get them a win. I was only 13 or 14 but I let him have it. As we came off the pitch the ref went up to our coach and said he needed to ‘Keep an eye on that Le Tissier, and tell him to calm down and stop arguing.’ I overheard and said to my mate, ‘He’s talking out of his arse.’ Too loudly. The next thing I’m being frogmarched to the coach’s car and he’s driving me straight home to tell my parents, but what he didn’t know was that my mum had been at the game and she’d seen that the ref was a disgrace. A cheat. She stuck up for me but made it quite clear I had to be more careful in future.

And I remembered that at Southampton. What was it like there? Now Saints have a well-run lodge where all the trainees stay, but in those days you had digs, and it was pot luck what sort of family you ended up with. You were driven to someone’s front door and told, here’s your new home. I was very lucky and stayed with Pete and Pat Ford. Pete is a massive Saints fan who has one of the biggest collections of autographs I have ever seen, and he had two football-mad sons, Martin and Stuart, who were then 11 and nine. I went from being the youngest of four to the oldest of three, so instead of getting beaten up the whole time I was suddenly the one dishing it out!

I was getting £26 a week with a £4 win bonus and £2 for a draw, which was quite good as a percentage of the wage. We also got £16 every four weeks to buy a monthly bus pass. The clever ones soon realized that the date was on the back and that drivers never checked it, so we didn’t bother renewing it and pocketed the £16. Most of my money went on fruit machines. They didn’t exist on Guernsey and the bright lights were one hell of an attraction. I ended up losing big time in the amusement arcades. I’d just signed as a professional on £100 a week but I was already £1,500 overdrawn. It sounds like it was out of control but I knew I had a £5,000 loyalty bonus coming at the end of the season and that I could easily pay it off. As addictions go this was nothing, but I can see why some players get hooked. You get such a big buzz on match days that you desperately feel the need to recreate that during the week, and gambling is a quick-fix thrill. And don’t forget footballers have plenty of time to kill. I played snooker. Straight after training I’d go to the Cueball Snooker Club where I became good friends with Warren King, the resident pro who got as high as Number 35 in the world. I thought I was pretty good until I played him. I’ll never forget him rattling off a 145 break against me. He used to give me a head start of 60 and it’d go up by 10 each frame until I won. I had a couple of century breaks in practice but the most I ever managed in a match was 89. I’d stay there until it was time for the last bus home.

On the playing side there were nine of us apprentices, of which five of us made a decent living out of the game. Andy Cook went on to play for Pompey and Exeter, Steve Davis had a long career at Burnley before moving into coaching, Allen Tankard played for Port Vale for a long time and Franny Benali became a Southampton legend. He set up my first goal as an apprentice in a 4-2 win over Reading. I missed a penalty in that match but got an easy tap-in when Franny crossed from the left. Bizarrely, for a man who only ever scored one senior goal, he started out as a striker. At 15 he was a big strapping centre-forward but then he stopped growing and, as the others caught up, he moved further and further back, first to midfield and then fullback. If he had been two or three inches taller he’d have made a top-class centre-back. He was an excellent man-marker and very disciplined, except when the red mist descended. Like many of the game’s hard men he’s quiet off the field, one of the nicest guys you could meet—articulate, kind and gentle—but hard as nails on the pitch.

The youth team coach was Dave Merrington, who was a terrific bloke and a huge influence on me, but he was terrifying. He was a teak-tough, no-nonsense Geordie. There are very few things in life which faze me but Dave in full flow was awesome. The original hairdrier-blaster, long before Fergie. He was actually very religious, which you’d never guess from his language, but he was wonderful, warm and infectious. We had some great fun but were terrified of him. When Dave blew his top we knew he’d have us running, running and RUNNING, and I hated that. He didn’t take any backchat or slacking but was absolutely brilliant, and even the likes of Alan Shearer still hail him as the biggest influence on their careers. He was brilliant for me, and never tried to stifle my talent. All the apprentices still keep in touch with him but, bloody hell, he was tough.

In those days they really made apprentices work for a living. It isn’t like that today, where many have agents and boot deals and cars. Our system was better, even though I hated it. Besides training we had to pick up the dirty laundry, sweep the floors, clean the dressing rooms and showers, and Heaven help anyone who slacked.

One day a PFA rep called in to talk to the players, including the apprentices. We were all summoned so we couldn’t finish cleaning the dressing room. While we were in the meeting, Dave walked past and saw some kit on the floor and went ballistic. He stormed into the players’ lounge with a face like thunder and ordered us all downstairs immediately. He pointed to the dirty kit and asked why it was there. We said we’d been told to go to the meeting but he just barked that we should have finished the cleaning first. He gave us 10 minutes to complete the job, and to get changed and ready on the running track. He ordered us to do 40 laps while he sat in the corner of the stand and counted them. We jogged round as a group while he ticked them off until he got to 36. When we completed the next lap, he called 36 again. No one dared correct him, so next time he called 37 and then 37 again, and so on, until eventually he reached 40, making us do four EXTRA laps. He made his point all right. I’ll never forget that, or the time one of the lads thought it would be funny to press the fuel cut-off button in the youth team mini-bus. No matter what he tried, Dave couldn’t start it. We all thought it was hilarious until he told us to run back. And in those days, before Saints bought their own training ground, we trained a good six miles from The Dell. We weren’t best pleased but it was one time we actually got the better of Dave. We’d gone no more than 400 yards when a truck drove past. We got a lift and jumped on the back. He dropped us off near The Dell so we waited a while then sprinted the remaining half mile to make it look like we were knackered, and I was.

DAVE WENTMENTAL, ANDORDERED US ALLIN FOR TRAININGAT 6AM THE NEXTDAY. UP TO THATPOINT I THOUGHTTHERE WAS ONLYONE SIX O’CLOCKIN THE DAY.

We had a good squad and won the South East Counties title both seasons I was an apprentice. In fact that was the last winner’s medal I got. With the ability we had, and the likes of Alan Shearer and Rod Wallace in the year below, we should have won the FA Youth Cup. I remember we got drawn against West Ham who tanked us 5-0 at The Dell and Dave went mental, and ordered us all in for training at 6am the next day. Up to that point I thought there was only one six o’clock in the day so it came as a real shock. We all made it apart from Andy Cook, who turned up at 8.45 because he lived in Romsey and there were no early buses. He was taken round the track for some severe running which took the heat off the rest of us.

For all his bluster you could have a laugh with Dave, at the right time, although it took me about a year to learn when to do it. I took a bit of a chance after a game at Spurs. I had an absolute shocker in the first half and Dave laid into me at half-time telling me I had 10 minutes to improve or I was off. After about five minutes I scored and I had a decent second half. Dave used to phone through the match details for the Pink, the local sports paper. He was writing his notes after the game and asked me what time I scored. I said, ‘Five minutes after you told me I had 10 minutes or I was off.’ The rest of the lads held their breath but I got away with it. It was certainly a better retort than Alan Shearer managed when he was having a ‘mare in one game. It was a blustery day and he couldn’t trap a bag of cement. The wind was howling and the rain was swirling and Dave was absolutely caning Alan from the touchline. Finally, in desperation, Alan turned round and yelled, ‘I can’t see because of the wind.’ That was right up there on a par with his answer at the pre-match meal before his first-team debut. He was asked what he wanted in his omelette and he replied, ‘Egg.’

Dave’s approach wouldn’t work now, partly because it’s not politically correct and partly because many of the apprentices now have too much money, fast cars, inflated opinions of themselves, too much bargaining power and agents who’ll approach another club the moment there’s a problem. Some of them have even got agents and boot deals before they sign YTS forms. (I was 20 before I got my first car. I failed my first driving test because I nearly crashed. I was waiting at a roundabout and thought I saw enough of a gap to get through—and there wasn’t. But I passed second time, bought myself a second-hand Ford Fiesta for £1,100 and thought I was pretty cool.) Clubs are scared of losing their talent so they give apprentices the kid-glove treatment, not the iron fist.

We all mucked in as cleaners and scrapers and that really made us appreciate the good times when we actually made it. We were basically part-time paid slaves. Each apprentice had to look after a pro, which basically meant cleaning his boots and making sure his training kit was ready on time. I looked after Joe Jordan and David Armstrong. At Christmas they were supposed to give a tip as a thank you. Trust me to get a Scotsman. I got the lowest tips, but that might be because Joe got the dirtiest boots. I was more interested in playing head tennis.

ALAN SHEARERWAS ASKEDWHAT HEWANTED IN HISOMELETTE ANDHE REPLIED,‘EGG.’

I vowed that when I got to be a pro I’d look after my apprentice well. The one who did best out of me was Matthew Oakley. I gave him a bonus of £5 for every goal I scored from 1993-95, some of my best years, which cost me a fortune. I remember Alan Shearer had his boots cleaned by a young lad called Kevin Phillips. For some reason we played him at right-back but decided he wasn’t good enough, which was hardly surprising because he was a striker. Saints didn’t offer him professional terms and he drifted into non-league football with Baldock Town before being snapped up by Watford and then Sunderland, where he became one of the most prolific goalscorers in Premier League history. Every club has players who slip through the net and go on to prove them wrong, but that was a pretty big mistake and, in fairness, a rare one for Southampton. But it’s a good lesson for any youngster with self-belief and talent. You can still make it.

As apprentices we also had to work in various departments of the club to understand what everyone did, and how hard the staff worked. We also did one day a week at college, and the club placed great importance on that. With such a high percentage of youngsters failing to make the grade as players, they wanted to ensure that we all had qualifications to fall back on if necessary. I did a BTech in ‘Sports and Leisure Something Or Other’. I’ve no idea what it was because I didn’t finish the course. I signed as a pro in my second year as soon as I reached my eighteenth birthday.

My first professional contract was worth £100 a week, rising to £120 in the second year. My negotiations with the manager Chris Nicholl consisted of him telling me what I would get and me saying, ‘Thanks very much.’ He was quite scary, as Mark Dennis found out. There were a lot of big names in the first-team squad including the likes of Peter Shilton, Jimmy Case and Mark Wright, and it was tough for Chris to impose his authority in his first major job in management. He hit the roof when he learned that Mark Dennis’s preparation for the home leg of the League Cup semi-final against Liverpool consisted of him playing snooker until 2am, so he decided to have it out with him in front of the rest of the lads.

We were all listening outside the dressing room when it kicked off. Chris was absolutely boiling and hit out and cut Mark’s eye with a right-hander. He thought Mark was going to hit him, so he got his retaliation in first. Mark had pushed him to the limit and Chris snapped. He was a big man and I don’t think many people would have fancied their chances in a fist fight with this big, bruising ex-centre-half. Mark Wright took Mark Dennis to hospital for stitches, and typically Denno just wanted to come straight back and finish it off once he’d been patched up. He stormed back into the changing room to find Chris having a shower, naked in all his glory. Thankfully Mark Wright stepped in and calmed it down, which was unusual for him. As soon as he was dressed, Chris went up to see a senior club official and told him he had just punched Mark Dennis. ‘It’s about time somebody did,’ came the reply.