Читать книгу Psycho Pat - The Autobiography Of Pat Van Den Hauwe - Pat Van Den Hauwe - Страница 12

I arrived in Birmingham on 8 June 1977 with a sports holdall containing my boots and a few items of clothing and about a tenner in my pocket thanks to my parent’s generosity. Four lads joined me on the journey from Chelsea to Birmingham and two of them, Paul Ivey and Mark Dennis, like myself, eventually signed professional forms at St Andrew’s.

We were met by a gentleman called Alan Gilbert Instone, the club secretary, and signed an 18-month apprentice agreement in the presence of my father. My basic wages were £16 a week but I was promised in the contract ‘win and draw bonuses in competitions where the rules of the competition so provide’ and also reasonable travel expenses on authorised journeys! So the ride had begun.

The first team manager at the time was Willy Bell and, just a couple of months into my apprenticeship, he summoned me to his office and said that it was his opinion that I was not going to make the grade. I had not set eyes on the fella previously, apart from when we were sweeping the dressing rooms out, but pleaded with him to give me another chance. He muttered something about discussing it with the coaching staff but the following day he was sacked – much to my delight! He never worked in football again and ended up as a religious preacher, so what does that tell you about his football knowledge?

Sir Alf Ramsey took over from Bell but I had no dealings with him whatsoever and just carried on training with the youth team under Keith Bradley. I was doing OK but the club were rocked when Alf resigned after a big row broke out involving Trevor Francis. We were all told that after initially accepting Trevor’s transfer request, the board changed their minds, fearful they would ‘incur the wrath of already disgruntled fans’, so Ramsey duly handed in his notice.

I don’t know if Ramsey had a problem with Francis or if it was the other way around, but apparently he had recommended that both Trevor and central defender Joe Gallagher should be transfer-listed. Both were big favourites with the crowd; indeed, Francis was already a legend at St Andrew’s. Trevor was a fantastic player so obviously it would upset the crowd if he was allowed to leave, more so than if Ramsey went, which turned out to be the case. The situation was obviously down to Trevor as he left the following season anyway.

Such matters were no concern of mine and I just carried on training hard in the hope I would get my chance to impress. I had only been at the club ten months and when Jim Smith was appointed he was the third manager to cast his eye over me. Some of the training staff were taking a shine to me and one in particular nicknamed me ‘The Stallion’. Believe me, at that stage of my life, it was due to my fitness during training and nothing else!

I began to watch a player who, from the first time I set eyes on him, made me realise that I had so much to learn. Colin Todd was coming towards the end of his career but was pure quality. The way he read the game was world class and I studied the way he played the game and tried to copy his style, which was not easy, as he was an unbelievable player.

Jim Smith lasted longer than my previous two bosses and, during the 1978–79 pre-season training he began involving me and few other youngsters, including my mate Mark Dennis, with first team sessions. Mark was always in with a chance of making the grade because, as well as being a decent footballer, he was that fast he could catch pigeons. Smith told us all that there were places up for grabs and that if we trained hard and played well in the reserves we would get our chance. Mark and my good self were then selected to go on the first-team pre-season tour to Spain and I played against some Spanish side and did really well. As we were coming off the pitch, Smith put his hand out and congratulated me on my performance but, before I had chance to thank him, a bottle was thrown from the crowd and landed on my head which spoiled the moment somewhat!

Jim was true to his word and Mark Dennis made his début at the start of the season and, a few weeks later, both of us were selected to play against Manchester City on 14 October 1978. Allegedly, it was in an edition of the Guinness Book of Records that Mark and I were the youngest pairing full-backs to play at the same time in a top-flight fixture. However, I bet the record books don’t mention that it was one of the worst débuts ever and the most horrendous day of my young life to date.

I was up against Peter Barnes, the England left-winger, who showed me no mercy as he took me to the cleaners. He totally took the piss and even nutmegged me twice in the game that ended in a 2–1 win for Man City, although I was dragged off long before the final whistle when the boss put me out of my misery. And in all honesty, he would have been within his rights to shoot me – that would have been better than facing Barnes any longer.

It was indeed a début from hell, although what came next was soul-destroying. In the dressing room, Jim Smith went absolutely berserk at us all and started swearing and throwing tea cups at the wall. He then picked me out, in what I remember as the worst moment of my career. I will never forget his words; he pointed at me and said, ‘You, you fucking useless cunt, get changed … you’ll never wear this kit again.’

He then went on to say I’d not only let him down, but every one of the lads in the team, and it hurt me for quite a while. I was distraught. I think Smith was poor doing that, his man-management skills were not the best. Surely an arm around me and a ‘get your head up, son …’ would have worked better. It took me a long, long time to recover from that incident; my confidence was at an all-time low.

It was six months before I got another game and, by then, we were as good as relegated and Smith decided to give a few reserves a run out. I had never been so nervous in my life as I knew that, if I played as badly again, I’d be finished. Luckily enough, I did well and played out the last few games, although I think Smith had seen enough of me as a left-back as I played just about everywhere else on the pitch. Of all the positions I played, I think I was best as sweeper; I was no Colin Todd, but I felt comfortable there. Maybe it was because you didn’t have to do much running!

I only played one game during the 1979/80 season, against Fulham, and it was another nightmare as I was injured when I went up for a header, landed awkwardly and jarred my back. I carried on the best I could but from 3–0 up we lost 3–4. Back in the dressing room, the manager started having a go but took one look at me and shut up; he could see I was in a bad way as I was walking like a zombie and could not even bend down to take my boots off. Maybe I should have asked to come off but after Fulham began to get back into the game, I didn’t want people to think I was trying to escape out of the firing line, so to speak. Maybe the manager should have clocked that I was struggling; had he subbed me, I would have gladly come off. As it was, neither of us made the decision and it was the lack of communication between us that almost blew the whistle on my football career before it had kicked off.

My condition was going down hill rapidly and I was unable to walk at all after a few minutes, so the lads carried me into the shower and washed me down, helped me to get dressed and I was taken straight to hospital where I an X-ray revealed that I had dislodged a disc from my spine. It was not a straightforward slipped disc but far more serious and, after some treatment, I was put into an upper-body cast. It was the most uncomfortable thing you could ever imagine having to wear. The contraption was heavy, hot and itched like the worst case of crabs imaginable. There was a cut-out to allow your stomach to expand but food and drink were the last thing on my mind as I shuffled about looking like something out of a horror film.

I had to stay in the cast for almost two months and stay completely still. It did my head in so I went back to London and stayed with my parents until the cast was removed and I began a long, hard road back to recovery. The doctors warned me that it would be a lengthy process as the disc could move again, as once something like that had been injured it would never be the same again. I had to take every day at a time and it was months before I could jog, let alone run or participate in any training that involved physical contact. Without me, the lads did great and we were promoted back to the top flight having finished third in the league.

Both I and the club knew that it was a serious injury, a possible career-threatening one, but I don’t think anyone thought that I would be out for nearly two seasons with it. I was a very fit young man and that helped me immensely. As it was, it took from August 1979 to April 1981 before I made my comeback as a substitute during a home game against Crystal Palace.

The problem with back injuries is that it is a truly complex part of your body. If you break your leg, the medical staff can look at the X-ray and tell you roughly within a month or two when you will return to action. With serious back injuries, they cannot do that and, although I felt about 90 per cent right, there was a niggle in the back of my mind that had me wondering whether I was ready to play again.

I discussed it with the gaffer and we agreed I’d give it a go. The ground was empty with less than 10,000 in attendance, but it could have been played before one man and his dog and it would still have felt like I was running on to the pitch before 100,000 at Wembley, such was my delight to be back on the pitch.

Those 20 months on the sidelines seemed like 20 years. It was a horrendous part of my career and, had it not been for the support of my team-mates, the management and the backroom staff at St Andrew’s, I’d probably never have played again. As it was, I played in the next couple of games and felt OK, not fully fit, just OK, but in my third game back at Leicester City the injury flared up again and I wondered if I was finished and that all the hard work had been a waste of time.

I was back in hospital and met a specialist who put my mind at rest, telling me that although the injury was connected to the original problem, once again I just needed to rest and that I would eventually regain full fitness. For once in my life, I took the advice of those who knew best and let the injury clear up until I felt no discomfort at all. I felt I was ready to start playing when we all returned to pre-season training and was frustrated when I was overlooked for the opening games. The boss was right, though, and he knew that if I was not 100 per cent match fit then I could be out for months again, so we took things nice and steady and I made my first start away at Old Trafford before 48,000 fans and played OK at right-back in a creditable 1–1 draw. I was ecstatic.

I was covering for the first-choice right-back Davie Langan who was out injured but I must have impressed Jim Smith as I secured a starting place, although it was at right-and left-back, centre-half, sweeper and even the odd cameo performance in midfield. By now, I was getting on with Jim Smith, who had seemed to have taken to me and we got on well. He was not my idea of a good man-manager, but off the field he was a superb bloke and we had some good times together so I was sad when he and the club parted company.

It was a shock when the board appointed Ron Saunders to replace Smith, as he had only just walked out on local rivals Aston Villa some two weeks earlier. His first game in charge should have been against Villa, a game scheduled for the Saturday, but either he or the club bottled it as he took over formally as manager the following Monday after we had lost 1–0. I kept my place under Saunders and, although as a team we struggled and finished just above the drop zone, I was offered a new, improved contract and signed it without hesitation, partly because I was just happy to be playing and partly to repay the people at the club for helping me recover from the dreadful injury nightmare I had been through. Saunders was a decent manager and I thought the following season could be a great one for both myself and Birmingham City.

In reality, it was a bit of a non-event and we never really improved from the previous season; there were some highs and plenty of lows. I was dropped after the first five games when we contrived to concede 17 goals in just 4 of them and also missed a few games with an injury unrelated to my back problems. On my return, I scored my only goal for the Blues in the game against Arsenal at St Andrews, although it was a pity there were only 11,276 there to see it. I was playing in midfield and found myself in space when Kevin Dillon put a superb through-ball in behind their back four. I raced on to it and was one-on-one with the ’keeper and I shit myself. I had never been in this situation before so I simply put my head down, took the ball a few paces and smashed it as hard as I could with my right foot. It flew into the bottom corner and I was as shocked as everyone else. Arsenal went up other end and equalised but Dillon then got a second and we held on for a win.

I played quite a few games in midfield after the Arsenal game, one being a home fixture against Spurs. During the first half, I went in hard on Ozzie Ardiles and he was rolling around on the ground squealing like a baby. I stood over him and told him he was a whining Argie bastard and to get up. It was a comment that years later came back and bit me on the arse big time.

After the departure of Mark Dennis in the following close-season, the number 3 shirt was given to me but, after a good pre-season, any early optimism that we would do well was blown away with a 4–0 opening-day defeat by West Ham and we were right to fear the worst – that it would be a long, hard campaign.

Most things about this season were largely forgettable. I was an ever-present and we were not a bad side but lost too many games by the odd goal – an amazing14 in total. There were definitely worse teams than us in the division; Mick Harford was a quality striker, Tony Coton a top ’keeper, but it was another false dawn for the Blues and, despite a win against the Villa and closing the season with three draws, the trap-door opened and we again dropped to Division 2. I was as gutted as the rest of the lads but, at the time, did not know that I would be back in the top division sooner than I thought.