Journeyman (24 page)

I enjoyed the position I played in – just off the striker – and I was happy with my performance, even picking up the sponsor’s ‘Man of the Match’.

Even though we had competed admirably against a strong side, Steve was not happy. After the game he had a moan at left back Sam Rents about something I remember thinking at the time was really unjustified. He also said he needed more from me. I thought if he wasn’t impressed with that then he hadn’t seen anything yet – I could get a lot worse!

I spoke to his assistant Paul Raynor as I left and he said they would be in touch – nothing more than that.

On my way home, I rang Emma to tell her how the game went. Normally she couldn’t care less about football, but she knew the situation we were in and humoured me this time. I told her that, although I had done well, I didn’t think the manager was my cup of tea.

We were coming to the end of July and there was still nothing on the horizon. I spoke to Steve Evans a couple of times but he was just dragging his feet and it looked like nothing was going to transpire.

My mate Bease had been on the phone saying that, although Cambridge still didn’t have a new manager after sacking Gary Brabin, Paul Carden (formerly the assistant manager and now caretaker) had the authority to sign players and wanted me to come down for a couple of days. I was a bit sceptical but really appreciated Bease’s assistance – he was going well beyond the call of duty for me.

I travelled down to Cambridge on the Monday morning as the squad wasn’t due to start training until the afternoon. On the way, I got a call from Steve Perryman (the director of football at Exeter City), who informed me that although the manager Paul Tisdale liked me, there was no more space in the squad. That was a bit of a blow as I had played with Paul many years before at Yeovil Town, and he had also contacted me at the end of the 2007/08 season, after Hereford had won promotion to League One, asking if I’d be interested in playing for him at Exeter.

I got down to Cambridge and had a chat with Paul Carden before he introduced me to chairman George Rolls. His first words to me were: ‘How much money do you want? We don’t pay any more than £700 per week.’ I said that as we were close to the start of the season, I was open to offers. George went on to say that even though Paul was not the permanent manager, there were no plans to name a new one for at least a couple of weeks. As we left, Paul told me to ignore him as ‘he speaks a load of bollocks’.

The plan was to train on the Monday and then be involved in a game against a young Liverpool team the following day. Training went well and I stayed at the house Bease shared with some of the other players.

Late that evening, news filtered through that the club had named a new manager. It was the former Leyton Orient boss Martin Ling. I found this strange as it directly contradicted what the chairman had told me that afternoon. He’d obviously known he was going to appoint a new boss so why had he lied to someone he’d only just met? I understood what Paul had meant!

It subsequently transpired that Mr Rolls had used an interesting strategy to appoint his new manager: he’d basically given three different people the job but whoever got to the ground first became the manager. The story goes that Alan Lewer, Liam Daish and Martin Ling had all been told they were successful applicants. Liam Daish was apparently especially annoyed with George’s unique style of decision-making and tried to force his way into the Abbey Stadium to vent his anger.

As soon as I heard this I knew things were not going to work out how I’d hoped. When a new manager comes to a club, one of the first things he normally does is assess the players he’s got – not the trialists. I was going to ring Paul but then I thought someone from the club would contact me if they didn’t want me to play.

I waited around all day on Tuesday before eventually going to the game in the evening. Martin said his little introductory speech and then named the team and subs. As suspected, I was not named in either. I looked up, caught Paul’s eye and he said the gaffer wanted a word.

Martin gave me the same generic statement he probably gave all wannabes about how he’d already inherited four central midfielders and had to look at them first. That was fair enough, but I didn’t understand why he hadn’t given me a call in the morning to save everyone the embarrassment.

Martin continued to dig a bigger hole for himself, saying that there was no chance of a contract but I was welcome to train. In my head I was thinking
you are not really selling this to me
so I just told him I lived 120 miles away and would not be making that journey every day, which only increased Martin’s embarrassment as he hadn’t realised I lived so far away. I decided to put everyone out of their misery and left.

I explained to Bease what had happened, thanked him for his help, said goodbye to everyone in the changing room and was in the car on the way home a good hour before the game had even started.

As I drove back I was at my lowest ebb. I was slowly coming to the realisation that this could well be the end of my footballing career. To be honest, I was sick of being treated like shit and I felt I deserved a lot more respect than I was getting.

The season was due to start in ten days and I was still no nearer securing myself a club. Forest Green Rovers were in the Conference and pretty local to me so I rang Garry Hill, who I knew was good friends with the chairman – I wanted to see if I could arrange to maybe play for them on a non-contract basis.

Gary spoke to chairman Trevor Horsley and I was subsequently passed the number of Jim Harvey, the Rovers manager. I was just about to call him when news broke that he’d been sacked!

I could not fucking believe it: I must have been cursed.

A week before the season was about to start, I received a text from Steve Evans. He offered me £700 per week and £4,000 to relocate on a one-year deal. This was a lot less than the offer he’d made in May but the landscape had changed and I no longer held all the cards.

But I wasn’t stupid, so I said I’d accept the offer. In my desperation to get it sorted though, I nearly scuppered the whole thing. I rang Steve the following day to finalise the contract but he didn’t answer. He’d obviously sensed my desperation because, a couple of hours later, he sent me a text
saying the owners wouldn’t sanction the wages and he could only offer me £600 a week. Knowing him as I do now, there was only one person holding up the deal – Steve himself.

I told him I was going to have to leave the offer as £700 a week was the absolute least I could afford to take (plus he was trying to take the piss and I wasn’t going to allow that). I tried to ring him again but he didn’t answer. Instead he swiftly texted back saying he was in a meeting with the owners, fighting my corner. My interpretation of what he was doing was slightly different. I imagined him sitting on his sofa at home in a dirty white vest and Y-fronts Rab C. Nesbitt-style, drinking an Irn-Bru and enjoying the fact he had me by the bollocks.

I’m pretty sure my version of events was a lot closer to the truth than his but, in any case, he messaged me and said the club would go to £650 a week. I said no again – there was no chance I would take anything less than the deal we’d agreed the night before. Hey presto, another text arrived about ten minutes later saying he had managed to secure me the original deal.

What a hero!

I felt like texting him back saying it was still nowhere near what I really wanted, but I played the game and thanked him for his help.

The only real positive I took from the deal was the fact my contract would run until 30 June 2010. Unlike the Football League, there was no standard contract at Conference level and often players’ contracts ended immediately after the last game of the season. It was small consolation, though, as there was really only one person who had won the negotiations…

The irony was not lost on me that I had ended up signing a deal for the same sort of money I could have secured at Hereford. However, after all the water that had passed under that particular bridge, I didn’t feel I could accept such an offer from them.

Emma and I had to move immediately as I agreed the contract on a
Saturday and needed to be in Crawley for training the next day. I moved back to my dad’s house in Essex temporarily while Emma began renting our house out.

I am writing this sitting on the balcony of my friend’s apartment in Spain, bottle of San Miguel in hand, thinking about the past year.

Yes, I realise the new football season is only two weeks away and being on holiday during pre-season is not the most professional thing to do, but this has without doubt been the hardest year of my life.

It hasn’t been totally wasted, however, as it’s confirmed what I want to do. Before I stopped playing professionally, I wasn’t too bothered about whether I stayed in football or not, but now I know that’s exactly where I want to be.

I’ll be working really hard over the next few years to make that happen. In the upcoming season I’ll be a coach and a sports lecturer, training an U15 team and playing for Thurrock.

I won’t have many days off but I realise, just like I did when I was a professional player, that I need to do my apprenticeship before I can get to where I want to be.

S
TEVE EVANS AND
his shenanigans are notorious within the lower leagues of English football and he revels in this notoriety. You will now get an insight into how he works and I will try my best to be objective – some of the things he got up to I would never have believed had I not witnessed them myself. He has faults but also plenty of strengths, which have allowed him to experience a lot of success over the last few years.

I arrived at Crawley’s ground for my first training session and was struck by how professional everything looked. Each player had their kit laid out below a designated peg, plus food was provided afterwards. However, what Steve didn’t say was how much we all paid for this privilege – namely £75 a month.

There was only a week of pre-season left and I was a fair bit behind everyone else in terms of sharpness. Luckily there were two games left and I played forty-five minutes in each. I was still quite a way from the level I should have
been at, though. In the lead-up to the first game I had a chat with Steve and explained I was not yet match-fit – I said he could either play me and accept it would take time for me to get up to speed, or allow me to get fully fit first. He seemed to take on board what I said.

The key word in that last sentence is ‘seemed’.

Everything was going swimmingly until the Friday before the opening game of the season (away at Mansfield Town), when Steve exhibited his bizarre tendencies for the first time.

I arrived for training as usual and was greeted by the sight of defender Glenn Wilson storming out of the car park. He was out of contract and under twenty-four so the club had re-engaged him in a new deal without finalising anything, which meant he couldn’t leave the club on a free transfer and was instead on a week-to-week contract. The club had eventually offered Glenn something, but he was far from happy with it and was adamant about leaving.

I was taken aback by this and by another incident after training. The squad list of players travelling to Mansfield was put up in the changing room while goalkeeper Simon Raynor was moaning about how he was owed bonuses from last season. The gaffer overheard and went off on one, saying Simon was corrupting the newer players and could ‘fuck off’ because he would ‘not be playing for the club again’.

I thought it was a massive over-reaction but the other lads seemed to find it quite amusing and explained to me that those types of outbursts were a regular occurrence.

The next day, sure enough, both Glenn and Simon had sorted out their differences with the big fella and were on the coach bound for the game. We travelled up on the day of play, which was different from what I was used to but not something I disliked.

The manager named a 4–4–2 and I was selected to play in central midfield. The game itself was a disaster: we got spanked 4–0 and were 3–0 down at
half-time. We played more like a 4–2–4 and were way too offensive; Mansfield looked like they were going to score every time they broke forward.

I thought I performed fine in the first half: I was our most creative player going forward and also came closest to scoring, despite not being at my fittest. Unfortunately, this was not a sentiment shared by Evo and he made that very clear.

He came striding straight over to me in the dressing room at the break, his sweaty face bright red and contorted with rage. He got within 2 inches of me and went ballistic. I was trying to work out, in between the shower of saliva and gesturing, what he was saying in his broad Glaswegian accent.

‘He fucking told me, didn’t he, Rayns? He fucking told us!’

He paused for breath as his assistant Paul Raynor did his best impression of a nodding dog while saying: ‘He did, gaffer. He did.’

Evo caught his breath and was off again: ‘Turner said you are a fucking liability in a 4–4–2. Why don’t you just fuck off? Go on, fuck off.’

I sat there saying nothing and trying to ignore as much of it as possible. I have no problem with criticism but it has to be constructive. If it isn’t, I just switch off. He then went after centre half Chris Giles, who was sitting next to me, so I was still in full view of his gaze (and the recipient of the odd bit of misdirected spittle).

I survived the onslaught and played ten minutes of the second half before being dragged off. In hindsight, I think it was the gaffer’s way of laying a marker down for new players. It was a tactic I subsequently saw him do many times – he’d wait for a small mistake by a new recruit and then jump on it to show them they wouldn’t be treated differently to anyone else.

He was still fuming after the game and called us in for training at 9 a.m. on Sunday. We had a ‘clear the air’ meeting where he and Paul put their points across and we made ours. I had plenty to say and came out of the meeting feeling a lot clearer about what was expected of me.

I still wasn’t happy about the ‘liability’ accusation though so I had a
private meeting with Steve about it. He explained he had spoken to Graham Turner about me but that he’d also exaggerated the liability part in the heat of the moment. Steve had a very good skill whereby he could be mad at you one minute then treat you like it never happened the next day. It took a little bit of getting used to.

Our next game was at home against Forest Green Rovers. I vividly remembered Rayn’s team talk, when we were told: ‘If you can’t get up for the first home game of the season, then you can’t get up for anything.’

There were 693 people in the crowd…

We reverted to a 4–3–3 and won the game 3–1. Everyone who had been a ‘useless cunt’ on Saturday was now ‘the best thing since sliced bread’ – not one to overreact, our boss!

We followed that win with two more, at home versus Wrexham and away at Cambridge United – a game I was desperate to do well in after the pre-season debacle.

That desperation paid off at the Abbey Stadium as I set up our goal with a sumptuous through ball, which Jamie Cook finished with aplomb – cheekily dinking it over the keeper. There was a funny incident after the game too, as Paul Carden (the Cambridge assistant manager) had the ball in front of our dugout when the final whistle went and smashed it away in frustration – accidentally striking it into our gaffer’s midriff! This led to all hell breaking loose and was Evo’s cue to scream expletives down the tunnel and outside the Cambridge dressing room, mainly based around the fact Cambridge wanted to offer him the manager job but couldn’t pay him enough money. Not a classy exchange but very amusing!

After that rather inauspicious start, we had nine points from twelve and were looking good. Next up was Gateshead at home and we seemed to have found a winning formula. However, I always felt at Crawley that no matter how well we were doing, we were usually one game away from a crisis – and we were about to encounter our latest one. Like the Mansfield
game, we were 3–0 down at half-time against Gateshead and, as you can imagine, Steve was not impressed. He started dishing out a general dressing-down, telling us we were getting destroyed because he wanted our wide players playing high up the pitch. As a result he decided to switch to a 4–4–2, which meant I was sacrificed.

I was annoyed as I thought I’d been fine when I had possession – I’d just been starved of any good service. We played a very direct, no-risk style of football, meaning the ball went from back to front as quickly as possible. The gaffer was not particularly bothered about the quality of the ball being hit forward, just as long as we got it away from our goal.

This tactic worked OK if our opponents played a high line and left space behind. However, if the opposition had seen us play before, they would sit deep and we would either put everything on their defenders’ heads or send it through to the goalkeeper. It was a very predictable way of playing and also meant that when playing ‘in the hole’ – as I did – you often got bypassed.

I sat in the dressing room as the lads were getting changed after full time feeling like I was back to square one. We’d improved marginally in the second half but still lost 4–1. Steve marched into the dressing room and started going mental at anyone and everyone who caught his eye: ‘You cunts who started the game are all fined a week’s wages.’

I wasn’t sure how he was going to make that stick with the PFA – fining players for attempting to do their job?!

He then went straight for me: ‘What the fuck are you smirking at? You can fuck off. Come into my office, sign your release forms and fuck off. You will never play in my team again. Come into my fucking office now.’

Sam Rents, our left back, then got similar treatment.

Before I went into his office we were informed that we all had to stay at the club to watch the DVD of the game at 7 p.m.

As I entered the room, Evo was still fuming and re-iterated what he had been screaming in the dressing room, telling me I would definitely never
play for him again and had to sign my release forms. I asked what pay-off I would be getting and he replied I wouldn’t get one.

‘In that case,’ I said, ‘I will not be signing anything.’

I had ten months left on my contract and was not about to give that up, whatever the manager said.

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.

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.’