Journeyman (28 page)

Brodes had history with the Luton fans after being part of a York City team that had knocked Luton out of the play-offs the previous season – although it was his mum who was getting the brunt of their anger. I'm not sure what she'd done to offend them but it was something to do with Mrs Brodie being ‘a bore', if I remember correctly – or words to that effect!

Anyway, the Luton players were clearly as up for the match as much as their supporters, because, during the opening twenty minutes, they
absolutely put us to the sword. Only a combination of their bad finishing and our good fortune kept the score level. As the half wore on, we began to get a foothold in the game and threaten them back, but, if it had been a boxing match, Luton would definitely have been ahead on points.

We came out for the second half with a renewed focus and the game began swinging from end to end until Andy Drury – their best player on the night – put Luton ahead with a well-taken penalty. That didn't seem to knock us out of our stride, though, as we continued to press forward in search of an equaliser.

Our bravery paid off in the eightieth minute when Brodes, the most hated man in Bedfordshire, got the last touch on a goal-bound header to make it 1–1.

I think both clubs would have settled for a point each, but Bully seized on a wayward pass late on and expertly put Macca through to score and nick us a whole three points. Macca, like myself, was also highly motivated to prove the gaffer wrong, as he felt he wasn't getting the opportunities his performances deserved.

We left the pitch to a chorus of abuse and boos – most of which was aimed at our loveable Geordie. There was no chance I would walk back to the changing rooms by his side!

There was a real feeling of elation in the dressing room after winning such a battle. In reality, a draw would have been a fair result. Mine and my fellow midfield colleague's performances could have been described as ‘workmanlike', but it was our hard graft that helped us to victory.

The result also sent out a message to the rest of the League and proved, in case anybody was in any doubt, that Crawley had become the real deal.

Games were starting to come thick and fast, and a trip to Holker Street to play Barrow was next up. After not kicking a ball for the first six weeks of the season, I was now in line to start my fifth game in fourteen days – I wasn't complaining!

As always seemed to be the case when travelling that far north, the weather conditions were not conducive to good football: a howling wind blew from one end of the pitch to the other and, as a result, the match was the proverbial game of two halves. We dominated the first half with the wind behind us and took the lead; Barrow dominated the second and equalised.

In the end we were happy enough to grab a point from a tricky fixture. I'm pretty sure the gaffer felt that way too, but it was not a sentiment he was going to openly share with us. He came roaring into the dressing room and moaned about how the second-half performance was not good enough – which was true, but we didn't deserve such anger, especially considering our recent form.

I tried to remind him of that with a conversation that went as follows:

I refused to get involved in slanging matches with the gaffer but I would always try to argue my point if he was talking unjustified bollocks. Even though Steve would never admit it at the time, I think he did later reflect on what I said and even took some of it on board.

He soon forgave me for our disagreement too because he came up to the back of the bus and, saying nothing, gave me one of his snack-size Twixes. It was one of those occasions when no words are needed…

Even though I didn't feel like I had anything to apologise for, I was conscious of keeping the gaffer on side, so when we returned to training on the Tuesday I popped in to see him. I explained I hadn't been trying to be a smart arse – I'd just wanted to give some balance to the post-Barrow debate. He seemed fine about it and we chatted some more in the less emotionally charged environment.

After two tricky away games it felt good to be back at our Broadfield Stadium, where we were due to entertain Newport County. They had won the Conference South at a canter the previous year and were turning out to be the surprise package in our division, challenging near the top. I was doubly motivated for that game because I wanted to prove to their manager Dean Holdsworth that he'd been right to try to sign me at the start of the season.

Unfortunately, we lost 3–2, our first defeat since the Wimbledon game. We were poor defensively and, despite going into half-time at 2–2, we couldn't handle the movement of the vibrant Newport side and eventually succumbed to a winner. I was replaced with five minutes to go and told Steve what I thought of his decision as I left the pitch. A sure sign, in my eyes anyway, that I was in the right was the fact I received no reply. The gaffer had gone mad at the break and I felt a few of his bigger signings had gone under. They really should have been replaced ahead of me.

As I'm sure you've guessed by now, there were recriminations after the game. The main recipients of the criticism were our defenders, as we'd given away some terrible goals. Macca came in fuming and said, ‘How come I never get the opportunity to score the type of shit goals we gave away today?'

He was right, but I also felt that, bearing in mind the amount of stick we received from the gaffer, the last thing we needed to be doing was turning on each other.

‘OK, Mac,' I chipped in. ‘But remember nobody digs you out when you miss a chance. People aren't making mistakes on purpose.'

‘Yeah, but it's not fucking good enough,' he quite rightly replied.

‘He's fucking right, Smudger – we cannot afford to give away such shit goals,' added the gaffer. ‘It's not fucking good enough. How are your stats looking now, fucking stat man?'

Not too bad actually
, I thought – we'd taken thirteen points from a possible eighteen – but I didn't want to needlessly antagonise him further. ‘Of course we're not happy with it, but we're all in this together,' I simply replied. ‘There's no point in the forwards having a go at the defenders and vice versa.'

Evo was not having it and insisted that it was just how great teams did things behind closed doors. I begged to differ.

That was the sort of discussion that regularly happened after games, but there was no falling out – definitely not between myself and Macca anyway. He was someone I got on really well with in the team and, by Monday, there was no reference to the incident again.

Steve still wanted to have the last word, however, and pulled me into his office for another chat. I felt quite comfortable in the surroundings of his office – understandably so, bearing in mind how much time I'd spent in there over the preceding months! – although he went on to tell me that I was not the spokesman for the team and that if he wanted my opinion he would ask for it. Fair enough. I made a conscious decision then to be more reserved with my comments. I was playing well and didn't want to talk myself out of the team.

Rumours started going around the club the following week that Crawley were trying to sign Robert Pires who, the previous season, had been playing in La Liga for Villarreal. The way our season was going, anything was possible. Steve may have had his faults but you had to admire his front. After all, if I was going to lose my place to anyone, it might as well be a French World Cup winner!

The FA Cup draw had given us a chance to exact quick revenge on Newport. We had drawn them away – as tough a draw as you could hope to get for a fourth qualifying round tie, bearing in mind they had not lost at home for eighteen months.

Before the game, the gaffer reminded us of their rather exuberant celebrations after beating us the previous week, which added even more fuel to our fire. An already tricky tie was made harder after Tubbsy made a rare mistake and missed a penalty. From then on, the game could have gone either way but we put in a thoroughly professional performance and won off a second-half goal from Macca.

During the game I got an accidental knee in the ribs from Kyle McFadzean as we both challenged for a header. It was a little sore but I thought nothing of it. However, during my usual Monday afternoon session down the gym, I managed to aggravate it while on the treadmill. I was in agony.

I went into training the next day but had to pull out of a practice match. The gaffer was fuming. It turned out I had damaged the cartilage that sits between the ribs.

I arrived for training on Thursday but the gaffer pulled me straight into his office and told me he wasn't sure whether he could have me in his team. I told him he had to do what he had to do. He had loads of players lined up to replace me apparently, so I wondered why, if that really was the case, he didn't just go ahead and do it.

That was a good meeting, though, because it showed me how much he wanted me in the team.

Mark Stein, the former Chelsea striker, was our physiotherapist at the time, and he tried to explain to the gaffer that, as it was only Thursday, I needed another day of rest to give me a real chance of playing on Saturday. Steiny was unfortunately not the most eloquent of people, however, and we faced a losing battle. The gaffer insisted I train and then proceeded to go through an amusing sketch with Rayns whereby he kept asking his
assistant: ‘What day do players have to train to be available for selection on a Saturday?'

Rayns kept saying Friday until about the fifth loaded question, when he eventually realised the gaffer wanted him to say Thursday. They were just like Laurel and Hardy!

One player who definitely wasn't joining the Crawley Town revolution was Pires, who had made the tough decision to go and play back in the other Premier Division with Aston Villa. It was a shame as, although it would have probably led to me losing my place, it would also have been great to train with such a top player.

Although there wasn't much I could do about my injury, I was gutted it had cost me my place. The gaffer must have sensed this because he told me not to worry about it and insinuated I would get my place back. That was a good piece of management on his behalf as it put my mind at rest.

As I didn't report the injury immediately I was liable to receive a club fine. We settled on me buying him a bottle of his favourite tipple – pink champagne – I was happy with that as it could have been a lot worse.

In the end, I was only unavailable for one game and the lads clearly missed me because they only won 4–1 at Mansfield!

Our next game was against Guiseley in the first round of the FA Cup and I was on the bench. My ribs were not completely pain-free and it made perfect sense to maintain the unchanged line-up that had managed a 4–1 away win.

We cruised to a 5–0 victory so, having missed two games in which we scored nine and conceded one, it looked like it could be a while until I won my place back.

That proved to be true. After not playing for ten days I was selected to join the reserves against Leyton Orient – Steve always liked to keep his players busy. However, after twenty minutes, I had to hobble off with a dead leg. I knew it was nothing serious but I also knew I would be struggling to be available for Saturday. That was all I needed: another niggly little injury setting me back.

Sure enough, I was ruled out of the long journey to Darlington. I suppose if I was going to miss a game that one was close to the top of any ‘wish list'. Every cloud…

I was back in the fold within a week and had the dubious pleasure of playing in the Sussex Senior Cup away at Horsham. Both the team and I were useless and we were lucky to escape with a 2–0 defeat. Steve was surprisingly calm and reflective after the game – a reaction that unnerved me more than his usual ranting and raving.

I was swiftly brought into the gaffer's lair the day after to have both my effort and desire put into question. I retorted that if they were questionable, then I would be sitting on my sofa with a fat cheque in my pocket having taken his pay-off in August, rather than standing in his office talking to him about my game. I also added that I knew he was going to bring another midfielder in during the January window and that he should do it so we could see who the better player was.

I was starting to think the gaffer was perhaps cuter than I had given him credit for. He knew if he laid out a challenge for me I would take the bait. Maybe there was a method to his madness.

Everything we discussed was not enough to get me in the first team for our next game at home to Altrincham, although my performance in the reserves had not warranted it anyway. The lads cantered to a very comfortable 7–0 win in any case.

Now I really was in trouble.

It was mid-November and I effectively had six weeks to save my full-time career. If I was not playing by January I had very little chance of fighting for a place against any new arrival as they would most definitely rank above me in the pecking order.

I thought I'd already ridden all the lows this season had to offer but there was still more to come.

On my thirty-first birthday I was due to go to a place called Loxswood
to play against Loxswood FC. The game had been arranged to celebrate the turning-on of their floodlights. As it was 2010 and not 1960, that reason alone should tell you how high up the footballing pyramid our hosts were. It wasn't even really a reserve game as there were only a couple of senior players involved.