Journeyman (4 page)

When I returned, Tom Walley took great pleasure in telling me that,
according to Bob Booker, I had been poorly behaved during my time at Brentford. He said that I did not listen and frequently juggled the ball when he was talking. I was furious about that because, although I was no angel, my behaviour and respect towards other people is impeccable, drummed into me from an early age by my parents. Whether this was true or something Tom had made up I do not know, but it had a galvanising effect: it wound me up and made me more determined to prove people like him and Bob Booker wrong.

I stayed training at Arsenal until another opportunity to go out on trial presented itself. After about a month, and another round of CVs being sent out, Steve Kean, the youth-team coach of Reading FC, asked me to go over to train and play a couple of games with them.

At that time, Reading were competing in Division One (which is now the Championship) and, as soon as I went there, everything seemed to fall into place.

I felt really comfortable and my performances were good. I was playing for the youth team and also getting regularly selected for the reserves, which is always a good barometer of how things are going as a second-year apprentice. The reserve-team manager was Kevin Dillon, who had played for Newcastle United and Birmingham City among others. He seemed to take an instant like to me and the feeling was mutual.

The first-team management set-up was pretty unconventional, however. Instead of having just one manager, Reading had joint managers in Mick Gooding and Jimmy Quinn. Not only that, but they were both player managers. Mick was an industrious midfielder and Jimmy was a traditional target man. This was a pretty unique situation – I remember Charlton Athletic had Alan Curbishley and Steve Gritt as joint managers once, but I cannot recall any clubs having joint player managers. Also on the coaching staff was West Ham legend Billy Bonds, which, with me being a Hammers fan as a kid, was especially thrilling.

Initially my main point of contact was Mick. He seemed to take an interest in me and I presumed this was due to the positive reports he was getting from Steve and Kevin. It was at Reading that I got my first taste of regularly training with the first team. I remember the squad being pretty small and, after a couple of weeks, I was called up to train with the big boys frequently.

Although there was only one division between Arsenal and Reading, the gulf in class between the players was instantly clear. I was initially nervous during the sessions but soon realised I could compete with these guys. A lot of the senior players seemed to take to me and I was made to feel really welcome. It probably helped that Darren Caskey, the club’s record signing, was based in Essex and banned from driving, so I drove him in on almost a daily basis.

After a month or so of being on trial I got called into a meeting to get the news I had always dreamt of: Reading wanted to offer me a professional contract. I was ecstatic, especially after rejections from both Southend and Brentford. I had started to doubt whether this day would ever come.

The club offered me a one-year deal, which started immediately. However, as it was late March 1997 at that point, in effect I had a fifteen-month contract since all Football League contracts run until 30 June. I was offered £200 per week, plus £80 a week payable to whoever was my landlord. The club had allowed me to do the commute from Witham – a 200-mile round trip – while I was on trial, but I was now expected to move to the area.

I just sat there open-mouthed and nodded in acceptance.

As a youngster with no experience, that was the full negotiation – you just took what you were offered. There was no agent involved; it was just you and the manager – or, in this case, manag
ers
. I think it would have been frowned upon if I had started to barter over an extra £50. Even someone as clueless about the business side of professional sport as I was back then realised this was a wonderful opportunity.

T
HERE WAS STILL
a month of the season left and I trained with the first team pretty much every day. I had not officially signed until after the transfer deadline, which I believe was the last Thursday in March, and Reading had already secured their place in the division for another season. Man City could only finish fourteenth, irrespective of the result on the last day of the season, so I was given special dispensation by the authorities to play a part in the game if selected.

We travelled up to play Manchester City, who were not the force they are now but still attracted crowds of over 25,000 every other week. On 3 May 1997 I was named on the bench at Maine Road in front of 27,260 fans. An inconsequential last game of the season often produces a carnival atmosphere and this was no different; Manchester City and their fans had designated it as a day to convince the Georgian midfield genius Georgi Kinkladze to sign a new contract. He did not play, unfortunately, but he did partake in numerous laps of honour to milk the applause.

I was named as a substitute and went on to make my League debut in the seventieth minute of the second half. My main recollection of that day is us not having enough pairs of shorts, so I had to change into Lee Nogan’s
(who had come off ten minutes earlier) in the tunnel. The steward patrolling the area seemed to find this especially amusing!

I remember playing pretty well when I came on and really enjoying the occasion. Playing for Manchester City were both Eddie McGoldrick and Paul Dickov – two players who just a year earlier had scared the life out of me every time I put a foot wrong while training with the reserves at Arsenal. Now I was competing against them in a ‘proper game’, although we lost 3–2 after leading 2–0. The negative turnaround was nothing to do with me, I hasten to add!

Paul and Eddie seemed pretty surprised to see me but I had always got on well with Eddie – he had christened me ‘Curtains’ due to my 1990s Jason Donovan-inspired mop. Eddie had an especially cutting and harsh sense of humour but I liked him and often tried to give him some back if I was feeling especially brave.

As I am sure you can imagine, I was thrilled to get on the pitch and I had adrenalin coursing through my veins. I was everywhere, trying to both support the attack and supplement the defence. My performance was more than acceptable and I felt comparable to the players I was competing against.

Suddenly I had gone from someone who had struggled to earn a contract in lower-league teams to making my League debut at the age of eighteen in front of over 27,000 people. I went away at the end of that season confident I could compete to play regularly next term for Reading in Division One.

However, during the summer break, there were the early signs that I was getting a little carried away with myself. At the end of the season, most clubs will go on a small jaunt, which can take the form of ‘official’ or ‘unofficial’ club trips. Either way, they are normally four or five days for the players to ‘let off some steam’ after what is a physically and mentally demanding season. This normally includes a lot of drinking – day and night.

Now, some people may frown at the fact professional sportsmen can behave in such a manner but personally I do not see a problem with it
when you have participated in a fifty-plus game season. However, I am not so sure you earn the same privilege after playing twenty minutes of the last game of the season! That fact did not stop me though – in my head I was now a fully fledged professional footballer with £200 burning a hole in my pocket every week. Why would I not accept the offer of a free holiday to the Cypriot resort of Ayia Napa?

In hindsight I should have been at home working on my fitness and physique and preparing to compete for a place in the first team the following season – not getting drunk every day for a week. Admittedly it did help integrate me into the group, but more as a good socialiser than a good footballer.

This is not a criticism, more an observation. It is the sort of situation when I would have benefited from having someone in my family or close to me who had been involved in football or a professional sport themselves – someone who could have reined me in. My dad and I were both novices in this world and we were learning together. I might not have appreciated any such advice at the time, but it could well have made a difference in the longer term.

It was during the summer of 1997 that I first realised how decisions out of my control could have a direct effect on my career. At the end of that season, Reading had finished eighteenth and comfortably avoided relegation. This seemed, to me, a respectable position for a club of their size at the time. John Madejski, the club’s owner, did not concur, however, and promptly relieved both Mick Gooding and Jimmy Quinn of their duties on 9 May 1997. I was gutted as I knew they both thought highly of me as a player. But, after the trip to Ayia Napa, I soon got over the disappointment and enjoyed my summer.

Just before we were due to report back, Terry Bullivant, who had previously managed Barnet, was appointed the new manager. I knew nothing about him and I was pretty sure he knew even less about me.

After my ill-advised decision to go on the end-of-season ‘holiday’ I made
my next big mistake at the start of the 1997/98 season. As I mentioned previously, I was now expected to move to the area so, about two days before pre-season was due to start, I rang Steve Kean and asked him where I would be staying that year. Unsurprisingly I had not been at the top of his list of priorities and he said he had no idea. In those days, I don’t think the club had a network of people who offered lodgings for young players, whereas now a club can put you in touch with families who make sure you are leading the lifestyle befitting a professional athlete.

I initially travelled to training with Darren Caskey, Trevor Morley and Ray Houghton as they were all based in Essex – although in slightly more luxurious surroundings compared to mine. They used to laugh when we discussed what we had for dinner the previous night and I told them about the large doner kebab and chips I had dismantled.

Steve Swales, one of the northern-based players, was looking for a lodger at his place. This seemed perfect to me as it meant I did not have to stay with strangers. I could have my own space without someone looking over my shoulder every five minutes and reporting back to the club.

What I wanted and what was best for me were two completely different things, though. Surprisingly, the club allowed it – probably because the new manager didn’t know anything about me – so Steve and I began our new working/living relationship.

Swalesy is a brilliant guy. I found his self-deprecating northern humour hilarious and I loved sharing a house with him, although I don’t think he was the best role model for an impressionable eighteen-year-old who had never lived away from home. Our place became a drop-in centre where players who lived a long way away, such as Martin Williams and Martin Booty, would stay overnight if it was either too late or they simply could not be bothered to go home.

These guys were all regular first-team players and being around them helped me become part of the group. However, the problem was I was
living my life like a first-team player without doing any of the work that enabled someone to achieve such status. Most of the players would go into Reading town centre after a Tuesday night game. They always had Wednesday off so what time they got home and where they ended up was pretty irrelevant.

Now, it was one thing to go a bit wild if you had been playing, but it was quite another to go out after just sitting in the stand watching them. When you add this to the fact that every other weekend, when the first team played away and I wasn’t involved, I was back in Essex on all-day drinking binges with my friends, I was not exactly in peak condition.

All the good will I had built up under the previous management was irrelevant under the new regime. Terry Bullivant brought Alan Harris, brother of the infamous Ron ‘Chopper’ Harris, as his assistant, plus the recently retired Alan Pardew became reserve-team manager. With me being one of the youngest members of the professional players I was very much at the bottom of the food chain and so I spent much of my time with Pards.

The job of a reserve-team manager seems a strange one to me. You have an eclectic mix of players and personalities: from the eager to the not-quite-so-eager young professionals like me; from the out-of-favour established first-team players to players coming back from injury; plus the experienced older players whose careers are winding down. All have to be treated and motivated in different ways.

The reserve-team manager may often not have a clue until about an hour before training who or how many players he will have for his session. One day they could have twelve; the next only four; or halfway through a session, the first-team manager could come over and say he needs to take three of the players. Reserve-team managers have to be really adaptable.

I liked Pards from the start. He was, much like he is now, very confident, sometimes crossing over to arrogance. His sense of humour was ‘big time’ and by that I mean he would regularly refer to his past success – whether to
take the mickey out of someone who had achieved less or to put someone in their place. I have always found this sort of banter really funny, although only when someone can back it up. There is nothing worse than blatantly insecure people who talk loads but cannot deliver on their words (incidentally, they are very common in the world of football). Alan was not one of these people, though; he gave it all the talk but could clearly back up any of his promises both on and off the training pitch. He especially liked shooting competitions as he had an unerringly accurate right side foot that always seemed to find the bottom corner, irrespective of the power behind it.

I think Pards liked me too. My cheeky, sarcastic personality could rub some people in authority up the wrong way, but he seemed to enjoy it. He had also been a central midfielder and this was good for someone like me – every coach, however knowledgeable, knows their own position better than any other. Pards was continuously giving me pieces of advice.

I remember one training session when I gave the ball away once, twice, three times in a row (the only time that ever happened in my career!). By that stage, as I am sure you can imagine, I was getting plenty of abuse from my more experienced teammates so Alan pulled me to one side and said:

This may seem like simple advice but it really stuck in my mind and became something I would often reflect back on throughout my career on those rare occasions I did give the ball away!

At that time I probably was not mature enough to take on board all the advice offered. At a young age it can feel like people are constantly criticising you when, in fact, those offering good advice normally think a lot
of you and want you to progress. As my standing at the club deteriorated during the year, I soon realised what happens when you are no longer seen as a viable first-team prospect…

Nothing.

The silence is deafening, and people could not care less if you play well or not.

Initially, even though my lifestyle was disgusting for a young athlete, I made some sort of positive impression on the management. I came on for a fifteen-minute appearance against a full-strength Chelsea team in pre-season. During my cameo I produced a lovely piece of skill and hit the crossbar, which was greeted with a nod of approval by none other than Gianfranco Zola and made my day. Then, straight after, I nearly gave a goal away when Gus Poyet nicked the ball off me.

As the season progressed I was regularly appearing for the reserves and generally bounced around with the naivety and confidence you tend to have at that age. I remember scoring for the reserves against Rushden & Diamonds, only to get a bollocking from Pards after the game for not doing my defensive duties – a common theme throughout my career. I followed this up with a couple more positive performances and suddenly I was more involved in the first team.

Every Friday the match day squad – the sixteen wanted for the following day – trained with the first-team management. Up until early September I found myself left with those not selected, doing a mixture of technical and fitness work with Pards and looking longingly over to the big boys. On 12 September 1997, however, my name was called out to go join the first team. I was as surprised as anyone after the stern dressing-down I had received just a couple of weeks earlier. Pards had told me, with expletives, that I was nowhere near the first team.

We played Oxford United the following day and I was a substitute. It always felt like I was on the bench simply as a reward for the respectable
performances I had put in over the last few reserve games more than because I had any actual chance of getting on the pitch.

This was another period where, again, I wish I’d had an experienced football person around to advise me. Rather than being thankful that I was in and around a Division One first team at the age of eighteen, I felt frustrated it was only a seemingly token involvement. Obviously, in hindsight, Terry Bullivant was going to take a lot more persuading than a couple of above-average performances in the reserve league, especially considering my ability to throw in some very erratic displays. I managed to keep my place in the first-team squad for another game before returning to the shadows.

I do not think it did my career prospects at Reading any good when I accidentally broke the once club record signing’s leg in training either.

I was meandering along at Reading, going nowhere very quickly, and I became one of those players you get at every club: someone in love with being a professional footballer. I enjoyed the fact I went into training at 10.30 a.m. and was either back home by 1 p.m. or wandering aimlessly around town. It never dawned on me to stay behind and work on my technique or go down to the gym and improve my physical strength and fitness. It was not ‘cool’ to do that and I was not strong enough to go against the grain. I did not want to put the work in required to enhance my current lifestyle or even continue it.