Authors: Michael Calvin
‘I loved it there, and brought a team through. I signed Jim Stannard, who played about five hundred games in goal, and Paul Parker, who did major things with England and Manchester United. John Marshall, who played about four hundred games, later became chief scout and now works for England. Dean Coney played for England under twenty-ones. I’m as proud of that group as anything I have done, but one day Bobby Campbell wouldn’t take a schoolboy player I’d recommended.
‘The boy stuttered, badly. When I put the lad up, Bobby said to me, “he will really struggle to have a career” and never signed him. I left for that reason. Brentford had been chasing me for ages and my best friend at the time, Fred Callaghan, had just become manager. I rang him up, and said, “If you let me start a youth policy, I’ll come over.” I was determined to start that lad off, and give him a career.’
Terry Rowe signed youth forms for Brentford, where he made 105 first team appearances before leaving for the United States. He justified the faith of his mentor by having a 17-year professional career, playing in four separate leagues for such iconic American clubs as the Tampa Bay Rowdies.
‘It’s strange,’ said Griffin. ‘People still ask me what I see when I spot talent. I see a player but I also try to see the person. I’ve signed hundreds of players, and I can’t remember all their names because the old memory is going to be honest, but each one is special to me. Over the years I’ve found them all different ways. I’ve taken players from the Wessex League, the Conference, the Southern League, everywhere, anywhere and anyhow. I took Sean O’Driscoll from Alvechurch to Fulham, simply because I used to have the
Birmingham Evening Mail
, the one that came out on a Saturday evening with all the games in. It would arrive at Craven Cottage on a Monday and I just kept seeing the name, well two to be precise, Sean O’Driscoll and Richard O’Kelly. It’s funny how they’ve remained together, in management.
‘I just had to go up there to see for myself. They were both good players but within ten minutes I knew Sean was exactly what I was looking for. Scouting is about following up that hunch. It’s about your nose for a player. With Stan Collymore, I was having a goalkeeper at Stafford Rangers watched. People had gone two or three times and said, “good keeper, got a chance, but a major mistake in every game”. One Saturday I couldn’t find a game to go to. I saw Barnet were playing Stafford in the Conference, so went to see the keeper. He did allright. In fact, he went on and played for Birmingham – can’t remember his name, but he was big, six foot five, six foot six, and had a little bit of a career.
‘But I’m standing there, when the teams run out. As they did so, I went, “Why has nobody told me about this fella?” It was Stan. You just knew by his movement, by his athleticism, by the way he walked, even, that he was a player. Within five minutes I knew I was going to sign him, just knew it. I really believe if you’re a good scout you can honestly walk out after half an hour, and know what player you could take. It was the same with Ian Wright. I knew instantly we had to have him. It had nothing to do with his ability. His attitude just marked him out. I’ve never seen a player with such visible hunger to prove everyone wrong.
‘I always say to my scouts, once you’ve seen it, your job’s over, go. It doesn’t matter if it takes ten, fifteen, twenty minutes. You’re not there to enjoy the game – it’s a job, very much a job. I’ve walked out many times at half-time. It’s nothing to me, a game between two sides I have nothing to do with. You either see the player in time, or you don’t, and you go home. No one is infallible. There have been times I haven’t spotted a player, when I should have done. I once saw Leyton Orient play Newport County with Maurice Evans, who was then manager at Reading. I knew he was scouting someone, but couldn’t work out who it was. The following week he signed John Aldridge. He’s still one of my favourite players ever, and I never noticed him. Everybody laughs at me when I say Joe Public can judge a player. The fan who knows the game could name, within twenty minutes, the best player on the pitch. I don’t think you have to be the football brain of Britain. The trick is to lose concentration on the game, and concentrate on the individual. I do get annoyed with managers and coaches. You send them to see a player, and you will be amazed the amount of times they come back and start talking through the game and the systems. I’ve no interest whether a team started off playing 4–4–2 and then changed to a 4–3–3.
‘You’re there to look at the player. It’s not in their psyche to do that. They look at it in a completely different way, with a coach’s eye. Even if you specify what you want him to see, he will come back and tell you about every player, everything. You might not say it, but you’ll think, no, that’s not what you’re there for. They can’t concentrate on an individual, in the way a scout is brought up to do.’
Outside, raindrops, shed from the roof of the main stand, were refracting in soft sunlight after a sharp shower. The match had just kicked off when we parked ourselves at the back of the directors’ box. Seven of the Reading side, including striker Jacob Walcott, a distant cousin of Arsenal’s Theo, would be released. Griffin did not reveal his intentions to those around him, but had confided his interest in Gozie Ugwu. The long-limbed striker had been brought to his attention by Liam Daish, one of his former players, who had managed him during a two-month loan at Ebbsfleet United in the Conference. ‘A foal,’ he murmured. ‘Got to grow into himself a bit, but would do us for a season.’
It was another eerie, ritualistic exercise. Players’ studs clattered across the deserted terraces as they retrieved the ball. It was a harsh, percussive sound, lacking the soothing rhythms of well-shoed horses, cantering along a country road. Urgent entreaties – ‘c’mon, winners’ – seemed utterly out of place. Everyone winced at the rifle’s retort of a clash of heads between Brentford defender Leon Legge and Reading defender Angus MacDonald, who carried on, bloody and groggy.
Brentford’s goalkeeping coaches were watching discreetly from the upper tier of the Wendy House stand, behind the left-hand goal. Antoine Gounet, signed from Tours, conformed to every Gallic stereotype. He attempted step-overs while under pressure in his own penalty area, punched the ball when he should have caught it, and generally behaved with a manic lack of care and consideration. ‘He’ll be on the way back at half-time,’ said Griffin. ‘You’d never guess he’s French, would you? No, no, no. Taxi for Calais.’
Gounet was, indeed, replaced at the interval, when Griffin was approached by Luton manager Paul Buckle and his technical director Lil Fuccillo, who returned just as the second half started to ask for a number for Steve Shorey, Reading’s chief scout. ‘They’re interested in my player,’ Griffin whispered. ‘I’ll get the gaffer to call on the way home. We’d be good for the kid for a year. We’ll see what he can become, rather than what he is now.’
Football works in mysterious ways. It transpired that Reading wanted Ugwu to go on loan in League One. Yeovil manager Gary Johnson, who happens to be Griffin’s nephew, was the beneficiary of Wycombe’s rejection. The veteran scout didn’t share Waddock’s enthusiasm for Reading’s Jordan Obita, which would also remain unrequited. Griffin did not see enough to trust the young winger’s intermittent flashes of instinctive talent in a game which was won by Brentford, courtesy of an Antonio German penalty.
Memories provided respite from the tedium of a match which staggered over the line like a dehydrated marathon runner. Griffin recalled the unforeseen benefits of sending Dennis Bailey, whom he had signed for Palace from Farnborough, on loan to Bristol Rovers. ‘There was always a goal in Dennis, and Steve Coppell asked me to keep tabs on him,’ he explained. ‘I watched him four times, but my eye kept getting drawn to the Rovers keeper. I told Steve we just had to sign him. It was Nigel Martyn. We bought him for a million, and sold him for five. He played for England. I saw him recently. He has a caravan in the New Forest. I went to a site down the road and there he was, larger than life. A real nice Cornish man. His wife was a strong one. Not like today’s players, eh?
‘I remember Gal, my nephew, signing John Akinde for Bristol City from Ebbsfleet. It was a strange one. It was the first transfer ever decided by a poll of the fans. I first saw him when he was eighteen and working in a cinema in Gravesend. He helped Ebbsfleet win the FA Trophy. Akinde had it all, pace, strength and power, but he had no idea what he was going to do when he came anywhere near the ball. He was a million miles away from being a player, but there was something there. Gal took a chance on him, but when I heard the details I rang him and said, “What have you done?” He’d given him fifteen hundred quid a week, a car and a flat for six months. Where was his incentive? He was ruined. With a player like that you give him three hundred quid, and tell him to earn it if he asks for more. I love Gal like a son, but. . . .’
If blood is thicker than water, Griffin also understood Dave Philpotts’ concerns about the culture shift which was accelerating, and subtly changing the dynamics of his job. He identified with the insecurity of Mel Johnson, who was in limbo at Liverpool, following the sacking of Kenny Dalglish. Johnson attempted to retain a semblance of normality, submitting cautionary reports on such young players as Blackpool’s Matt Phillips, but received no feedback. The silence was unnerving, unyielding.
It was impossible not to relate to his quiet dignity and sense of impotence. ‘I’ve had a great run,’ he said, as the rumours swirled. ‘I’ve been very, very lucky. I’ve always worked hard. I’ve always gone to as many games as possible. I love watching players. I’ve only ever been moved out once in twenty-seven years. It can happen straight away or it can take time, or you can get to know the people that take over and you can be OK with them.’
In extremis
, the Nowhere Men look after their own. Despite the distractions, Johnson joined Griffin in attempting to promote scouts for whom he had respect, on a personal and a professional basis. Each continued to encourage Dean Austin to pursue a role as chief scout for a club of appropriate stature. Griffin also recommended Steve Jones, who had been released by Sheffield United following their loss on penalties in the League One play-off final at Wembley, for a newly created post at AFC Wimbledon.
‘If you’re a chief exec, scouting is the first thing you’ll cut back on if things go wrong,’ Griffin rationalised. ‘They’ve always looked for petty savings from us. I did hear a story from Terry Venables about Alan Sugar. He reckoned one of the first decisions he made when he got into Tottenham was to cut the two pints of milk in the scouts’ area to one, to save money, because he was always trying to save money.
‘You still need the old-fashioned scout who goes out and stands on the grass. The analytical scout can go and make a further judgement if necessary. They do their jobs well, but are a different breed of people. They would never dream of standing behind a goal and watching. I don’t disrespect them for that. We are totally different animals. What they do is also expensive. I don’t think it can filter down into League One or Two.
‘At my level, it is difficult to employ more than one or two scouts. At Wycombe I’ve just got the one guy, who is on expenses only. That’s all I can have. Financially we just can’t do any more. I can understand why people talk about the benefits of technical scouting, but it would cost so much to set up and run, it couldn’t possibly be done below the level of the Premier League, or a really top-quality Championship club.’
It was not shaping up to be a Summer of Love.
THE CHOSEN FEW
lounged on beaches lapped by the Caribbean, or partied in seven-star ghettoes beside the Arabian Gulf. The wannabes, who envied the lifestyle of football’s rich and famous, and had convinced themselves of the legitimacy of their ambitions, sought to emulate Sakho Bakare. As career strategies go, that had its limitations. Bakare was unemployed, separated from his family and sleeping on the sofa in a succession of friends’ houses.
The French forward was deemed a success by those unversed in the ways of the football world, simply because of his rarity value; he got something for the £50 he paid to participate in the lottery of a mass off-season trial. It had earned him a year in the Evo-Stik Southern League with St Albans City, where he was given £100 a week and as many free chips as he could eat from Andy’s Gourmet Burger van, situated in the corner of the tree-lined Clarence Park ground.
I had seen him play there just before he was released, at the end of the 2011-12 season. Clarence Park was a place of suburban gentility, reached by a wooden walkway from a bridge. Anxious parents fussed over children, amusing themselves noisily on swings and climbing frames in a rubber-crumbed playground. A sheepdog, with a blue and yellow Saints scarf wrapped around its neck, dozed in the shadow cast by another van, which dispensed coffee. Bakare had justified his pedigree as a one-season wonder in the Swiss League with Neuchatel Xamax by scoring 15 goals, yet was utterly dysfunctional.
He was tall, and the thinness of his legs was emphasised by the fashionable habit of stretching his socks over his knees. He loped, rather than ran, and his lack of co-ordination suggested he was not in full control of his limbs. He struggled to do the simple things automatically, and had the peripheral vision of a mole. His awareness of his teammates was minimal, and a source of collective frustration. But he had a physical presence. Occasionally, in a fusion of fortunate timing and sheer instinct, he took the breath away.
He provided the highlight of a dour 1–1 draw with Banbury United just before half-time, when he met a headed clearance on the right-hand edge of the penalty area. He fashioned a scissor kick as he fell with the grace of a flamingo in a high wind. The ball swerved and dipped, but cannoned to safety off the crossbar, with opposing goalkeeper Andy Kemp as astonished a spectator as the rest of us, in a crowd of 482. The Official Sakho Bakare Appreciation Society had 173 likes on Facebook, but the fans’ forum which summed him up as ‘egg beater or world beater’ represented a more measured judgement.