by Ian Holloway
I was out of the team so I went back to Bristol for the weekend and while I was at Kim’s mum and dad’s, her old man cajoled me into playing for local amateur side, Cadbury Heath. They were short of a player and he convinced me to come along as sub, telling me that nobody would know who I was because it was an away game deep in Somerset. I thought, ‘What the hell?’ – it couldn’t do any harm and the way things had been going, what if my club did find out? Kim came to watch and stood on the sidelines with me, and Cadbury Heath went 1-0 down. We needed a win to stay up so they stuck me on in the second half and everything I did went right for the first time in what seemed like an age. My first touch almost set up a goal and my second resulted in a run and cross that set up the manager Steve Risdale to equalise. Steve ran past me with about 10 minutes to go – and by this time we were 2-1 up – and he said out the corner of his mouth, “For fuck’s sake, do something wrong!”
“What?”
“Give the ball away. Trip over the fucking thing. Anything!” Their sub must have been growing suspicious because he shouted, “How come he didn’t fucking start, then?”
Before the ‘ringer’ suspicions grew any stronger, I tripped over one ball and let another one go out of play and that seemed to make a few of their fans settle down again. It was fantastic to be just playing football again, real football at that, and I played just for the sake of it, and all the worries and concern about Kim and my own health problems were forgotten for 45 minutes, and all in the silver wrapping of Cadbury Heath. I got a lot of self-belief back in that game, though probably broke every rule in the book in doing so. Cadbury Heath would have probably been relegated and I was in breach of contract with my club, but that afternoon nothing mattered except playing just for the love of it. I felt a little guilty about it and the next day I was at dad’s and he said, “I heard you had a game yesterday. How did you go on?”
“All right,” I replied sheepishly.
“I heard you did better than that,” he said. I should’ve known better than to think my playing would have escaped his network of sources!
I was still constantly tired and my next visit home was a few weeks later, by which time I’d moved on loan to Brentford, and this time I got mum to book me in to see the local GP. Just talking to him was enough for him to surmise that he reckoned I had glandular fever. He added it was no wonder I wasn’t playing football, because, in his eyes, it would be almost impossible. He took some blood and water and a week later I received an urgent phone call telling me that if I was playing, I had to stop because it had been confirmed I did have glandular fever. Frank McClintock at Brentford had asked to take me on loan to Griffin Park and I took the opportunity to go there and play some football again. I wasn’t bothered about moving back down to the Third Division and Bassett thought I could build my fitness and confidence back up so everyone seemed happy. In fact, Wimbledon were looking a good bet to go up to the top flight for the first time in their history, so they weren’t overly concerned about whether I was around or not.
I played a few times for the Bees before I was told about the glandular fever, and I told Frank that I’d been advised to stop playing and rest, but he said I’d been doing really well and asked me to carry on, which like an idiot, I did. It got to the stage during the week where Wimbledon thought I must be training with Brentford and Brentford thought I must be training with Wimbledon where in fact I was in bed, ill at home. I managed to see out the season with the Bees, and Wimbledon won promotion in my absence. I had two years of my contract left at Plough Lane but Brentford were keen to buy me and had offered £25,000, so I spoke to Harry to find out where I stood in his plans and he said, “Look, son. I like you, but it hasn’t gone that well. I’d like you to marry my daughter, but I don’t want you playing in my team sometimes because you’re too honest. Try and get a bit more like the others we’ve got here, or you can go to Brentford. It’s entirely up to you.” In all honesty, I didn’t spend that much time thinking about it and decided to jump out of my contract with what was now the equivalent of a Premiership club, and join a Third Division club instead, which in hindsight was absolute madness. The Ian Holloway prior to the illness would never have done that because I would have had a point to prove at Wimbledon. I was only 23 and would have had a chance to play at Old Trafford, Anfield, Maine Road, White Hart Lane and Highbury, but I made the wrong decision – big time.
After I signed I take no pride in admitting that I was rubbish at Brentford and had a torrid time there because the illness appeared to come and go, and some days I’d feel okay and others like a zombie. I think they all thought I was making excuses for some reason or another. I got them to sign my mate Phil Bater from Rovers and they also brought in Paul Maddy and Gary Stevens. Frank felt we had a decent squad and was convinced we were going to get promoted, but I couldn’t do a damn thing right. I was the original weakest link. Brentford employed Terry Mancini to help Frank when Johnny Doherty, his assistant, left for Millwall, because things were going so bad for the team. I was being left out of the side on merit, or lack of, as their patience ran out and I didn’t get on with Terry at all, probably because he spoke the truth when he told me I was crap and wasn’t doing it for the team.
Frank was telling me one thing and the next day Terry would say, “Look, Frank gets a little bit excited so I want you to do this instead.” It ended up with me going to Frank because I didn’t know whether I was coming or going. “What is it with you two?” I said. “He’s telling me one thing and you’re telling me another. I’ve had enough of this bullshit – any chance of speaking in the same feckin’ language?”
“Do you think he’s after my job?” Frank asked me, and I said I didn’t know what he was after. I added, “I wish Terry would just shut his mouth and I’ll play for you.”
I didn’t believe I could play as a winger as I was being asked to do, especially the way I was feeling. I’d sometimes look at the full-back I’d be up against and defeat myself before I even started – that wasn’t me because my nature was to enjoy that type of physically mis-matched challenge. I’d talk myself out of a game and I thought, “Jesus, I’m in trouble, here.” Finding out why I was thinking that way and the real reason I was so weak was a massive relief, because I knew it would pass out of my system as time went on.
It’s such a shame that I couldn’t have enjoyed my time at Brentford because I doubt I’d ever find better people to work with in Frank and Johnny Doc – two terrific characters that refused to let us get downbeat. Even if we lost it would be Frank and Johnny that got up and started the singing and there was a fantastic spirit in the camp. The trouble was, we just couldn’t turn camaraderie into results and everything poor Frank tried to do that year just went wrong. In his thick Scottish accent he came in one day and said, “Jesus Christ what’s going wrong with me? I went for a run this morning and got bit by a fucking dog and for Christ’s sake, I started apologising to the owner! I came away thinking, ‘Jesus, Frank, why didn’t I kick the flea-bitten bastard in the bollocks?’ I’m becoming someone I didn’t want to fucking be – lads, please, help me out – I’m gonna get the fucking sack.” It was funny because of the way he said it and even then, he could laugh at himself and I loved him for that.
There were other characters knocking around like former Chelsea veteran, Mickey Droy, who were coming towards the end of their careers. Mickey loved a smoke in the dressing room and probably would’ve taken a light out with him on to the pitch if he could have got away with it. Former Ipswich and Villa striker Dave Geddes was there on loan, too and these lads must have been on a fair whack at the time, and the fact we weren’t winning games was piling the pressure on Frank. He had the quality, but nothing went right for him and when Johnny Doc left to take a job at Millwall, it was the beginning of the end of his reign at Griffin Park because Doc left just when Frank needed him most. Having said that, I was probably the main bugbear of that bloody awful season we had. It just goes
to prove that Ian Holloway in red and white just ain’t right.
Frank was finally put out of his misery by the board and one of the lads he’d brought in towards the end, Steve Perryman, took over as boss. I was still suffering from bouts of chronic fatigue, but Perryman was a man I idolised as a kid and I even used to have his poster on my bedroom wall. Despite all that, it wouldn’t take long to figure out that he hadn’t a clue where my strengths lay. During his first few games he’d be on the touchline shouting, “Run at him, go on, run at him!” I wasn’t a winger and was fed up with the way he was trying
to play me so I wrote a long list of things out – rightly or wrongly – and gave
it to him. I thought I had nothing to lose, but I don’t think he took too kindly to that.
Dad came up to watch me one week and I had a stinker. Later, as I drove him back to Bristol, he said, “Why don’t you just come home, son. Come back and play for Bath City. I can’t watch you playing like that anymore.”
I was so crestfallen I couldn’t even reply, because he was the one who had always made me believe in my own ability, and for him to come out and say what he had must have meant it had been torture for him to see me so unhappy and out of sorts. I felt like I’d failed him. I had to prove that I still had it in me to be a success. First, I had to get back to full fitness, and in truth, I could began to feel some of my strength was returning. It was too late to save my Brentford career, though and I was dropped from the side. Perryman came up to me and said, “Look, I’ve had a couple of phone calls about you, how do you feel about going out on loan?” I said I was fine because I needed to keep playing and maybe put myself in the shop window again. One of the sides interested was Torquay, which I thought wasn’t that far from Bristol so I decided to go there for a month. I spoke to their manager Stuart Morgan and what a breath of fresh air he turned out to be. He kept telling me how good he thought I was, which is what I needed to hear at that time, and that he’d seen me when I played for Rovers and he reckoned a few weeks in Devon would do me the world of good. Frank McClintock had taken me on the strength of my days at Eastville, too, which suggested I hadn’t done much since. Those days seemed an age ago and I wished I could play half as well as I did during my time there. Morgan said that he didn’t care what I did or where I went training, so long as I met up with the lads on a Friday, which would earn me the nickname Robinson Crusoe (Man Friday) with the lads.
Torquay thought I was training with Brentford and Brentford thought I was training with Torquay, but as before when I’d gone out on loan, the truth was I was back in Bristol in bed, trying to regenerate my body. I did well for Torquay, probably because I’d preserved what little energy I had during the week for the match at the weekend and each time, I found I had just enough to see me through 90 minutes. We won three games in a row, which Torquay hadn’t done all season. It was just the fillip I needed and it restored some confidence when I’d been running on memories for the best part of two years. Kim and I would stay at a bed and breakfast in Torquay and we just relaxed, and I felt totally detached from it all. I broke my toe against Notts County while I was at Plainmoor after I kicked the underside of Big Sam Allardyce’s boot and it was bloody painful. I told Stuart Morgan that I thought I done some damage and he told me to get treatment back at Brentford so I’d be right for the following week.
I went in to see Ron Woolnough the Brentford physio and a man with more scams on the go than Arthur Daley. I never really got on with him because I was always complaining about feeling ill and I think he thought I was a malingerer. I never thought he was thorough enough with me, and thought he could have picked up what was wrong with me through blood tests or whatever, so with trepidation I went to see him about my toe.
“If you’ve broken your toe I’ll eat my bloody hat,” he said.
“I think I need an X-ray Ron.” “No you bloody don’t. An X-ray won’t change anything because the treatment will be the same.” He then asked me to run up some steps – unbelievable! I sorted an X-ray out myself and the guy said, “Oh yeah, you’ve broken your toe, mate.” I asked him to mark on the image where the bone was broken and then took the film into Ron, with a hat. I said, “Do you want some salt with that?” I asked. “Go on then, you’d better eat that hat.” He didn’t see the funny side and maintained the treatment was the same regardless if it was broken or badly bruised and I said, “Yeah? Well the doctor said I wasn’t supposed to run up feckin’ steps on a broken toe.”
“Get on the bike, then,” he said and got on with treating somebody else. It felt good to prove Ron wrong and he couldn’t say a word
this time.
I returned to Torquay to play one more match after having a pain-killing injection in my toe, but my loan was up after that. They needed results to go their way to avoid relegation out of the Football League – and their fate rested on the teeth of an Alsatian dog called Bryn. On the last day of the season Torquay lay second bottom, with Burnley one point behind them and Lincoln City one above. A win would keep them up, but they were soon 2-0 down at home to Crewe, and the news that Burnley were winning filtered through. Torquay did pull one back, but despite throwing everything at Crewe, they looked doomed to defeat. In the pandemonium of the last few minutes of normal time, as the crowd threatened to run on the pitch, a police dog bit the Torquay skipper Jim McNichol as he made to take a throw-in. The game was stopped for four minutes and, despite the news that Burnley had won, Lincoln City had lost at Swansea. If Torquay could get a point they could escape on goal difference. Three minutes into time added on for the police dog incident, Paul Dobson scored and Torquay retained their League status with just seconds remaining on the clock. It was an unbelievable escape and I only wished I could have been part of what must have been an incredible day, and I was delighted for the lads, fans and for Stuart Morgan who’d restored my belief again.
Wimbledon were in the top division and doing well and Torquay had just avoided becoming a non-League side. I’d literally gone from one extreme to the other and I seemed powerless to stop the slide downwards. It was a joke!
At least one happy thing happened during that period as Kim and I got engaged and had moved into a flat together in Croydon in 1986. We had no furniture at the start and I remember us watching the Mexico World Cup on a few cushions scattered on the floor. It was just us and we had our whole lives in front of us. It was magical. We’d had long conversations about the future and what it meant for us both. With her treatment over and Kim given the all-clear by her doctors, I asked her to marry me. We’d agreed there was no point doing anything until she was well again but now she was, I wasn’t going to lose her again and I’m happy to say she accepted. There was no bending down on one knee, but things were crystal clear in our minds. We had a life to get on with and there was no time to waste. We arranged to get married the following summer and though the doctors had told her that the chemotherapy would likely render her infertile, it didn’t matter. There’d always be other options open to us in future years if we wanted to take them. The flat wasn’t up to much, but we were together and that’s all that mattered. We got married in May 1987, though it was a quiet wedding with just a few close friends and family, and a month later, Kim missed a period and we wondered… was it possible, despite being told otherwise? We got a pregnancy testing kit and both watched as a little dot appeared in the middle window. We were ecstatic and it was the icing on the cake for us – it’s potent water up in Croydon! It proves the old saying, never say never, because nobody can really predict what path your life will follow, and for us it was a genuine miracle.
I returned for pre-season training with Brentford as we prepared for the 1987/88 season, though I was still suffering from bouts of fatigue from time to time. New faces began arriving and it seemed there was no future at Griffin Park for me under Steve Perryman. The only way forward was to leave. A Swedish club came in for me, wanting to buy me for £12,000 and Perryman told me about it,
adding that he didn’t think I had what it took to play for his team. I asked him if they were going to watch me in a practice game we had between the first team and the reserves and he told me they were. “Well stick me in centre midfield for God’s sake,” I said.
“You’re not a centre midfield player,” he said. I said I was and he relented and said he’d go along with it, probably thinking he’d do anything if it meant me finding another club. Desperate to show Perryman what I could do, I scored one and made another as the reserves won 2-1 as the guys from Sweden watched on the sidelines. Afterwards, I was told that if I wanted to, I could sign for the Swedes within 24 hours, but I wasn’t sure what to do. I had a baby on the way and wasn’t sure what would be the best thing to do. I was up for the move, but called Gordon Bennett at Rovers to see what he thought about it. He told me straight, “Whatever you do, don’t sign. You’ll go over there and you’ll get forgotten about. See it out at Brentford, tell Perryman to stick it up his arse and that you’re not leaving.”
What Gordon said made sense, so I told Perryman I was staying and he reacted by sticking me on the transfer list. He didn’t want me and my career just seemed to be drifting aimlessly, at least that’s how it felt. Shortly before the new season began, I played against Aldershot in a friendly – on the left wing for Christ’s sake – and Gerry Francis, now manager at Bristol Rovers was watching in the stands. He called me later that day and said, “We’ve been given permission to talk to you Ollie, and we’ve agreed a price of £12,000. I saw you today and I thought you were crap.”
“Why do you want to buy me then?”
“Because I can make you play better than that. Left-wing? You’re having a laugh, aren’t you? You’ve got to be either on the right or in the middle and I’m sure I can get you playing better than that, plus I know your dad’s not been too good, so why don’t you just come home, spend some time with him and get playing again? I’ll give you a day to think about it.”
