He signed for Carlisle the following season and went on to have a fine career, playing well into his mid-thirties at a good level of professional football.
“Some are born great, some achieve greatness and some have greatness thrust upon them.”
I’m not sure which of these descriptions from Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night best fits Howard Kendall, but take it from me, that man was great – and still is great. Look up the word ‘charisma’ in the dictionary and you should find the words ‘Howard Kendall’ alongside it.
I first met him back in the ’70s in my first year as an apprentice at Birmingham. Of all the players who played for the Blues during that period, he was the only one who ever stopped his car on Damson Lane, the long, winding road down to the training ground, to give me a lift. All the rest just drove by; I think some of them even drove through the puddles purposely trying to splash me. Sometimes, during the school holidays, my sister Linda would come with me and he would give her a lift too.
A great player (one season he kept the Blues in the First Division virtually single-handedly) and a fantastic guy. I think he genuinely felt for me when I imploded at Birmingham. He would put his arm around me and try to encourage me which nobody else (especially the coaches) did when I was struggling so badly.
Howard replaced ‘Pick’ at Blackburn for the start of the 1979/80 season – his first managerial job. He had, and still has, the ability to light up a room when he walks in by his sheer presence and charisma. He knows how to make everybody he comes into contact with feel special – whether by making a cup of tea for the cleaner at Ewood Park or asking my mom for the first dance on the night of my wedding. Talk about having the common touch; he would have made a great Prime Minister.
When Simon Garner’s wife gave birth to their first child, Howard made sure she received flowers and champagne. Those small, simple touches engendered a sense of loyalty and affection that all the players shared. He got the best out of everybody and – let’s be honest – that was the crux of his job. By whatever means, a manager’s job is to get the best out of the players at his disposal.
Howard came to Rovers as player-manager. We had just been relegated to the old Third Division. We started his first season badly and, after about 15 games, were at the wrong end of the table. The crowd were turning, the press were sharpening their pencils and, you know what, he never changed. He never stopped treating everybody, from chairman to cleaner, like they were important and mattered.
Courteous, immaculate and dignified but, in equal measure, shrewd, tough and nobody’s fool, Howard then presided over a run that took Rovers to promotion to the Second Division clinched at Bury one balmy night the following spring – and still he never changed, giving out praise and thanks to all while refusing to accept much himself.
Training was simple. No tactics, no running, just light ballwork designed to keep the players sharp. No long tactical sessions like the ones that bore and frustrate the modern footballer. No long team meetings talking up the opposition until everybody is shitting themselves. No, everything was built on the strongest building block of all – team spirit. You see it wasn’t about them; it was only ever about us and what we were going to do. In those days when you walked into Ewood Park, you felt it. You felt the electricity about the place. This was the place to be and it was Howard who generated that electricity.
In his second season, with virtually the same modest team, he took us to within goal difference of the top division. An incredible record. We were sad when the Ayatollah left (my nickname for him which he seemed to enjoy more than anyone else), but we knew he was destined for greatness, which he achieved at Everton.
Years later, when I was working at Everton myself, I saw a lot of Howard and he always had the same spring in his step and sparkle in his eye.
Just recently my wife and I were house-hunting in Formby in Merseyside and we bumped into Howard. He had not seen Julie since we all did the conga around the car park of the Trafalgar Hotel on our wedding night back in 1981.
“Hi Julie, you look great. How’s your Lynn? Tell your mum and dad I was asking after them.”
And that conversation more than any other sums up the man.
Chapter Five
THE GOLDEN YEARS
Out with the old, in with the new. Howard Kendall to Everton and Bob Saxton – or ‘Sacko’ as he was universally known – to Rovers.
It is the summer of 1981. I am 22 years old, happily married, now the owner of a black, three-litre Capri, and about to start my assault on the property ladder. I am the proud father of Max, the long-haired Alsatian. We are very happy – the perfect family unit. I am now a battle-hardened veteran of 80 or 90 league games. Even the Iraq-Iran war with its implications for world peace or the Toxteth street riots can’t diminish my contentment.
All those terrible memories of Birmingham City and the genuine unhappiness I felt there are fading slowly but surely. The lessons of my boozy period with Russ are well learned and will not be repeated. I am proud to be able to call myself a professional footballer at last. Giving value for money, playing well, week in week out and, amazingly, enjoying it.
The next six or seven years under Sacko would be my truly golden period, the time when I finally became the player I should have been at Birmingham City. Playing with a great bunch of lads in a good, strong solid team that did the club proud year in year out under a very good manager.
However, while I was set to enter my finest era as a player, conversely football as a game and a spectator sport was about to go through a very difficult period. This next decade would be scarred by the tragedies at Heysel, Bradford and Hillsborough. On the pitch, defensive, unexciting football predominated, driving the fans away from the decaying old stadiums. Thankfully, by the end of the decade, the Taylor Report had helped to drag the game kicking and screaming into the modern era; all-seater grounds, catering and caring for the safety and comfort of the paying supporters, allied to some subtle rule changes, would eventually breathe fresh life into the declining industry and, gradually, the fans would start to drift back.
While English football in general suffered, Lancashire football, in particular, was the hardest hit. Preston, Burnley, and Bolton (all founder members of the Football League) started to decline. With dwindling crowds, decrepit stadia and failure on the pitch, one by one, they sank to the lowest tier of the professional game. Former greats of those clubs – Tom Finney, Jimmy McIlroy and Nat Lofthouse – witnessed the gradual decline of these once legendary football institutions. It is to the undying credit of their supporters and directors, who so loyally stuck with these fallen giants during that lean period, that today they have all sprung back with new or improved stadia and restored pride and status.
Blackburn Rovers, alone, of those historic Lancashire clubs maintained its standing, and my team-mates and I who played our hearts out at a difficult time for English football should take special credit for the part we played.
Incredibly, during the reign of ‘King Sacko’, we kept virtually the same team and I believe in particular the defence – TG (Terry Genoe), Bran (Jim Brannigan), Keels (Glen Keeley), Faz (Derek Fazackerley) and I – held some kind of record for playing so many consecutive games together.
In that difficult period we held our own – and then some – against the likes of Leeds, Chelsea, West Ham, Sunderland and Newcastle. Bill Fox, who replaced David Brown as chairman, frequently reminded us of our responsibilities. “This club cannot afford to be relegated. It will go out of business if it is relegated,” he told us regularly – and we responded to a man.
With our tiny squad of 15 or 16 players, probably on the lowest wages in the division, we stood firm as friends, fellow professionals and Rovers players, proud to pull on and fight for that famous shirt. The team spirit we developed, I would dare to suggest, had never been seen before and never will be seen again – at Blackburn Rovers or any other club.
I remember on Sacko’s first day at the club he called Noel ‘
Stan’ Brotherston (sadly now deceased – a marvellous talent but, more importantly, a marvellous man) and me together before training. I was left back and Stan was left wing. In a strange parody of Jesus’s sermon on the mount, he sat us down on the warm, dry grass and preached the sermon according to St Sacko. He instructed us: “Be good friends, care for each other, go out and socialise with your wives together. You will find you become so close on a Saturday that you will have formed a bond so strong that you will ensure you give everything for each other and the rest of the team. If one of you is struggling, then the other one will go that extra yard to help him, and vice versa.”
Talk about Mourinho. This was Sacko back in the early ’80s – a man ahead of his time.
That esprit de corps ran through the whole team, and the whole club and those years, somewhat belatedly, finally made a man out of me.
If I close my eyes now, I can still see all the lads’ faces and smell the liniment, the Vicks Vapour Rub, the boot polish and, of course, those Hollands Pies. We trained in the big country park, whatever the weather, and met up every Wednesday night, whatever the weather, at the Hare and Hounds or The Knowles.
At the risk of sounding simplistic and making the nutritionists choke on their energy bars, a few pints never hurt anybody. The benefits of socialising and bonding over a pint and the camaraderie it produces are worth a million times more than the sterile and almost impersonal atmospheres that pervade some modern clubs. You can’t even get a pint in the players’ bars any more. Before all the killjoys start digging out the research to try and prove that alcohol is the great Satan and should be completely avoided, they should first consider this: football is about people performing in the entertainment industry. Footballers are human beings, not lab rats. Getting all the players together on a Wednesday night for a couple of pints and a sing-song or a game of darts will not affect your result on a Saturday. Sorry, I am wrong. It may affect your results; it will make them better.
I played nearly 300 games for Rovers. We won some, lost some and drew some but, generally, for the size of the club and the assets we had at our disposal, we enjoyed great success and continually punched above our weight with several top-six finishes and some good cup runs.
The preparation for matches in those days was totally different to the modern game. For home games, I used to wake up fairly late. My wife brought toast, a cup of tea and the newspaper up to the bedroom. I would be nervous. Not scared any more – just nervous. I didn’t really enjoy being nervous (who does?) but I knew myself by now and I realised this feeling was the norm on the morning of the game. To clarify, this was nothing like how I had felt when I woke up on the morning of Birmingham games – that was fucking terror. I also knew by now that when I got to Ewood Park the simple act of removing my tie would make all those nerves magically disappear.
After breakfast in bed I would get up and take Max to the park (I don’t think he ever got nervous). When I got back, I would put on my suit and eat the biggest omelette you have ever seen (it would have made a great episode of the reality TV series, Man v Food). I used to consume this monster meal at noon, three hours prior to kick-off.
Now before the nutritionists gnash their teeth in disapproval, it was OK, no problem. I felt great. I felt great in the warm-up, great in the game. You can say whatever you like about nutrition, digestion and preparation, but I ain’t listening because I felt great (and I’d had a few cans of lager the night before).
I would then drive the three miles to Ewood Park. In those days we all lived locally – probably because we couldn’t afford to live anywhere more salubrious. That was another big reason why you felt a great affinity to the club you played for, and why you felt so close to the club and responsible to the town for the fate of that club.
My wife would come to every home game. She always told me I was man of the match, even when I knew I wasn’t. We would park on the lunar landscape that was the ‘Little Wembley’ car park. Cries of “Go on Baz” as we walked the hundred yards to the players’ entrance pursued by a couple of fans with autograph books. You could feel the atmosphere starting to build. This was my most nervous moment – that initial entering of the ground. Greetings from the doorman and the inevitable asking of the time-honoured question: “Are we gonna win today, Baz?” God knows. I hope so, otherwise the weekend will be a write-off, and I need the bonus.
Push open the home team dressing room door and the magic would begin – oh those smells. Those marvellous life-defining smells: the liniment, always the liniment mixed with leather and boot polish, Vicks Vapour Rub and Deep Heat. The lads all assembled, laughing, joking, shaking hands, keyed up with common purpose.
And then, there it was, looming ahead. The Holy Grail.
What is the Holy Grail? What does it signify? Some say it is the cup Christ drank from, some argue it is merely a metaphor that can mean different things to different people which doesn’t need to be something tangible but more a focus of something special, even spiritual, in one’s life.
In that case, I was now looking up at my Holy Grail – hung up, washed and ironed with its back to me. The Blackburn Rovers No. 3 shirt – correction, my Blackburn Rovers No. 3 shirt. As far as I was concerned, nobody else should be allowed to wear that shirt and, for the best part of eight years – injuries notwithstanding – nobody did.
The simple act of just taking the shirt from the hanger and putting it on was deeply symbolic to me. I had been through so much, so many bad times, that just to have that blue-and-white-halved shirt in my hands meant more than words could ever say.
Then off came the tie and I would be transformed, energised, slightly hyper, and ready to go. Everything else was out of my mind. I’d get changed and feel the hairs rise on the back of my neck as I slipped the shirt over my head – my shirt. Finally, I knew why John Roberts had spat on the team sheet at Birmingham, now I understood.
Quick team meeting – basic, short and to the point. Not too much information – let’s face it, most of the lads had failed their 11-plus. Quick cup of tea, lots of sugar – the nutritionists are beside themselves by this point – I still felt great.
In came the referee to check the studs. Then the bell sounded. The bell that previously would have sucked the last vestiges of power from my legs now produced a rush of adrenalin-fuelled energy that could have powered the floodlights. Shouting and encouraging each other, Sacko’s last words and then the final ritual – the team spirit was handed out. Keels was responsible for getting the bottle of whisky out of the physio’s bag before screaming, “All the best” and having a good swig before passing it to the next man. To TG, then Faz, Bran and me (I only pretended to drink it as I never got over that attempt on my life in Holland), then one by one all the rest of the boys.
Out we rushed, the roar of the crowd, the adrenalin surging through my muscles. Exhilaration, warriors, them or us. The whistle to release us from any final knots of tension. Running, heading, tackling, overlapping, noise, ebb and flow, cut and thrust, the fans right behind us. Shouts of “Go on Baz” as I raced forward, deafening noise, fans chanting the players’ names, then my name. For me, they used to chant, “Hello, hello, Rambo Rathbone, Rambo Rathbone, hello, hello” in tribute to my fearless buccaneering style (I hope).
Trevor Francis, Sir Alf Ramsey, Bald Eagle, Maggie Thatcher, Winston Churchill, Horatio Nelson, are you watching? Watch me go.
Then that winning goal, and when the final whistle sounded and you’d played well and won, believe me when I tell you that nothing in the world compares to that feeling – nothing. People may say, “Oh come on, it’s only a game. What about the birth of your kids? What about other important moments in your private life? Other success? No, sorry (Charlotte, Lucy and Oliver), there was nothing like that final whistle after a famous victory.
Did I still carry the scars of that experience at Birmingham to the extent that every subsequent success became part of an ongoing cathartic experience? Who knows?
Cheered off. Ba
ck to the dressing room, laughing, shouting, screaming, hugging, genuine affection for each other and a job well done. We’d grab a can on our way into the big bath and all sing our victory chant in the manner of Sid Waddell, the famous darts commentator. “One hundreeeeed annnnd eeeeeeighty” – to signify the bonus we had just won. And then sink back into the warm soapy water and become intoxicated on those smells – those smells of victory: shampoo and sandwiches and pies and beer.
In those days, the win bonus could double your wages. You couldn’t afford to get injured and miss a game because the basic wages were so poor. Apart from one season I missed with a broken leg (I could have done with that at Birmingham), I did not allow myself to get injured. I once played 100 straight games. That was my shirt and nobody else was allowed to wear it.
The broken leg was a test of my new resolve. I underwent all the usual doubts about whether I would recover, be the same player again, be afraid to tackle etc. I spent a lot of time on my own, thinking negative thoughts, constantly touching and testing the fracture site. I felt isolated from my team-mates, denied the intimacy and camaraderie I had enjoyed before the injury. Yes, people felt sorry for me, but not as sorry as I felt for myself.
If there was ever an example of how much I had changed, how far I had come, how desperately I just wanted to play football again, then this was it. I did recover, I did fight back, I did play again and I did get that can of beer and jump in the bath again. Another battle fought – and another battle won.
It also stood me in good stead for when I became a physiotherapist – how to empathise, how to motivate, how to encourage. Those seven months on the sidelines taught me more about sports injuries than a four-year physiotherapy degree ever could.
I suffered another injury which was not so serious, just very painful and very embarrassing. On the weekend before my wife and I got married, I broke a rib playing down at Watford. However, I managed to train every day the following week and was able to play the next Saturday, which was the day before our wedding.
The Smell of Football Page 8
