The Smell of Football

by Mick 'Baz' Rathbone

  We only booked a two-day honeymoon in the Lake District because of the time of the year (November). In training, the day after I returned, somebody blasted a ball which hit me in the back and must have opened up the original fracture site. The pain was unbearable and I missed six weeks.

  My wife never lived it down as everyone was telling her it must have been one hell of a honeymoon for me to come back with a crushed rib.

  Stories like that were all part of the banter we’d have at the club, be it during training, in the dressing room or in the bath after a game. After the bath, we’d get changed and Bill Fox would come in. “Well done, the sponsor’s man of the match is Baz.”

  It did not get any better than that, take it from me.

  Go and collect the sponsor’s trophy or, better still, a tray of beer or bottle of wine. Into the ‘100 Club’ bar to meet the fans. Everybody loves you. All the players and wives together – that was the key, together. Five or six pints in there. Garns and I and our wives out for the night. Big piss-up, home, bed.

  The best day ever.

  Of course, we didn’t always win and I didn’t always win man of the match, but we always went into the 100 Club to mix with the fans, whatever the result. We won together as a playing staff, backroom staff, set of fans and town, and we lost together. That was special – those days have gone forever.

  Away games were just as fun, and a different kind of adventure. One highlight was each season’s clash with Portsmouth, our big rivals at the time, at Fratton Park. There was lots of edge to this game due to the nature of previous encounters, our rivalry in the promotion race and plenty of bad feeling.

  We used to depart for the south coast on a Friday afternoon. The trays of beers went on first, then the wine, then the ‘team spirit’ and finally the kit. There was much less traffic in those days, so the journey was comfortable.

  Into the hotel, up to the room, raiding the minibar for snacks. I always roomed with my best mate, Garns. The hotels usually had a carvery restaurant and Garns and I used to have a competition to see who could eat the most (yes, we’d still feel great the next day). Then we’d head back to the room for the opening of the ‘goodie bag’ – crisps, chocolates and, last but not least, four cans of McEwan’s Lager. Down the hatch. Garns finished off proceedings by chain-smoking 20 fags, while I passively chain-smoked 20 fags. Then Garns, with his now distended belly hanging over the top of his boxer shorts, would start to doze off – fag in hand. I always waited until he went to sleep before I put his fag out. There was no way I could ever go to sleep before him just in case he burnt the fucking place down.

  We’d wake up the next morning, still feeling great, and get up for breakfast – let the eating competition commence. A full fry-up, then the pre-match meal – the ten-egg omelette (still felt great).

  Then it was game time – always tough, had to battle, dig out a result, no faint hearts. Those games at Fratton Park got very personal. Portsmouth were the team with all the money (how times have changed) and paid big wages. Rumour had it that some of their players were on £800 per week, an extraordinary sum of money for that time and way beyond our comprehension.

  They had a midfield player called Mick Kennedy. To be fair, he was a very good player but very, very combative and aggressive, and he used to get involved verbally with our players during the match. He would run around the pitch shouting, “Fucking £250 a week players, that’s all you fuckers are, £250 a week players.” Well, Mick, I have got news for you: I was only on £220 but we did get a nice win bonus that day.

  It’s a shame that kind of stuff prevailed (and still does). It’s a cheap shot really when somebody who is earning a great deal more than another fellow professional starts all that “What are you on? I can buy and sell you,” nonsense.

  In my first season at Blackburn we played, and beat, Coventry City in the FA Cup. They were in the top division at the time and I was up against their famous Scottish international Tommy Hutchison, one of the best left wingers around. He would probably agree he could be somewhat arrogant on the pitch. Anyway, I tackled Tommy very hard – but fairly. He got up and, with a look of absolute and utter contempt on his face, pushed me and said: “Hey son, I give my fucking kids more pocket money than you are on a week.”

  I was so taken aback and genuinely offended that I asked if he would be at all interested in adopting me.

  That cruel exchange always stuck in my mind. I hope you are OK, Tommy, you probably don’t even remember the incident but I never forgot it. Maybe you could join Leighton James and me for that pint and chat.

  The old Mick Rathbone would have folded, but not any more. Those days had gone, all that shit was behind me now and would never return. We dug deep and got the result. It was another great win, another great day, another great experience.

  When the away games ended, it was back into the dressing room. If we had won, it was time to bring out the old Sid Waddell banter again. A quick change and then we prepared ourselves for the biggest piss-up in the history of big piss-ups.

  We’d head into the players’ bar for a few pints just to loosen up for the long journey home (let’s call it an old-fashioned cooldown). Onto the bus and into the cans, singing and dancing for the duration of the trip home before staggering off the coach at Ewood Park in the early hours of the morning. Well and truly cooled down.

  I suppose in hindsight that behaviour – let’s use modern-day sports science speak and refer to it as our ‘refuelling strategy’ – was a little extreme and probably not great for professional sportsmen. But so what? Those trips back were some of the most memorable experiences of my life. And guess what? On Monday morning I still felt great.

  Although, like most players I assume, I preferred home games, I enjoyed those away days, in particular visiting the bigger clubs like Chelsea, Leeds, Manchester City and West Ham, who all had spells in the second tier in the early ’80s. The bigger and noisier the crowd, the better. So different to my Birmingham City days when the prospect of a visit to Old Trafford or Anfield would fill me with dread.

  Blackburn had a very good, loyal fan base and we always had fantastic away support. To run out at such far-flung places as Roker Park, Home Park and Carrow Road, and see your fans cheering for you, was heart-warming and, believe me, all of us were grateful to our travelling supporters. As we were living in the same world as our fans, we could more readily understand the cost and effort it took those guys to support us and, when we did lose, our first thoughts were always for the fans. That might sound like a load of bullshit, but I can assure you it wasn’t – Sacko would always be the first to point it out.

  After an away defeat, the journey home would be quiet and subdued – well, at least the first bit was. It hurt us to lose. We needed the fucking bonus, for a start. We also needed the points, needed our next contract and needed the fans to keep following us.

  We would sit quietly on the bus, the 12 trays of Long Life beer sitting unmolested on the back seat, and the steam still coming out of Sacko’s ears at the front. Then, after an hour or so, one of the directors would sidle up to Sacko with a can and a few words of encouragement. “Chin up” etc. Sacko would grunt, get up from his seat and walk to the back of the bus where we sat like scolded schoolchildren, before signalling the official mourning period was over with the same words: “Fuck it, another game next week. We’ll fucking well beat the fuckers!” (He swore a lot.)

  He’d then pass out the beers and sit among us and, together, we would all start the healing process. Just a few beers later and out would come the playing cards and the banter, and all would be forgiven. A family again.

  I feel sorry for today’s multi-millionaire players who disappear as soon as possible after that final whistle has gone, scribbling a couple of autographs, often with indecent haste, while some flunkey fetches their car. They don’t know what they’re missing.

  Nothing lasts forever and that team grew old and faded. If you stand still, you go backwards. Rovers didn’t have
the finances to do anything other than stand still and, accordingly, after four or five good years a couple of lean ones followed. Sacko lived up to his name and got the sack. It wasn’t his fault – for the money he had spent and the resources he had at his disposal he did a fantastic job. Those of us who played for him certainly felt we had been part of something special.

  Big deal, you could argue, you won nothing. Average players, average team, average results. Yes, but certainly not average times. Great times, great experiences, a sense of purpose and belonging. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder and, for me, it was a truly beautiful period of my life.

  I might be looking back through rose-tinted glasses because, to be frank, the wages were terrible and the facilities bordered on the non-existent. Every year we got a £20 per week pay rise – if we were lucky – and every day we got changed at Ewood Park before getting back into our cars and driving to the nearby ‘training ground’, otherwise known as ‘dog shit’ park. I couldn’t really complain too much, though, as Max, who always came with me to training, had contributed his fair share.

  But the team spirit and camaraderie shone through all of it – we were just happy, and maybe somewhat lucky, to be there. Although we certainly weren’t rewarded financially, we felt valued, wanted and appreciated by the club and any students of psychology who have studied Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs theory will tell you it is this which is more satisfying and long-lasting.

  So many good things happened to me during that period which shaped me as a man – memories that remain pin-sharp to this day. If Jim Smith hadn’t been so considerate, I shudder to think what I might have ended up doing. I thank Jim every time I see him. I like to think, as a decent, hard-working guy, I would have been successful at anything I turned my hand to, but I certainly wouldn’t have the memories of my time at Ewood Park. Even though I ended up with about £10 saved in my bank account, my soul and spirit were enriched beyond mere financial measure.

  There are so many tales that illustrate the environment and conditions that ’80s footballers performed in. It was an incredible achievement when we just missed out on promotion to the First Division on goal difference in the 1980/81 season, especially bearing in mind our scant resources. We were all expecting a decent pay rise – well, at least more than the usual paltry £20.

  We arranged for a meeting with Bill Fox. Feelings were running high. We demanded he came down to Ewood Park for a con frontation. We all sat nervously in the home team dressing room, but we were united in our quest. This was player power 1980s style. Tick tock, tick tock, all sitting in silence, fidgeting, determined, looking at the door. Finally, it burst open and Blackburn’s formidable chairman was standing there. Mohammed had come to our little mountain.

  Bill was a ruddy-faced, gruff-talking man whose favourite phrase was, “I call a spade a fucking shovel.”

  “Right lads, job’s fucked,” he said. “There’s no money in the piggy bank but I think I have come up with the perfect compromise.”

  He clapped his hands and in came one of his workers carrying several trays of beer. “Right lads, there’s your pay rises, get stuck into those cans.”

  Two hours later we sat there pissed. The rebellion was over.

  A similar incident happened when one of the players had the temerity to go and see Sacko in person about his contract and complain about his new offer. He told Sacko in no uncertain terms he wasn’t happy and would not be signing under any circumstances. Final word – no argument.

  It’s worth noting, however, in this era you couldn’t just leave a club or, equally, the club couldn’t just get rid of you if you had been offered a new contract, so this bravery did contain a certain amount of security.

  “Right then, son, there’s the phone. If you can get yourself a club in the next five minutes, you can leave for nothing. If you can find anyone desperate enough to take you, that is.”

  This was a great opportunity for the player.

  “Right, I fucking well will,” he replied.

  The player picked up the phone and dialled a local club who, according to press reports, were interested in signing him.

  Player asked to speak to the manager.

  Manager came on the line.

  Player gave his name and explained the situation.

  Manager asked who it was and if he could spell his name.

  Player spelt his name.

  Manager asked if he was a goalie.

  Player slammed down the phone and said to Sacko, “Pass me the fucking pen.”

  And that was how it was back then. No agents and the club held all the cards. The upshot was players were paid less than they should have been. To be fair to Rovers, though, they were barely keeping their heads above water as it was and the other local clubs were just as bad. The money just wasn’t there, so the reward packages were based on everybody getting pissed at the expense of the club.

  This was the bonus scheme: a top-six finish would almost certainly get you the five-star, all-expenses-paid, piss-up of the century that was Magaluf. Top half, and you could be heading for the all-night cabaret at the Douglas Palace Hotel on the Isle Of Man during pre-season. A disappointing season, and you could look no further than a long weekend in Morecambe, taking in pre-season friendlies in Lancaster and Workington. Drink was the currency of the day.

  We probably did drink too much, but I don’t care what anybody says – I know for a fact the players back then were as fit as the players today. Yes, the game is much faster but that is more down to the rule changes than anything else. We had players in that team as fit and as fast as they are today. Fact.

  The only caveat to every boozing session was that you had to get up and train hard the next day. Everybody. No excuses. Whatever the hangover. And training back then with Sacko was very hard – particularly pre-season. You ran until you could no longer move your legs. Heart-rate monitors, training zones, recovery, bottled water – forget it; you just kept running. You ran until you dropped. We did half a dozen cross countries through Witton Park, Blackburn’s big country park, as part of pre-season and we dreaded them.

  There was none of that, “After you, Claude, let’s all run together in a nice pack” rubbish. No, this was eyeballs out, winner-takes-all stuff. Waiting for nobody. Because we had the same team for so long, the cross countries became a familiar feature of pre-season and some players would spend the close-season break training just for those races.

  I still feel ill when I think about it now. We stood by the blue bridge, Sacko’s hand raised in the air, feeling sick with fear knowing how hard it would be. The smells of fresh cut grass and honeysuckle only added to the feelings of nausea. The hand dropped and we were off.

  I was a good runner and won all the races. There was a park section, a road section and then we went back into the park for the last couple of miles. I liked to get a good lead so I could quickly get Max out of the car at the end. I finished in extreme distress every time, as did the runner-up and third-placed player. But further down the field it was noticeable that the players became less and less distressed until finally Garns strolled in last, fresh as a daisy.

  That taught me a lot about fitness, running and, more importantly, the psychology of running and would prove to be an invaluable asset when I became a physiotherapist. I think the greatest asset a physio can have in elite sport is the ability to run with the players, to encourage and inspire them.

  If ever you needed an example of how much I changed as a player and as a man at Blackburn, it came against Manchester United in the FA Cup at Ewood Park one Friday night in 1985. The game was live on BBC1, the only time I ever played live on TV. After just a few minutes, I made a terrible mistake. I trod on the ball in our penalty area, which let Gordon Strachan in to score. All fell silent except for the distant rumble of euphoric United fans at the far end of the ground. I had made a shocking error in front of 26,000 fans and countless millions around the world. And do you know what? It never fazed me, never affected me, never
touched me. I just kept demanding the ball, running for the ball, enjoying the ball. Now that is progress.

  However, my favourite and best memory came a few months earlier. Birmingham had been relegated into the Second Division the previous season (they shouldn’t have sold me, should they?), and the day came to return to my own personal killing field – St Andrew’s. That walk again, those smells again, but not the stuttering footsteps of a shrinking violet again. No, the purposeful striding of a strong, confident man. Waiting patiently and excitedly for that ELO record to start up again. Those familiar opening bars that sucked the final drops of energy from my teenage legs in the past now made the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. On we went. A quick superstitious touch of my club badge – the red rose of Lancashire – and into battle.

  We won 2-0 and went top of the league. I played out of my skin. The fans shouted ‘reject’ but I just laughed back at them. I showed them all. Afterwards I got out of the shower and some of the Birmingham apprentices asked if they could come in and start cleaning up. History repeating itself. It’s a pity I didn’t have my flip-flops.

  Bob Saxton was one of the key reasons why I could move on from my Birmingham nightmare and become a proper player as I showed that day. I am forever indebted to him. Thanks for caring, Bob. Thanks for being a father like figure to us. Thanks for giving us great and long-lasting memories. We loved your no-nonsense, cut-through-the-bullshit ways. It was a simple game, all about the players.

  The philosophy was simple too: if the players cared for you and respected you, then they would play for you. And we played for Bob.

  One story in particular sums up Sacko’s ‘old school’ approach (I prefer to call it ‘traditional’). We were playing down at Brighton and Sacko rushed into the dressing room as we were about to get changed. “Fuck me, I don’t believe it, I have just seen one of their players turn up with a fucking hairdryer. If we can’t beat these fucking pansies, I will show my fucking arse in Burtons window.”