The Smell of Football

by Mick 'Baz' Rathbone

  Big John hit the nail right on the head on my first day when I asked him where all the rehabilitation facilities were. He took me over to the window and pointed to the nearby fell.

  “You see that big fucking hill over there? You have my permission to use as much of it as you want.”

  It was quite funny (the big man still had it), yet it was not without an element of truth. The point is it’s not the facilities, it’s the personnel. And the personnel at Halifax Town were brilliant. Good people, a fantastic little club and, without doubt, the most loyal and long-suffering set of fans ever.

  I was happy and proud to be there and was looking forward to the first League game of the season – the local derby at Rochdale.

  I had never actually run on to the pitch to tend to an injured player before the game and I must admit I was quite nervous. Although 99 per cent of the time you were attending to trivial stuff, there is always the potential to be called on to deal with a life-threatening situation. I took my responsibilities very seriously. I took a first-aid course. I thought I was prepared for every eventuality. However, with all the preparation and rehearsal in the world, I still didn’t know how I would react when the occasion actually presented itself. Before every game, I spent a few minutes going over all the emergency procedures in my mind. I was still very nervous, though.

  I quickly learned that when somebody does get injured, there is a simple rule of thumb that should quickly help to judge the severity of the situation. If players are screaming and rolling around on the floor, then – contrary to what you might think – they are usually OK. It is the ones who just lie there motionless you need to be concerned about.

  In my very first game at The Shay it happened – the dreaded serious one. Jimmy Case, our ex-Liverpool legendary hard man, went down over on the far side of the pitch and didn’t move. He was quickly surrounded by the referee and some of our very concerned players. They frantically gestured to me to get on right away. Oh, shit. This is what I had been dreading, and for it to happen in my first home game spooked me even more.

  I sprang from the dugout. My legs were like jelly (just like that night at Tottenham back in 1976 – shit, I thought all that stuff was history) as I raced across the pitch to the stricken figure. As I ran, I went through all the emergency drills in my head – secure his cervical spine, check he’s not choking, airway, breathing, circulation, 15 chest compressions and two breaths with his head extended. Or should that be 15 breaths and two chest compressions, and shouldn’t I flex the neck?

  By the time I got to Jimmy, everything I had ever learned had totally evaporated from my memory and all I could do was lean over his motionless figure, shake him and plead, “Jimmy, Jimmy, please Jimmy, are you OK?”

  He opened one eye, winked and, with that dry Scouse humour, whispered, “Did I get him booked?”

  That was a cruel practical joke he played on me that day and I later found out the lads had been planning it all week.

  We won 3-2 and it promised to be the year Halifax Town would finally make the headlines.

  They would, but sadly for all the wrong reasons.

  Fortunately, since that inauspicious start, I have attended many such incidents and, amazingly, nobody has died.

  Jimmy was a great fellow. On the pitch a snarling, aggressive, fearsome character, but off it an absolute gentleman, especially when you take into account how much he had won with that great Liverpool team. He would always be helping with the kit and taking his turn to brew up. Always encouraging, never bollocking, a great team player.

  And hard? You are not kidding.

  After one game down at Cardiff, he came up to me and whispered that he had got a ‘scratch’. He rolled down his sock to reveal a huge gaping wound about three inches long and right through to the bone.

  “Jesus! Don’t worry, Jim, I will take you down to their doctor and he will sort it out.”

  We went through to their medical room where the doctor started to get his suturing kit out. He sent me down the corridor to the kitchen to get Jim a cup of strong sweet tea. When I got back, he was ready to start stitching, but his needle was so blunt he had to force it through the skin with considerable might. It was stomach-churning stuff and there was a lot of blood.

  “Seven, eight, nine, last one, son,” said the doctor.

  The last one was the most difficult one because it was the area where the wound was most open and, as he forced the needle through the skin for the last time, it embedded itself into the shinbone. Finally, and for the first time during the whole gruesome procedure, Jimmy grimaced.

  “Wow,” I said, “you are human.”

  “No lad,” he said, “too much fucking sugar!”

  Those first few months of my first physiotherapy job were so good they were even on a par with my initial 12 months at Birmingham City all those years ago. I loved being the physio. I loved being the physio more than I had loved being a player. Why? Well, even though I finally overcame my early fears and went on to have a career I could be proud of, I had remained a very nervous player and used to start getting butterflies that gradually built up from Thursdays onwards. That’s one hell of a lot of butterflies in 16 seasons as a professional player.

  But physios don’t have to get quite so nervous, as the pressure is so much less on them than it is on the player – or so I thought back in those early days of innocence.

  Being the physio was just as I had dreamed it would be – all the involvement, but none of the pressure. I was even thinking of growing my nails.

  The only fly in the ointment was the fact that, as ever, Halifax Town were struggling – on the pitch as usual but, more worryingly, off the pitch as well. As they were losing so much money every week, the club started a ‘Save the Shaymen’ appeal. The message was simple: without the support of the town, the club would go out of business. This was real, not a bluff. The only trouble was that the townsfolk had heard the same line so many times before it was all wearing a bit thin.

  When a club is struggling financially, it affects everybody involved. If it goes bust, you don’t get paid. Simple as that. OK, I was only getting £200 per week, but at least it was paying the majority of my bills.

  That autumn of 1992 was tough for Halifax Town and it was by no means guaranteed they would still be competing in the Football League come Christmas. As ever – and such is the nature of football – even in the midst of that dire financial situation, there was still a funny side to life at Halifax.

  We used to get paid on the last day of the month when the club secretary would drive down to The Shay from the little club offices just up the road and pay us all by personal cheque. Sadly, such was the parlous financial state of the club that sometimes there weren’t sufficient funds to honour all those cheques when paid in, and only the first players to present the cheques would be guaranteed any money. You should have seen those lads exiting The Shay, like bats out of hell, to be the first to present their cheques at the nearest bank. As Big John would, somewhat harshly, comment, “That’s the fastest some of those cunts have moved all season!”

  To the eternal credit of the board and the fans who kept digging and digging ever deeper into their pockets, everybody got every penny that was owed to them. It must have been so difficult just to keep the club’s head above water. It’s all too easy for outsiders to sneer and criticise the directors for being stingy and not investing enough money into the club, but these guys were not millionaires; many were just small local businessmen who kept putting up the cash to keep their beloved club afloat.

  On one occasion, I witnessed first hand the financial commitment the directors were prepared to make to the club. I had been invited to a board meeting on a different matter, and they concluded their business while I was still in the room. As ever, the main business of the day was Halifax Town’s sorry financial state, and Jim Brown, the chairman, basically asked all the directors to put some extra cash into the kitty or the club would not survive the week.

  To
a man, those guys got their chequebooks out and donated money – donated, not invested, because they knew they would never see it again. One guy gave £8,000. He was only a small businessman – and, don’t forget, this was nearly 20 years ago. I would see this blind altruism many times over the years, at every level of the game, from these often maligned club owners – all for the love of their teams.

  Thankfully the fans, board and town collectively came up with the necessary cash, the latest financial crisis was averted and the club breathed a huge sigh of relief when they were cleared to continue playing at The Shay until the end of the season.

  It meant the medical budget had to be cut back by 50 per cent. Not that it mattered – what is 50 per cent of nothing? We had no strappings, scissors, bandages or other standard equipment. I used to scour the away team dressing room after every game to see if I could pick up a few dog-ends. I know it’s a cliché, but . . . we were poor but happy.

  I developed a great relationship with the players. To be a successful physiotherapist, I think the relationship with the players is the most important part of the whole job. You need compassion, but you can’t be soft. You need a relaxed environment, but it can’t be a holiday camp. You need to be a friend and confidant to the players, but not to the point where respect is compromised.

  The physiotherapist occupies this unique middle ground between the players and the staff. I never betrayed the confidence of any player to the manager and, equally, I never commented on a player’s performance. Psychologist, medic, friend and motivator – the good physiotherapist is all of these things.

  But on the field, the results just wouldn’t come. I shouldn’t have been surprised. We had a tiny squad, poor facilities, players who, with respect, only came to Halifax because they couldn’t get in at any other club. Inevitably, Big John came under pressure for his job. But what more could he do? It was ever thus.

  It was a well-worn joke at Halifax Town that the manager’s name was written in chalk on the wall next to his car park space. A shocking 4-1 defeat to non-league Marine in the FA Cup, followed not long after by a home reverse to Barry Fry’s high-flying Barnet, and the chairman reached for the duster.

  It was the safest bet in soccer that Halifax Town would sack their manager every 12 months, so it was no great surprise when Big John ‘resigned’. What was a surprise – in fact, an almighty shock – was their next choice of manager: me!

  We’d all had an inkling that Big John was on borrowed time. The players hadn’t really bought into his no-nonsense, somewhat off-beat style of management (although he had enjoyed success elsewhere and, as I’ve said before, I considered him to be an excellent boss). Morale was very low and there had been an all-pervading sense that something had to give. Jim Brown had phoned me a couple of times during that final week of Big John’s tenure, asking what the problem was, how the lads felt and what the atmosphere was like. He told me he’d had a meeting with some of the senior players and they weren’t happy. What did I think?

  To be honest, I really didn’t think too much. When you lose every week, morale is always bad. Big John was merely the latest victim of the ongoing problems at the club – a chronic cash shortage. The chairman then told me I was very popular with the players and that they all wanted me to be the next manager. And he agreed.

  Fuck me. I nearly dropped the phone. Me, the manager. The manager of a Football League club. I had never even taken a training session, team talk, press conference (they didn’t really have press conferences at this level; it was more a chat over a cuppa with a local journo). What did I know?

  “But the lads like you, Baz.”

  “They probably like Kylie Minogue too, but she won’t be offered the job, will she?”

  Why me? I think the simple answer was that I was there, got on well with everybody, had nearly 20 years of experience in football and, probably most importantly, I was cheap. In Halifax Town’s annual turnover of managers, they had tried young, old, experienced, inexperienced, tactical experts, disciplinarians, everything – except clueless. So it was probably worth giving me a go; everything else had failed.

  One factor I knew I would require above all others – and this applies to every manager who has had any success – was luck. When asked if he preferred brilliant or courageous generals, Napoleon replied, “Neither. I prefer lucky ones.” To be honest, I think even a guy who was confident and optimistic enough to try to invade Russia in winter would have thought twice about taking on this task.

  Then it happened, a similar feeling to all those years ago when Trevor first approached me. I started sweating, the hairs stood up on the back of my neck. It had been such a long time since I’d last experienced these unpleasant feelings but, even after all this time, they were unmistakeable. This time, though, I embraced those sensations, determined they would not exert a negative effect on me at a seminal time in my life.

  I was winning the fight. Those emotions and physiological responses to stress that had so paralysed me before now began to excite and stimulate me. This was adrenalin, this was positive arousal, this was me overcoming years of conditioning. This was my fate, this was my calling – I was born to be a manager. (Yes, I know a week earlier I’d been born to be a physiotherapist, but people can change, can’t they?) I wanted it, I wanted it so badly. I knew I could do it, get those lads playing for me, more motivated, fitter, faster, stronger (it sounds like the bloody Olympic motto).

  The chairman’s voice interrupted my thoughts and brought me back to the matter at hand.

  “Why don’t we just make you caretaker for a short period and see how it goes?” he suggested.

  “OK yes, I will give it a go.”

  And that was that. The next day, when Big John resigned, Jim Brown called a meeting and everyone awaited the announcement of Jimmy Case as the next manager of Halifax Town. It was assumed, due to his legendary status, seniority of years and expressed desire to go into management, that Jimmy would take over. What a bloody shock when they announced me.

  It sent reverberations around the whole football world – OK, just Halifax then, with a few ripples spreading to the rest of West Yorkshire. The players were jubilant, cheering and back-slapping. The club had placed its future in my hands. A high-risk strategy. The true implications were just about to start sinking in – just like when Napoleon felt the first few snowflakes on his head in Russia. Christ almighty – it’s Baz the boss.

  I pulled Jimmy Case to one side.

  “Jimmy, I thought you wanted to go into management?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Well, I didn’t and you did, so why am I the manager and you’re not?”

  I can still see his face with its half-smile as he put his arm around me, pulled me close, and whispered, “Baz, if you start your managerial career here, you will finish it here. You have got no fucking chance.”

  How profound those words would be.

  So that was it. I was now the manager. The youngest in the league, certainly the least experienced and, without any shadow of a doubt, the worst paid. The club, to be fair, immediately put me on a wage commensurate with my new high-powered role – they gave me a £100 a week pay rise (you know me by now, I accepted without a word). At least I was on slightly more than the first-year professionals. I am not afraid to admit my wife actually phoned up the chairman and got me an additional £100 per week on top of that.

  My club-issued Ford Escort became a club-issued Ford Sierra and I moved from the tiny spartan medical portakabin to the slightly bigger spartan portakabin next door. We didn’t have a game for another ten days (thank God), so I had a bit of time to settle in and get my name chalked up on the car park wall.

  I will be perfectly honest – it felt great. Great to be in charge. I decided what to do, when to do it, who to pick, who not to pick (not such a big deal with only 14 players to choose from).

  I set the tone of the club. My aim was to learn from Ramsey, Smith, Kendall and Saxton – take something positive from each. Gen
erate that electricity. I knew I was in a high-pressure situation – Halifax Town were facing the unthinkable. If they finished bottom, they would be out of the League for the first time since they were founded in 1911. Would I achieve what two World Wars and the depression couldn’t and consign little Halifax Town to footballing oblivion? What responsibility.

  I would give my all.

  Yes, I was still sensitive, easy-going and gentlemanly, but I had grown up a lot over the years as a result of my various experiences – both good and bad. I was not going to shirk my duties, not this time. Time to stand up and be counted.

  I saw this huge challenge as a great opportunity to redress the balance and wipe the emotional slate clean. Deep down I had always felt a sense of regret and, up to a point, guilt at what had happened to me at Birmingham. I was about to enter another very high-pressure situation, but I felt if I could prevail here in these fraught circumstances and emerge triumphant at the other end it could, psychologically, go a long way to exorcising those Birmingham demons.

  In fact, the pressure wasn’t really that great – we had no money, very few players, even fewer points and no facilities. I was only the caretaker manager anyway. I hadn’t asked for the job and the feeling in the town was that I had very much been left holding the baby. The players had pledged their public support, as had Jim Brown and the board. I wasn’t stupid. Jesus, if I could succeed here, the world would be my oyster. Forget physiotherapy; a successful manager could earn 50 times more. I saw this as a golden, once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.