The Smell of Football

by Mick 'Baz' Rathbone

  For the first and last time, I go mad at the players after the game. Why? Because that’s what you do when you lose heavily, don’t you?

  Shouting and screaming at the players is pointless and counterproductive. They have done their best. I know they have. I am beginning to feel the pressure. I have a go at the players in the press conference as well. Again, a terrible betrayal of their efforts. Screaming at the players is just not me. I am surprised the lads don’t burst out laughing. I apologise to them later.

  Into the boardroom. Jim Brown says, “I don’t need to remind you how serious the situation is now, do I?”

  No, but you just did.

  Match 9

  Halifax Town v Rochdale

  6/2/93

  Right, I am preparing for this game like it is the World Cup final. I go to watch Rochdale play and note they are dangerous from corners due to the height of their centre halves.

  We change our preparation for this game. Instead of the lads just reporting for the game one hour before kick-off, we meet at The Shay at 10am, do a light training session, go through their team individually, noting the danger from set pieces, have a pre-match meal at the ground and enter the match perfectly prepared.

  Their centre half heads the ball in from a corner in the second fucking minute. I sit in the Perspex dugout and can feel the sides closing in. This is becoming almost unbearable. I am waiting for that famous Halifax Town chant to start – “Rathbone out, Rathbone out.”

  It never comes, and the fans get behind the team. We rally, get back to 2-2 and then, tragically, concede a third and decisive goal.

  What a sickener. I don’t know how much more of this I can take. I happen to be wearing some new shoes today – Brogues, with a big toecap. After everybody has gone, I lose it and proceed to kick a big hole in our dressing room door. (So there it is. The secret is out. It was me who kicked that hole in the door. I am very sorry.)

  Match 10

  Halifax Town v Lincoln City

  10/2/93

  Hallelujah. Praise be to God, peace on earth and goodwill to all referees. We win, our first home win since October, I’m told (I am assuming that is October 1992).

  Jimmy Case scores his first goal for the club. We don’t play very well, but am I bothered?

  I am very happy and proud of myself because, even though I’m starting to feel the pressure, I have kept my promise to behave, at all times, in a manner that inspires respect and confidence in my players. I think I’m doing well on that front (no one saw the door incident). I am holding up well, especially on the outside. The league table is starting to look a bit better, although we are still hovering a few places above the foot of the table.

  What if we pull it off? I don’t dare to dream what that could lead to.

  Jim Brown is happy and relieved; I even get to stay for a drink. His parting words are, “Don’t forget, Baz, two swallows don’t make a spring.”

  Isn’t it: “One swallow doesn’t make a summer?” Never mind.

  Match 11

  Halifax Town v Crewe Alexander

  20/2/93

  Crewe are far too good for us. They win 2-1, but it could have been more. A lot of their players have come through their youth ranks. Halifax Town, meanwhile, have just abolished their youth scheme, which has caused a degree of bad feeling in the town and alienated a lot of people. I decide, at the end of the season (lynching permitted), I will organise some trials and start the youth policy again. That will be my legacy to the club.

  Deep down, I am worried it won’t be my only legacy.

  Match 12

  Colchester United v Halifax Town

  26/2/93

  Big Roy McDonough, my very close friend, old team-mate from all my schoolboy teams and a former Birmingham City apprentice (he was a member of the daily ‘kick the ball into the farmer’s field and avoid training with the first team’ routine I had perfected) is the manager of Colchester. It is quite odd because Roy, Ian Atkins and I are all from Sheldon, all played tennis together in the close season and all have gone on to become Football League managers. We are probably the last three people on the planet anybody would believe would become managers. (I am sure all the fans of the teams where we got sacked would agree!)

  Some friend Big Roy turns out to be. We lose 2-1. We are leading, then our goalie is sent off, and that’s that.

  Roy and I have a few beers after the game and reminisce about the good old days at Birmingham City. Good old days? Fuck me, how much have we drunk? He’s a great bloke and a lifelong pal but right now, at this very moment, I hate the fucker’s guts.

  We are sinking fast, games are running out, we need results. On the exterior, I remain calm, the personification of dignity and relaxedness. Team spirit and training are still very good. Morale is still high. In these respects, I am doing a great job.

  Everybody, however, is getting very worried now.

  Match 13

  Halifax Town v Carlisle United

  6/3/93

  We lose 2-0. No excuses. We don’t play well. The fans’ complaints are growing louder. That’s to be expected, but I am not going to crack up now. No way. I will be strong and meet the challenge head on. We are in deep shit now. We have dropped down to 20th, just two spots off the bottom of the league. It’s getting hairy now. I merely exist during the week thinking only of the games coming up. Eleven to go. Running out of games, running out of time.

  Match 14

  Torquay United v Halifax Town

  13/3/93

  When you look down the list of remaining fixtures, it seems very, very short. When I took over, I reckoned we needed six wins from 24 matches. That sounded relatively easy. Now, though, I feel we need four wins from the last 11 games, or more than one in three. It suddenly sounds very daunting.

  More worryingly, I am starting to get angry letters from the fans. The secretary puts them on my desk. I know what they are, sitting there looking at me all day, their Halifax postcodes a dead giveaway.

  One is addressed to Mick Rathbone “manager” Halifax Town. I don’t like the look of that, the way the word manager is written in quotation marks. I chuck that one away without even opening it. (If you wrote that letter all those years ago to say I was doing a great job, then I do apologise. However, if you just wrote to me, like several others, to say I was a wanker, then too bad, mate.)

  One letter starts: “Dear Mr Rathbone, where is the attacking football you promised us?” (That opening sentence has stuck in my mind even after all these years. I don’t know what came next because I filed it in the same place as the other one.)

  Some are constructive and encouraging, to be fair. I have no complaints, though. These people are understandably concerned about the future (or lack of it) of their beloved club. As I have said before, anyone can support Man Utd or Chelsea, but these Halifax fans are truly the most stoical and long-suffering set of fans in the country, and I greatly respect them for it.

  We are down but not out. In terms of team spirit, motivation and organisation, I know I am doing a good job and, crucially, I feel I am sheltering the lads from the pressure of the situation.

  I can’t get the results I’m hoping for, but I am getting the commitment from my players I’ve asked for.

  And so, with hope in our hearts, we set off on the long journey to Devon to face Torquay, who are also struggling. We leave on the Friday for a rare overnight stay. We play very well and should be awarded a penalty but then, soon after our appeal is denied, Torquay get a penalty at the other end when Chris Lucketti makes a perfectly timed challenge on one of their players. In short, we have been robbed again (is it all starting to sound depressingly familiar?) and then they double their lead and put the game beyond us.

  Right on cue, Mr Predictable storms into the referee’s room after the game. Shouting, arguing, not recognising myself – anybody who knows me would be astonished by my behaviour. But that’s what pressure does to you.

  The situation is getting ever more despera
te. They are oiling the trap door.

  A few days later, I am invited to be the guest speaker at the monthly meeting of the Halifax and District Referees Society. I decide to do them a favour and grace their little get-together with my presence. (That’s another thing about being the manager; you can get a big ego even when you are getting beaten every week.)

  To my surprise, I get quite an unfriendly reception, presumably due to my constant criticising of match officials. To cut a long story short, I am asked a lot of questions, the upshot of which proves I don’t even fully know the rules regarding the incidents of which I have been so critical.

  It is a sobering experience and I learn an awful lot from the evening. Firstly, the guys who are reffing the games are the very best in the country. If you can start with that mindset, then it makes it much easier to accept their decisions. Secondly, the players make far more mistakes than the officials and earn up to ten times more money (OK, maybe not at Halifax). Finally, managers who criticise officials are not behaving in a manner appropriate to their status at a football club.

  I learn all these lessons as the refs exact their well-earned revenge. From now on, I will never again question any decision by any official – even the short-sighted, bent ones.

  Match 15

  Halifax Town v Shrewsbury Town

  20/3/93

  A 1-1 draw. Fair result, decent performance. One point closer to survival (to the lads and press). Two more home points dropped (if I’m being honest).

  Match 16

  Chesterfield v Halifax Town

  23/3/93

  Midweek game. Usual story: we play well, we miss chances, we go 1-0 up and lose 2-1 to two late goals. In the wake of this defeat, we sink to the bottom of the league for the first time. It is a truly shocking and sobering experience to look at the table and see Halifax bottom of the pile.

  Worse is to come. I am ‘invited’ to travel back to The Shay in the chairman’s car. With him is the gentleman who has been putting the lion’s share of the money into the club and he, understandably, wants some answers.

  Never has a journey taken so long. Of course, I understand their concerns and admire the directors for giving their money to the club, but I just don’t need that grilling, especially on the night when we slip into bottom place. They ask if I want them to get another manager in. Somebody more experienced to help me?

  “Yes please.”

  Or should they just replace me with another manager?

  “Again, yes please.”

  Or should I just resign?

  “Yes please. Do what you want; I am only trying to do my best.”

  Ironically, my job is saved on this occasion by the feeling that it is so late in the day, in terms of games to go, that in many ways the die is already cast. Besides, they aren’t sure they will find anybody of any repute prepared to put their name on the line in such difficult circumstances. So, it is decided – somewhat by default – that I will fight on.

  Thanks for the vote of confidence.

  They then remind me that tomorrow is transfer deadline day and it is imperative I abandon training and spend the whole day in the office (portakabin) on the phone, from 9am until the close of the transfer window at 6pm.

  I am somewhat taken back. “But I didn’t think we had any money available for new players?”

  “No, you don’t understand. If we don’t sell a player or two tomorrow, there will be no money to pay the March wages.”

  That’s it then. We are surely dead and buried.

  The next day, we sell our top goalscorer, Ian Thompstone, to Scunthorpe for £10,000. March’s wages are guaranteed; Halifax Town’s future certainly isn’t.

  At some point during the nine-hour ordeal in the portakabin, I get a call from an agent. He has a player, a very, very good player – no, a great player. A Cameroon international called Godfrey Obebo. He will come and join Halifax Town for nothing (how many truly great players could you say that about?). What the hell? Why not? We are fucked now, we have nothing to lose, so we sign him. His agent says he has been playing in Serie A. He is a lovely man, deeply religious, and very muscular.

  Match 17

  Halifax Town v Wrexham

  26/3/93

  We are beaten easily. The final score is 1-0, but it should, and could, have been 6-0. The coaches, Brian Flynn and Joey Jones – both good fellows – don’t rub it in when Wrexham score (that always stuck in my mind).

  I’m running out of things to say now to the press, the players and the chairman. How about we are the strongest team in the Football League – propping up the rest? At least I can still laugh.

  Match 18

  Barnet v Halifax Town

  3/4/93

  This fixture causes controversy that puts both clubs in the headlines. Normally we would have travelled down to London on the morning of the game, getting to Barnet at 2pm after a five-hour journey (traffic permitting). However, a mystery benefactor, thought to be linked to one of Barnet’s promotion rivals, has paid for us to stay in a hotel on Friday night. (It caused quite a furore at the time and I think Barnet may have complained to the Football League about this interference.)

  Fortunately for us, all the great preparation pays off and sets us up for a battling performance, and a deserved point, as we draw 0-0. We could even have won it, but we missed a late sitter.

  We are still 22nd in the league, but daring to dream.

  Match 19

  Doncaster Rovers v Halifax Town

  10/4/93

  Time to unleash our secret weapon – Godfrey Obebo.

  We go 1-0 up after three minutes. But then one of our players gets injured, so I ask Godfrey to warm up. Godfrey takes this a little too literally and goes to the dressing room to sit by the radiator – no kidding. We have to send the other sub to go and fetch him. Godfrey then produces a virtuoso warm-up on the touchline that resembles something between somebody performing a breakdance and somebody having a fucking seizure.

  Play stops, allowing us to make the change, when the ball is kicked clean out of the stadium. As Godfrey jogs into the fray and play restarts with a replacement ball, the original ball reappears, bouncing off the stand roof and onto the side of the pitch. There then follows one of the funniest things I have ever witnessed in football, as Godfrey latches on to it and speeds off in the direction of Doncaster’s goal with one ball, while the other 21 players play on in the opposite direction with the correct ball.

  Sadly, it transpired, he was not even a footballer’s cousin. And Serie A? I think I misheard. He actually said Syria!

  This hilarious incident, coupled with an excellent 1-0 away win, make it a memorable day for us. We climb off the bottom. I am starting to believe we can do it.

  Match 20

  Halifax Town v York City

  12/4/93

  I feel this game is crucial. If we win, then I think we can stay up. Mind you, if we’d won our last 20 games, we’d be top of the league.

  We lose 1-0 to another disputed goal although, to be fair, I am disputing every goal by now – and every free kick and every throw-in too (so much for my promise to the refs).

  If only. Those words should be engraved on the Halifax Town badge in Latin.

  Match 21

  Bury v Halifax Town

  17/4/93

  Four games to go.

  We win 2-1 against promotion-chasing Bury. It is our best result, and best performance, of the season. Absolutely marvellous. Scenes of jubilation in the dressing room. What a celebration. This could guarantee survival.

  But wait.

  Jesus Christ! What a complete and utter choker. Torquay have unbelievably won 1-0 at in-form Shrewsbury. Our party stops dead in its tracks. For the first time there is a look in the eyes of the players that says we are doomed. We get three points, but then the unthinkable has happened. This is it. It just isn’t meant to be. I must stop them thinking like that. It’s so self-destructive. The only problem is, deep down, I now believe it myself.
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br />   Match 22

  Halifax Town v Walsall

  24/4/93

  Three to go.

  We are trounced 4-0. A really desperate performance at a time when we needed to produce something special to lift everybody at the club and give ourselves some hope.

  Again, our home form is the problem. A combination of the players freezing at The Shay, the small pitch and the lack of atmosphere caused by the large speedway track around the playing surface, which forces the fans into the far corner of the stadium where they can’t be heard, culminates in this almost certainly being every team’s favourite away ground (you can add shit manager to that list).

  Our performances and results on the road have not been that bad – three wins, two draws and six defeats would have kept us out of trouble if we’d had any semblance of form at home. Our form at The Shay, though, is disastrous. One win and three draws since I’ve been in charge is putrid and relegation form in anybody’s language.

  After the game, I am really choked and can hardly bring myself to talk to the players until I compose myself. All those rallying words now just seem empty rhetoric – everybody has been listening to the same old shit for more than four months now.

  Match 23

  Gillingham V Halifax Town

  1/5/93

  Last but one game. Drinking in last-chance saloon now. This game at fellow strugglers Gillingham is the real crunch match of the season.

  Here is the situation (and it’s not great): we are bottom of the pile on 36 points. One point ahead of us are both Gillingham and Torquay, while Northampton have 38 points but only one game remaining. So, the good news is that if we win, we’ll be off the bottom. The bad news is, if we lose, then we’ll still be bottom and it’ll be out of our hands.

  I am so far behind with my studies it doesn’t even bear thinking about. How can I cope with what I am going through on a daily basis and then go home and write an essay about somebody getting a bloody hip replacement?