Journeyman (31 page)

‘M
ANCHESTER UNITED AWAY…'

We had the day after the second Wrexham game off and I woke up feeling stressed. After not playing any part in the previous night's game I was worried I would not be playing at Old Trafford. But I resolved with myself there and then that, whatever happened, I would make sure I enjoyed what promised to be a great experience.

We were due to travel up to Manchester on the Thursday but, before we could leave, we trained at our Broadfield Stadium before having a rare press conference. I climbed the stairs to our lunch area and it was packed wall-to-wall with journalists, ranging from tabloids to broadsheets to individuals from all around the world.

I had the customary chat with
The Sun
about what cars we all drove so they could compare them to our opponents. They particularly loved me because I was, and still am, driving a battered old Ford Focus. The reporter was unsurprisingly not as keen to talk to the lads who drove the BMWs and Audis – after all, that would have broken the lazy stereotype that all lower-league footballers earn just above minimum wage.

I then did a rather more insightful piece with Henry Winter for the
Daily Telegraph
and spoke to football magazine
FourFourTwo
.

Sergio Torres was the darling of the mainstream media, portrayed as an Argentinian Dick Whittington who had come to England to find fame and fortune. The first time he told me his story I had found it fascinating but, after hearing it for the thirtieth time on this cup run, even I was getting pretty blasé about it.

After an hour or so of these people treating us like superstars and pretending our opinion was important, we began our journey to Manchester. One thing that time with the media gave me was a little taster of what it must be like to be a top Premier League player. Those types of players have a press conference like ours every three days before a big game. Don't get me wrong, I really enjoyed myself, but I could see how doing it on a regular basis could become boring and monotonous. I was already looking forward to Monday when I could go back to a life of anonymity.

As soon as we arrived in Manchester we went straight to Old Trafford to have a look around. That was a good idea because it allowed the lads who wanted to act like tourists to get it over with. Once Saturday arrived, we could just concentrate on the job at hand.

To be honest, I had never been one for all that. Whoever I was playing – whether a Sunday League player or Wayne Rooney – I had to, at least on match day, believe I was their equal. If you start believing you're inferior to someone then you have no chance.

We entered the stadium and someone was immediately on hand to show us around. Two things really struck me.

Firstly, the away dressing room was quite basic. I could have been in any changing room in the Football League. It was not terrible but I was expecting more opulence.

Secondly, the pitch did not seem that big. Whenever I had watched games at Old Trafford, or even seen it on the TV, I'd always thought the pitch was huge. Once standing on it, however, it didn't seem to be much different to ours size-wise.

As we wandered around, we asked our steward what sort of crowd they were expecting on the day. I'd imagined a figure of around 50,000, but he replied that it had sold out!

Cue twenty players taking a big gulp of breath…

We checked into a lovely hotel called Mottram Hall. I roomed with Sergio and the magnitude of what was about to happen really begun to sink in as we unpacked.

I would often get apprehensive before games but not nervous. This was a different scenario though. We were still two days away and I was already nervous. I was concerned about whether I would be starting and, if I did, I was then worried about my performance. I hadn't been in great form leading up to the match and I was desperate to play well in front of a capacity crowd and millions of people watching live on ITV.

We trained at the hotel on Friday morning. The gaffer had originally told us we would be training at Man City's training facility, but that was another one of those occasions when he was being a little economical with the truth.

During our session we did a lot of work on the shape of the team and the manager looked at different formations. I was in and out of the first eleven depending on the shape. If we played a 4–4–2 I would be on the bench, but if we played a 4–3–3 I would start.

The rest of that day dragged, followed by an anxious night when I hardly slept a wink. As the game was not due to kick off until early evening, we did a light training session on the Saturday morning before a pre-match meal at 2 p.m. The gaffer, as always, did not name the team until just before we set off for Old Trafford.

However, before that happened, he pulled Sergio outside for a private chat. Sergio returned stony faced but gave nothing away. All the lads were shocked: surely he had not been left out?!

On this occasion, rather than read the team out like normal, the gaffer just flipped a sheet of paper over and revealed the line-up.

My heart rate was going at about 180 beats per minute as I scanned the sheet for my name. I looked for where it should be, just behind the strikers, and there it was:
7) Smith.

I could relax momentarily: I was in. I just had to make sure I performed!

Turning my attention to the rest of the team I noticed Sergio was in and wondered what his chat with the gaffer had been about. There were two shocks within the selection – a really big one and another that had been on the cards for a while.

The big shock concerned Glenn Wilson. He had played the vast majority of games that season and had still only missed a couple when David Hunt had joined to compete with him for the right back slot. It was Glenn's fourth season playing under Steve and I always joked with him that one year with Evo was worth two under anyone else.

Glenn had been a loyal lieutenant to Evo, regularly translating his rants to players not as familiar with them as himself. He would let people know what bits to take on board and which to let go over their head.

What made it even more galling for Glenn was the management did not even have the decency to tell him face to face in private. Instead he found out, like everyone else, when the team was revealed. Glenn and I were talking the day before about our fears regarding not being selected but I was convinced he had no worries. He had his doubts but I am pretty sure that, deep down, he thought he would be in.

I know managers have to be ruthless sometimes but that was ridiculous. David Hunt was a very good player and also a great guy and he was not going to turn down such an opportunity. He was the first to admit that Glenn deserved to play though.

To compound matters, the gaffer did not even get Glenn on the pitch. It was a measure of what a well brought-up guy Glenn is that he managed to repair his relationship with Steve enough to play for him for another eighteen months. I know many players who would have never played for him again.

The second, more predictable, shock was the fact new signing Willie Gibson got the nod ahead of Jamie Cook on the right wing. Scott Neilson, who regularly held that position, had broken his foot at the end of January and the position had been up for grabs ever since.

Jamie was another that had history with Steve, having played for him at both Boston United and an earlier spell with Crawley. It could have been argued Jamie had not done enough to earn a place – he was a very talented player but lacked the heart and motivation to really make the most of his ability. I loved playing alongside him though as he was intelligent and a ridiculously composed finisher.

I felt he was definitely more deserving of a start than Willie, who was a ‘glass half empty' kind of guy. Jamie illustrated how pissed off he was when he came on during the game with the bit between his teeth to make a really positive impact.

Once we got to Old Trafford everything settled down and each player went into their usual routine. Striding out on to that pitch for the warm-up was a great feeling and it could have gone on for two hours – I just loved being out there soaking up the atmosphere.

People still ask me now what it felt like and I still say the same thing: it was a surreal experience, none more so than when we lined up in the tunnel and I looked over to see the likes of Michael Carrick, Javier Hernández and Rafael da Silva.

All I could hear in my head was all the people telling me I should enjoy the occasion. Easy for them to say but I knew I would not enjoy it if I played crap or we got hammered. I did not care who we were playing against, I had my professional pride and did not like losing.

There was a loud roar as we emerged from the tunnel. The atmosphere was great but it did not seem a great deal different to a lot of crowds I had played in front of. I think if you play in front of a capacity crowd of 5,000, 20,000 or 75,000, then yes it was a bit louder, but all you hear is noise. Plus
if, like on this occasion, you know you have to be on top of your game to be competitive, then you just try to block everything out.

The game started off quite tense and we were holding our own before my own Ronnie Radford-esque moment came.

Tubbsy battled for possession and cushioned the ball into my direction about 30 yards from goal. It sat up perfectly and there was no way I was going to turn down the opportunity. I hit it well, on the volley but just slightly off-centre, which meant it was always just veering off to the right. I was right behind the shot and could see it was going to deviate just wide of the post – although it was close enough to have United goalkeeper Anders Lindegaard scrambling across his goal.

United then took hold of the game and, although we were not getting battered, we were sacrificing territory while trying to hit them on the counter attack. My job was to pick up Michael Carrick when we lost possession. This was easier said than done as, I am sure you can imagine, he used some cute and sharp movement to make that yard of space for himself.

The United player that really impressed me in that half was Brazilian midfielder Anderson. He was willing to take the ball in any situation and, when he received it in tight areas, he displayed strength and composure on it.

We held out until the twenty-eighth minute when Wes Brown opened the scoring with a header but we saw the rest of the half out without conceding again.

We knew as a group we had more to offer and the gaffer felt the same way. He did not care we were playing Manchester United, he was not happy and let us know. He came for me pretty quickly: ‘Are you fucked? Are you? Because I'll fucking take you off if you are.'

I was blowing out of my arse, there was no doubt about that, although I did not feel like I looked any more knackered than anyone else. There was no way I was going to admit that though. ‘No, I'm fine.'

‘Well, you do not look fine. Pull your fucking finger out,' came the reply.

I felt I had done OK when I had the ball but physically I was at full pelt trying to keep up with their superior athleticism.

We came back out for the second half with the gaffer's words ringing in our ears. As we were waiting for referee Lee Probert I noticed they were making a substitution. The number eight went up.
That's good
, I thought.
Anderson is going off.
Then I saw who was to replace him…

Wayne Rooney!

We started this half with more belief and began to dominate possession, a feat which continued as the game wore on. We moved the ball around well and Kyle and Pablo kept bringing it out of defence majestically, like they were born to play in such arenas. Bully and Sergio also made it really tough for their midfield to play.

A combination of these two things meant I was able to start picking up some dangerous positions in advance of their midfield and feed Tubbsy with a bit more quality. It felt like we could do the unthinkable and actually score a goal.

With just under twenty minutes left we had the first of our two really good chances. A cross came over from the left and David Hunt, who had rushed up from right back, met the ball just outside the 18-yard box with a volley that just flashed past the far post.

Then, with just two minutes remaining, Brodes looped a header on to the top of Lindegaard's crossbar from a corner.

The game finished with us camped in their half trying to force the equaliser but my participation had finished nine minutes earlier when I was replaced at eighty-one minutes. I was pretty satisfied with my performance, however.

Steve was, for once, lost for words after the game. It was clear he was just immensely proud of our performance and was a little choked-up. We had come really close to earning a draw against one of the biggest clubs in the world, and on their own patch to boot.

It was a relief to have come through the game with our self-respect still
intact. I sat back in the dressing room and began to soak up the occasion while reflecting on what we had achieved.

All the lads had an abundance of family and friends at the game so we all went our separate ways that night. I had some of my friends I grew up with staying in Manchester so we went out for a few drinks.

Once the hysteria had calmed down we had to focus on the most important task at hand – getting back to reality and securing promotion to the Football League.

W
E WERE IN
for training as usual on Monday as we had a home game against Southport the day after.

The gaffer was like a dog with two dicks at training, regaling us with stories about his new best friend Sir Alex. The gaffer had gone in to see him after the game, like most managers did, and had taken a nice bottle of wine (apparently worth £350) with him. He had spent a good couple of hours with the United manager talking about the game and football in general. It must have been a great thrill for him, to be fair, as it would have been for any ambitious manager.

I was not expecting to play after my exploits on Saturday but the gaffer obviously did not want to tinker with the team too much because I kept my place. Before the game the gaffer said, having now spoken to Sir Alex, he was worried about this game being a case of ‘after the Lord Mayor's show'. He compared it to when Manchester United had a League game after a big European match.

As a result, he revealed, just for this specific game, we would be on a win bonus of £10,000 to be shared between the whole squad. This worked out to around £500 per player. This revelation definitely made my ears prick up because, believe it or not, we received no bonus whatsoever for the Manchester United game.

Players would normally receive an appearance fee for such a game, bearing in mind the club got a share of the gate money and a substantial fee from the television broadcasters, which I believe was £250,000. We attempted to argue our case before the game but, to be honest, it should have been negotiated into our bonus schedule before the season started. We were still entitled to 40 per cent of the prize money but even the most optimistic of us were not expecting to receive that.

The club had been quite clever about exploiting the big game after the event. We had taken nearly 10,000 supporters to Manchester so, to capitalise on that, anyone showing their ticket stub at the turnstiles on Tuesday was let in at a discounted price – I think £5 a head. This meant we had a really healthy attendance of 3,765 for a pretty unappealing Tuesday night game – we would have struggled to get the 765 a year ago!

We started like a side that had just played against Premier League opposition, passing the ball around confidently, but unable to find a final ball. This was not good enough for the main man, of course, who was going mad calling us all ‘Big-time Charlies' – a little hypocritical, as the only person constantly talking about the game and his new best pal was actually him.

Anyway, as a result, we went more direct during the second half and I drifted out of the game. We eventually ground out a 1–0 win though, as Pablo scrambled home a Willie Gibson free kick, which the Southport keeper spilled.

I had not particularly enjoyed myself but I was happy the gaffer was now regularly giving me a starting berth.

The big pre-match incentive the gaffer announced definitely had a positive effect but we never saw any of that money. Whether it was a genuine offer, a tactic he employed to get us going or simply a figment of his imagination, we never found out. It never hit my bank account despite numerous promises throughout the rest of the season.

We had now not lost a League game since that defeat to Newport last
October and we looked to continue the run at home to Barrow. I was left out of the squad entirely but, despite this clear hindrance, the boys went on to edge a thriller by the odd goal in five.

The League had turned into a two-horse race with AFC Wimbledon leading the way and us lurking menacingly on their tail with games in hand. Luton Town were not totally out of the equation but it was looking like they lacked the necessary consistency to mount a sustained challenge.

After my little rest I was back in the team for our next game against Histon. When naming the team Evo said, ‘If this were a cup final, this would be the team I'd play', which I took as a nice compliment.

We had way too much experience for a young Histon side, which was being managed by my former Arsenal youth-team colleague David Livermore, and we ran out 5–0 winners. I got on the scoresheet with a lovely left-footed volley, after a trademark Dean Howell surge and cross from the left wing put us two up.

It was my best performance for a while so I was a little disappointed to be replaced in the second half, but I comforted myself with the fact that the gaffer and Rayns must have just wanted to save my legs for our game at Kidderminster Harriers on Tuesday.

That confidence was misplaced, however, as I was named on the bench. At this moment in time I was really struggling to read the gaffer. When I thought I would be playing I was not and vice versa. We reverted to a 4–4–2 but had to settle for a draw.

It was the same story for the next couple of games as I was an unused sub in a great 2–1 away win at Fleetwood, then I got a couple of minutes in a scrappy but eventually comfortable 5–2 win at home to Hayes & Yeading. I found myself feeling a little bit confused and frustrated.

Every year, usually around March or April, there always seems to be a game to define the season. Our next game was just that. We were playing AFC Wimbledon at home. If we won, it would give us a pretty much
unassailable lead at the top of the League, with games in hand. If we lost, it would give Wimbledon faint hope of catching us.

I was back in the starting eleven and playing just off Tubbsy. The gaffer subsequently told me I had been specifically earmarked for this game a few weeks earlier – I wished I'd known that sooner as I would not have been so annoyed about not playing.

We started the game at a blistering pace and were two goals up within the first ten minutes. Tubbsy scored first, finishing a well-worked team goal by getting onto the end of a great cross from Josh Simpson, and then Kyle scored a header from a corner. All this surprisingly did not affect Wimbledon and they persevered with their patient passing game.

The whole complexion of the game changed on the stroke of half-time.

Wimbledon pulled one goal back and then they quickly broke forward again. Dannie Bulman was aware of the danger and cynically fouled their attacker on the halfway line. It was definitely a foul and a yellow card, but amazingly the ref showed him a straight red.

Suddenly we were in a spot of bother – going down to ten men played perfectly into their hands. It would give them more space to play their slick passing game. Thankfully we held on to half-time where we could re-group.

We were 2–1 up so it seemed pretty clear that our first strategy would be to protect our lead, but Steve disagreed. After a bit of flapping he decided I was coming off. I could not believe it – I had been really effective and it seemed a more obvious decision for me to drop into Bully's vacant position. We still had Josh in central midfield who had the athleticism to support Tubbsy, who I assumed would be in a lone forward role.

I made my dissatisfaction pretty clear as I took off my shin-pads and boots. I was just about to get totally stripped off when, after a short conference with Rayns, the gaffer said in fact I would be staying on – Brodes would be replaced with James Dance instead.

We reverted to a 4–4–1 with Dancey playing out wide, Josh and I in central midfield and Tubbsy up front by himself.

Wimbledon came out smelling blood and attacked from the outset. We survived an almighty scare in the first few minutes of the half when we managed to scramble away a shot that hit both of our posts.

Less than ten minutes later, the game was over when James Dance smashed in an effort from outside the box that eluded Seb Brown in the Wimbledon goal. It was a great strike and instantly alleviated all the pressure. It was also a great moment for Dancey as he had received few opportunities to show his talents since joining in January. He is a lovely guy and it was always good to see people like him get their rewards.

I played a much deeper role than usual but really enjoyed it, keeping possession and plugging gaps. Josh, Sergio and Dancey did a great job supporting Tubbsy, whose level of performance was so high we hardly noticed we only had a solitary front man. He had a great ability of holding the ball up and keeping it under pressure, irrespective of the quality of the service.

I must have played well because I even managed to complete a rare ninety minutes. Once the final whistle went everyone knew the League title was effectively ours.

Mathematically there was still work to do but, with a nine-point advantage and four games in hand, even Blue Square, the League's sponsors and official bookmakers, were paying out.

There were no post-match celebrations though, just that lovely sense of satisfaction after a job well done. We were now focused on getting those remaining points we needed to confirm the inevitable.

The next step on our quest was away to Eastbourne Borough, a game we won 2–1. Sergio and defender Charlie Wassmer, who had joined from Hayes & Yeading in March, scored the goals.

Charlie had been signed through that little loophole in the transfer window – he joined us on a ‘temporary loan' but he had also signed a contract,
which meant, as soon as the window re-opened, he would become a permanent signing.

When Charlie first joined I could not see him lasting long. He seemed like a nice guy but was painfully shy – a demeanour not suited to our lively dressing room nor working with an even livelier manager.

Nothing changed my thought process when, on his first day, Charlie came into the dressing room and Simon Rusk compared him to a cross between Eminem and Lee Ryan from the old pop band Blue. The lads thought it was hilarious but he did not even flinch, let alone crack a smile.

I was wrong, however, as, against Eastbourne on his debut, Charlie scored the kind of goal any striker would have been proud of, let alone a centre back! The ball fell between him and the on-rushing keeper and he arrived at the ball first and coolly lifted it over him with just enough power to get it over the line.

He wheeled away and celebrated as cool as you like, as if he did that sort of thing every day. It was an exquisite finish and a great way to introduce himself to the club. He might have scored more if I had been able to get my corner kicks above knee height.

I was happy with my performance despite my set-piece deliveries being terrible, and I got replaced with ten minutes to go.

We followed up that win with a solid 0–0 draw at Gateshead on an atrocious pitch. Normally Steve would be seething about such a result but he knew now was the time to just keep chipping away at the points tally we required, especially picking them up in away games as we had become unstoppable at home.

The next team trying to stall our dream was Mansfield Town and the game turned into, without a doubt, my proudest moment as a Crawley Town player. Pablo was injured and Bully was still suspended, so this meant I was named captain.

Technically that made me vice vice-captain. When said like that it does not sound too impressive. However, when you think at the start of the
season I was told, on more than one occasion, I was not good enough and would never play for the club again, I was delighted.

After all that treatment, for me to lead the team out for this game felt like the ultimate vindication. It was like, in doing this, the gaffer was publicly admitting he was wrong. Obviously he did not actually do this but he may as well have.

I had always revelled in the extra responsibility of being captain and I gave a virtuoso performance, one of my best since joining the club. I set up Tubbsy for our second goal in a 2–0 win and was only denied a goal of my own by the woodwork and some good goalkeeping. A couple of minutes before the end, the Tannoy man went to announce the ‘Man of the Match' but I knew it would be me.

Bully was back for our next game at home versus Darlington but the gaffer seemed to have settled on his midfield four. We now played a diamond with Bully at the base, Sergio left, Josh right and myself at the tip.

It seemed to work really well: Bully gave us security, Josh and Sergio were energetic and helped support both in defence and attack, while I linked the play going forward. Those three took most of the physical work away from me. I lost count of the amount of times I would look back at them and think: ‘Blimey, that looks like hard work!' They would get the ball and feed it into me with the sort of quality service I needed to have an influence on a game.

The Darlington game was no different although we struggled initially. They were a strong, organised team and I think we all felt the exertions from Tuesday night's game. It also seemed I was being man marked – not something I was used too.

We went into the break all square. The gaffer gave one of his more sedate analysis of our performance but let me know, very fairly in this case, that he needed a little bit more from me. He got it as I went on to score the winning goal – the ball broke to me just outside the box and I hit a left foot strike that went in via a post.

When I was replaced with five minutes to go, as I left the pitch, I asked the gaffer if that was enough for him! I was awarded with my second ‘Man of the Match' award in a row – although this one was less deserved.

We now only needed six points to be guaranteed a place in the Football League, although in reality it looked pretty certain we would go up even if we did not win another game. We had a tricky game away at York City to negotiate next and squad rotation had now gone out of the window as I was selected for my fifth game in a row.

York seemed determined to knock us off our pedestal. They harried and pressed us all over the pitch before deservedly taking the lead. The hairdryer was back on full power as the gaffer went mad at half-time. These indiscriminate shouting matches were hard to take at the best of times, let alone when we were twenty-four games unbeaten, so I decided to switch off.

Luton Town, the only club that could mathematically catch us, drew that night too so all we needed was to beat Tamworth away to secure the League title. Disappointingly for me the gaffer switched to a 4–4–2 for the match, so I would be on the bench.