full season. Although I spent most of the season on the bench, I scored another important goal away at Stockport, a game that meant that we were almost guaranteed promotion, and I finished the campaign celebrating on an open top bus tour, and then on the balcony of the town hall, with the rest of the team.
We all then jumped on a plane for ‘trip’ to Cala d’Or in Spain, celebrating our promotion. It was my first ‘lads’ holiday away, and also my eighteenth birthday. As we drank in a bar one afternoon, Archie Gemmill, a great left-back in his day, and the assistant manager of Nottingham Forest, was telling me not to sign a new deal because ‘Cloughie’ (Brian Clough) was a big fan. Not a bad start to my career, you would think. However, the fact that I had a champagne bottle in my hand, and was three sheets to the wind as he said this, sums up my lifestyle in 1990. That I also signed a contract when I returned, and behaved like an eighties pop star off the pitch, tells you all you need to know about the mistakes that I made. I had it all, and probably blew it all, within a few very short seasons.
I will have to stop writing for now. It is St George’s Day today, the weather outside is scorching hot, and at the local golf club bar I find myself in, the natives, who are dressed in flags, as dragons, and as knights, are enjoying the weather and the beer. My name has cropped up, they are talking ‘footy’, and I am therefore making an extremely quick getaway. I am playing tomorrow in the last game of the season against Eastbourne. They will be fighting for their lives, being in relegation spot, and I will no doubt need a third lung, having not played for a month, and with a predicted pitch side temperature approaching ninety degrees. Back to the hotel, and back to an M&S dinner it is for me. It is not inconceivable that I will make the play-off games, but I feel shocking at the moment. You tend to feel invincible as a player when you are fit and raring to go but at the moment, for the first time in a long, long, while, I feel the exact opposite. The ice bath is being prepared, and the Ibuprofen smoothie is ready.
Back in the room now and I will have to add a little to explain the degree of my present-day stresses. As I left training I received a text from my wife, ‘Don’t spend any money. We are over the overdraft, I have fifty pounds left for the week, so you better have a look at the finances.’ So, as well as being under pressure to get fit and play a game tomorrow in preparation for the play-offs, I have had to do a bit of phoning around. Out went the iPhone insurance, the Sky package was downgraded to a bare minimum, the silly bank accounts with fancy cards were cancelled, and my emergency tin on top of the cupboard at home was declared open. At the moment I suppose I am wallowing in a massive amount of self pity but I am just a bit tired and pissed off that I am away from home, trying to do a job, when I knew my body is failing me and my career is coming to an end. I suppose I am worried about the future for the first time.
I’m not playing a violin here, because we still have a lovely house in Northamptonshire which was rented out when we moved to Torquay, and I still have a half decent pension (that I hope goes up in value at some point), but the money blown over the years on niceties, such as clothes, parties, meals out, holidays and nice cars, and the ill-advised ‘keeping up with the Jones’s mentality’ we have had at times, mean that our financial situation is tight. My fault, I know.
The myth that all footballers are loaded is definitely just that, a myth, for lower league footballers anyway. I am driving a leased car and living in rented accommodation, and I am hoping something crops up in the summer work wise. My wife is stressed out because money is tight, and I am always away. So, when people say to me, ‘You must be loaded’, it does make me smile, although sometimes a little bitterly. Despite this, I know I am very lucky to have done a job that I have loved, and I have three great children and a lovely wife. While it would have been nice to have made enough money not to have to worry about future work, I am sure that being ‘retired’ in your late thirties is not healthy. So, as it stands, I have thirteen pounds to get me back home tomorrow night, and will have to sell a few things on eBay this weekend. Life is never dull.
1990/91
With the euphoria at fever pitch after our promotion, and with the next campaign due to start, the feeling in the town was fantastic. I don’t think the lads really thought about it at the time but the togetherness and bond that we had, on and off the pitch, was extremely strong, and with that there usually follows success. We faced Preston North End in the first game of the 90/91 season. A tough game on paper, but for a footballing team such as Grimsby Town was at that time, the prospect of playing on an Astroturf pitch was a real bonus. Don’t get me wrong, if I were playing on those pitches now, I would probably need a hip replacement, such was the poor quality of the hard surfaces, but at the time keeping the ball on the deck was just the ticket for us.
I’m sure older pros at the clubs with Astroturf surfaces were terribly stiff after most games and training sessions.
The thinking behind Astroturf instead of grass was sensible: no water logging, hence no postponed fixtures; no groundsman, hence lower cost; and a smooth playing surface, hence good football. There was also no need to have a separate training ground or to look for places to train on a daily basis as other clubs, like us, had to.
It wasn’t for everybody though. John Beck at Cambridge United was certainly not rushing out to get his pitch relaid. At Cambridge United they really took long ball to a new level, and having a grass pitch helped this style of playing; there was even sand placed in all four corners of the pitch to soften the landing of yet another ball launched up field. To think they nearly got into the top flight!
Back to the game. After a good pre-season I was in the starting line-up on that first day of the 90/91 season. It couldn’t have gone any better for me or for the team, a great performance by us saw us win 3–1; I scored the first goal, a left foot curler round the keeper, after being put through from the halfway line – teams didn’t half play high offside traps then!
We really carried our form and momentum from the previous season; it’s amazing how many times this happens in football. We had a good game plan and good players, and, much as I say it through gritted teeth, a manager who knew how to win games.
Again, we spent most of the season at the top of the league, but once again I was busy playing every reserve game and then being on the bench or playing for the first team as well. At the time I was very frustrated, because I just wanted to play in the first team. The crowds and the pressure surrounding these games gave you such a great buzz, whereas the Pontins League against ‘Scunny’ reserves at Blundell Park on a cold Wednesday night really wound me up. It had a negative effect on me and my performances. Looking back, I should have used those games to show Buckley what I was made of. It was, I think, a classic case of a clash of personalities, with me being a brash, cocky and confident young lad, and him disliking that.
Despite my frustration, I still had a great season. I managed to notch up a few more important goals, including a memorable header against Wigan Athletic at home in a 4–3 win, and a classic strike into the stanchion against Fulham on New Year’s Day – although the circumstances surrounding that particular game and goal really summed up my off the field misdemeanours at the time. You see, I had decided to go out for a few drinks with Fiona and her sister, the night before.
It was sort of accepted back then that going out for a couple of drinks the night before a match was OK, and as it was New Year’s Eve we felt obligated. I have never been a big fan of New Year’s celebrations, and I am even less so now; I can’t think of anything worse than doing the Conga in the street, ‘high fiving’ an absolute muppet, or telling a complete stranger that I love them, just because it’s the start of the New Year. God I’m getting old! But back in 1990, and certainly if you were eighteen years old, going out for a few Pernod and blacks and dancing to Michael Jackson on New Year’s Eve were a must.
We had really been out just to bring in the New Year, and I had wanted to get at least a bit of an early night, so we decided to walk home. On the way back to the apartment
