and staff, and then I was soon off to Hull City. I think, with a few additions, it turned out to be a fee of around fifty thousand pounds. For someone who was told he might go for a million pounds only a few years earlier, something had gone wrong somewhere.
Probably the toughest part of my transfer was saying goodbye to my parents. I was finally leaving the nest, and as they looked at me, my mum with tears in her eyes, I think we were all thinking the same thing. I was the player they had watched in cup finals, scoring endless amounts of goals, the young man they had watched score at Blundell Park, and the boy who, only a few years ago, in the back garden, had pretended to be on Match of the Day. I had realised my dream of becoming a professional footballer and to play for my hometown club, but now, for so many different reasons, I had to leave.
We all knew something had gone pretty wrong but nothing was said. That chapter in my life was now over, and I had to move on.
1993/94
I haven’t been able to write recently. I wouldn’t call it writer’s block exactly, but a combination of trying to get a full-time job, having a bit of part-time work, and being in a household with levels of stress bordering on insanity, has meant that finding the time and the right frame of mind to type away has been tough. I have gone from being the captain of both Torquay United and Oxford United last season, and on decent money, to being sat at home trying to find work. It’s 2nd August and my youngest daughter, Harriet, was four yesterday. We had a party on Exmouth beach with family and friends, lots of food and drink, and, mercifully, some sun.
Devon is such a beautiful county, it sort of grabs you in and doesn’t let you go, and as much as I feel I can carry on playing, certainly in the Conference or Second Division, uprooting the whole family, changing the children’s schools, and making a new life somewhere else is just not realistic – unless, of course, Manchester City phone me and offer me a three-year deal. I suppose I have fully retired now, but I cannot bring myself to say it; it seems to have just happened.
I am currently in the big wide world. After twenty-two years, this Saturday will be (partly out of choice, as I am not prepared to drive halfway around the country for a ‘maybe’ on a one year deal, and partly due to circumstance as I am now thirty-nine) the first game of the season that I have not started. It does fill me with sadness, and I’m not afraid to admit I am scared at the moment, but I knew this day would come. I miss the day-to-day training, and the banter that you get at a club, and, of course, the money, but I certainly don’t miss the bullshit. I am still running everyday keeping fit, in case something changes, but I don’t think it will. I think this is it. My immediate football future, tomorrow morning, involves training the Exeter City under-16s, with another ex-pro, Shaun Taylor.
To give you an idea of the strangeness of my new life, in the space of twenty-four hours last week, I was variously kitted out as a gardener, a sports presenter and a coach.
The gardening work has come from Fiona’s boss, Carol, who mentioned that she had a bit of a project, if I was interested. When my wife initially told me, she laughed, as I did – imagine, a professional footballer doing some cash-in-hand work in a garden – but within a week I had swallowed my ridiculous and unrealistic pride, and picked up the phone. I am coaching almost every night at the academy, but I really wanted some hardcore exercise and letting rip in an overgrown garden was just the ticket. It has been brilliant, a real therapy of sorts, a chainsaw and industrial blade strimmer in hand, and I’m off. In fact, such was my keenness to get started when I initially weighed up the job – Carol thought I might back down after seeing the jungle ahead – I waded in with just a pair of shears, wearing only some shorts and no top. After four hours of afternoon sweat, I emerged looking like Jesus of Nazareth. With my long hair and shorts I already had a head start anyway, but after that first day my arms and legs were cut to shreds by the bramble and thorn bushes and I had been bitten to death by insects. My arms were so bad I think people thought I had started to self-harm, but things haven’t come to that just yet!
The scratches and bites didn’t matter though; it was the first time I had done a bit of cash-in-hand labour and it felt good. The following day I turned up looking like a cross between Indiana Jones and a Ghostbuster. I had every conceivable item of garden machinery. Spending six or seven hours just ploughing through this overgrown meadow was fantastic. I would stop after three or four hours dripping with sweat, have a drink of water, a cheese sandwich and just crack on. (I don’t know why, but a cheese sandwich just felt right, a man’s sandwich!) It really brought home to me the fact that being away from the football bubble doesn’t really matter. It’s about providing for your family.
I was sawing my way through a tree one day last week when my phone started to ring. It was an agent asking me to play in a few games for a certain club, and that if I did there might be a contract, might be. I had had twenty years of that kind of uncertainty, and as much as I loved playing, I said, ‘Thanks, but no thanks.’
Besides, the next day I was due to drive a minibus full of Exeter City under-16s to play Everton, and that was far more important than a might be. These lads are at the stage where they just need a bit of guidance, and it’s great to see how keen they are.
The TV work is in the form of the BBC down here in Devon. I was the ‘pundit’ on the sofa during the last season, and they have very kindly asked me if I would do it again this year. I’m like a cross between Gary Lineker and Alan Hansen, but without the colour-coded shirts, international caps or European cups. But we do have a good laugh looking through the weekend’s action and messing about before the producer is ready for the off. By we, I mean myself and Natalie Cornah, the presenter, who is not only up on her football but who can also take the piss with the best of them – obviously the banter is kept for while the mike is off. Richard Keys and Andy Gray take note.
I was also asked by the BBC if I would interview the local team managers as part of a pre-season preview. I jumped at the chance, and really enjoyed it, although I did have to smile to myself last week as I was interviewing Peter Reid, the Plymouth Argyle manager. An hour earlier, I had been in the thick of a bramble bush, and still had thorns embedded in my hands to prove it.
That same night, after my gardening and TV work, I pulled on the football boots and coached the young boys at Exeter City. Not a normal day, but a thoroughly enjoyable one all the same.
As you can see, at the moment my work is all about survival and these jobs are just part-time really, but I am excited about the future, and certainly not down. I want to work, and if that means managing or coaching at a club, then great, but if it means digging roads for eight hours a day, then bring it on.
The fear of stopping playing drove me on each season, and that fear remains, but after twenty odd years it looks as if I will no longer be pulling a top on and waiting for a bell to ring, come three o’clock on Saturday. For now, it is a case of keeping my head down and streamlining our lives to within an inch of living in a caravan (no comments please), but when people say to me, ‘Oh no! What are you going to do, how are you feeling?’ I answer, ‘I’m feeling great thanks, I haven’t got a flesh-eating disease (although my leg is still very itchy after my gardening work) and I’m not going to become an alcoholic.’
I say that as my wife tops up my glass of red wine.
With the Hull City deal all done and dusted, I was soon driving the short journey across the Humber bank. I had been the first signing Hull City had paid for in quite a few years, and although it wasn’t a huge amount, the supporters had provided it, and to the club it was a lot – the fact that the supporters’ group had raised the money proved how hard up the club was at that time. The lads at Hull City were a good bunch, a mix of locals and pros who had spent most of their careers up north.
The manager, Terry Dolan, seemed OK, as did his sidekick, Jeff Lee. On the pitch, the pre-season
