No Nonsense Read online

  Blackie spent hours closeted in the manager’s office. It can’t have been easy for Harry. He was 67 and in some pain with his leg. He must have been wondering, ‘Am I bowing out of the game here?’ He knew how football worked. Someone could quite easily come in with a cattle gun, and put him out of his misery.

  Did he want to go on, spending a significant amount of his life dealing with bullshit? He’d seen Sir Alex Ferguson get out at the top and here he was, scrapping in the Championship. Blackie helped him by bringing the principal coaches, Joe Jordan and Kevin Bond, out of their shells. ‘You’ve got to help this fella,’ he told them. ‘He’s hired you to help him. You’re his lieutenants. Don’t cower. If he does something you don’t agree with, step up.’

  His simplicity was his genius. He would have a quiet word with out-of-favour players – ‘All right, son? What’s happening with you?’ – to ease their isolation. He challenged those more centrally involved to build credibility on a daily basis. ‘You don’t need to be great for a season,’ he told us. ‘All you need to be is great for six weeks. That’s all we need.’

  The group bonded behind a straightforward slogan: ‘This matters, now.’

  I felt we were invincible going into the playoffs, having finished fourth. Harry had been transformed. He rotated selection cleverly, and wound us up a treat by suggesting he’d been told we were the team everyone wanted to play. Our semi-final opponents Wigan, who finished the regular season like a juggernaut under Uwe Rosler, were being measured for their Wembley suits.

  I bumped into Bondy in the canteen three days before the first leg, at the DW Stadium. ‘The fucking gaffer wants to take them on,’ he said in a low, conspiratorial voice which signalled his alarm at the prospect of unnecessary risk. ‘He’s talking about playing 4-4-2. I know you’re not in until 10 tomorrow, but there’s a coaches’ meeting at nine. It wouldn’t be a bad idea if you’re around. I reckon you might be the only one he will listen to.’

  This was a big call. Such meetings are traditionally off limits, but Blackie encouraged me to take up the invitation. He followed me into the coaches’ room the following morning. Harry wasn’t there but Bondy, who was by the whiteboard, welcomed us. Joe Jordan and Wally Downes, the other coaches, were at their desks.

  Joe, in particular, didn’t agree with my argument that we had no need to win at Wigan. They were flying but we could break them psychologically by defending intelligently and counterattacking quickly. Margins were fine, but sitting in made sense. Joe took the view that we had better players, players better suited to dictating the tempo.

  The dynamics of the meeting were interesting. Harry came in and sat next to Joe. They had been together forever and were obviously comfortable, maybe too comfortable, in each other’s company. Joe, who was adamant we needed to be on the front foot, and Wally were obviously going to side with the gaffer to protect their positions. Bondy was in danger of being railroaded.

  I love Joe, and have had many good conversations with him, but he rarely challenged Harry. Managers need people around them who will tell them what they don’t want to hear, so when he asked me to go through my game plan once again, I had my chance:

  ‘Look, Joe. I’m out on the pitch. I’m feeling this. I’m telling you what the strength of this team is. Even if you don’t agree with me, I’m going to change things because I am seeing the game from the centre of the park. I’m able to dictate our shape as the game warrants. I’ll just pull those two wingers in. I’ll pull the strikers in and get them to sit. And I’ll close the shop.’

  I could see Joe glancing at the manager, thinking, ‘You’re going to get fucking told now.’ Yet he got a surprise. Harry paused for a second and said: ‘Absolutely spot-on. That’s how we’ve got to go there and play. We stifle them, take the game away from them, and beat them here under the lights.’ Clearly energised, he then oversaw our best training session of the season.

  Bondy was buzzing. The lads recognised the thought that had gone into the game plan. The pattern-of-play session, implementing a 4-5-1 system, was sharp and concentrated. That sense of togetherness transferred on to the pitch at the DW, where we did a job on them and got the goalless draw our diligence deserved.

  It was a three-day turnaround, but Harry was on it. I went to see him in his hotel room the night before the game. ‘Fuck it,’ he announced. ‘Now we’re going for them.’ He played two strikers, recalling Niko Kranjcar in a 4-4-2 that was solid enough to overcome the setback of an early James Perch goal. No one panicked, and Charlie Austin equalised from the penalty spot when Junior Hoilett was brought down by Gary Caldwell just inside the box.

  There’s a lot of bollocks spoken about the power of the huddle on the pitch. In most cases, they are just part of the show, posturing for the fans. I find them false, to tell the truth. But the one that featured players and staff, close to the touchline before the start of extra time, was almost a transcendental experience. I’m convinced it put the finishing touch to the most complete team performance of my career.

  I remember looking into the lads’ eyes and thinking, ‘This is over our dead bodies.’ I have no recollection of what was said, because words were not that important. It was one of those in-the-trenches moments, when you realise your mates have got your back. I noticed the Wigan players glancing at us. I knew we had them. I knew they were not prepared to go as hard as we were. I felt in complete control.

  I’d had the weirdest conversation with Blackie after leaving Harry’s room the night before. He told me about his theory that there was an additional energy system, which very few people found because they were so tired, so consumed by cramp, that they lacked the will to push through an invisible psychological and physiological barrier.

  I broke through in extra time that night. I was exhausted and in pain when Charlie gave us the lead, six minutes in. I thought I was about to seize up. Remembering what Blackie had said, I kept pushing, pushing. Suddenly, I was filled with apparently limitless energy. It was surreal. It was as if I was in a different solar system. Wigan threw the lot at us, but I had laser-light focus. I ran, I tackled, I dragged people with me. I don’t care what anyone says, that was my greatest individual performance.

  But here’s the thing. I was completely detached from the jubilation around me in the dressing room afterwards. Emptiness signalled a job only half done. Derby had blitzed Brighton in the other semi-final. Steve McClaren was at Loftus Road as part of the Sky commentary team. Forget the Premier League riches on offer at Wembley, £134m according to more excitable observers – this was a personal crusade, not a business transaction for him.

  Harry came back from doing the press with a champagne-soaked suit, but I couldn’t wait to get into him, and his coaching staff. We couldn’t afford to have a single 95 per cent training session in the 11 days we had to prepare. Every team meeting, each drill, all our thoughts and actions had to be perfect. Otherwise the team with more natural talent, Derby, would win. They had a younger group, a more cohesive system, natural exuberance.

  I sat our media team down, and told them we were not giving Derby anything to work with. We would only put up people who would bore the journos to death, like dear old Rob Green and the reliably diplomatic Nedum Onuoha. We couldn’t afford to leave something on them in an interview, so Derby could pin it up on their notice board to get them going.

  I wanted the comms guys to help by monitoring everything the opposition said, so I could use it as fuel for us. They helped to compile a video, which featured club staff and our families wishing us the best for the final. In return, I promised them a performance.

  Memory is a weird and wonderful thing, isn’t it? I feel myself getting really emotional as these words fall on to the page. That’s pride in drawing a team together, I suppose. That’s the joy of being involved in professional football, empowering others by looking them in the eye and telling them what is expected.

  I sat down with the lads and continued the theme. We studied Derby with a depth we hadn’
t found all season. If we had done that quality of work, consistently, we would have gone up automatically. Our preparation was absolutely bob-on. As things turned out, it needed to be.

  Harry was inspired. He made a statement by binning Benoit Assou-Ekotto, the Cameroon fullback we had on loan from Tottenham. He had some talent, but was toxic, the biggest egg I’ve come across in football. He made 31 appearances, but lost the respect of the group in a game against Burnley, when he blamed a suspiciously sudden hamstring injury after losing the ball.

  He was a strange one, who took pride in his emotional detachment from football while trying to champion community causes. I’m the last one to complain when players amplify socio-political views through the media, but he acted insufferably, as if everyone was a fool but himself. Cicero, early in this chapter, makes the case against him for me.

  Harry’s pre-match analysis and team talk on the day filled us with further emotional energy. In that six-week period he had gone from the brink to being reborn as the boss. He was brilliant around the dressing room, having a quiet word here and there. It was personal, intense and above all credible. I studied the lads who had turned on him so recently. They were fucking having him now.

  Me, too. I had seen managers, and tough, physical players for that matter, wilt under the sort of pressure Harry had faced. He went up so much in my estimation for having the bollocks to assess the damage, change his outlook, and come out fighting. We were always going to win that playoff final. So many little things, apparently unconnected, came together.

  During the coaches’ meeting, before the away leg against Wigan, I caught Joe off guard by asking him what would happen if we went down to 10 men. He didn’t even want to contemplate the prospect, because he felt it would introduce an element of negativity. I argued that we had to plan for any eventuality. Plan for chaos.

  The scenarios were pretty predictable. Would we shut up shop if we went one-nil up? Would we go for it if we went one-nil down? How would we react if a defender was sent off? How would we reorganise if a midfield player got a red card? What was the contingency plan if Greeny, our goalkeeper, was injured, or hauled someone down?

  Questions were almost more important than answers, because they represented a winners’ mindset. Fail to prepare, prepare to fail, and all that. Harry took my side when I pushed for us to practise chaotic situations. It wasn’t needed in either leg against Wigan, but when Gary O’Neil sacrificed himself for the team in the final, by getting sent off for preventing Johnny Russell from taking a clear goal-scoring chance, the situation was familiar.

  We were already being battered and had a minimum of 31 minutes to play with 10 men. At certain stages of the season I would have seen people staring blankly into space, or looking down at their boots. Here I looked around and realised everyone was on it. Players were chirping, communicating: ‘Stay connected. Be positive. Talk to the guy next to you.’ It was a summary of everything Blackie had worked on with us.

  This is going to penalties. Blackie’s advice, dig in and win the next five minutes, becomes our mantra. ‘We win the next five minutes,’ screams Danny Simpson. Other voices, different accents, repeat the message. They build pressure, but we are as one. Simmo notices Nedum wavering. ‘Keep connected!’ he yells. ‘We can see this out.’ Chris Martin, the Derby striker, runs past and sniggers, ‘No fucking chance.’

  There’s our marginal gain, our critical 1 per cent, right there.

  I see Simmo morph into the inspirational figure who, two years later, would help Leicester City win the Premier League. I see Richard Dunne, the man with whom I have shared so much, good and bad, fill up. I see Bobby Zamora’s face harden. I look at Martin and think, ‘You have just fucked your team-mates over.’ Lads who were shattered, mentally and physically, are renewed.

  No chance? Really?

  Again, another of Blackie’s interventions has sudden relevance. He had come into the dressing room at the end of the first half, armed with real-time and historic data. He told us when Derby would be at their most vulnerable; no Championship team had conceded more goals in the last five minutes.

  We are in the 90th minute. Junior Hoilett beats Jake Buxton on the right-hand touchline, keeps his balance, and cuts the ball back into the penalty area. Richard Keogh’s scuffed clearance merely sets up Zammo to score with a whipped left-foot shot. Fucking hell, it’s weird. Zammo goes right, and runs through the corner flag. I wheel away in the opposite direction, both arms in the air.

  It is a first for me. I never celebrate on my own, when someone else scores. Yet I’m sprinting towards the left-hand touchline. I’m almost crying. This is phenomenal. I’m still emotionally charged when the final whistle goes, 60 seconds later. It is then, and only then, that I realise something sacred, something special.

  These are the days of our lives.

  There is so much stuff in football I am not proud of. There are so many things I have forgotten. Images, words, actions, moods stay with me, but I need TV footage to jog my memories of certain games. This is not one of them. The playoff final will be with me until the day I die. That group of players will remain a band of brothers when we are hobbling around on arthritic joints.

  We know. We share. We are.

  I still get sensory overload when I look back. I have to close my eyes to recapture the mood, envisage the scene. Chris Martin is crying. I console him, because I have been that dickhead. I shake his hand and that of each and every one of his team-mates, before walking up that endless staircase to collect a trophy that means nothing, and everything.

  I embrace Tony Fernandes, the owner we had hauled out of the shit. I share a beer with Blackie in the dressing room, and try to take it all in. Hilly, a Herculean figure, engulfs Greeny, the quiet hero. Simmo and Dunney exchange rebel yells. I sit with my old mucker from Manchester City’s youth team, Shaun Wright-Phillips. I attempt to explain a vision of Wembley, bathed in golden sunlight, which I had studied from my hotel bedroom window earlier that day.

  Amazingly, it doesn’t come across as fluffy bullshit.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  NO NONSENSE

  Actually, it was fluffy bullshit.

  We will always have Wembley, our sense of solidarity and wonder, but miracles have a short shelf life. By the second morning of pre-season training I was convinced immediate relegation was inevitable. That famous phrase, ‘Those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it’, had never felt more relevant.

  Football is a bit like crossing the road in heavy traffic. If you have a near miss, or, worse, get clipped by a car, you should be very vigilant the next time you need to reach the other side. QPR had been knocked down, recently relegated from the Premier League, but didn’t learn their lesson and ran blindly across the carriageway. It was just a question of how bad the collision was going to be.

  Lines of communication were open. I had spoken to a lot of people at the club, on a lot of different levels, that summer. I stressed to the owners and to Phil Beard, the chief executive, that we needed to protect and nurture the culture that had taken hold during the promotion run-in. Everyone was blissed-out, eager to agree, but it was a waste of breath.

  Madness had descended by the time we reported back. The talk was of money being at a premium and the squad being trimmed. A total of 16 players were moved out during the summer window. That number included accumulated dross from the Mark Hughes era, but also pivotal pros like Gary O’Neil and Danny Simpson.

  When, suddenly and inexplicably, the strategy changed and there was money to spend, it went on players who I thought were unfit for purpose. Once again, agents were lining up to staple the directors’ trousers to their ankles. You live and die by recruitment, and that means looking beyond players with decent names and extended careers. Bonds slackened, instead of being strengthened.

  The first major signing, Rio Ferdinand, summed up the indecision and inconsistency. I thought he was over the hill and didn’t have the legs for another Premier League season. If s
urvival was a priority, we had to recruit more pragmatically. Rio was 35. His physical attributes had diminished; he had been in and out of the Manchester United side for a very good reason.

  This was nothing personal, since I like Rio as a man. Anyone associated with six Premier League titles and a Champions League triumph has a winner’s mentality. But playing for a newly promoted team, at a club that has the additional pressure of being financially fragile, is very different. You get less respect, more distractions, no time on the ball. We just didn’t need a player like him, at that stage of his career. He was an unnecessary, unsustainable luxury.

  I found myself being dragged into an internal debate I didn’t need. I know my candour will be used against me, because it suits my preordained image as a gobby shop steward, but people in positions of authority wanted to know how I felt. In a perfect world such consultation would not lead to confrontation, but this was an imperfect storm.

  The uncertainty at the highest level of the club was unsettling, especially when it seemed that Harry Redknapp had given Rio his word he would sign him. When a protracted deal did go through, just before we left for a training camp in Germany, the implications were quickly apparent.

  Promotion had been founded on a solid back six, an ability to close out the game. Survival needed similar qualities. Yet Rio arrives, and it is all change, to a 3-5-2 system. I was first choice in that formation, but the first time we tried it in training, against a side playing a bog-standard 4-4-2, it was a shambles. The flaws were obvious.

  Rio and Steven Caulker, a lad who had a strangely inflated sense of his ability, made their debuts in a 2-0 defeat in a preseason friendly against RB Leipzig. The conditions, a gale-force wind and a blazing sun blotted out by a first-half monsoon, suited the mood. No one had a clue what was going on.