No Nonsense Page 25

  It was obvious we would go into the season unprepared, with about a 10-point handicap. That’s my calculation of the price of a club consumed by confusion. The dilemma was familiar: speak out, and be branded a troublemaker, or keep my counsel. In similar situations in the past I had reacted by lashing out, but this time I resolved to act out of character, and sit and suffer in silence.

  Believe me, I tried.

  Harry called a team meeting after another chaotic session. He explained that he had been influenced by Holland and Chile at the World Cup – 3-5-2 was the way forward. I was determined not to raise the issue in front of the group because that didn’t really serve anyone’s purpose, but the manager was insistent: ‘If anyone’s not happy, let’s hear it.’

  I’m thinking, ‘Please tell me this isn’t true’, and obviously didn’t do enough to disguise my body language. Harry singled me out. He wanted to know what I thought of his master plan. On one level, it was astute management, since it forced the issue into the open. On another, it was dangerously provocative, because I am not known for diplomatic niceties.

  Deep breath, Joseph. Here we go again . . .

  ‘No one has played that system successfully, with any longevity. No one, let alone a team going from the Championship to the Premier League. Juventus are probably the only side in Europe to have won things with it, but they are financially dominant in their league, and they have the best players. The system is basically irrelevant, especially here in England with an inferior, newly promoted team.

  ‘Juventus reached the Champions League final because Real Madrid basically fucked themselves by taking their eyes off the ball in the semi, but are usually found out in the latter stages of the competition. Holland used a number of different formations, and did what they had to do to counteract the opposition. Chile are effective in South America, but do you really think they can win a World Cup?

  ‘To play this way you need a really exceptional coach, and players who know the system. You haven’t got either. I’m sorry to upset people, but you did ask. You are trying to squeeze a square peg in a round hole. Rio might fit because he can play the sweeper role, but you simply haven’t got the personnel to make a go of it.

  ‘Deep down, in your heart of hearts, you don’t believe in this. You’ve gone away in the summer and people have got into your head. What’ll happen is, you’ll play three at the back and we’ll get absolutely twatted. Within five to 10 league games you’ll change, go back to 4-4-2, and the previous three months will be completely wasted.’

  As you can imagine, this did not go down well. Joe and Bondy were looking daggers. Harry tried to argue his case. It was the sort of subject that should have been discussed calmly, behind closed doors, as part of a more measured process. It hardly helped that Rio made a point of trying to pull me to one side as the lads were climbing back on the bus.

  My adrenaline was surging. I’d worked myself up into a bit of a lather. It was neither the time, nor the place, for a reasoned discussion but I did my best in the circumstances:

  ‘Look, Rio. I respect you as a player, for everything you’ve done in the game, but you’re completely wet behind the ears when it comes to this situation. I don’t want to fall out with you, but I’m telling you now, I’m absolutely bob-on with what I’m saying. If we go into the Premier League like this, you’re going to embarrass yourself and we’ll be relegated by February. How will you be remembered then?’

  He was adamant it was the best option, and to keep the peace I promised he had heard the last on the subject from me. Steve Black had missed the discussion, but immediately recognised the depth and delicacy of the issue. I needed to cool down, so he agreed to walk back to the hotel with me, instead of taking the coach.

  Appropriately, we got lost. A two-minute drive became a 100-minute routemarch. We ended up walking alongside a motorway, navigating our way back to base by Google maps on our phones. It was probably the best thing that could have happened, because it gave us time to work through the options, and plan my response.

  I had put myself out on a limb, yet again. I shouldn’t have been surprised that others didn’t have the courage of similar convictions, since footballers are conditioned to look after number one, but I was angry. My first thought was to cut my losses, demand a transfer. Blackie was more rational and delivered a simple message: ‘You cannot let anyone in this organisation affect your level of performance. We’re going to swim in a different direction.’

  That’s Blackie’s magic, seeing things that others miss, and doing things that others refuse to contemplate.

  He had got to know me well, in a relatively short space of time. My impulsive reaction is to challenge, to reflect emotion. If a coach or manager decides to take the piss, I will do the same to him. If a team-mate blatantly drops his standards, and no one else seems to care, I will let them toss it off. Inevitably, in either scenario, things come to a head.

  Blackie argued it was time to do something different. Take a step back, concentrate on maintaining the highest standards, and allow the politics to become someone else’s problem. Do not waste energy by being drawn into internal turmoil. I agreed to start a diary, to purge some of the frustrations. By the time we reached the hotel I had made a commitment to toe the party line, regardless. I would present Harry with solutions.

  We did what we should have done all along, and had a mature conversation in private after dinner that evening. He agreed he needed to identify players best suited to the new system, and took the point about the need for specific coaching expertise. I wondered whether he was trying to buy me off when he offered me the captaincy, since I knew Clint Hill, my roommate, hadn’t been consulted.

  I couldn’t agree to accept the job on that basis. Hilly was a friend, with high personal and professional standards. Harry accepted our compromise offer: Hilly would remain as club captain, on the proviso I would fill in if, for any reason, he was not selected. It was a bit of a charade, to be honest. We were shuffling deckchairs without deviating course, towards the iceberg.

  At least Blackie had scope to communicate the probable consequences. Since he had not been hired by Harry, his responsibility was to the chief executive. He didn’t mince his words, calling it the worst pre-season he had witnessed during 23 years at the highest level of professional sport. As so often in such situations, mistakes were compounded.

  Glenn Hoddle was recruited as first-team coach four days before we lost 1-0 at home to Hull on the opening day of 2014/15. He had been out of the game since being sacked as Wolves manager in 2006, and had evidently done little work on his people skills. I took an instant dislike to him because of his aloof manner, and because he was obviously Rio’s man.

  He was brought in to coach 3-5-2. Mauricio Isla arrived on loan from Juventus, with an £8m option to make the move permanent at the end of the season, because he could play in the system as a right wing-back or a right-sided central defender in a three. Eduardo Vargas, with whom he had formed an understanding in the Chilean national team, was recruited on loan from Napoli.

  So much for theory. Vargas needed three weeks to reach match fitness. Isla made his debut in a 4-0 defeat at Tottenham which prompted Harry to pull the sort of tyre-squealing U-turn more usually associated with desperate politicians. No manager likes to be shown up at his former club, and they had to fumigate White Hart Lane after we left.

  The holiday romance with 3-5-2 was over. Hoddle’s area of expertise had been abandoned. A much-changed team was knocked out of the League Cup by Burton Albion before the switch to a 4-2-3-1 formation paid immediate dividends in our next Premier League match, a 1-0 win over Sunderland. We were basically making things up as we went along.

  Another £24m was thrown at unconvincing signings such as Sandro, who was somehow allowed to play without a work permit until the Home Office intervened, three games from the end of another dysfunctional season. Harry detested his image as a wheeler-dealer, and wasn’t best pleased when the press boys calculated he’d bee
n involved in 89 separate transactions, including transfers and loans, in his 21 months at the club.

  We were bottom after winning only two of our first 12 matches. The dressing room was fractured and the mood was grim. Despite it all, I surprised myself by living up to Blackie’s challenge. I could have made things worse by sounding off, but remained relatively restrained. Harry became sombre, detached.

  Gallows humour flourished. The fate of Derby’s Chris Martin, whose immaturity symbolised their failure in the previous season’s playoff final, became a running joke in our dressing room. Whenever we suffered a new setback, or a recurring problem, someone would pipe up with, ‘At least we’re not like Chris Martin, having another year in the Championship.’

  That would happen soon enough. The January window was a shambles. We took a £1.25m hit on Jordon Mutch, who made only nine appearances before being sold to Crystal Palace, and brought in a single player on loan, Mauro Zarate from West Ham. The less said about him, the better. He lasted only four matches.

  Harry was good with me, because he was smart enough to trust me, but the timing of his departure, the day after the window closed, was the kiss of death. I’ve never asked about his motives; it seems a little pointless. Hoddle left with him, citing his loyalty, but that was incidental. Even Jose Mourinho could not have saved a disenchanted, disunited squad from themselves.

  Supporters aren’t stupid in these situations. Diehards have surprisingly good intelligence networks. They seemed to sense I was doing my best in a truly bad team. I felt for Chris Ramsey, a development coach uprooted from the academy and thrown into the trenches by his mate, our new director of football Les Ferdinand.

  Chris was out of his depth as a first-team manager. He was proficient technically, and had a strong character, but lacked authority and political nous. Our relationship was substantial enough to survive regular disagreements on matters of football principle. I fulfilled my promise to keep a lid on things on the dressing room, but he didn’t have a chance.

  I responded to the inadequacies of my surroundings by choosing to work harder. On Blackie’s advice, I did extra training at St Mary’s with Jonathan Griffin, a performance coach who specialises in strength and conditioning. Our sessions, on Monday afternoons and all day on Wednesday, footballers’ traditional day off, were consistently stimulating.

  Relegation, as predestined as turning over a new page on the calendar at the end of the month, was an afterthought. As I assessed my future in the spring and summer of 2015, with my contract coming to an end, I was in transition. It was a little too early to pursue a secondary career in coaching and management, far too late to avoid collateral damage caused by my reputation.

  I began to discover that even strong managers, men’s men, were fearful of me. The phone did not ring as often as I assumed it would. It dawned on me, slowly, that it was foolish to expect everyone to see the world through my eyes. I had to reverse the process, and see me from the perspective of others. This was a fundamental test of will.

  Football is a corporate world, in which bland people sell their soul. Important decisions are taken on hearsay, the word of mates. Favours are quietly called in. Characters like me, who are determined to remain true to themselves, stand out. I would have followed an easier path had I pretended to be something, or someone, I was not. I would probably have won more England caps and played for bigger clubs.

  I’m still judgemental, but I’m learning to take a more considered view. I used to resent anyone who didn’t think like me. I used to confuse their determination to smooth their passage, to pay their mortgage, with a lack of love for the game. Now I accept their point of difference. It doesn’t necessarily make them bad people.

  Keeping a diary has been huge for me. I used to turn inward, because I felt I could not trust anyone. Slights, real or imagined, became greater. Anger simmered. The act of writing those feelings down gives me a sense of freedom. I look back at them and realise they are fleeting emotions. I refocus on a bigger picture.

  This is what I’m here for. This is what it is all about. This is what I want to do.

  I can reprogramme my thoughts quickly, because I can no longer filter the world according to my mood. My thoughts and actions are down there, on the page, in black and white. I have to respond to them. That might mean apologising to the lads because I have been moaning. It might mean taking heed of a small step forward, or backward.

  I used to have no capability to move on. I would self-justify, wilfully confuse malevolence with honesty. I would excuse bad behaviour by convincing myself I needed to be feared in a horrible dog-eat-dog world. Now I refuse to hide. People who back away are fated never to improve.

  My fuck-ups are a matter of public record. I’ve had difficulty fitting in. I’ve felt obliged to suppress certain elements of my character. It is a leap of faith to suggest I have finally mellowed, but I’ve learned I am happiest when I am at my most open. This book, and my media work, are elements of my search for meaningful interaction.

  I don’t bite, but I will have my relapses, especially when I feel I have been backed into a corner. It would be ridiculous for me to think everything is going to be perfect, but if I keep working on things I can control, keep speaking to people in a spirit of mutual respect and tolerance, life will be so much easier for me.

  I don’t profess to know everything. I am just trying to make sense of what is going on around me. I’m trying to cultivate an ability to think clearly and critically when the distress signals have been launched. How does this particular situation look to other people? Why not encircle the problem, take your bearings, and make a call based upon a 360-degree assessment of the situation?

  The fundamental problem is my professional environment. My bluntness is based on the received wisdom that there is no time to waste in football. As a player I have no control over the people around me, other than the delivery of an opinion. I’m changing as a man, off the pitch, but am I changing fast enough to outrun assumptions of who I am?

  Jail was a starting point in the process of research and renewal, but it was the Tevez incident that made me appreciate I had to align alternative worlds, the personal and professional. I matured in Marseille, advanced and then retreated at QPR until I realised I could not afford to be tainted by any club’s institutional failings.

  My mistake was in assuming that everyone in the game is as analytical as me, when it comes to big career decisions. Whenever a manager phoned me that summer, to test the water, I compiled a dossier on him. I wanted to know about him mentally, physically, emotionally. What was his nature? How did he plan his sessions? What were his tactical touchstones? How did he structure his week?

  I know this appears presumptuous, but I almost turned the interview process on its head. Did he have the mental strength to engage with me on those terms? Was he secure in himself? Was the structure above him stable? Money wasn’t an issue for me since I was determined it would never again be a primary source of motivation.

  I was very impressed when I first spoke to Sean Dyche, soon after the end of the season, but didn’t get the same sense of solidity when I went to see Dougie Freedman at Nottingham Forest. I liked him, but he was a bit soft-soapy. I’ll admit to having had the unworthy, uncomfortable thought: ‘You couldn’t handle me. I’d end up taking your job because I’m the stronger personality.’

  I spoke to Steve McClaren a couple of times about returning to Newcastle United, but soon got word there was more chance of Mike Ashley renouncing his wealth and reinventing himself in an Indian ashram. That’s a shame, but hardly surprising.

  Slaven Bilic was impressive. Sardonic, passionate and convincing. He spoke in detail about where he saw me playing for him, and gave me a summary of my strengths. It seemed a good fit. West Ham’s co-owners, David Sullivan and David Gold, had tried to sign me for Birmingham City, and I trained with the team for a couple of days. I even successfully completed a medical.

  Somewhere it cyberspace, it all fell apart. A vocal m
inority of West Ham fans reacted as if they were about to be represented by a serial killer. I was in the dark, as most players are in such situations, but there was a change of heart. That’s life. Things have subsequently worked out well for them, and for me. There’s no bitterness on my part.

  I was confident I would be successful wherever I ended up, because I was in a good place mentally, but it was a reality check. It can get lonely up there, on the shelf. There is too much time to think. It was strange being on the outside, looking in. I played golf, went to the gym to tick over, and did things around the house but gradually felt myself withdrawing.

  Georgia was first to pick up on my unease. No surprise there, since she knows me so well. I had to level with her. I loved seeing the kids, and appreciated the pleasures of domestic life, but there was something missing. She didn’t need to be told what that was. ‘You’re miserable without football,’ she said. ‘Do yourself a favour – get out there, find yourself a club and be happy.’

  Though comfortable with quick decisions, I knew I could no longer live on my wits. I kept coming back to the obvious conclusion that the next move would help to define my career progression over the next five to 10 years. Burnley was a balanced environment, in which I could learn from the sort of manager I aspire to become.

  Sean Dyche saw through the tat and the tinsel. He laughed at the chutzpah of my sales pitch that signing me as a free agent was an absolute no-brainer for a manager who had anything about him. He wasn’t bothered by the distraction of a couple of stupid tweets I had posted in May 2014, disparaging Burnley as a town. He was warned off by other managers, but made up his own mind.

  The true measure of the man was not in getting Burnley promoted on a minimal budget in 2014, but in his refusal to break the club financially through a mixture of panic and personal vanity when they were in the Premier League in 2015. Other managers would have had no compunction in emptying the cupboards, picking up their compo, and leaving them in the shit.