The Nowhere Men (16 page)

The agony of self-doubt deepened in the 51st minute when Eastwood controlled Hall’s long ball, cut inside, and attempted a speculative shot, which went in off Butland’s right arm. ‘Oh Jack,’ Johnson exclaimed, as the magnitude of the misjudgement sank in. ‘What a nightmare.’ The mental degradation was almost complete. Butland’s inner turmoil began to affect his kicking. Usually it was one of the better elements of his game; he was comfortable on the ball, which he struck with a languid grace that evoked comparisons with a finely honed golf swing. Now he began to unravel technically. He was slicing his clearances and goal kicks with the undisguised desperation of a weekend hacker. It was no real surprise when, midway through the second half, Butland dived over a straightforward 20-yard shot by Bilel Mohsni.

‘This is the real world,’ said Dyer, breaking an uncomfortable silence.

‘If I didn’t know him I would have crossed him off, but I know he is better than this,’ replied Johnson.

‘He’s eighteen. He’s only a baby. He’s got twenty more years ahead of him as a goalkeeper, at least.’

‘I know, but what worries me is his heart. He looks right – he has great size, all the attributes – but does he have that inner strength?’

For me, it was a moment of epiphany. The scout’s trick, of concentrating on an individual with a lover’s intensity, was becoming instinctive. The colours of the crowd began to coalesce. Eventually they were as monochromatic as the floodlights, set against the inky darkness of the night sky. The chants were muffled to the point of inaudibility. Senses were subjugated, yet heightened. My field of vision was filled by a big boy, lost. Butland exuded a touching vulnerability. His unconscious act of chewing the neckband of his shirt was a child-like gesture, which radiated fearfulness and isolation. He would periodically exhale so violently that his chest heaved, and his breath condensed in the cold air. He attempted to maintain appearances by barking orders at his defenders, but they, too, were being consumed by the quicksand of self-doubt.

Dyer was impressed by Hills, who would eventually sign for another interested witness, Stevenage manager Gary Smith. Like Johnson, Dyer prepared to leave with ten minutes still to play. He had a late-night fare to pick up at Stanstead airport. ‘Regular punter,’ he reported. ‘He comes in from Gibraltar, with plenty of readies. Always pays in euros. Ask no questions, eh?’ Johnson smiled, and said his goodbyes. His report would be in the Anfield system by 2 a.m. He felt the night had to be put into the context of Butland’s previous excellence. His view, together with video clips of the goals, stimulated immediate debate about the nature of Liverpool’s interest. Achterberg, in particular, was unimpressed. But first, Johnson had to deal with a text message from Mark Cartwright, Butland’s representative. ‘Not a good scoreline. How was Jack?’ it read. The reply was brief, but heartfelt: ‘Don’t ask.’

Destiny beckoned, with a wink and seductive grin. Anyone who suggested, at that moment, in the early hours of March 31, 2012, that within five months Butland would become England’s youngest goalkeeper, after playing for Team GB in the Olympic Games, would have been humoured, pitied or sent to lie down with a soothing mug of cocoa. Yet football has an infinite capacity to amaze and appal. Providence had its eye, also, on Liverpool.

The following Friday, Good Friday, Johnson picked up Damien Comolli at Gatwick airport. The Frenchman had been summoned to the United States to see Liverpool owner John W. Henry, where he presented an overview of the club’s redevelopment. He and the scout to whom he was most closely aligned ran a final check on Crewe’s Nick Powell in a 1–1 draw at Crawley Town. They left when he was substituted eight minutes from time, discouraged by well-sourced intelligence that Manchester United intended to activate their option to sign him, for a fee of £4 million.

The weekly conference call between the main players in the recruitment department took place, as usual, on the Tuesday, after the extended holiday weekend. On Wednesday Comolli was called into another emergency meeting, in Liverpool city centre. On Thursday Liverpool’s official website was leading with a preview of the weekend’s FA Cup semi-final against Everton, featuring Steven Gerrard. It was entitled ‘Make yourself a hero.’ Then, in early afternoon, it carried a fateful four-paragraph statement:

Fenway Sports Group and Liverpool FC confirmed today that Director of Football Damien Comolli has left the Club by mutual consent.

Principal Owner John Henry said: ‘We are grateful for all of Damien’s efforts on behalf of Liverpool and wish him all the best for the future.’

Liverpool Chairman Tom Werner added: ‘The Club needs to move forward and we now have a huge game on Saturday. It is important that everyone joins us in supporting the manager and gets behind Kenny and the team and focuses on a strong finish to the season.’

Damien Comolli commented: ‘I am grateful to have been given the opportunity to work at Liverpool and am happy to move on from the Club and back to France for family reasons. I wish the Club all the best for the future.’

Johnson was at home, setting up a DVD, when he received a call from Andy Stevens, one of Liverpool’s part-time scouts. ‘Have you seen
Sky Sports News
?’ he asked, breathlessly. ‘If not, get it on.’ As Johnson did so, with a mounting sense of dread, he instinctively flicked on to his emails. There, in his inbox, was an unread message from Comolli: ‘Thank you for all your hard work. I will contact you soon.’ The rest of the day sped by in a blur. Shock quickly mutated into alarm:

‘Bloody hell. Where do I start? The phone, text and email has gone mad. I’m ploughing through the messages, getting back to people. It’s a massive shock. Everything looked OK. After Damien’s meeting with the owners in the States we were talking about our plans, players and money. We carried on as normal. He sent me an email about targets yesterday and then, bang. I know this is football and you shouldn’t be shocked but . . .’

Insecurity has an avalanche’s speed and destructive power. It swallows people, whole. Steve Hitchen was immediately besieged by his network of international scouts. All were anxious, yet aware their contacts were transferable. If they were surplus to requirements, they had arrangements to make. Hitchen sought an early meeting with the Liverpool hierarchy to stress the scouting staff’s need for reassurance. Airy public statements, reiterating support for Kenny Dalglish, were of limited relevance. Lines of communication were fractured, and Chinese Whispers multiplied. The sacking of Peter Brukner, the club’s head of sports medicine and science, and suggestions that Achterberg would be moved on at the end of the season, were ominous. ‘We just don’t know who is going to be our boss,’ said Johnson. ‘We will be seen as Damien’s men, but all of us want to stay at Liverpool Football Club, if they want us.’

Concern scoured his vocal chords, but professional pride dictated his priorities. On Friday he took a brief break from preparing a profile of Paulo Gazzaniga, an imposing young Argentine goalkeeper who had ma-terialised at Gillingham, to take Jan, his partner, for lunch. Even during that respite, 17 messages stockpiled on his mobile phone. Callers were split into two distinct groups. The first, professional acquaintances, were seeking inside information on events at Anfield. They could be fobbed off with generalities. The second were friends from within the game, whose concerns were more personal. They ranged from managers, such as Jackett and Gary Waddock, to fellow scouts, like the venerable John Griffin, a man of huge knowledge and instinctive kindness, who was working in impoverished circumstances alongside Waddock at Wycombe Wanderers.

Saturday was surreal, a fusion of the past and an uncertain future. Johnson was in the car park at the Kassam Stadium, listening on the radio as Andy Carroll, a central character in Comolli’s downfall, scored the 87th minute headed goal which took Liverpool into the FA Cup final. He was accompanied by Dean Austin, whose professional duty, assessing Gazzaniga’s potential for Bolton, gave him the opportunity to offer moral support. When Johnson entered the press room, which doubled as a watering hole for the scouts, he was approached by a string of colleagues. Most offered sympathy as bait. At least one, Bob Shaw, seemed authentic in his compassion.

Shaw was a month from his 65th birthday, but looked 15 years younger. His shoulders were broad, and though his torso was encased in a leather bomber jacket, zipped to the chin, there was no sign of excess fat around his waist. His eyes were clear, and his silver hair was short and neat. His opinions, incisive and robust, reflected a schizophrenic working life. He had combined 34 years underground, as a coal miner, with spells as chief scout at Hull, Derby, Bolton and Sunderland, where he was a victim of a purge instigated by Roy Keane. He was compiling opposition reports for Plymouth Argyle, as a favour to Peter Reid.

‘I’m glad I didn’t need football to bring up my family,’ he told Johnson, as they sipped tea from polystyrene cups. ‘We’ve all taken the wrong jobs for the money, and we all know that if there are problems, people are managed out of football clubs. When I get this season out of the way I’ll take a long hard look at things. I’ll only take the job I want, for the right reasons.’

A contemplative mood settled on the conversation. Shaw recalled his father, who worked in the coalfields of the East Midlands from the age of 14 to merciful retirement, at 65. He contracted pneumoconiosis, a lung disease caused by breathing in dust from coal, graphite or man-made carbon over a sustained period. The legacy of his employment was a hacking cough and shortness of breath, caused by dust which had drastically reduced his lung capacity. The family fought for years to gain appropriate compensation; he died soon after the legal battle was won.

Oxford summoned memories of Johnson’s father, who worked for 25 years on the Morris production line in nearby Cowley. The scout scanned the city, shimmering in the spring sunshine beyond the opposite stand in the three-sided ground, and pointed out the factory. ‘This is my club, really,’ he said, in a tone which suggested he longed for lost innocence. ‘This isn’t a proper ground, like the Manor. I was brought up on Oxford United. Those were the days of Ron Atkinson and his brother Graham. They won us the Southern League in sixty-two. Happy days . . .’

He was roused from his reverie by the appearance of Gazzaniga, who had also attracted the attention of Jim Barron, from Everton, and Perry Suckling, goalkeeping coach at the Tottenham Academy. Tall, 6ft 5in, and athletic, he was from good goalkeeping stock. Born in Murphy, on the outskirts of Santa Fe, he moved to Spain at the age of 15 with his divorced father David, who held the appearance record for a goalkeeper at River Plate. His move to Gillingham, after his release by Valencia, was facilitated by Gary Penrice, Wigan’s European scout.

Johnson’s journey was worthwhile within minutes. Oxford’s Asa Hall was allowed to turn, on the edge of the six-yard box. His shot was instant, firm and destined for the bottom corner. Gazzaniga showed remarkable elasticity, throwing himself down, to his right, to make one of the best one-handed saves I have seen. Johnson made eye contact, and paused for dramatic effect. ‘That,’ he said, ‘was a truly great save. We’re on to something here.’ Meanwhile, below us, Gillingham captain Andy Frampton broke professional protocol and applauded the youngster with big hands and a big future.

Austin was making notes on his BlackBerry, which would be transferred on to his online database. He still yearned to coach or manage, and there was a rigour to his analysis with which many of the part-time scouts around him could not compete. His portrayals of players could be cutting, but they were concise and unerringly accurate. One glance at Gillingham’s corpulent striker Danny Kedwell prompted him to type the dismissive words ‘will always be non-league’. It also led to the creation of the sort of nickname which tends to stick.

‘They got him from AFC Wimbledon, didn’t they?’ asked Johnson, with mock innocence. ‘KFC Wimbledon, more like.’ Austin, attuned to the caustic humour of the dressing room, beamed. He, too, recognised the potential enshrined in The Save, but noticed room for improvement. ‘You can see he’s a kid who has not played many games,’ he confided. ‘Look how he is trying to drill his goal kicks into the wind, on to KFC’s head. This is a strange ground, because of the open end, and he’s trying to be too precise. That’s why he’s kicking them out of the park. There’s an awful lot there to work with though. He’ll soon be able to do the lot.’

The game deteriorated rapidly into a dour goalless draw, which benefited neither team, whose hopes of a place in the League Two play-offs were receding. It also invited more acidic comment. Liam Davis, a rangy centre half, saved Oxford with two last-ditch interceptions. Austin was unequivocal: ‘He’s got everything you need to be a top player except the one thing you cannot be without – a heart.’ He was especially irked by the response of Gavin Tomlin to his early substitution. ‘Doesn’t look like he’s got an attitude, does it?’ he remarked, as the Gillingham striker trudged off with the sullenness of an adolescent making the walk of shame out of the pub after being refused a pint following the presenting of a fake ID.

Rather than joining Austin in an early exit, Johnson waited for the traffic to clear. He was in reflective vein, and dwelled on the frustration radiated by the younger man: ‘Deano would make an exceptional scout, because of his tactical and technical appreciation of the game, but he wants to coach. I really feel for him. He gets upset when he sees people without his talent and drive getting jobs, while he is on the outside, looking in. I can understand that, because he is a fantastic judge of a player.’

Footballers know their own kind. Immediately after he had showered, Frampton sat in the away dressing room and sent a text to a friend. It read: ‘Paulo’s just put another nought on his fee.’ The defender, a model professional with managerial potential, explained: ‘Word moves fast at our level. He knows the interest he’s generating. He shares a car with Danny Kedwell. He doesn’t know much English, but today, driving in to catch the bus, he just said “Sunderland?” Yup, we told him, that’s a big club.