The Second Half (23 page)

Chelsea hammered us 5–0, but Chelsea could do that to anybody. The killer was Portsmouth, at home. We battered them. Their winner was a penalty, in injury time. Who gave away the penalty? Diouf – on as a sub. He just booted the lad up in the air. It was an unbelievable foul.

In the dressing room after, I said, ‘Dioufy, what were you doing?’

He said, ‘Well, I was just trying to tackle him.’

I think he’d been angry when I put him on, frustrated that he hadn’t started the game.

It was a sticky patch we were going through, but not that sticky. We were still averaging a point a game. But there were rumours circulating at the time that I was going to leave, that I’d lost my rag with everybody and had had enough. It was nonsense. In Sunderland and Newcastle there’s a big rumour every few months. And I was facing that one. I’d missed one or two days’ training. But I’d do that sometimes. I’d step back, to give people a break from me. I’d be elsewhere, meeting people, or at matches. It was a step back from the training ground, not from work. I don’t think it’s a good idea for the manager to be visible every day. But the story this time was that I hadn’t been to training at all and I wouldn’t be going to our next game, at Blackburn.

We stayed in the Hilton Hotel, in Manchester, the night before the Blackburn game. I’d missed the meal, and when I got there I think it was Yorkie who said, ‘Oh, we heard you’d resigned.’

We turned it into a bit of banter.

The next day, at Blackburn, we were 1–0 down. Our two strikers, Cissé and Kenwyne Jones, are giving us nothing. It was like we were playing with nine men. I ripped into them at halftime. I probably went overboard; it was a gamble. I thought they’d either respond to it – ‘We’ll show you’ – or they’d sulk.

We went out in the second half and Kenwyne scored inside a minute. Then Cissé scored. He ran over to the dugout and shook my hand. It was nice; I enjoyed it. I thought, ‘Fair play to yeh.’ What I liked about Cissé, he took his bollocking. He didn’t sulk. He just went and scored the winning goal.

Things were rosy again in the garden.

But we lost, at home, to West Ham, and again, to Bolton, 4–1. The pressure was on. Home form is vital. We’d lost at home to Portsmouth, we’d lost at home to West Ham, we’d lost at home to Bolton. I think the fans wouldn’t have minded losing the away games. But we were doing okay in the away games, and struggling at home. It wasn’t acceptable. The vast majority of the fans are seeing you at home.

I’d hoped that we could get Bolton relegated at the end of the previous season. But they’d beaten us, and stayed up. I always thought they were a team that could cause us difficulties. I’d gone to see them play at Middlesbrough the week before. I went to the game with Tony Loughlan and Ricky Sbragia. I was driving. We were chatting about management, and I asked Tony if he’d ever be interested in becoming a manager.

And Tony said, ‘Nah, nah – I’d prefer to be out on the grass.’

So I went, ‘What about you, Ricky?’

‘No, no—!’

It was a proper overreaction.

Myself and Tony both went, ‘Relax – it was just a question.’

But Ricky went, ‘It’s not for me – it’s not for me, gaffer.’

I said, ‘All right, Ricky, it was only a fuckin’ question.’

Bolton beat Middlesbrough 3–1 that day. They were strong and physical. A week later, on 29 November, they beat us 4–1. The stats were ridiculous; we had so much possession. They had four shots on target. We were 1–0 ahead; Cissé scored again. But, on the back of two or three defeats, we were nervous playing at home.

Craig Gordon was carrying an injury and I’d asked him to play. He said, ‘Yeah’, he’d have a go, but he got injured again in the game. He played on. I feel bad about that; I shouldn’t have played Craig. I know, we sometimes have to ask players who are injured to play. But this was too much of a risk. He was very unlucky. Prior to signing him, when he played at Hearts he never missed a game. His record was brilliant. He came to us and had a string of injuries, bad ones for a goalkeeper, broken wrists and ankles.

There was a lot of booing after the game, a lot of disappointment. They were booing me this time, and the team. It was a ‘we’re fuckin’ fed up’ type of booing.

I stayed in Sunderland that night and the players came in to training the next day. It wasn’t a punishment. We’d planned to bring them in on Sunday, and we were going to give them the Monday off. We’d bring them in the day after a match, to check on them – any injuries or knocks from the game, precautionary stuff, standard procedure. If I was doing it again, I’d give them the day after the game off and bring them in the day after that. Their minds are elsewhere, especially after being beaten – everyone’s down. Especially on a Sunday.

I was still angry that morning. Not that we’d lost but at the way we’d lost. It wasn’t that we’d downed tools; we hadn’t. In terms of the stats, we’d had more than decent possession, and we’d made twice as many passes as Bolton. But, I know – try explaining that to supporters when they’ve just watched you
lose 4–1. But we’d been nervous. Individual mistakes – giving daft goals away.

But there was no argument, and no outbursts. I was disappointed that we were struggling. But I’d been in the game for almost twenty years, and I still knew that things weren’t so bad.

I drove home to my family after training on Sunday afternoon. I pulled over on the way back. I was knackered, and I had a snooze in the car, on the side of the A19. I don’t remember ever having done that before.

There’d been no phone calls from the owner, or from Niall, after the game. There’d been no panic. But I spoke to Niall on Monday. He was in Portugal, playing golf. I can’t remember if he phoned me or I phoned him. We rarely spoke after a game. Niall mentioned that the players should be coming into training with smiles on their faces. I got the impression he’d been speaking to one or two players who’d been left out.

I said, ‘I don’t expect to see people with smiles on their faces when we get beaten. If you want that, you should have employed Roy Chubby Brown.’

We were there to win matches and, if we lost, I expected people to be upset. The conversation wasn’t too intense or awkward, but it was the first time Niall had talked about a team matter in the two and a bit years that I’d been at the club. So it was a bit strange. But he was the chairman and entitled to say anything like that.

Later, Niall said that he hadn’t used those words; he’d said that he wanted me to come back with new energy and a smile on
my
face – something like that.

I stayed at home on Tuesday and headed back up to Sunderland on Wednesday. Our reserves were playing United that night, and I was going up a touch earlier. I’d be staying in Sunderland for the rest of the week. We had a match against United on Saturday.

While I was driving, the owner rang me.

He said, ‘I hear you’re coming in one day a week.’

I said, ‘One day a week? Who were you talking to?’

‘Well, that’s what I heard.’

I went, ‘It’s nonsense. How could I come in one day a week? I’m on the way up now anyway. We’ve got a game on Saturday.’

He said he was disappointed with the Bolton result. His tone wasn’t good.

‘Your location – where you live. You need to move up with your family.’

I was in the third year of a three-year contract. The arrangement – the flat in Durham, my family in Manchester – had suited everybody, until now.

I said, ‘We’ve had a bit of success. Why should I move up now?’

He said, ‘I think it’s important that you live in the area.’

I’m not sure if I said something like, ‘Why don’t you move up?’ He lived in London. But I did say, ‘I’m not moving. I’m in the last six or seven months of my contract anyway.’

It might have been a different conversation if we’d been talking face-to-face. Then I might have said, ‘Well, if I sign a new contract, I’ll move up. I can understand that.’

But I said, ‘It’s not affected results previously.’

The conversation didn’t end well. It was a case of ‘No one tells me where I should live’; and the accusation that I was only coming in one day a week hung there.

There is always hearsay about managers at football clubs – there are always rumours. ‘He comes in at seven in the morning’ – ‘he’s sleeping with a girl from the office’ – ‘he’s a big drinker’. They’re always there – ‘he’s a loner’ – ‘he’s too friendly with the players’. I’d lived through my career with those rumours. ‘Brian Clough is rarely in’ – it didn’t bother me. ‘Jack Charlton lets them
go for a drink’, and we loved him for it. If Ellis Short actually thought that I was trying to run the team on a day a week he should have arranged to see me. I thought he was talking down to me; he spoke to me like I was something on the bottom of his shoe. I felt I’d been doing reasonably well, so far. So I thought, ‘I’m not putting up with this.’

I drove home.

I phoned Michael Kennedy in the car.

‘Listen, Michael, I’m not having all of this.’

Michael spoke to Niall. Niall wasn’t sure why the conversation between myself and Ellis Short had ended so badly. Apparently Ellis Short was surprised that I was so upset.

And, before I knew it – it was over.

Tony Loughlan got in touch with me on Thursday morning. He’d been told that Ricky would be taking the team for Saturday’s game against United, and that I wouldn’t be going back.

Michael had been talking to Niall.

Niall texted me, saying he’d sort the contracts out.

It must have been difficult for Niall.

Peter Walker, the chief executive, had left the club a few months earlier. I’d only met the new man, Steve Walton, once, with Niall.

There was an agreement within twenty-four hours that I would leave. There’d be a severance payment, and we’d move on. Statements were issued. It was over.

I was very disappointed, but not really shocked – although it was very sudden.

Later, Ellis Short said he’d been very taken aback at my reaction to his phone call. That might be true, but he never picked up the phone to me, to see if there’d been a misunderstanding or to arrange for us to speak again properly. Later he said that he
wasn’t trying to question my commitment or insist on moving my family to Sunderland. I don’t think he was sorry to see me go, and I didn’t want to work for him.

You lose a few matches, and suddenly everybody questions where you live.

The media reports said I’d left, I’d walked, I’d resigned. But I didn’t resign. We agreed, mutually, that we’d part ways. There was a statement from Sunderland, saying that everything had been agreed amicably. But then I had to wait ages before I was paid.

I collected my bits and pieces from the flat in Durham but I didn’t go back to the club. Tony collected my things from my office for me. Ricky took the job till the end of the season, and I was left wondering why he’d reacted that way when I’d asked him if he fancied management, the week before.

I didn’t resign or walk out. I said I couldn’t work with Ellis Short. An agreement was reached. I wasn’t answerable to Ellis Short. I was answerable to the chairman or the chief executive. ‘Walking out’ is an unfair expression. Sometimes a manager’s position is just impossible.

My career at Sunderland ended after a difficult three or four weeks. Not two or three months, like I’ve seen other managers get. We were still on a point a game. If you kept that up for ten years, you’d still be in the Premiership.

But it was over.

It still saddens me. I still think I should be the manager of Sunderland. I really liked the club, and I liked the people.

I can be critical of myself about many things. I know I could be more tolerant of people. I know my recruitment could have been a lot better – and, ultimately, that will make or break you. But the idea that I wasn’t a hard worker, or that I only turned up now and again – it was nonsense. I knew when to go in and
when to dip out, to recharge the batteries or give people a break from me.

We’d some games coming up, and I knew there were a couple of good results around the corner.

Not long before, there’d been talk of a contract extension. Now, I was gone. A bad spell is always coming. But I think I’d earned the right to get through that spell. Again – it was weeks, not months.

But Ellis Short was new – and I wasn’t his manager. He owed me nothing. He wasn’t there when we were promoted. I’d done nothing for him yet. I should have read that script a little bit better.

It’s probably true that the working relationship was never going to work, and not because he was some big, bad Texan and I was some grumpy Northsider from Cork. I don’t like being spoken down to.

Steve Bruce rang me the following summer, when he was offered the Sunderland job.

I said, ‘Go for it.’

I said the same thing to Martin O’Neill.

A few days after I left Sunderland, Yorkie texted me:
All the best
. I texted him back:
Go fuck yourself
.

I saw him a few years ago. We both played in a charity match. We said hello to each other, but there was no real conversation. And it’s sad, because I had great days with Yorkie. I could have handled things differently.

TEN

Maybe I’m just making loads and loads of excuses.

The penny only dropped when I left Ipswich: the owner, the chief executive and the manager had never met together while I was there. Marcus Evans, Simon Clegg and myself were never in the same room. There was the occasional video link-up to the owner, but the three of us never met. I’d meet the owner, Marcus, but Simon, the chief executive, wouldn’t be there. I’d meet with Simon, but the owner wouldn’t be there. Or they met when I wasn’t there. I never once said, ‘Can the three of us get together, to see about getting some players in?’ There was never that trust – never.

You need to see people’s eyes.

Michael Kennedy gave me a call. Niall had been at some sort of club owners’ meeting, and he’d bumped into Marcus Evans, the owner of Ipswich Town. Whatever was said between them, Niall phoned Michael, and Michael called me. Would I go and meet Marcus Evans in London?

I got the train, then a car to his house in The Boltons, in Chelsea. He lived a few doors away from Ellis Short.

This was in April. It was five or six months since I’d stopped working at Sunderland. After the initial shock, I hadn’t been missing the buzz of management. I wasn’t pining. Once I knew it was over, it was over. It might seem like a cold attitude, but I always remember the club chairman talking to Brian Clough in
The Damned United
: ‘First there’s the chairman, then there’s the directors, then there’s the fans and the players, and then, bottom of the pile, there’s the fuckin’ manager.’

The manager is important, but not that important. I always knew I’d be gone one day. But, at the same time, I felt I hadn’t finished the job at Sunderland because of the way things had ended. You always want to prove people wrong.

We’re almost brainwashed into thinking that the longer we’re out of work the harder it is to get back in. I was a bit anxious about it. The list of good ex-managers who’ve been forgotten about is frightening. But I felt I’d done enough at Sunderland to give me a chance.

I should have been more patient.

I met Marcus Evans. It was just the two of us. We talked about the club, how he’d bought it, how it’d been struggling, and would I be interested in managing it? It was an interview, I think. The job wasn’t just there if I wanted it. He wasn’t offering me anything. A nice guy – I liked him. I thought I’d be able to work for Marcus. I told him we’d see how it went, and I went back up home.

In the meantime, there were one or two conversations. A lawyer representing Marcus Evans spoke to Michael about potential terms. Then I was asked if I’d go back down to London, for another chat. Marcus was happy with how the first one had gone and just wanted to confirm his impressions. So I went back – I’m guessing it was a week or two later.

Ipswich already had a manager at this time, Jim Magilton. I was being touted for a job that was already occupied. But I didn’t
feel too bad about that. It’s not good, but it’s standard practice. I thought it was all right to chat about the job. I hadn’t agreed to take it.

I didn’t feel too sorry for Jim Magilton. I felt he’d let me down with a player when I was managing Sunderland. He was supposed to take Tommy Miller off me. We’d agreed a deal. The transfer deadline came – I can’t remember which one it was. But Ipswich pulled out of the deal.

I rang Jim Magilton.

I said, ‘What’s happening? I’ve turned down other deals for Tommy because you said he was going to you.’

He was proper aggressive; he didn’t give a fuck. It was all ‘Fuck you’, and me back to him, ‘Fuck you, you’re a fuckin’ joke.’ But it started at his end.

So, part of my thinking was, ‘Fuck’m.’

It’s the business. I found out later that another manager spoke to Marcus Evans while I was still the Ipswich manager. Today, I don’t think I’d do it. If a club offered me the job while the manager was still in place, I’d probably say, ‘No. But you know where I am.’ But it’s like any other business; the club has to plan ahead. I was speaking to Ipswich while the manager was still there. But they’d approached me, and it was the first approach I’d had since Sunderland. Barcelona hadn’t been ringing me.

After the first meeting with Marcus Evans, I asked Tony Loughlan to go and watch an Ipswich game. They were playing in Bristol on a bank holiday Monday. I wanted to have some idea about them, in case I was offered the job. Tony went down to Bristol, bought a ticket like a normal punter, and watched them. He thought they were very average.

I’d got the impression, after the second meeting with Marcus Evans, that the job could happen, as long as we could agree terms.
Nine times out of ten, when a manager is out of work he’ll agree terms.

A few days later, I was down there in the blue training kit, and I was looking at it, going, ‘Fuckin’ hell.’

I didn’t feel the excitement I’d felt going up to Sunderland. I’m not sure why not, but I didn’t. I feel bad even admitting that. Tony Loughlan was with me again, but it didn’t have that innocence – ‘Oh, it’s exciting.’ Maybe, after the Sunderland experience, I was a bit wary. There seemed to be a bit of everything about it that wasn’t quite right – the set-up, my mindset, the location. But if things had gone better, I probably wouldn’t be thinking that.

Tony’s job description was never ‘assistant’; he was always ‘first-team coach’. But he was working alongside me. But you’re working with twenty-odd players, so you need two coaches, at least – more voices, more support. At the time, I just had Tony. I didn’t bring other people in quickly enough – straightaway. Chris Kiwomya was there, and Bryan Klug, and Steve McCall was the chief scout. They’d all played for Ipswich. It had the feel of a family club that didn’t need breaking up. But that was exactly what it needed.

You need to bring in three or four people with you. Make your mark. And, if you want to be cynical about it, if the manager’s having a hard time, the club will stick with him longer, because it costs a lot more money to get rid of four or five people.

‘We’ll give him another few weeks; he might get that result.’

But I was the same at Sunderland on my first day. It was just me and Tony. But my eyes weren’t lying to me; some of the staff at Ipswich weren’t up to it. There were two members of the medical staff that I disliked straightaway – what they were doing, the way they worked. I didn’t like the way they allowed players to behave in front of them. I didn’t think they were professional or authoritative enough. But I kept them. To be fair to the owner,
he’d told me that if I wanted to make changes I should do it quickly. But I thought I’d wait till the summer, wait till pre-season. But maybe I’m just making loads and loads of excuses. That’s management – deal with all that.

Eventually, into the season, in November, I brought in Ian McParland – or Charlie as he’s known. I met Charlie when I was doing my Pro Licence. He had managed at Notts County, and he’d coached at Forest. I liked Charlie, but he could argue. He made me look like a saint. Tony and some of the other lads were fairly quiet, but Charlie made up for them, and me. Eventually, I brought in Antonio Gómez, the fitness coach, from Sunderland. All these men are survivors.

I hadn’t been to the training ground before I took the job. There were stories later that, when I took over, fans weren’t allowed in, and that I’d changed the locks. Our first session was open to the fans. But nobody came. My first day – you’d have thought a couple of school kids would have been dragged in by a dad or granddad. But there wasn’t one person watching. I didn’t mind, but it seemed to say something. That warmth wasn’t there.

Then there was the blue training kit. I don’t like fuckin’ blue. City were blue, Rangers were blue. My biggest rivals were blue. Is that childish? That first day, myself and Tony went back to my office for a cup of tea. It was a cabin, like a school prefab. I’m not knocking that, but I just thought it all needed freshening up, a lick of paint. There were money difficulties at the club – I appreciate that. But myself and Tony sat down and looked at one another.

‘I’m not sure about this one.’

I couldn’t feel it – the chemistry. Me and the club. I get annoyed now, thinking that. I should have been able to accept it: I was there to do a job.

The biggest problem was, we won our first two games – the last two games of the ’08–’09 season. I started on the Wednesday
or Thursday, and we’d a game in Cardiff on the Saturday – 29 April. We were awful, but we won 3–0. Cardiff missed a penalty to go 1–0 up. They could have beaten us 10–0. I wish they had. Then I’d have thought, ‘This is a rebuilding job, this.’

We had Giovani dos Santos on loan, from Spurs – he played for Mexico in the World Cup in Brazil. What he was doing at Ipswich I do not know. He was brilliant. He got us up the pitch, and scored one of the goals. We won – ‘The Messiah has arrived.’

The last game of the season was at home, to Coventry. Marcus Evans told me during the week that they’d already covered my contract with season ticket sales for the next season. It was a dead rubber game – there was nothing at stake – but there were 20,000 people there. We won again, and we deserved to. I was thinking, ‘We don’t have to do too much here. I’ll focus on the dressing rooms – get them decorated.’

When I went up to Sunderland they’d been relegated and they’d just lost their first five games of the season. The transfer deadline was in three days. I had to do things quickly – get people in who I knew and trusted. This time I started at the end of the season, the club was mid-table, and I won my first two games. So the urgency wasn’t there; I wasn’t walking into a crisis. If we’d lost the two games, I think I’d have been saying, ‘Listen, I’m going to be busy all summer.’

When the players came back pre-season, they found great dressing rooms. But I hadn’t done enough with the team or the staff.

I dropped my standards. After Sunderland I thought that maybe I should step back a bit. ‘I shouldn’t be so intense.’ But at Ipswich I fell into that trap of thinking, ‘This’ll do us.’ The staff – ‘They’ll do us.’ I should have been saying, ‘They definitely won’t do us.’

I should have brought in more people, from the start. ‘This is us – things are changing.’

When I left Sunderland, it was my gig. When I left United, it was my gig. I fought my own little wars. At Ipswich, I fought other people’s battles. I went with other people’s standards. That was my biggest crime.

The club’s new chief executive, Simon Clegg, was an ex-Para. And we had the idea that we’d have one or two days with the forces, in Colchester, pre-season. It was my idea, but Simon had the contacts.

I was trying something a bit different; I thought it would break the monotony of pre-season training. Colchester is just down the road from Ipswich, so the players wouldn’t be on a bus for six hours.

We decided to surprise the players. We told them to be ready to go away for one or two nights. Typical footballers, I think some of them thought they were on their way to some five-star hotel.

We got to Colchester and experienced the training regime of the 7th Parachute Regiment Royal Horse Artillery. The plan was, we’d stay in tents that night, out in some woods – after a series of marches.

The intense part was in the evening. The Paras are trained to live off the land, so we saw them slaughtering a pig – we had to watch. It wasn’t nice. They cooked it, and we ate it. But the lads were cold – you’re out of your environment and you just want to sleep.

I asked one of the officers to organise something for the morning, to get the lads up and out quickly. So, at five or six in the morning, they woke us with stun grenades, thrown to the sides of the tents. That woke us up. Every time I saw a face sticking
out of a tent, the expression told me, ‘If you think we’re getting promoted on this, you’re in fuckin’ trouble.’

They were running around and climbing things – and it wasn’t like the local park. The staff joined in. I had an accident on one of the bars. I went to grab it, fell back and banged my head. I got no sympathy.

Marches, and breaks, and setting up the tents. I don’t think anyone was keen to share a tent with me, so I ended up with one of the Paras. I slept with my Celtic top on! There was no sitting around the fire, the banjo out, and a sing-song. Anyway, it wasn’t the place to start singing rebel songs.

It was hard. It was enjoyable but the hotel might have been better. A lot of the lads ended up with blisters, from the army boots. We’d a friendly against Real Valladolid the following Friday, and one or two had to miss it because of the blisters. So the timing hadn’t been great – although we won.

There was good banter, but the lads were shattered. I don’t think it created the bond or the spirit that I was hoping it would. Actually, you get that by winning football matches. And it wasn’t as if I’d been there a few years and had a feel for the group of players. I was guessing at what they might enjoy, and I think I guessed wrong. The medical staff weren’t happy. But I thought, ‘Fuck yis, you’d better get used to living off the land anyway.’

Our first game of the new season was away to Coventry. We lost, 2–1. Giovani dos Santos had gone back to Spurs by then. Our keeper, Richard Wright, had been very good for my first two games at the end of the last season, but he cost us one of the goals – and a few more to come. It’s so important to get off to a good start, and we’d played quite well. But we gave away two soft goals. Jon Walters scored for us.

Teams can recover from a bad start, but a sluggish start often tells you what sort of season you’re going to have. I really went
overboard on the players after West Brom beat us, 2–0 – the fourth game of the season. It was over the top. West Brom had just been relegated, so they were going to be strong. I was playing a lot of young players. I was ranting and raving.

‘You’re all losers!’

It really wasn’t my style. We’d lost to a better team and, normally, I’d have accepted that. And it wasn’t just because we were losing. We’d done that at Sunderland, too. But things had taken off so quickly at Sunderland. I think I lacked a bit of patience with myself at Ipswich. I suppose I thought I could relive the Sunderland experience. But I couldn’t get that momentum. I didn’t feel I was bedding in. It was 31 October before we won a match, our fifteenth game of the season.