We all run on two clocks. One is the outside clock, which ticks away our decades and brings us ceaselessly to the dry season. The other is the inside clock, where you are your own timekeeper and determine your own chronology, your own internal weather and your own rate of living. Sometimes the inner clock runs itself out long before the outer one, and you see a dead man going through the motions of living.
– Max Lerner
Friday, 19 November 1999
All over the world, in London and Paris and New York and Rome, millions of people jumped out of bed this morning thinking, ‘Thank God it’s Friday.’ Not at 6 avenue de la Garenne, they didn’t; not chez moi. After spending a wonderfully relaxing evening with Virginia, eating fine food and drinking fine wine and doing, well, too much of what professional athletes are supposed to do in moderation, the only thought in my head when I opened my eyes was, ‘Shit, here I go again.’ I did not want to be Tony Cascarino. I did not want to be a star with Nancy FC. I did not want to be a professional footballer. I felt physically, mentally and emotionally drained and woke up this morning feeling nothing but contempt for the game.
After leaving Maeva at school, I had a long soak in the bath and spent the morning trying to shake off the emptiness that has clung to me since Bursa. The club called just before lunchtime. Experience teaches you nothing. You always hope for the best. I wanted them to say: ‘Tony, you’ve played three games in seven days; spend the weekend at home with your family and we’ll see you next week.’ They said: ‘Tony, training today at quinze heures trente. Be prepared to leave immediately afterwards for Nantes.’
Virginia wasn’t impressed. ‘Call them back,’ she said, ‘and tell them you’re sick. I mean, look at you! You are sick! You’re covered in bruises from head to toe!’
Sorely tempted, I considered it for a moment but decided to report for duty and just get on with it, but I should probably, in hindsight, have stayed at home. At my age, ‘just getting on with it’ is never enough.
Most of the lads had seen ‘the fight’ on Eurosport and I was subjected to a right ribbing in the dressing room when I arrived at Forêt de Haye. We trained for an hour and then had a meeting with the club president, Monsieur Rousselot, who announced a £3000-per-man bonus if we can beat Nantes. Normally, our ‘prime de victoire’ is £1000, but because Nantes are ‘une équipe directe’ – direct as in direct rivals because we’re both in the shit at the bottom of the table – he announced a triple prime. When the meeting was over, we drove our cars to the regional airport at Epinal and flew to Nantes in one of those awful, twenty-seater private jets that never seem properly maintained and always seem to have accidents. The freezing cold weather delayed our departure for hours and it was well after midnight when we eventually arrived at the Hôtel Mercure.
Tonight, I’m rooming with Cedric Lecluse, a 26-year-old defender who phones home at least twenty times a day and is more besotted by his wife than any man I’ve ever known. The love story began when they were both teenagers. Cedric was an apprentice footballer at Nancy. Sylvie was a check-out girl at the local supermarket. Every day, several times a day, Cedric would queue up with an apple or a Perrier or some chocolate until she finally agreed to a date. He’s been totally devoted to her ever since. There’s a decency and innocence about Cedric that’s really refreshing but he is also incredibly naïve. He has told me things about his life I wouldn’t tell my closest friend – never mind a footballer I happened to be sharing a room with! I can’t imagine him in an English dressing room. He’d be absolutely destroyed.
Saturday, 20 November
Nantes 2, Nancy 0.
‘Well, what can I say, even by your own unique standards, that was abysmal!’
‘Yeah, I just couldn’t shake myself.’
‘So what’s the excuse this time?’
‘I don’t have any.’
‘Can’t wait to see the ratings in L’Equipe tomorrow morning?’
‘I’m not interested.’
‘No, that was patently obvious.’
Woke up this morning feeling like Niall Quinn: I couldn’t get out of bed for the traditional morning warm-up, and spent the entire afternoon in a coma when I went back to it after lunch. It was payback time for the sleepless night and long journey home from Bursa. When I pushed back the sheets, I felt absolutely wrecked. And it showed. Because of my experience, and the fact that I’m one of only two internationals at Nancy, the manager usually says nothing to me in the dressing room before a game. Tonight, it was, ‘Tony, un mot, enthousiasme.’ I must have had ‘Do not disturb’ written all over me! Even the president picked it up.
‘Ça va, Tony?’ he enquired, as I was walking down the tunnel to warm up.
‘Oui, ça va bien,’ I replied.
I should have said, ‘Non, Monsieur Rousselot, ça ne va pas du tout.’ I should have said, ‘To be perfectly honest Monsieur Rousselot, I feel absolutely fucked.’ But he’s an honourable man, our president, and has always treated me well, so I told him what he wanted to hear: ‘Oui, ça va bien.’
And tonight we paid the price. My game is all about one-to-one combat: I’m at my best when I forget the team stuff and reduce the ninety minutes to an individual battle between myself and whoever picks me up. Tonight, I threw the towel in from the kick-off. I did not contest my battle. I did not contribute to the team. I spent the whole game wishing I was somewhere else. I was absolutely shite. When it was over, I couldn’t wait to get out of the dressing room and back to the airport, and tonight I’m feeling as low as I have been since coming to France: I’m sick of the team and sick of the game and sick of everything about the life. On the rent-a-jet ride home, I actually wanted the thing to crash.
Virginia was sleeping when I got back to the apartment. I made a cup of tea and sat down to watch the blue channel, XXL, which I occasionally do when I’m alone and feeling bad. Two dwarfs, dressed as garden gnomes, were ripping each other’s waistcoats off and about to start humping on a lawn.
‘For fuck’s sake, Tony, you’re not feeling that bad!’
‘No, you’re right, I’m not.’
Disgusted, I reached for the zapper and marched limply off to bed.
Sunday, 21 November
This morning I had it all worked out. ‘I’m going to see the president tomorrow,’ I announced to Virginia.
‘For what?’ she asked.
‘To see if he’ll offer me a deal to terminate my contract.’
‘Don’t be stupid! It’s only one bad game. Next week you play Marseilles. Don’t tell me you don’t want to play against Marseilles?’
‘No, I’m sick of it. I’ve had enough. Rousselot will understand when I explain. He won’t want to pay me to the end of the season if he knows I don’t want to play. It would suit us both to negotiate a settlement.’
‘Well, you know I’m with you whatever you decide, but I think you’ve got no chance.’
‘Why not?’
‘Think about it, Tony. You’re Nancy’s top scorer! Their most experienced player! He’d be mad to let you walk away.’
‘Not after the way I played last night.’
‘Forget about last night. You were tired. It was a jour sans. Everybody has a jour sans.’
It was good to talk. As the day wore on, my depression began to lift and after a lovely lunch we went out shopping for furniture this afternoon and bought a new Indonesian bed. I like spending money, particularly when I’m down; I’m like some of those serial women shoppers you read about, who keep buying clothes when depressed. I spent the evening chatting on the phone to family and friends. I’ve been blessed with some really good friends. Chris McCarthy, who I’ve known since childhood, and Steve Wishart, who was my manager at Crockenhill, called with all the latest from London. And I phoned Andy Townsend.
‘Thought you might call,’ he said.
‘How’s that?’ I asked.
‘Well, it’s Sunday, isn’t it? You always call cheap rate.’
Andy is always at least a forty-five-minute conversation and was laughing about the fight in Turkey. ‘That is so typical of you,’ he said. ‘You were exactly the same when we lost in Belgium [World Cup qualifying playoff] in ’97!’
L’Equipe gave me a 4.5 (out of ten) this morning, which is pretty poor but accurate for once. I’m trying to put the game out of my head. Virginia’s right – a jour sans.
Monday, 22 November
Our manager, Laszlo Boloni, has never had a jour sans. Casually mention you’re tired at training and he immediately doubles the workload. Laszlo doesn’t believe in being tired. Tiredness is a state of mind. Tiredness is an excuse. And Laszlo never makes excuses. ‘The difference between winning and losing,’ he says, ‘is physical and mental strength.’ A former Rumanian international, and one of the great defenders of his generation, he played on the Steau Bucharest team that beat Barcelona in the European Cup Final in 1986. That they won the game’s greatest prize on penalties after 120 minutes of stalemate would have made it extra special for Laszlo. He would have thought, ‘Fuck the beautiful game! We won! We did them! Winning is what counts.’ Laszlo has always seen football as a game of chess.
He is, without doubt, one of the most interesting men I’ve ever met. And easily the most superstitious. Three years ago, shortly after I’d joined from Marseilles, I was having dinner with the team one evening before a game, when a team-mate pointed to the clock on the wall. ‘It’s five minutes past eight,’ he said. ‘I’ll bet you anything you want, that in exactly three minutes’ time, Laszlo Boloni will walk through that door.’ And sure enough, at exactly eight minutes past eight, we were joined by the manager. A week later, on the eve of our next game, I was making my way to the restaurant after being slightly delayed by a call when I happened upon the manager, fidgeting in the corridor outside. I looked at my watch and it was six minutes past eight. Two minutes later, Laszlo entered the room.
The Novotel chain runs two hotels in Nancy: the Novotel Laxou, a three-minute drive from the training ground, and the Novotel Houdemont, twenty minutes further to the south. Last year, after a string of bad results, Laszlo decided to switch the team hotel from the Laxou to the Houdemont and was immediately rewarded with a change in fortune. We continued to use the Houdemont for the next few games until the visit of Monaco, when we were forced to return to the Laxou because Monaco had booked the Houdemont months in advance. Laszlo wasn’t pleased. On the morning after the game, he stormed down to the Houdemont and block-booked the hotel for the rest of the season. And for the following season as well.
This morning, there were two cast-iron certainties when I got to the training ground: one, that his rusty white Citroën would have already arrived and two, that it would be parked in the first space to the left of the clubhouse entrance. The reason I was sure he’d take the old Citroën to work was because he used his Mercedes last week and always switches when we’re beaten. And the reason I knew he’d park to the left of the clubhouse was because he parked in front of it last week. His obsession knows no bounds. During games, we are forbidden from asking the referee the time or from glancing at the stadium clock. ‘You should be concentrating on the game!’ he says. ‘I want 110 per cent right to the end!’ And he goes absolutely crazy if we sing or whistle in the dressing room – apparently, in Rumania, it brings bad luck.
He seemed unusually distant this morning at training and worked us very hard. Normally after a game, he calls me over and asks my opinion but this morning there was just a perfunctory shake-of-hands and a slightly gruff ‘bonjour’. He’d obviously spent the weekend reviewing my performance against Nantes. We’ve always had a good relationship and I feel guilty for letting him down but there’s no point in explaining I was tired.
Tuesday, 23 November
I called Sarah in London this evening. When phoning my ex-wife, I use the kitchen phone rather than one in the hall because I can close the door behind me and it reduces the chance of Maeva being heard. It’s not that I’m ashamed of her or anything but if the roles had been reversed, and my wife had run off and had a daughter by another man, I know it would upset me to hear her voice in the background, so I try to be as sensitive as possible when phoning from home. As it turned out, I needn’t have bothered: Sarah was out and had left a babysitter, so I was saved our usual brief and frosty exchange . . .
I phone the boys two or three times a week. They are complete opposites: Michael is ten and a computer game wizard; Teddy is seven and loves football. Since the divorce, it’s hard to get Teddy to talk normally on the phone. He’ll come on and make these silly animal noises and won’t say a word unless he’s scored a goal and I mention football. That he was first to the phone this evening was unusual.
‘Michael is upstairs in bed,’ he explained. ‘He has a stomach ache.’
‘Yeah? And how are you doing, Ted?’
‘Fine. We played on Sunday and won 1–0. Mummy said I played well but Grandad said I didn’t.’
‘Never mind, Mummy is always right. I’m sure you were brilliant.’
When the conversation ended and I had spoken briefly to Michael, I was torn for the rest of the evening with the guilt that has afflicted me regularly since I walked out of their lives.
Sometimes, when it really gets me down, I retreat into a shell and won’t say a word for hours. At first, these mood swings caused friction with Virginia, who believed I was blaming the loss of my sons on her. And sometimes I was . . . well, it’s human nature, isn’t it? You blame everyone except yourself. Lately, we have both been coping much better. ‘Why don’t you phone the boys?’ she says, whenever I go quiet. And though talking to them is not the same as being with them, for the moment it’s the best I can do. They stay with us whenever there’s a break in school and holiday with us in summer and (to Sarah’s credit) get on really well with Maeva. The day may come when they point the finger at Virginia – ‘She’s not my mother!’ – or stand up and pass judgement – ‘I’m not having my Dad do what you did!’ – but hopefully I’ll have finished playing by then and be back in England and we’ll be closer.
Wednesday, 24 November
A journalist called at the training ground this afternoon and asked my opinion on the latest from Marseilles. Another called this evening looking for the same. The latest from Marseilles is that they’ve just sacked their manager, Raymond Courbis, and replaced him with Bernard Casoni, a former team mate of mine. And because I once played at Marseilles, and played with Bernard at Marseilles, and will play against Marseilles on Saturday in Bernard’s first game in charge, I’ve become another angle on the story . . . except that I’m not at all sure Laszlo will name me in the side. We trained twice today, a hard, physical session in the morning and a keep-ball session and some pattern play in the afternoon. You can always read the way a manager is thinking from the sides he plays during the week. I played up front for the kids this afternoon against a team with most of the regulars. You’d have to have been blind not to spot the odd man out. I thought, ‘He’s weighing up his options here – he’s thinking about leaving you out.’ And drove home feeling strangely disappointed. Of all the teams we will play this season, there is none I look forward to more than Marseilles.
Steve Staunton, the second most capped player ever to play for the Republic of Ireland, also called this evening, with confirmation that the Football Association of Ireland have granted us a joint testimonial at Lansdowne Road in May. Steve, or Stan as he has always been known, has agreed a deal with Liverpool for the game and thinks he’ll be able to convince Robbie Fowler and Michael Owen to play, which should draw a crowd. I joked that I wasn’t sure I’d make it that far. May seems an eternity away.
Thursday, 25 November
I picked up Laurent for training this morning. Laurent is Laurent Moracchini, a 32-year-old Corsican who idolizes Roy Keane and who was once banned for six months for headbutting a player at Monaco. He’s one of the world’s great pessimists – we are less than halfway through the season but he’s convinced we’re going down. I collect Laurent for training most days, mainly because he’s my best mate on the team but also because it allows him to leave his wife the car. That’s the reality of life as a professional with Nancy; although we play in the French Premier division, there’s no comparison with the Premiership in England. France Football published an article recently comparing average salaries in the two premier leagues, showing that players in England earn three times more than those in France. And pay much less tax! In France, teams can’t chop and change players as they can in England. Here, you start the season with a squad and, regardless of injuries, are only allowed to buy one extra player between the opening game and the mid-season trêve or break at Christmas. And then just one more player between la trêve and the end of the season. Every club has a budget to which it must adhere rigorously. If Nancy is relegated this season, everyone at the club – from the highest paid player and the manager to the coaching and administrative staff – will automatically have a 20 per cent wage cut for next season – a measure imposed by the French Football Federation to stop clubs going bust. So you can understand why I wasn’t exactly flavour of the month with the secretaries and cleaners after my performance on Saturday. We lose, they lose; we get a cut, they get a cut. We’re all in the same boat. And already sunk, according to Laurent . . .
Friday, 26 November
After training in the afternoon we had a team meeting with Laszlo, at which I was reminded again how much ball I had lost against Nantes (‘There isn’t a chance he’s going to play you tomorrow night!’). We then drove straight to the Houdemont where – because Cedric is suspended and Laurent smokes (that’s the other thing about French football – in England the vice is alcohol but here it’s cigarettes) – I am rooming with the infamous ‘X’. One of the things that amazes me about Nancy is that, after six clubs and hundreds of teammates, I should find myself at the end with three of the most unique people I’ve ever met. There’s the mystery of Laszlo and his ongoing superstitions, the wonder of Cedric and his undying love for his wife and finally ‘X’, in some ways the most unique of all.
As with Laszlo and Cedric, there’s a lot about ‘X’ I really admire: he’s intelligent, speaks pretty good English and always tries to be a good pro. But there are other things about him I will never understand. He does not use shampoo. He does not use toothpaste. He does not use aftershave or deodorant. And he smells. The second time we roomed together I put a clothes peg in my bag and slipped it over my nose as I was getting into bed. He looked at me and sniffed his T-shirt: ‘It’s not me,’ he said. ‘I don’t smell.’
‘You fucking do,’ I countered.
Nothing changed. It’s not that he’s allergic or objects to animal testing; he just doesn’t believe in wasting money on soap or perfume. He is Europe’s tightest, smelliest man. His thriftiness is manic. He has a mobile phone that can only receive calls and he always wears the club suit to weddings and functions. But that’s just for starters. Once, we were rooming together and he said: ‘Do you know you can eat for free?’
‘What do you mean, “You can eat for free”,’ I scoffed. ‘You have to buy food.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘Check the labels the next time you shop; there’s always a line that says that the customer can demand a refund if he isn’t happy with the product.’
‘But you still have to pay for the stamp,’ I said. ‘It will cost at least three francs to send it back.’
‘Yes,’ he agreed, ‘but you don’t do it for something that just costs a couple of francs, you do it for something more expensive. Think about it. I’m telling you, you can basically eat for free.’
There was a pause as I tried to figure it out.
‘And I suppose you pay your TV licence as well,’ he said.
‘Of course I do.’
‘You’re mad,’ he said. ‘You don’t have to, you know.’
‘What do you mean, “You don’t have to”?’
‘You can refuse entry. Legally, the inspectors are not entitled to enter your house.’
I laughed, but he was serious.
During pre-season training in Munster, we decided one night, during a session of cards, that we’d forego the evening meal and just send someone out for a McDonald’s, or a ‘Macdo’ as we say in these parts. To the surprise of all, it was ‘X’ who generously volunteered. And then came the proviso. ‘I’ll go,’ he said, ‘but you’ve got to pay for my petrol and you’ve got to buy my Macdo.’ There was uproar. Even by his own miserly standards it was a new low. After a great deal of negotiating, we agreed to buy his Macdo but refused to pay for the petrol. He wouldn’t budge. We sent someone else. A week later, at the end of the training camp, we were presented with gift packs of pâté and cheese after playing one of the local teams. Most of the lads weren’t bothered and discarded them in the dressing room. ‘X’ gathered everything up and took it home.
Tonight, I tackled him again on his frugality: ‘You must,’ I said, ‘have some pleasures in life!’
‘Of course I do,’ he responded, surprised. ‘I read books and watch films and . . .’
‘Oh, so you spend money on books, then?’
‘Well, no, my girlfriend is at university and she gets them from the library and passes them on.’
‘But you watch films? You rent videos?’
‘No, I wait until they’re shown on Canal plus. It may take a year or two but you see them all, sooner or later.’
‘And what about holidays? When’s the last time you treated yourself to a good time abroad?’
‘Abroad! Why would I want to go abroad? France is the most beautiful country in the world.’
As I say, unique.
Saturday, 27 November
Nancy 2, Marseilles 2
Laszlo announced the team at the final team meeting just before we left the hotel. It was a surprise and a delight to hear my name which, when I think about it now, doesn’t make a great deal of sense, given that I despised the fucking game a week ago.
And to be fair, nothing has changed. I could happily abandon the game tomorrow; I moan and bitch and complain about it six days a week. But for as long as I’m involved, there will always be something about Saturday. From our first day to our last, we are all addicted to making the team.
In the dressing room I thought about changing my boots before the game. I hadn’t scored in two attempts against Turkey or in the four games since my hat-trick against Rennes and always switch to a new pair when my goalless streak hits five. At the last minute, I changed my mind and decided to give them one more chance. Scored twice tonight and played great. What can I say except they obviously feared for their lives.
It has often been said that the joy of scoring goals is greater than sex but personally I’d compare it more with masturbation. I’ve always found sex to be an absolute pleasure, but scoring goals has only ever brought relief. My first tonight, after fifty-one minutes, was a classic example of what I’ve always done best; Laurent did well and played in a great cross and I beat the defender and headed into the net. The second, however, was slightly more difficult. Marseilles hit back, with two goals in two minutes, after we had opened the scoring and looked set to cruise to victory, until the seventy-first minute when we were awarded a penalty. I’ve taken all our penalty kicks this season and have scored each time, but the goal is always that bit narrower when your team is trailing. Feeling terribly nervous when I placed the ball on the spot, I just couldn’t make up my mind . . .
‘Do what you always do, blast it.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous! You’ve played with these guys! He’ll know exactly what you always do!’
‘OK, place it right.’
‘No, I fancy hitting it left.’
‘OK, hit it left.’
‘No, maybe you’re right.’
‘HIT THE FUCKING THING!’
I placed it to the right and scored.
Two-two was a good result in the circumstances (Marseilles missed a last-minute penalty) and a great result for me. When it was over, and I walked towards the dressing room, I couldn’t help but wonder what the fanatical Marseilles fans would be thinking. Since being sold off to Nancy, I have scored more goals per season than any of the star names bought to replace me – a fact that I had just underlined again. I was hoping they were thinking, ‘We pay £3m for [Christophe] Dugarry, £5m for [Fabrizio] Ravenelli and allow a player who scores more than both, to walk away for nothing!’ I was hoping they were thinking, ‘Why the fuck did we let him go?’ Monsieur Rousselot seemed pleased in the dressing room. Laszlo nodded and slapped me on the back. I sat down and kicked off my boots and enjoyed the moment. Better than sex? No. Just relief that I’d done my job.
Sunday, 28 November
At my age, whenever you get on a run of two or three games without scoring, you are always ‘finished’; it is always ‘the End’. I’ve reached ‘the End’ a few times during these last two seasons but always managed to secure a stay of execution with a timely goal. It’s often said that you are only as good as your last game but in my experience, this doesn’t really apply until you reach your mid-thirties. Although I’m thirty-seven years old, I am consistently a much better player than I was at twenty-seven. I train harder; I rest more; I watch what I eat. Why? Because I don’t have an option. I am three bad performances from the End.
When I was younger I used to get away with murder. I remember, at Gillingham, my season ended in February one year when I picked up a knee injury. I didn’t play for three months and then went on holiday to Tenerife with Sarah in June. Aware on my return to London that I’d put on a couple of pounds, I decided to weigh myself on a public scales at Paddington station. It was the night of the Bruno–Witherspoon fight and I’d just read in the paper that Bruno had tipped the scales at 16 st. 2 lb. When I stood on the scales I was exactly 1lb lighter than him! Two stone overweight, I should have been distraught, but the ‘the End’ wasn’t a problem back then and I just laughed it off and shrugged my shoulders: ‘Hey, I could fight tonight!’
I got some good reviews in the local papers this morning and spent the day feeling good about myself. Tomorrow, we resume training for our next game against Sedan. Saturday will count for nothing as we go back to the drawing board and I’ll be three games away once again from the End. But strangely, tonight, it feels more like the beginning.
All over the world, in London and Paris and New York and Rome, millions of people are going to bed tonight thinking, ‘Oh fuck, tomorrow’s Monday.’ Not at 6 avenue de la Garenne they’re not. Not chez moi. The dark clouds of a week ago seem a distant memory now. Suddenly, the game feels wonderful again, just like it did at the start . . .