The Smell of Football

The die was cast then. I had made my bed. I would see it through to the bitter end – and I feared it would get bitter. Although I lacked any experience, I actually felt I could be the right man for the job. These lads had been battered mentally. In all likelihood, any player who ends up playing at the bottom club must have, by definition, been through some tough times and faced numerous rejections. The players needed somebody to care for them, to protect them from the harsh realities of the situation we were in. Somebody to rally them, lift their spirits, breathe life into them. If we were to go down, then we would go down fighting. We had a few days to prepare for the visit of high-flying Bury. We would be ready.

Twenty-four games to play with the future of this fine little club in my sweaty hands.

Match 1

Halifax Town v Bury

19/12/92

My first league game in charge. I am introduced to the crowd. Warm applause. Faint chanting of “Mickey Rathbone’s blue-and-white army”. It is a very small army, but a very determined and loyal one.

I walk into the dressing room at 2pm. With such a small squad, the team has practically picked itself. Even so, the lads are all sitting around nervously, waiting for me to name the starting line-up.

“Right. I have selected a team I think can get us a result today . . . and it is AC Milan.” That lovely little joke breaks the tension and the players visibly relax (I am a bloody genius).

My team talk concentrates on doing ourselves justice, not freezing, trying to enjoy the game as much as possible (some hope). I don’t want to be putting too much pressure on the lads by hammering on about the importance of the game or the position we are in. Christ, as if we don’t know already.

The game is a blur – stand up, sit down, out of the dugout, back in the dugout, kick every ball, question every decision. The lads huff and puff – and lose. Bury’s goal comes from a throw-in that almost certainly should be ours. Everybody can see it. We are robbed.

“That should have been our throw-in. That should have been our fucking throw-in.”

“Didn’t get a good view? Didn’t get a fucking good view? That cost us the fucking game!”

When I calm down, I realise I have learned two important lessons. Number one: Blaming the referee for your team’s and your own shortcomings is pathetic, pointless (just like us) and unworthy of your status as manager and leader. Number two: Football matches are often decided on such marginal decisions. Of course, when I say I have learned those things, I already knew them; it’s just they have really hit home today.

Count to ten, go see the lads, tell them well done, comfort them and pick them up. No matter how bad I feel personally, this is my job. You promised to see it through – don’t weaken now after only one league game.

Next, the two worst jobs after defeat, neither of which I have really thought about. First, the press conference – talk the lads up, we will fight on, lots of positive points (Winston Churchill would have been proud). Then, report to the boardroom to be debriefed by Jim Brown and the directors, who remind me we need to be winning home games. That comes as a surprise; I thought we needed to fucking well lose them. But to be fair, I shouldn’t have a go at them; they are good guys who love the club and are just worried and frustrated.

I tidy up, put the medical equipment away, and lock up. I’m pleased to see my car has not been vandalised. Name still there – in chalk.

Match 2

Halifax Town v Doncaster Rovers

26/12/92

It is cold and the pitch is quite hard. I have to be the physio as well as the manager (my friend Stewart Walker performed the duty at Huddersfield but he can’t do it today). We enter uncharted territory – we are leading 2-0. There are only two minutes to go. Two lousy, fucking, poxy minutes.

I run on to tend to an injured player and the referee whispers into my ear, “Two minutes to go, Baz. It looks like your very first win as manager.”

By the time I return to the dugout, it is 2-2. Unbelievable. The final whistle goes, the crowd boo. I am shell-shocked.

Nobody speaks in the dressing room. I feel like my very innards have been sucked out. I want to curl up in a little ball and cry. Cry like a baby.

No, come on, take it on the chin. It was never going to be easy. Lift the lads, throw an arm around them, it’s a good point earned, we are off the mark, one point nearer to survival and all that. Of course, nobody is buying that bullshit. It is an absolute disaster to drop two vital points in such a manner.

Off to the press – bring out Winston Churchill again. Back to the boardroom where I am reminded we can’t afford to give goals away in such a manner. Really? Why not?

Match 3

York City v Halifax Town

29/12/92

The pitch is frozen. John Ward, manager of in-form York, is gracious enough to seek our opinion on the state of the pitch and if we are happy to play the game on such a surface.

We play really well. The lads slide-tackle for the cause on the frozen tundra. One hundred per cent effort and grit. York are outplayed, we deserve to win and even hit the post late on. The final score is 1-1. We are clapped off by the fans and praised by John Ward.

A great performance, a great night, restoring pride in the badge. Everybody is happy. I sprint up the terraces to speak to Pete Barrow, a reporter from the Halifax Courier. I give Winston Churchill the night off.

Match 4

Darlington v Halifax Town

9/1/93

This job is easy and I am definitely born to do it. We win 3-0. My new signing Dave Ridings (from non-league football, for the grand fee of nothing) scores two. My new assistant (sounds great, doesn’t it?) Alan Kamara, who has just retired from playing, is brilliant. A strong, silent type who is popular with the lads, he helps get the tactics just right – kick the ball into their goal and stop them kicking it into ours.

There are wild scenes of celebration in the dressing room after the game. The lads are excitingly discussing goal celebrations for the next time we score and one of them asks, “Baz, what celebration should we do next time we score?”

“Well,” I say, “What’s wrong with the one that we have been doing all season? Wrestle the ball off the keeper and sprint like fuck back to the halfway line!”

The chairman comes in, grabs me, drags me outside and says, “Don’t get so bloody carried away over one win.”

Match 5

Halifax Town v Northampton Town

16/1/93

This team cannot be beaten. We are 2-0 down with less than 20 minutes remaining and Dave Ridings does it again. He scores two goals to salvage a draw. These lads no longer know the meaning of the word defeat. Is this how Bill Shankly started?

Match 6

Scarborough v Halifax Town

23/1/93

We are on a run. A very un-Halifax Town-like run of four games unbeaten. We stop at a roadside café on the way to Scarborough for a cuppa and a bacon butty – our nutritionist can’t make it today. Steven Hook, better known as ‘Hooky’, is playing the fruit machine. (Hooky is Halifax Town’s striker, our Johnny Haynes – Johnny was the first £100 a week player and Hooky was probably the last. He was born in the medieval town of Todmorden where public hangings used to take place – and possibly still do. I would pick him up every morning and we became close friends.) He wins the jackpot, but it is paid in tokens only, so we have to hang on a while so he can gradually reinvest his tokens into the machine (the smaller wins are paid in cash).

I feel good sitting at the front of the bus. At the head of my team – my unbeaten, and now unbeatable, team. I wonder if we can get to the end of the season without losing another game.

We actually play quite well and deserve more. I am still doing a good job. The players are doing a great job.

Match 7

Halifax Town v Cardiff

26/1/93

Cardiff win 1-0. What is wrong with the goal? Well, it’s offside, the ball goes out of play, it’s well past the time for the final whistle, and there is an element of handball. That’s all. Take your pick.

Into the referee’s room. Shouting and arguing. Hating myself. Knowing it’s too late. Not behaving like a man. If you can’t stand the heat, stay out of the referee’s room.

By the way, I should mention they completely outplayed us and should have won by three or four. Never mind, Cardiff are one of the top sides; no disgrace there.

I go back to the dressing room to lift the troops. Who’s going to lift me? I am starting to find the going a little bit tough.

Match 8

Scunthorpe United v Halifax Town

30/1/93

We are beaten 4-1. Well beaten. We never get going and are three down after 30 minutes. The fans are starting to have a go. Somebody shouts, “Resign Rathbone.” Or is it “Re-sign Rathbone?” Probably the former.

For the first and last time, I go mad at the players after the game. Why? Because that’s what you do when you lose heavily, don’t you?

Shouting and screaming at the players is pointless and counterproductive. They have done their best. I know they have. I am beginning to feel the pressure. I have a go at the players in the press conference as well. Again, a terrible betrayal of their efforts. Screaming at the players is just not me. I am surprised the lads don’t burst out laughing. I apologise to them later.

Into the boardroom. Jim Brown says, “I don’t need to remind you how serious the situation is now, do I?”

Match 9

Halifax Town v Rochdale

6/2/93

Right, I am preparing for this game like it is the World Cup final. I go to watch Rochdale play and note they are dangerous from corners due to the height of their centre halves.

We change our preparation for this game. Instead of the lads just reporting for the game one hour before kick-off, we meet at The Shay at 10am, do a light training session, go through their team individually, noting the danger from set pieces, have a pre-match meal at the ground and enter the match perfectly prepared.

Their centre half heads the ball in from a corner in the second fucking minute. I sit in the Perspex dugout and can feel the sides closing in. This is becoming almost unbearable. I am waiting for that famous Halifax Town chant to start – “Rathbone out, Rathbone out.”

It never comes, and the fans get behind the team. We rally, get back to 2-2 and then, tragically, concede a third and decisive goal.

What a sickener. I don’t know how much more of this I can take. I happen to be wearing some new shoes today – Brogues, with a big toecap. After everybody has gone, I lose it and proceed to kick a big hole in our dressing room door. (So there it is. The secret is out. It was me who kicked that hole in the door. I am very sorry.)

Match 10

Halifax Town v Lincoln City

10/2/93

Hallelujah. Praise be to God, peace on earth and goodwill to all referees. We win, our first home win since October, I’m told (I am assuming that is October 1992).

Jimmy Case scores his first goal for the club. We don’t play very well, but am I bothered?

I am very happy and proud of myself because, even though I’m starting to feel the pressure, I have kept my promise to behave, at all times, in a manner that inspires respect and confidence in my players. I think I’m doing well on that front (no one saw the door incident). I am holding up well, especially on the outside. The league table is starting to look a bit better, although we are still hovering a few places above the foot of the table.

Jim Brown is happy and relieved; I even get to stay for a drink. His parting words are, “Don’t forget, Baz, two swallows don’t make a spring.”

Match 11

Halifax Town v Crewe Alexander

20/2/93

Crewe are far too good for us. They win 2-1, but it could have been more. A lot of their players have come through their youth ranks. Halifax Town, meanwhile, have just abolished their youth scheme, which has caused a degree of bad feeling in the town and alienated a lot of people. I decide, at the end of the season (lynching permitted), I will organise some trials and start the youth policy again. That will be my legacy to the club.

Match 12

Colchester United v Halifax Town

26/2/93

Big Roy McDonough, my very close friend, old team-mate from all my schoolboy teams and a former Birmingham City apprentice (he was a member of the daily ‘kick the ball into the farmer’s field and avoid training with the first team’ routine I had perfected) is the manager of Colchester. It is quite odd because Roy, Ian Atkins and I are all from Sheldon, all played tennis together in the close season and all have gone on to become Football League managers. We are probably the last three people on the planet anybody would believe would become managers. (I am sure all the fans of the teams where we got sacked would agree!)

Some friend Big Roy turns out to be. We lose 2-1. We are leading, then our goalie is sent off, and that’s that.

Roy and I have a few beers after the game and reminisce about the good old days at Birmingham City. Good old days? Fuck me, how much have we drunk? He’s a great bloke and a lifelong pal but right now, at this very moment, I hate the fucker’s guts.

We are sinking fast, games are running out, we need results. On the exterior, I remain calm, the personification of dignity and relaxedness. Team spirit and training are still very good. Morale is still high. In these respects, I am doing a great job.

Match 13

Halifax Town v Carlisle United

6/3/93

We lose 2-0. No excuses. We don’t play well. The fans’ complaints are growing louder. That’s to be expected, but I am not going to crack up now. No way. I will be strong and meet the challenge head on. We are in deep shit now. We have dropped down to 20th, just two spots off the bottom of the league. It’s getting hairy now. I merely exist during the week thinking only of the games coming up. Eleven to go. Running out of games, running out of time.

Match 14

Torquay United v Halifax Town

13/3/93

When you look down the list of remaining fixtures, it seems very, very short. When I took over, I reckoned we needed six wins from 24 matches. That sounded relatively easy. Now, though, I feel we need four wins from the last 11 games, or more than one in three. It suddenly sounds very daunting.

More worryingly, I am starting to get angry letters from the fans. The secretary puts them on my desk. I know what they are, sitting there looking at me all day, their Halifax postcodes a dead giveaway.

One is addressed to Mick Rathbone “manager” Halifax Town. I don’t like the look of that, the way the word manager is written in quotation marks. I chuck that one away without even opening it. (If you wrote that letter all those years ago to say I was doing a great job, then I do apologise. However, if you just wrote to me, like several others, to say I was a wanker, then too bad, mate.)

One letter starts: “Dear Mr Rathbone, where is the attacking football you promised us?” (That opening sentence has stuck in my mind even after all these years. I don’t know what came next because I filed it in the same place as the other one.)

Some are constructive and encouraging, to be fair. I have no complaints, though. These people are understandably concerned about the future (or lack of it) of their beloved club. As I have said before, anyone can support Man Utd or Chelsea, but these Halifax fans are truly the most stoical and long-suffering set of fans in the country, and I greatly respect them for it.

We are down but not out. In terms of team spirit, motivation and organisation, I know I am doing a good job and, crucially, I feel I am sheltering the lads from the pressure of the situation.

I can’t get the results I’m hoping for, but I am getting the commitment from my players I’ve asked for.

And so, with hope in our hearts, we set off on the long journey to Devon to face Torquay, who are also struggling. We leave on the Friday for a rare overnight stay. We play very well and should be awarded a penalty but then, soon after our appeal is denied, Torquay get a penalty at the other end when Chris Lucketti makes a perfectly timed challenge on one of their players. In short, we have been robbed again (is it all starting to sound depressingly familiar?) and then they double their lead and put the game beyond us.

Right on cue, Mr Predictable storms into the referee’s room after the game. Shouting, arguing, not recognising myself – anybody who knows me would be astonished by my behaviour. But that’s what pressure does to you.

A few days later, I am invited to be the guest speaker at the monthly meeting of the Halifax and District Referees Society. I decide to do them a favour and grace their little get-together with my presence. (That’s another thing about being the manager; you can get a big ego even when you are getting beaten every week.)

To my surprise, I get quite an unfriendly reception, presumably due to my constant criticising of match officials. To cut a long story short, I am asked a lot of questions, the upshot of which proves I don’t even fully know the rules regarding the incidents of which I have been so critical.

It is a sobering experience and I learn an awful lot from the evening. Firstly, the guys who are reffing the games are the very best in the country. If you can start with that mindset, then it makes it much easier to accept their decisions. Secondly, the players make far more mistakes than the officials and earn up to ten times more money (OK, maybe not at Halifax). Finally, managers who criticise officials are not behaving in a manner appropriate to their status at a football club.

I learn all these lessons as the refs exact their well-earned revenge. From now on, I will never again question any decision by any official – even the short-sighted, bent ones.

Match 15

Halifax Town v Shrewsbury Town

20/3/93

A 1-1 draw. Fair result, decent performance. One point closer to survival (to the lads and press). Two more home points dropped (if I’m being honest).

Match 16

Chesterfield v Halifax Town

23/3/93

Midweek game. Usual story: we play well, we miss chances, we go 1-0 up and lose 2-1 to two late goals. In the wake of this defeat, we sink to the bottom of the league for the first time. It is a truly shocking and sobering experience to look at the table and see Halifax bottom of the pile.

Worse is to come. I am ‘invited’ to travel back to The Shay in the chairman’s car. With him is the gentleman who has been putting the lion’s share of the money into the club and he, understandably, wants some answers.

Never has a journey taken so long. Of course, I understand their concerns and admire the directors for giving their money to the club, but I just don’t need that grilling, especially on the night when we slip into bottom place. They ask if I want them to get another manager in. Somebody more experienced to help me?

Ironically, my job is saved on this occasion by the feeling that it is so late in the day, in terms of games to go, that in many ways the die is already cast. Besides, they aren’t sure they will find anybody of any repute prepared to put their name on the line in such difficult circumstances. So, it is decided – somewhat by default – that I will fight on.

They then remind me that tomorrow is transfer deadline day and it is imperative I abandon training and spend the whole day in the office (portakabin) on the phone, from 9am until the close of the transfer window at 6pm.

I am somewhat taken back. “But I didn’t think we had any money available for new players?”

“No, you don’t understand. If we don’t sell a player or two tomorrow, there will be no money to pay the March wages.”

The next day, we sell our top goalscorer, Ian Thompstone, to Scunthorpe for £10,000. March’s wages are guaranteed; Halifax Town’s future certainly isn’t.

At some point during the nine-hour ordeal in the portakabin, I get a call from an agent. He has a player, a very, very good player – no, a great player. A Cameroon international called Godfrey Obebo. He will come and join Halifax Town for nothing (how many truly great players could you say that about?). What the hell? Why not? We are fucked now, we have nothing to lose, so we sign him. His agent says he has been playing in Serie A. He is a lovely man, deeply religious, and very muscular.

Match 17

Halifax Town v Wrexham

26/3/93

We are beaten easily. The final score is 1-0, but it should, and could, have been 6-0. The coaches, Brian Flynn and Joey Jones – both good fellows – don’t rub it in when Wrexham score (that always stuck in my mind).

I’m running out of things to say now to the press, the players and the chairman. How about we are the strongest team in the Football League – propping up the rest? At least I can still laugh.

Match 18

Barnet v Halifax Town

3/4/93

This fixture causes controversy that puts both clubs in the headlines. Normally we would have travelled down to London on the morning of the game, getting to Barnet at 2pm after a five-hour journey (traffic permitting). However, a mystery benefactor, thought to be linked to one of Barnet’s promotion rivals, has paid for us to stay in a hotel on Friday night. (It caused quite a furore at the time and I think Barnet may have complained to the Football League about this interference.)

Fortunately for us, all the great preparation pays off and sets us up for a battling performance, and a deserved point, as we draw 0-0. We could even have won it, but we missed a late sitter.

Match 19

Doncaster Rovers v Halifax Town

10/4/93

We go 1-0 up after three minutes. But then one of our players gets injured, so I ask Godfrey to warm up. Godfrey takes this a little too literally and goes to the dressing room to sit by the radiator – no kidding. We have to send the other sub to go and fetch him. Godfrey then produces a virtuoso warm-up on the touchline that resembles something between somebody performing a breakdance and somebody having a fucking seizure.

Play stops, allowing us to make the change, when the ball is kicked clean out of the stadium. As Godfrey jogs into the fray and play restarts with a replacement ball, the original ball reappears, bouncing off the stand roof and onto the side of the pitch. There then follows one of the funniest things I have ever witnessed in football, as Godfrey latches on to it and speeds off in the direction of Doncaster’s goal with one ball, while the other 21 players play on in the opposite direction with the correct ball.

Sadly, it transpired, he was not even a footballer’s cousin. And Serie A? I think I misheard. He actually said Syria!

This hilarious incident, coupled with an excellent 1-0 away win, make it a memorable day for us. We climb off the bottom. I am starting to believe we can do it.

Match 20

Halifax Town v York City

12/4/93

I feel this game is crucial. If we win, then I think we can stay up. Mind you, if we’d won our last 20 games, we’d be top of the league.

We lose 1-0 to another disputed goal although, to be fair, I am disputing every goal by now – and every free kick and every throw-in too (so much for my promise to the refs).

Match 21

Bury v Halifax Town

17/4/93

We win 2-1 against promotion-chasing Bury. It is our best result, and best performance, of the season. Absolutely marvellous. Scenes of jubilation in the dressing room. What a celebration. This could guarantee survival.

Jesus Christ! What a complete and utter choker. Torquay have unbelievably won 1-0 at in-form Shrewsbury. Our party stops dead in its tracks. For the first time there is a look in the eyes of the players that says we are doomed. We get three points, but then the unthinkable has happened. This is it. It just isn’t meant to be. I must stop them thinking like that. It’s so self-destructive. The only problem is, deep down, I now believe it myself.

Match 22

Halifax Town v Walsall

24/4/93

We are trounced 4-0. A really desperate performance at a time when we needed to produce something special to lift everybody at the club and give ourselves some hope.

Again, our home form is the problem. A combination of the players freezing at The Shay, the small pitch and the lack of atmosphere caused by the large speedway track around the playing surface, which forces the fans into the far corner of the stadium where they can’t be heard, culminates in this almost certainly being every team’s favourite away ground (you can add shit manager to that list).

Our performances and results on the road have not been that bad – three wins, two draws and six defeats would have kept us out of trouble if we’d had any semblance of form at home. Our form at The Shay, though, is disastrous. One win and three draws since I’ve been in charge is putrid and relegation form in anybody’s language.

After the game, I am really choked and can hardly bring myself to talk to the players until I compose myself. All those rallying words now just seem empty rhetoric – everybody has been listening to the same old shit for more than four months now.

Match 23

Gillingham V Halifax Town

1/5/93

Last but one game. Drinking in last-chance saloon now. This game at fellow strugglers Gillingham is the real crunch match of the season.

Here is the situation (and it’s not great): we are bottom of the pile on 36 points. One point ahead of us are both Gillingham and Torquay, while Northampton have 38 points but only one game remaining. So, the good news is that if we win, we’ll be off the bottom. The bad news is, if we lose, then we’ll still be bottom and it’ll be out of our hands.

I am so far behind with my studies it doesn’t even bear thinking about. How can I cope with what I am going through on a daily basis and then go home and write an essay about somebody getting a bloody hip replacement?

On the Friday before the trip down to Gillingham, I should be spending the afternoon doing a clinical placement at Burnley Hospital. They have gone to the considerable trouble of arranging special patients for me to see, but when the club find the resources for us to go down to Kent on Friday morning, I have to let them down. I don’t turn up. How can I? I feel terrible, letting all those people down, but I have to travel to Gillingham with the team. It is as simple as that. The hospital are understandably furious, and who can blame them? I will be marked down severely for not turning up. I am now in grave danger of completing a horrific personal double – taking a team out of the Football League and flunking my course.

Saturday is a lovely warm spring day in Gillingham. Roughly 1,000 Halifax fans have travelled to the south-east. We completely outplay them, going close to scoring on many occasions. However, we lose 2-0 to two speculative long shots. The thousands of home fans packed into the compact and atmospheric Priestfield Stadium go crazy. They are mathematically safe now.

Glenn Roeder, the Gillingham manager, comes into our dressing room after the game, congratulates us on our gutsy performance and sympathises with our plight. He is emotional – and mightily relieved. He knows the luck has been with him. They are safe; we are anything but.

Many times over the ensuing years, I would see Glenn with England, Watford, West Ham and Newcastle, always behaving like the perfect gentleman, and I would think: what if? What if our shots had gone in on that warm spring day and theirs hadn’t? We would have been safe and they might have gone out of the Football League. Would I have gone on to greater managerial things than him? But that’s all pie in the sky. The fact remains: we lost again.

Worst news follows. Torquay have won 1-0 at Carlisle. We can’t catch them now either.

We will go into the final game of the season against Hereford United next Saturday at The Shay, needing to win to survive while also praying Northampton do not win at Shrewsbury.