IT WAS LIKE ONE OF THOSE KIDS’ CARTOONS WHERE
A FEARSOME BULL IS SNORTING STEAM AND PAWING
THE GROUND BEFORE CHARGING.
I got my proper first-team start—and I don’t mean as a sub—when I was 17, playing in a Division One (now the Premier League) game against Spurs. That was a big one. The team I’d supported as a boy. The team with Glenn Hoddle, my idol. He was everything I wanted to be. I was fascinated by what he could do with a ball and by his range of passing with both feet. He was a great vollier and scored some fantastic goals from outside the box. Everything he did I tried to emulate. I can’t put into words just how important he was to me.
Things had been building up nicely because I’d already made my debut at St James’ Park—no, not Newcastle, Exeter—after I’d been included in the pre-season tour. I was still in my second year as an apprentice, and came on for the last 20 minutes of a 1-1 draw and was chuffed to read the write-up in the Southampton Echo which said I’d had a confident baptism and stole the show with some dazzling ball work. That gave me a real confidence boost because in those days I thought the press knew what they were talking about. I’d always read the papers if I had done OK but not if I’d had a stinker. I didn’t need some reporter rubbing it in, and if someone is slagging you off that’s not good for the confidence. I’d pick and choose when to read the papers, and I’d tell any young players to do the same.
My first senior appearance at The Dell came a few weeks later as a sub in a 4-1 win against Benfica in a testimonial match for Nick Holmes, although I didn’t play very well. Then I was called in to the senior squad for a league game at Norwich on August 30, 1986. These days, with five or even seven subs, it’s easier for a youngster to get on the bench, but back then there was only one sub allowed so it was a big ask to give the number 12 shirt to a kid. We were 3-2 down when I was sent on for the last 15 minutes with instructions to change the game, and I did. We lost 4-3.
First thing on the Monday morning I was summoned to Chris Nicholl’s office and I remember thinking I had only been on for 15 minutes so I couldn’t have had time to do that badly, but he wanted to let me know I’d be starting the following night. Giving me 24 hours’ notice was a brilliant decision. Normally he didn’t announce the team until the day of the match, but he knew it wouldn’t be easy for my family to get over from Guernsey. And he knew how important they were to me, so he gave me the nod which was a lovely touch. In the end 24 friends and family came over, although I have no idea how I managed to get them all tickets.
It was fantastic just to be told I was starting, but even more special because it was against Spurs. The fact I had 24 hours’ notice meant I had plenty of time to get nervous, but I spent most of the build-up wondering whether my parents were going to get there. There was only one seat left on the plane so Mum told Dad to take it and promised she would get there somehow. She ended up getting a boat and a lift so it really was a case of trains, planes and automobiles. The butterflies grew as the match drew nearer and I was a bit worried about the physical side as I was just a skinny lad and didn’t know how to look after myself at that time—but that’s what Jimmy Case was there for! I got a lot of support from all of the lads who were really helpful.
Bizarrely, I don’t remember too much about the game, which zipped by in a blur. I know I started on the right wing and that we won 2-0 with goals by Colin Clarke and Danny Wallace, and I played the full 90 minutes, which was a bit of a surprise. My big moment was when Mark Blake hit a ball out from the back. It was going over my shoulder but I produced a bit of great control, brought the ball down and cut inside Mitchell Thomas and slipped a reverse pass to Danny Wallace, putting him one-on-one. He rounded the keeper but slotted it into the side-netting just as I was ready to celebrate my first assist. I also remember Chris Waddle—CHRIS WADDLE of all people—got booked for a foul on me. Five minutes from time I got cramp in both hamstrings but no one noticed and I didn’t care because I was on such a high.
My debut gave me a massive boost because I now knew I could play at that level and not look out of place. And of course the £35 win bonus came in very handy. That doesn’t sound much now, especially compared to the players’ huge salaries, but I have never been motivated by money. The biggest basic wage I ever earned was £3,950 per week. That was from the four-year contract I signed in July 1997. The first year I received £3,450 per week, the second I got £3,700 per week and in the third £3,950 per week. And the fourth year? £3,450, but that’s a chairman for you (thank you, Rupert Lowe).
People always ask if I wish I was playing now with all that money in the game and my answer is always the same…
Of course I bloody well do.
Though I was never money-motivated, when I see very ordinary players getting 10 or even 20 times what I did, it does rankle. On the other hand I played in a fabulous era, the money was decent and you didn’t get the intrusive media. And I don’t think I’d have got away with eating the way I did, or playing with such freedom. I couldn’t have put up with that, not even for £60,000 a week. I certainly think I was good enough for the modern game but the big question is, would I have been given the chance? If I was coming through the ranks as a young lad now clubs would probably take one look at my work-rate and get rid of me.
So what’s wrong with the modern game? Where shall I start?
Rant over. I was very grateful for that win bonus against Spurs. We were given the day off after the game and I spent most of it reading match reports. The Echo described me as a ‘mere slip of a lad’ for the first and only time in my career. We trained on the Thursday and the Friday and I kept my place for the Saturday home game against Nottingham Forest. I felt really confident as I lined up on the right wing and then I saw Forest’s left-back Stuart Pearce and just thought, ‘Oh…My…God!’ It was like one of those kids’ cartoons where a fearsome bull is snorting steam and pawing at the ground before charging.
Stuart was the scariest man I have ever played against, by a mile. All I can say is it is a good job Saints played in dark-coloured shorts. I was terrified. His thighs were wider than my torso. I think I got three kicks in that first half, and all from him. The first time he clattered me it was like ‘Welcome to the First Division son.’ To be honest I didn’t even try and take him on. The look in his eyes was enough. It was a steep learning curve for me but I can’t have done too badly because I got seven out of 10 in the paper even though we lost 3-1. Colin Clarke brought us level at 1-1 with 16 minutes to go, but they won with two goals from Gary Birtles and one from Neil Webb. It’s just as well there was only one sub back then because otherwise I might well have been off.
I found myself back on the bench after that and I was probably lucky not to be dropped altogether. In fact Chris Nicholl made a special point of kicking lumps out of me in training. I think he was trying to toughen me up and to get me used to facing players like Stuart Pearce. Chris had a real mean look in his eyes and you could tell he meant every kick, but I really believe he thought he was doing the best for me. After that I spent quite a lot of time on the bench, which was very frustrating. I think he was trying to protect me and bring me through slowly, just like Sir Alex Ferguson did with Ryan Giggs.
I, of course, thought I was good enough to play every week and reckoned I’d tell Chris, really tell him, well, once I got a bit braver. He was scary, an old-fashioned tea-cup thrower. After a defeat he had a terrible habit of picking on one person, normally me because I was the youngster. Very few dared answer back but I remember one game at home to QPR when it was 1-1 with 15 minutes left and we lost 4-1. It was rare for us to be turned over at The Dell like that, and two of the goals came from outside the area. Tim Flowers was in goal and didn’t get anywhere near them.
Chris stormed into the dressing room and slammed the door. No one dared make eye contact because we knew he’d be going for someone. Thankfully it was Tim. Chris yelled, ‘Goalie, you’ve let in two goals from outside the box and got nowhere near them. Have your eyes ever been checked?’ Tim couldn’t help himself and replied, ‘No, they have always been blue.’ How he wasn’t the second player to be punched by Chris I’ll never know. Chris was so stunned he didn’t know what to say.
Tim always had a reply but even he was dumbfounded after one game when he was injured while conceding the second goal. We were 2-1 down at half-time and Tim hobbled off the pitch. The physio Don Taylor was checking his ankle in the dressing room and Chris was laying into him as he lay there in agony. Don eventually managed to get a word in edgeways and said Tim would have to be subbed and would need to go to hospital for an x-ray.
Chris paused and then, in his distinctive northern accent, said, ‘If it’s broken, sorry. If not, W****R!’