Where’s Your Caravan?: My Life on Football’s B-Roads. Chris Hargreaves
as before, I ran rings round the Preston defence, in particular Allardyce junior, but soon after I had scored an early goal he launched into the back of me with a hefty lunge. I got the classic numb feeling in my ankle but I still played on until half time – remarkably resulting in me scoring another goal broken ankle and all.
This could sound like a great old war tale of bravery and courage, but in reality I should have seen some sense and come off straightaway – I told the physio at half time that I was in real pain. Buckley came down to have a look, at which point I said that I wanted to play on, as I really wanted to impress him. I was really keen to play on, as I was flying at that point, really looking to returning to the first team and staying there. The physio had other ideas though; he took my boot off, and my ankle immediately swelled up. I was told it was broken, and a couple of days later it was put in a pot. To make matters worse, I really struggled with the cast; they had made it too tight, so I returned to the hospital hoping that they could do something about it. At the hospital, the cast was taken off, and I was told to return in twenty-four hours to have it reset. Unfortunately, in those twenty-four hours I managed to slip on the stairs at home, and do even more damage to the ankle. The pain was incredible, and as I reflect now, I wince at the thought.
After a long rehab, and with no first team action forthcoming, I decided to go on loan. I lasted nineteen minutes of a ‘memorable’ loan to Scarborough; playing a match against Bury, I was sent off in what the manager said was one of the worst decisions he had witnessed in football. I went up for a header against the centre-half Peter Valentine and, on landing, he held his face while kicking me in the bollocks. It looked as though I had elbowed him, I hadn’t, but I was off and subsequently banned for the next three games. Loan over! Funnily enough I have never enjoyed Valentine’s night since.
Towards the end of the 92/93 season I had a phone call from Terry Dolan, the then Hull City manager, saying that he wanted me at the club. I was excited, but apprehensive. I told Alan Buckley, and at first he said I should stay, but I could not see any way of getting in the first team and, much as I loved that club, I had to get away. I remember saying to him, ‘It is just nice to be wanted by someone’ – it was a bit of a dig, but it got no real reaction.
With that chat over, there were just a few emotional farewells to the players and staff, and then I was soon off to Hull City. I think, with a few additions, it turned out to be a fee of around fifty thousand pounds. For someone who was told he might go for a million pounds only a few years earlier, something had gone wrong somewhere.
Probably the toughest part of my transfer was saying goodbye to my parents. I was finally leaving the nest, and as they looked at me, my mum with tears in her eyes, I think we were all thinking the same thing. I was the player they had watched in cup finals, scoring endless amounts of goals, the young man they had watched score at Blundell Park, and the boy who, only a few years ago, in the back garden, had pretended to be on Match of the Day. I had realised my dream of becoming a professional footballer and to play for my hometown club, but now, for so many different reasons, I had to leave.
We all knew something had gone pretty wrong but nothing was said. That chapter in my life was now over, and I had to move on.
1993/94
I haven’t been able to write recently. I wouldn’t call it writer’s block exactly, but a combination of trying to get a full-time job, having a bit of part-time work, and being in a household with levels of stress bordering on insanity, has meant that finding the time and the right frame of mind to type away has been tough. I have gone from being the captain of both Torquay United and Oxford United last season, and on decent money, to being sat at home trying to find work. It’s 2nd August and my youngest daughter, Harriet, was four yesterday. We had a party on Exmouth beach with family and friends, lots of food and drink, and, mercifully, some sun.
Devon is such a beautiful county, it sort of grabs you in and doesn’t let you go, and as much as I feel I can carry on playing, certainly in the Conference or Second Division, uprooting the whole family, changing the children’s schools, and making a new life somewhere else is just not realistic – unless, of course, Manchester City phone me and offer me a three-year deal. I suppose I have fully retired now, but I cannot bring myself to say it; it seems to have just happened.
I am currently in the big wide world. After twenty-two years, this Saturday will be (partly out of choice, as I am not prepared to drive halfway around the country for a ‘maybe’ on a one year deal, and partly due to circumstance as I am now thirty-nine) the first game of the season that I have not started. It does fill me with sadness, and I’m not afraid to admit I am scared at the moment, but I knew this day would come. I miss the day-to-day training, and the banter that you get at a club, and, of course, the money, but I certainly don’t miss the bullshit. I am still running everyday keeping fit, in case something changes, but I don’t think it will. I think this is it. My immediate football future, tomorrow morning, involves training the Exeter City under-16s, with another ex-pro, Shaun Taylor.
To give you an idea of the strangeness of my new life, in the space of twenty-four hours last week, I was variously kitted out as a gardener, a sports presenter and a coach.
The gardening work has come from Fiona’s boss, Carol, who mentioned that she had a bit of a project, if I was interested. When my wife initially told me, she laughed, as I did – imagine, a professional footballer doing some cash-in-hand work in a garden – but within a week I had swallowed my ridiculous and unrealistic pride, and picked up the phone. I am coaching almost every night at the academy, but I really wanted some hardcore exercise and letting rip in an overgrown garden was just the ticket. It has been brilliant, a real therapy of sorts, a chainsaw and industrial blade strimmer in hand, and I’m off. In fact, such was my keenness to get started when I initially weighed up the job – Carol thought I might back down after seeing the jungle ahead – I waded in with just a pair of shears, wearing only some shorts and no top. After four hours of afternoon sweat, I emerged looking like Jesus of Nazareth. With my long hair and shorts I already had a head start anyway, but after that first day my arms and legs were cut to shreds by the bramble and thorn bushes and I had been bitten to death by insects. My arms were so bad I think people thought I had started to self-harm, but things haven’t come to that just yet!
The scratches and bites didn’t matter though; it was the first time I had done a bit of cash-in-hand labour and it felt good. The following day I turned up looking like a cross between Indiana Jones and a Ghostbuster. I had every conceivable item of garden machinery. Spending six or seven hours just ploughing through this overgrown meadow was fantastic. I would stop after three or four hours dripping with sweat, have a drink of water, a cheese sandwich and just crack on. (I don’t know why, but a cheese sandwich just felt right, a man’s sandwich!) It really brought home to me the fact that being away from the football bubble doesn’t really matter. It’s about providing for your family.
I was sawing my way through a tree one day last week when my phone started to ring. It was an agent asking me to play in a few games for a certain club, and that if I did there might be a contract, might be. I had had twenty years of that kind of uncertainty, and as much as I loved playing, I said, ‘Thanks, but no thanks.’
Besides, the next day I was due to drive a minibus full of Exeter City under-16s to play Everton, and that was far more important than a might be. These lads are at the stage where they just need a bit of guidance, and it’s great to see how keen they are.
The TV work is in the form of the BBC down here in Devon. I was the ‘pundit’ on the sofa during the last season, and they have very kindly asked me if I would do it again this year. I’m like a cross between Gary Lineker and Alan Hansen, but without the colour-coded shirts, international caps or European cups. But we do have a good laugh looking through the weekend’s action and messing about before the producer is ready for the off. By we, I mean myself and Natalie Cornah, the presenter, who is not only up on her football but who can also take the piss with the best of them – obviously the banter is kept for while the mike is off. Richard Keys and Andy Gray take note.
I was also asked by the BBC if I would interview the local team managers as part of a pre-season preview. I jumped at the chance, and really enjoyed it, although I did have to smile