Geneharper
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“Date?”
“June twenty-fourth, twenty-eleven, roughly, oh, let's call it eleven-thirty.”
“Mr Oyston, my clock says ten o'clock.”
“Mine says eleven-thirty, Sarah. At twelve, my clock, I'll be off for lunch. At one, your clock, I'll be back from lunch.”
“You will have time to interview Mr Mackie, won't you?”
“That's why my clock says eleven-thirty, Sarah, rather than twelve. Is he here?”
“The four CCTV cameras you have pointed at the entrance lobby show him just arriving, Mr Oyston.”
“Perfect. Send him through as soon as you can.”
I remained at Chelsea for a few seasons, trying to take it easy as my knee recovered, involving myself in coaching, tactics and physiotherapy. I built a good relationship with Andre Villas-Boas before he and Jose left in less-than-happy circumstances. I didn't remain much longer after them, choosing to first work as a coach at Arsenal for several years, then Manchester City for the first few years of the gold rush. But I knew I was good enough for the top role, good enough to wrench a team up by its bootstraps and demand it fulfil its potential. Arsene Wenger told me that; so did Roberto Mancini, after the time I gave Carlos Tevez an almighty dressing-down and he actually responded well to it. I only left Manchester City two months ago and Carlos is already causing trouble. I wonder where he'll end up by the end of the summer? It is, after all, the time for change.
I was musing all of this over one morning, checking job listings. Having officially resigned from City on the last day of the 2010-11 season, I knew I wanted to go into football management, but I hadn't yet decided how high to aim. There would be no shortage of job offers from the lower leagues – and the established wisdom was always to start small –but the thing was, I wouldn't be starting. I already knew what I wanted to do. I wasn't planning to aim too high – I'd dealt with prima-donnas and it had taken years off my life – but ideally, a smaller team with ambition, who would feel happy with success rather than entitled to it, but just needed the right leader,and the right thinker.
The phone rang, so I picked it up.
“Y'ello?”
“Gene! Hi! Good news!”
“Jenny,as ever it is a pleasure to hear your voice. What is this good news?” Jenny was a curious combination of friend, agent and personal assistant, who would scour the airwaves for job offers, people to meet, people to avoid, places to be, interesting titbits to hear and generally useful information. She never asked for payment, but I always made sure I took her out for a fine meal every fortnight. I considered it a fair deal, given the amount she could put away in a single sitting.
“Well, good is a relative quantity, and of course some might not consider this good news” – she was also alarmingly precise – “but you'll be interested...”
“Spill it, lady.”
“Ian Holloway has announced a one-year sabbatical from football, saying that the stress from trying to keep Blackpool in the Premier League has adversely affected his health and his family life.” She almost squealed. I almost dropped the phone.
“You're serious?”
“As ever. Now, I want you to take me to Hawksmoor on-”
“LOVE YOU GOT TO GO.”
I hung up and considered. Blackpool, hmm. In truth, I'd never even been to the town before – if I wanted seaside, I headed to Brighton. That says, it was a largely young, talented, hungry squad, with a decent transfer budget owing to low wage cap and sale of Charlie Adam. It had a supporting Chairman who is decidedly not a shady Far-East businessman, and I could certainly use my contacts in the Premier League to secure some favourable loan deals. It wasn't a big squad, they'd get playing time. I found myself thinking very hard and very fast about it. This could work...
I pulled up. First, I'd have to take a look at the finances and the state of the ground. I had no desire to walk into another Hull. This would necessitate meeting with the Chairman, asking for a tour, at the same time as selling myself for the job. The money wasn't important, I had plenty already, so much as getting the opportunity to rise up the rankings.
Hmm...
After several more minutes, mindful that this is a job a fair amount of old boys would be looking at, I decided to pick up the phone once more and ring Blackpool Football Club, increasingly certain that this was the perfect place to begin building a long career.
“June twenty-fourth, twenty-eleven, roughly, oh, let's call it eleven-thirty.”
“Mr Oyston, my clock says ten o'clock.”
“Mine says eleven-thirty, Sarah. At twelve, my clock, I'll be off for lunch. At one, your clock, I'll be back from lunch.”
“You will have time to interview Mr Mackie, won't you?”
“That's why my clock says eleven-thirty, Sarah, rather than twelve. Is he here?”
“The four CCTV cameras you have pointed at the entrance lobby show him just arriving, Mr Oyston.”
“Perfect. Send him through as soon as you can.”
* * *
I've always been uncomfortably aware of my own mortality. Okay, that makes me sound obsessed with death. I promise I'm not. It's more a fixation on the crippling inevitability of age. Every footballer has it; I'll be damned if they don't. From the age of fifteen. From the first time they tread awkwardly on their ankle, crush the joint, and receive a searing blood-red shot of pain. From the first grinding away of cartilage, to the point when they realise their limbs can't turn as fast as their mind can, through to that moment, around the age of thirty-seven, when the club physio sends you to a specialist, who diagnoses knee tendinitis, and you have several operations which will ensure you can walk for the rest of your life but you'll never sprint again. For me, I had that rather unpleasant announcement at an earlier age, that of thirty-two. Playing for Chelsea all the way from 1992 to 2005, from a prominent member of that well-rounded FA Cup-winning first team through to a calm substitute brought on by the great Jose Mourinho to see out difficult games or control the first 60 minutes of easy ones. This wound up being my role for England, as well, as I wasn't selected for the 2002 World Cup and only played a nominal role in 1998. I was ever-reliable, technically sound with good vision, reasonable pace and a fine passing range – I wasn't going to own the first-team slot, not in a midfield comprising Claude Makelele and Frank Lampard, but I consider it a complement that he felt the need to buy Michael Essien and then Michael Ballack to replace me, even at 33. I got on well with Jose – he helped me with my Spanish and we enjoyed chatting, even more so when I announced my intentions to retire at the end of the 2004-05 season and go into coaching. I learned one or two things from him, in the same was one would learn from Garry Kasparov.
I remained at Chelsea for a few seasons, trying to take it easy as my knee recovered, involving myself in coaching, tactics and physiotherapy. I built a good relationship with Andre Villas-Boas before he and Jose left in less-than-happy circumstances. I didn't remain much longer after them, choosing to first work as a coach at Arsenal for several years, then Manchester City for the first few years of the gold rush. But I knew I was good enough for the top role, good enough to wrench a team up by its bootstraps and demand it fulfil its potential. Arsene Wenger told me that; so did Roberto Mancini, after the time I gave Carlos Tevez an almighty dressing-down and he actually responded well to it. I only left Manchester City two months ago and Carlos is already causing trouble. I wonder where he'll end up by the end of the summer? It is, after all, the time for change.
I was musing all of this over one morning, checking job listings. Having officially resigned from City on the last day of the 2010-11 season, I knew I wanted to go into football management, but I hadn't yet decided how high to aim. There would be no shortage of job offers from the lower leagues – and the established wisdom was always to start small –but the thing was, I wouldn't be starting. I already knew what I wanted to do. I wasn't planning to aim too high – I'd dealt with prima-donnas and it had taken years off my life – but ideally, a smaller team with ambition, who would feel happy with success rather than entitled to it, but just needed the right leader,and the right thinker.
The phone rang, so I picked it up.
“Y'ello?”
“Gene! Hi! Good news!”
“Jenny,as ever it is a pleasure to hear your voice. What is this good news?” Jenny was a curious combination of friend, agent and personal assistant, who would scour the airwaves for job offers, people to meet, people to avoid, places to be, interesting titbits to hear and generally useful information. She never asked for payment, but I always made sure I took her out for a fine meal every fortnight. I considered it a fair deal, given the amount she could put away in a single sitting.
“Well, good is a relative quantity, and of course some might not consider this good news” – she was also alarmingly precise – “but you'll be interested...”
“Spill it, lady.”
“Ian Holloway has announced a one-year sabbatical from football, saying that the stress from trying to keep Blackpool in the Premier League has adversely affected his health and his family life.” She almost squealed. I almost dropped the phone.
“You're serious?”
“As ever. Now, I want you to take me to Hawksmoor on-”
“LOVE YOU GOT TO GO.”
I hung up and considered. Blackpool, hmm. In truth, I'd never even been to the town before – if I wanted seaside, I headed to Brighton. That says, it was a largely young, talented, hungry squad, with a decent transfer budget owing to low wage cap and sale of Charlie Adam. It had a supporting Chairman who is decidedly not a shady Far-East businessman, and I could certainly use my contacts in the Premier League to secure some favourable loan deals. It wasn't a big squad, they'd get playing time. I found myself thinking very hard and very fast about it. This could work...
I pulled up. First, I'd have to take a look at the finances and the state of the ground. I had no desire to walk into another Hull. This would necessitate meeting with the Chairman, asking for a tour, at the same time as selling myself for the job. The money wasn't important, I had plenty already, so much as getting the opportunity to rise up the rankings.
Hmm...
After several more minutes, mindful that this is a job a fair amount of old boys would be looking at, I decided to pick up the phone once more and ring Blackpool Football Club, increasingly certain that this was the perfect place to begin building a long career.
