Bend It Like Bullard Read online

  For all his wacky ways, Barry was someone you could always turn to. He had your back. If you were in trouble, he’d stand by you and help you out. He was a very loyal man – you couldn’t wish for better qualities in a manager. Okay, it might have been nice if he’d let us off the coach to play the odd game instead of playing cards, but I suppose I’m just being picky.

  And now that I was in the team every week, I couldn’t have cared less if he’d made us run a marathon every day in between games. This was what I’d always wanted and Barry had saved me from that bleak period when West Ham had shown me the door.

  When people talk about the glamour of being a professional footballer, I don’t think they quite understand that it isn’t all setting £50 notes alight while cruising around in a sports car. I only ever did that on Thursdays.

  On other days life could be tough, as I found out when my missus Diane and I went over to Norwich where I hoped to impress their manager Nigel Worthington into offering me a deal. After Frank Lampard Sr had confirmed to me and my old man that the Hammers were letting me go, I had three months to find a new club and the pressure was on. I remained convinced that I was a far better footballer than I was a painter-decorator. And hundreds of customers with paint peeling off their walls would have agreed with me.

  Diane had been my childhood sweetheart and I could never imagine life without her. She’s always been there for me through thick and thin – fortunately mostly thick – and there’s no way I could have coped with all the ups and downs of my career without her love and encouragement.

  In the early part of my career, Diane was by my side when I needed her most – none more so than when I had to go over to Norwich for a trial and she almost froze solid watching me in the stands.

  When we arrived in Norwich we didn’t check straight in to the local Hilton and order room service. We didn’t even get an Alan Partridge-style Travel Tavern. Instead, we made our way to a lovely old lady’s house on the outskirts of town where we would lodge for the next two weeks – it was the best that the club could do for us.

  I worked my nuts off in training with Norwich for the next fortnight, determined to prove I was good enough to play for the club. Carrow Road was a lovely ground and when I watched a game with my old man while I was there, the atmosphere was superb. I really started to think that this could be for me. As usual, I was a terrible watcher, though, and I just got restless so began to whack my dad on the head for a laugh. ‘Behave,’ he said. ‘There might be cameras on us, you never know.’

  I was just full of nervous energy ahead of my trial game. By then, the weather had turned ridiculously cold and the pitch was covered in snow. It was absolutely freezing but the club managed to get the game on so I couldn’t use the temperature as an excuse – I knew I had to produce as this was the crunch for me.

  Fortunately, I played really well in front of Nigel Worthington and Steve Foley – and also in front of poor Diane, who was sitting in the stands with about ten others, going numb with the cold. And did she complain? Of course she did, but that’s not the point.

  I was convinced it would all be worth it – although Diane, whose feet took about a day to thaw out, probably disagreed – after I’d performed so well, but Norwich were not quite in agreement and they informed me they couldn’t offer me a deal.

  BANG! OOF!

  That was an absolute killer. A real kick in the balls. I could not believe that they didn’t want me after all that time I’d spent with them and playing so well in the trial.

  Later on, I heard that Norwich had been interested in signing me but that West Ham had asked for £68,000, which they didn’t want to pay. I wasn’t sure who to believe and it didn’t really matter because either way I didn’t have a club.

  There was a glimmer of hope when Frank Lampard Sr told my dad that Harry was going to be leaving the Hammers, meaning I might be able to go on a free transfer, but when we got back in touch with Nigel Worthington, he’d already signed a midfielder so no longer needed me.

  My dad tried to keep me positive and we set up a trial at Gillingham. It was just the one match, I didn’t know any of the players’ names and couldn’t get on the ball so just ran around a lot. Apart from that, it went really well. The message back from them was that they didn’t think I was better than what they already had.

  But my luck was about to change.

  When I returned to West Ham I played up front in a reserve team game and did quite well. My phone rang later that night and it was someone from West Ham saying that a scout from Peterborough had asked if I could play in a second-string game for them the next day. ‘I’ve just played!’ were my first words, but within seconds I’d agreed to play again the following day as I couldn’t afford to miss the opportunity.

  This time, there was no old lady’s house, just a short trip up to London Road to play my second game inside twenty-four hours. Although I was feeling a bit leggy, back then I still had the energy levels of a kid in a school playground. I could have played four games a day and still never have been outrun by anybody on the pitch.

  ‘Posh’ reserves were playing Bournemouth that day and the weirdest thing about it was that I was lining up in central midfield against my best mate Sam Keevill. I’d asked Barry Fry if I could play in central midfield, even though, in theory, I played on the right for West Ham.

  I never got on the ball enough with the Hammers so I thought it would be a good idea to show Barry what I could do – after the Norwich fiasco, I felt that it was now or never for me. If I didn’t perform I could have been out of football and there would be no money-burning Thursdays for me.

  If I’d played well in the Norwich trial game, I absolutely bossed the Peterborough one from start to finish. I honestly think it’s the best I’ve ever played at any level. At one point my mate Sam said to me ‘You’re on fire!’ and when he came off the pitch later, he told me he’d never played against anyone who’d performed like I just had.

  After the game, Barry Fry called my dad and I into his office. He sat in his chair with an oversized, steaming cup of tea and asked my dad if he wanted a coffee. Wayne Turner, the Posh assistant coach, brought my dad over a coffee in a plastic cup and Baz didn’t look happy.

  ‘Put it in a china cup, he ain’t signed yet, dopey!’ joked Barry as he offered me a contract then and there. I didn’t even bother to consult my old man. It was time to start playing for three points every week and if that meant dropping down two divisions then so be it.

  Peterborough might have lacked the glamour of West Ham, with away trips to Liverpool and Tottenham replaced by Stockport and Bournemouth, but I was also swapping poncing about in the reserves with proper first-team professional league football.

  I might miss Johnny Moncur strutting about naked, Paolo Di Canio’s shaved legs, and Neil Ruddock’s special baths, but I would now be treated to large helpings of Barry Fry on a daily basis.

  Later on I found out that Barry had watched me a few times – he’d turn up to West Ham reserves to see me play and was always surprised to find that I wasn’t in the team the next time he came. Tell me about it, Baz!

  He also told me he couldn’t believe he’d got me on a free transfer; for a wheeler-dealer like him, that was great business. Especially as the club would end up selling me for £275,000.

  As Barry always told me, he saw Peterborough as a stepping stone for me; he knew I wouldn’t be there for long – I listened when he said that, but it never went to my head. I knew I had a lot of hard work to do there before I could think about moving on.

  First and foremost, Diane and I had to up sticks and move to Peterborough. For a boy whose parents wouldn’t allow him to go to McDonald’s on his own at the age of sixteen, moving to Peterborough was like emigrating to Australia. I had to go over to my granddad’s and borrow £1,000 from under his mattress so I could pay my rent and deposit up front and then I had to deal with things like gas, electricity and water bills for the first time in my life.

  Bu
t these were great problems to have and showed me that my career had finally started … except a week into the new season I was sitting on the sodding bench again.

  I’m not sure whether you’re familiar with the County Ground, home of Swindon Town. It’s a small stadium in the centre of town, full of character although some of the wooden stands are ageing a bit and it can probably only hold about 15,000. But to me, on Saturday 11 August 2001, it might as well have been the Maracanã, such was the buzz I got from arriving there for my first professional league start. The records may show that 7,934 were in the ground that afternoon but I swear on my life it seemed like there were about 60,000.

  When we went into the changing rooms before the warm-up, I could hear the crowd above us and I came out in goosebumps. That’s how much it meant to me. This wasn’t like Anfield where I could hear the crowd but knew I was on the bench with the slimmest chance of playing.

  This was my chance.

  I didn’t want to go back to sanding down skirting boards; I was completely focused on making it as a footballer and this was my big opportunity. If I didn’t make it at Peterborough, that would be curtains for me and I could dig out my old overalls again.

  Sat in that dressing room, straight away I noticed that the biggest difference about starting a first-team match was playing for three points. Now, I was in a team where careers, livelihoods and contracts were at stake. It was a totally different environment. Everything was about winning, about the team. Every one of your team-mates was going to support you. You all had each other’s backs. In reserve-team football, half of the players just want to get out and do it for themselves.

  Even as we approached the County Ground on the team bus that afternoon, I was soaking it all up and breathing it all in as I always treated every game as if it could be my last. I know that philosophy sounds a bit sad, but appreciating my good fortune was just part of my pre-match ritual. It all came from my parents, and another thing I always did on the way to a game was speak to them. That wasn’t always so easy as some managers were quite funny about players using phones once we’d left the team hotel, but I’d usually hide behind the seats towards the back of the bus and give my folks a ring.

  The conversations would always be the same. My mum would answer the phone and say: ‘Jim, this won’t last forever so you make sure that you enjoy it; win, lose or draw. Have your eyes and ears open and enjoy it.’

  That’s exactly what she said before every game whether it was Swindon v Peterborough or England v Germany – it didn’t matter to her, the outlook was exactly the same. She’d say nothing about the football, but she was strong, which gave me strength and made me feel confident.

  Then my old man would get on the phone. He was to the point: ‘Behave yourself, no arguing with the referee and play well.’

  Having done all that pre-match prep, I trotted out on to the pitch in front of – what was to me – a packed house in Rio. And my first game flew by. Well it certainly passed me by at any rate.

  It’s fair to say I didn’t have a very good match at all. I was playing in central midfield and I did manage to hit a couple of good passes but that was about it. At the end of the game, a goalless draw, I just thought, ‘Shit’. This was exactly what I didn’t want. Having just come from West Ham where I felt the manager had no confidence in me, the last thing I wanted was for Barry Fry to also lose belief in me.

  And my worst fears were realised when I found myself named as a substitute for the next game against Cardiff. I couldn’t kick up a fuss as I’d not played well against Swindon, but to be dropped after only one game hurt. Then again, Barry knew that I’d not been playing regularly enough at West Ham so it was always going to take a bit of time for me to adjust to proper professional league football every week.

  I was determined to prove myself so I sat tight as I remained on the bench for the next few games and didn’t say a word – apart from on the way back from a narrow win at Chesterfield where I couldn’t resist speaking to Baz’s assistant Wayne.

  I asked him for a chance to play in central midfield again and promised I’d show him what I had. I worked the old Bullard charm on him, leaving him with no option but to press for my inclusion in the next game. It was obvious I was exactly what Posh needed as, by and large, results had not been going our way.

  But I was on the bench again for our next game, a victory against Cambridge – so much for the old Bullard charm.

  The following Tuesday we were at home to Premier League Coventry in the League Cup and I was handed the start I’d been craving since the opening day. Except I was playing on the right of midfield, but beggars can’t be choosers.

  I was so pumped up for the game; they did everything bar put a muzzle on my face and stick me into a greyhound trap to calm me down. My parents had travelled up to watch me play, which only added to my frenzied bundle of adrenaline, nerves and excitement.

  Yet the first half didn’t really go according to plan. I didn’t see much of the ball and just couldn’t get myself involved in the game.

  I returned to the dressing room at half time and went all Robert De Niro in Taxi Driver as I stood in the loo in front of a mirror, psyching myself up while splashing water on my face. ‘You talkin’ to me? You talkin’ to me? Well, I’m the only one here.’

  Barry Fry interrupted my Hollywood audition by informing me I was moving to centre-midfield for the second half – that charm offensive on the way back from Chesterfield had worked after all.

  I went back out for the second half and played brilliantly. I was full of confidence, the adrenaline was pumping and I felt like I could take on the world. Instead, I just took on Coventry. And we nearly beat them as well, but for a late goal which took the game to extra time and eventually penalties.

  I took the first spot-kick and smashed it in – I would’ve taken all five and scored the lot, but unfortunately the rules say that’s not allowed – but we ended up losing on pens.

  From a team perspective we were gutted, but on a personal level, I wasn’t too down because I knew I’d arrived. Like the Gravesend game against Purfleet, that Coventry match changed my career. I never looked back from that moment.

  Everything clicked for us a week later when we thrashed Bournemouth 6-0, a game in which I scored my first pro goal – an absolute scorcher it was too, although not a patch on the one I scored a few days later against Bristol City, which still ranks as the best I’ve ever scored.

  We were 3-1 up with about fifteen minutes to go against the pre-season promotion favourites, on our way up to fourth in the league, when the ball broke to me near the halfway line. I cut inside, beat a player and the ball kept running across the middle. I was about thirty-five yards out and for some reason I decided to hit the thing. I slapped it with my laces and it flew into the top corner. Unreal. I remember watching it on a DVD and you can see the Posh fans behind the goal celebrating with the ball still about eighteen yards from the goal as they knew it was in from the moment I’d hit it. Shame I got that one out of the way so early in my career.

  The City goalkeeper Mike Stowell had no chance; in fact, their manager Danny Wilson said after the game, ‘If there were three keepers, none of them would have stopped that!’ That was the quote of the century for me.

  I think nine times out of ten, I’d have hit that shot and it would have gone miles over the bar. My team-mates would have called me a wanker and all sorts. Barry Fry might even have subbed me, but luckily for me it was that one time in ten. Unfortunately, it only encouraged me to try plenty more daft things like that in the future. I took that as a sign of my confidence; my team-mates took it as a sign of me being a greedy git.

  One thing I learned very quickly was to make sure I made the most of celebrating my goals. That wasn’t something I had to think about too hard. When that first one against Bournemouth nestled in the net, I went mental. Going mad came naturally.

  Scoring is such a high. A completely unreal moment when you just forget yourself for a second or
two. Except me, who loses it for a full minute or two.

  When I score, I go properly apeshit. Barry Fry once had to tell me to curb the celebrations because I was going too insane. He said, ‘Jimmy, you can’t celebrate that long.’

  ‘What?’ I replied. ‘Course I can!’

  And I did.

  I once celebrated a goal for Peterborough for fully two minutes!

  It all started when Barry Fry had a go at me at half time during a game against QPR. I’d hit the post from about forty yards in the first half and he piped up with: ‘Jim, you haven’t hit a good shot since the old king died!’

  ‘How can you say that?’ I shot back. ‘Next time I score, you’re going to know about it.’

  Sure enough, three or four games later, I was on target and went so mad for so long that the referee booked me. He approached me with a puzzled look on his face, showed me a yellow card and said, ‘What are you doing?’

  And so did my team-mates – they had no idea what I was up to as I continued to milk the goal by going to all parts of the ground and celebrating. You’d have thought I’d just scored the winner in the World Cup final.

  The buzz I got from scoring continued for hours and days afterwards, especially when I saw it replayed on the box. When I scored that corker against Bristol City I saw it on telly the next day and I remember thinking, ‘Fucking hell, here we go! I’ll have a slice of this.’

  It was so weird to see myself playing football on TV for the first time. It was also the first time I realised how big this whole thing was for me as everyone could see my goal – and my phone soon confirmed that feeling as the text messages from my mates started flying in.