Bend It Like Bullard Page 7

  It gave me huge confidence and increased desire to go and do it all over again. I watched it again and again. ‘Bloody hell,’ I thought. ‘I’ve hit that like Stevie G!’ To me, the only difference was that the stage was slightly smaller, but it still counted. I’d still done it on the pitch.

  And once I’d grasped on to a little bit of belief like that, there was no stopping me.

  That was the time that I established myself as the Posh penalty-taker. I was bursting with belief and there was no way anyone else was going to take a spot-kick instead of me and deny me the chance of scoring a goal. I scored my first penalty in a win against Northampton a couple of weeks later and you’d have had to kill me to get the ball off me when we were awarded a penalty anytime after that.

  Some players are a bit reluctant to deal with the pressure of taking a penalty and being in the spotlight for a few seconds. I looked at it differently.

  For me, a penalty kick was the most fantastic opportunity to score a goal and I could never understand why anyone wouldn’t want to take one.

  In fact, I would go as far as to ask what the hell you’re doing on the pitch if you don’t want to take a penalty? (In normal play, not a shoot-out as I can understand that pressure isn’t for everyone; even David Beckham, a slightly better midfielder than me, managed to miss one in the Euro 2004 quarter-final.)

  It’s one v one from twelve yards out and, as the penalty-taker, you have as much time as you like to choose when you’re ready to strike the ball. Just look at the stats – far more penalties are scored than missed. I say that without having actually looked at the facts myself; I’m not Rafa BenÍtez. But it’s obvious way more pens result in goals than saves.

  Having said that, it didn’t always go according to plan for me from the spot.

  In one game for Peterborough against Port Vale, we were awarded a spot-kick and I confidently strolled up and struck it to the bottom right of the goal and watched as the keeper saved it – shit!

  Like a gift from the gods, the referee had spotted something or other that he wasn’t too keen on and ordered a retake. Get in there!

  Before I’d even had a chance to put the ball back on the spot, loads of my team-mates were swarming around me like flies round shit, trying to grab the ball to take the kick.

  ‘Not a bloody chance,’ I said and I clung on to that ball like it was my newborn baby.

  Once the melee had calmed, I stepped up and, this time, I smacked it bottom left. The sodding keeper has only gone and bloody saved it again. Fuck.

  I looked up at the ref hopefully. ‘Go on son,’ I thought. ‘Give us another go.’ But he looked the other way and so did I as I kept my head down after that little disaster. Despite that, I remained supremely confident that I’d score the next one.

  As luck would have it, we got one in our next game. None of the boys were keen on me taking it and God only knows what Barry Fry was thinking as I grabbed the ball, but I stepped up again, feeling certain I was going to score and I did just that.

  I always did my homework with penalties and made sure I kept the keepers guessing. Football got all fancy thanks to technology towards the end of my career, so coaches would study all the penalty-takers, meaning goalkeepers would always have a good idea of where you were going to hit the ball.

  Not with me. I switched from bottom left to bottom right, then I’d vary the speed of my run-up to the ball as well. Sometimes, I’d try to spot the keeper making a move as I ran up, just to get that little advantage.

  I worked hard on things like that after training. I was really compulsive, always making one of the keepers stay out so I could smash penalties past them and try different options. I’d also practise free kicks for ages until Bazza or the groundsman would threaten to kill me if I didn’t stop ruining the pitch.

  And they had every right to be concerned because that London Road surface was an absolute disgrace – there was more grass in the Sahara than on our pitch. We drew Newcastle at home in the FA Cup and the match was almost called off because the pitch was so bad.

  It was lucky it went ahead as it was a belting game and, without doubt, the biggest match of my life at the time. There was a ridiculous amount of talent on the pitch as Sir Bobby Robson played a strong side against us with Alan Shearer, Craig Bellamy, Sylvain Distin and Nobby Solano all in the team. We went two goals down but then stormed back in the second half with a couple of our own, including Dave Farrell’s equaliser, after which Bazza raced down the touchline to high five him. I’d never seen him move so fast. When José Mourinho did his touchline celebration with Porto at Man United a couple of years later, it was clear he’d been watching Barry.

  Neale Fenn then had a great chance to win it, but Shay Given made a blinding save and, just when it looked like we’d earned a replay, they were given a soft pen and added another soon after so we went down fighting.

  As good an experience as it was, it was also a very tough game to play in because the pitch was a total mudbath. Every time I tried to run with the ball, it would just stick – there’s no way that game would be played in today’s football. But it did mean that I came face to face with Shearer for the first time and it didn’t go well for me. There was a fifty-fifty ball to be won in the middle of the pitch and we both went for it, except I ended up flat on my arse, as running into him was like sprinting straight into a hotel. He was a big man whereas I was a twenty-three-year-old in a seventeen-year-old’s body. I also tried to run with Bellamy but he was an absolute rocket.

  Two lessons I learned from that game: get stronger and get quicker.

  The high-profile nature of the game meant that the next day was the first time I’d made the national papers, with the Guardian writing, ‘Prompted by the quick-quick passes of the local hero Jimmy Bullard, the home side overcame the early setback …’

  I’ll have some of that thank you very much, but I think the reporter must’ve been drinking because I could hardly stand up on that muddy pitch, never mind pass the ball.

  Our pitch was typical of some of the problems you have playing lower-league football every week where the facilities weren’t a million miles away from non-league, or worse. I once played at Rotherham’s Millmoor ground for Wigan. We filed off the coach and into the changing room and almost collapsed in a pile of footballers, because the room was so small. It was a box at best and I’d never seen anything like it at any level I’d played.

  That was just the beginning, as Rotherham boss Ronnie Moore had made sure the heating was turned up to oven settings. The dressing room was hotter than a sauna, the showers were freezing cold and there wasn’t even room for a medical bed. Our manager Paul Jewell went potty and insisted we all changed in the corridor, which we did, before going out and playing on a pitch with a slope. At least it had grass on it, unlike Peterborough’s mud and sandpit.

  Despite our dodgy pitch, Peterborough was a glorious yet simple time in my career. Money wasn’t a big deal to me as long as I had enough for the basics like food, clothes and petrol for the Fiesta. Football was giving me such a buzz that I didn’t need anything else, although sometimes that buzz could be too much.

  It’s hard to explain just how high I was after matches, especially if I’d played well or scored a goal. The adrenaline would pump through me for hours afterwards and there was no chance of sleeping. Sometimes, I could be awake all night and would then be in a foul mood the following day – it was like a comedown, where I didn’t want anyone near me. As much as I loved playing under the lights at night because the atmosphere was so good, evening matches were a nightmare for that never-ending buzz. You could forget sleeping on a Tuesday or Wednesday night, but if we’d won it didn’t really matter.

  Unfortunately, winning wasn’t something we did that often during my two years at Posh. The team’s struggles didn’t affect my performances though, and during my second season with the club, Barry told me that other teams were interested in me.

  However loyal Bazza was and however much he preached
about team unity, if there was a sniff of a chance of another club paying money to sign one of us, he’d drop you faster than a virgin would drop his trousers in the red-light district. That was understandable as Barry was also the chairman of Peterborough and had put loads of his own money – and his mother-in-law’s – into the club. I heard that not only did Barry remortgage his own home to help Posh, but also his wife’s mum’s gaff. And I’m not even sure he told her either, as he once said, ‘She’s got the deeds back now, she didn’t even know I’d given them to the bank!’

  One morning I was in bed at home when the phone rang. When I say bed, I was actually lying on a mattress on my living room floor because we were doing the place up.

  I answered the phone. Immediately I heard the familiar ‘Barry Fry’. He would always announce himself when he called – it didn’t matter that we’d been living in a world with caller ID for five years.

  ‘What’s happening, Baz?’ I said.

  ‘Birmingham.’

  ‘What do you mean Birmingham? The place, the football club, what?’ I replied.

  ‘Birmingham City Football Club,’ he announced as if he was doing the FA Cup draw. ‘They want you, do you want to go?’

  Fuck me. I sank into the mattress and thought about it for a second – but Barry doesn’t have a second to wait. This is business.

  ‘Yeah, if it’s going to improve my football and you’re okay with it, I’ll go,’ I said.

  ‘Right Jim, get your gear ready, I’ll call you back in an hour,’ said Baz and hung up.

  I was buzzing. Birmingham played in the Championship, it would definitely be a step up and a fantastic opportunity. That’s the weirdness of football. One minute you’re surrounded by a close bunch of team-mates who you could never imagine being apart from. The next you might be upping sticks and unlikely to speak to any of them for years.

  It was a hard thing for me to get my head round, but I didn’t have much time. I told Diane straight away. That’s another hard thing. When you’re married to a footballer you just have to go along with all the moving, whether you like it or not. One minute you’re living in the Midlands, the next you’re up north. She seemed up for the move though and I waited to hear from Barry.

  And waited.

  And waited.

  Nothing.

  The next day I went into training as usual and Baz didn’t say a word to me about Birmingham. Eventually, I asked him what was going on and he said that Steve Bruce, the Birmingham manager, was interested in me and Tommy Williams, our centre-back. Tom had also come to Peterborough from West Ham so we were good mates but it sounded like only one of us was going to be leaving.

  After another day of limbo, Tommy rang me and told me he was in the car on the way to Birmingham. ‘You fucker!’ I said. And that was the end of that. I told Diane we weren’t going anywhere. Stand down. Carry on with your life as if nothing has happened.

  To this day, whenever I see Steve Bruce he always tells me he signed the wrong one and should’ve chosen me. And I always tell him he’s right. (With all due respect to Tommy, of course.)

  Apparently, Bruce had called Barry about five or six times to talk about me, Tommy’s name had only come up late on. And when he offered £550,000 for my mate, that was it.

  I was probably quite naive at that stage of my career because that whole experience made me realise how much of a business football is – nothing new there, I know, but it was the moment the penny dropped for me.

  For everything we’d been told about loyalty and the importance of the team, I saw how quickly the club were ready to let me go the minute anyone with a big pile of cash came sniffing. Sod team spirit – if the price is right, the team can fuck right off. Because flogging players is much better for business and that’s what this game is.

  I’m not saying I didn’t enjoy my football career as much after that because anyone who saw me play would know I loved every second of it. But from then on, a tiny part of the fantasy image of being a footballer was taken away from me as a little bit of realism crept in.

  Credit to Baz, he was a bit gutted for me as well as he knew how close I’d come to a big step up. He thought Birmingham would have been a perfect move for me and felt certain the fans would have loved me. None of which made me feel any better.

  However, the next time Barry called me up out of the blue, it was no false alarm. He even got me off the golf course, which showed how serious it was. ‘Jim, I’ve had a call about you, get off the course and get over here.’

  As I walked into his office at London Road still in my golf gear, part of me was convinced this might have been a wind-up or a Birmingham-style false dawn. But it was neither. It was the real thing.

  ‘I’ve got Paul Jewell on the phone on loudspeaker. He wants you at Wigan, do you want to go?’

  Baz loved putting me on the spot like that.

  Wigan were in the same division as us, but they were running away with the title, miles clear of everyone and it was only January. It may not have been the dream move up to the next tier of English football, but it was only a matter of time before the Latics would be promoted. Their ambition and potential was on a different level to Peterborough’s so it was quite an easy decision.

  ‘If it’s going to make me a better player, I’d like to go,’ I said, which was a pretty diplomatic answer for an inexperienced twenty-four-year-old.

  While I was standing there, Barry resumed his conversation with Paul.

  ‘Hello Paul, I’ve got Jimmy Bullard in here with me and he’s threatening to hit me over the head with a four iron if I don’t let him move to Wigan!’

  Paul said he wanted to meet me first – rumour had it that he wouldn’t sign players if he didn’t think they wanted to play for him. Apparently, if Pelé wasn’t up for doing things the Paul Jewell way, he’d have turned him down flat.

  There was £275,000 on the table for Posh, but Barry thought I was worth way more. He wanted a million for me, but he never did the deal in the end – that was handled upstairs. If Baz had his way I might never have left. To be fair to him, he always said he would never stand in my way if a decent offer came along and, although he was gutted to see me go, he knew it was a good move for me and he was true to his word. Even if my valuation was £725,000 short of his.

  So it was down to me to go up to Wigan and show Paul Jewell I was up for it.

  Up for it?

  My new gaffer was about to relearn the meaning of those three words.

  * * *

  ARGUING WITH YOUR MANAGER IS FUTILE; ESPECIALLY WHEN HE HAS YOUR HEAD SHUT IN A DOOR

  * * *

  ‘Wise men talk because they have something to say; fools, because they have to say something.’ Plato

  I looked at the team sheet for the Chelsea game because I always checked it, not for one minute because I expected not to see my name. But when I didn’t see it, my first thought was that there must have been some mistake.

  But then I read down and saw that I was named there after all. As a substitute.

  An instant rage built up inside me. What the fuck was going on?

  Here I was playing in the Premier League with Wigan, on a run of 123 consecutive games for the club, stretching back to when I’d first joined them in the third tier. Madness, I know, and not a run I wanted to end unless I was physically unable to play. And the last time I checked, I’d trained that Friday morning and was absolutely fine.

  For some ridiculous reason, Paul Jewell clearly thought it was time for a change but I wasn’t having it. This was bang out of order. So I went steaming down to the gaffer’s office and knocked on his door.

  ‘What’s the fucking script with me being dropped, then?’ I said as I sat down opposite him. ‘Chelsea away? There’s something wrong with you ain’t there?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ he said, looking unimpressed with my attitude. ‘I’ve picked the team I think will do best.’

  That was like a red rag to a Bullard.

  ‘You cannot t
ell me I don’t deserve to be playing,’ I told him.

  But Paul was adamant: ‘No, I think you need a rest.’

  ‘No, I’m not having it.’

  ‘You need a rest,’ he repeated.

  ‘Are you saying I’m not good enough to play?’

  ‘You need a rest,’ he said for the third time.

  But I wasn’t listening. I was livid.

  ‘Look, you mean I’ve fought through a boyhood career tooth and nail, only to miss a game against Chelsea at Stamford Bridge? I don’t think so. After more than 100 games in a row, go and drop me for Middlesbrough or something, not against Chelsea, the title holders.’

  ‘I’m not playing you,’ he said. ‘I’ve already explained to you and everyone else that we’ve had a tough run of games and I’m going to be rotating the squad to give everyone a rest. That way, we’ll have a better chance of winning the games we’re more likely to win.’

  I don’t know the meaning of rest. That word doesn’t exist in my dictionary.

  Suddenly, I was back on the parks pitches as a kid after a defeat, or the West Lodge working men’s club after losing at pool. But there were no tears this time, just pure anger.

  I stood up and yelled, ‘Fucking poxy decision that is!’ and shoved my chair away, hurling it across the floor.

  I grabbed the door, but I was only halfway out of the room when Paul launched himself across his desk, shouting: ‘Who do you think you’re fucking talking to?’

  And as he said that he pushed on the door that I was pulling open, cracked my nose and shut my bloody head in it!

  For a split second I was in the maddest position. The manager was holding a door shut with my head stuck in it as I looked on at Bill Green, the chief scout, who was sat at his desk, opposite the gaffer’s office, watching this scene with a look on his face that could only mean: ‘What the fuck is going on?’

  I managed to grab Paul and he grabbed me at the same time, shoving me up against the wall in his office, yelling, ‘Have a bit of respect!’ as he did so.