The Nowhere Men (11 page)

A football club in the process of upheaval is a place of disconcerting light and shade. Good people are suddenly disposable chattels. They are wraiths, invisible and uncomfortable. According to Jones, the chief scout was ‘completely blanked’ by the new regime when he reported for duty, the day Nigel Pearson began his second spell as manager at what, in these subservient times, has been rebranded as the King Power Stadium. Green and six other members of the scouting staff soon received cursory emails, thanking them for their services, but confirming they were no longer required. Jones remained in limbo over the following weekend, when he covered the last of his 101 games for Leicester in a four-month spell.

Jones reasoned he had the limited security of a contract lasting until May 2012, the end of the season, but still dreaded checking his laptop and mobile for messages. The good news, when the inescapable email arrived, was that he was still wanted. The bad news was contained in a proposal that he be paid £50 a week to remain at the club. It was, according to Steve Walsh, the newly installed head of recruitment, ‘a take it or leave it offer’. When Jones demurred, he, too, was airbrushed from history.

Walsh was no cartoon ogre; he had combined football with a full-time teaching job for 30 years until José Mourinho asked him to become a senior scout at Chelsea. The holistic approach he developed, as head of physical education for three comprehensive schools, was tested by the transition to a world of fleeting fortune and sudden, seismic change. Walsh had profited from the patronage of Sam Allardyce, who took him to Newcastle. It was there that he formed an allegiance to Pearson, whom he subsequently followed to Leicester. They signed 32 players in two seasons as the Foxes won League One and reached the Championship play-offs, but were culled on a whim, by the then-chairman Milan Mandaric. What goes around, comes around.

Jones understood: ‘When you get sacked, moved on, call it what you will, you get on the phone. You soon find out who your friends are. The first response, when you’re looking about, is usually “I’ll get back to you.” You hear nothing, and when you check again it is all “sorry mate, been frantic, leave it with me”. You still hear nothing, and after a while they don’t even reply to your texts. I don’t want to sound all bitter and twisted, because I know how things work, but I’d much prefer it if people were straight and said they had nothing for me. I believe if you do the right things, present yourself well, you will get what you deserve. I’m only forty-four, and young enough to get what I want.’

A brief spell at Hull ended when scouts were suddenly informed they would no longer be paid. In such circumstances, Sheffield United’s willingness to pay 40p a mile was instantly attractive. Hull, emboldened by their economy drive, subsequently announced they were joining Crawley Town and Southampton in insisting that scouts pay for their match tickets. Charlton, thankfully, only asked for Jones’ ID, following a series of incidents in which visitors, masquerading as scouts, took pre-assigned tickets, before melting away into the main stand.

A single circular table, to the right of the entrance to the Valley’s Millennium Suite, featured a laminated sign which proclaimed ‘Football Scouts Only’. It contained two plastic platters of unedifying sandwiches – the choice was between cardboard white, with crystallised crusts, and suspiciously musty brown – and a flask of lukewarm tea, which appeared to have been brewed in a previous century. Needless to say, the mileage men fell upon the repast with the glee of Dickensian scavengers. Some had come straight from a reserve team match between Spurs and Southampton, and were sharing anecdotes of former England winger Mark Chamberlain, a combustible presence on the touchline. Jones, who had wisely had a snack before leaving home, surveyed the scene and mused, ‘Charlton must be more skint than I imagine.’

He introduced London cabbie Brian Owen, cheerily informing me: ‘He’s got one of those little black money boxes.’ Hibernian’s scout in the South of England was a thick-set man, with the ruddy cheeks and friendly demeanour of a rural publican. He walked hesitantly, favouring his right leg, and was in obvious discomfort. ‘My legs are giving me gyp,’ he confirmed. ‘This game is no good for someone like me. The seats are too small, see. They do your back in, as well.’ Jones was respectful, attentive. When the older man had switched the focus of his attention to the night’s team sheet, he confided: ‘Brian’s a lovely man, who turns up everywhere, but I do worry about him. There’s regime change at Hibs. He’s only on a pittance.’ Owen admitted later: ‘It’d be good to pick up a fare on the way home.’

Most scouts followed the progress of St Johnstone manager Steve Lomas across the room – Owen murmured, ‘He’s a long way from home; he’ll be looking for free agents’ – but two were oblivious to his presence. Retired teacher Les Padfield, a regular member of Gary Megson’s retinue, was talking quietly to another senior citizen, who wore fingerless mittens and had a digital stopwatch, bizarrely frozen at 0.23 seconds, slung around his neck. It was a strange conversation, triggered by Padfield’s search for a suitable portable television, with a Freeview package, for his bedroom. To complete the counter-cultural collage, he was dressed in hiking chic. His green waterproof jacket was unzipped, and revealed a Windsor-knotted tie, beneath a round-necked chain-store sweater with an angular pattern. He wore thick woollen trousers, and stout walking shoes.

Padfield was respected for his insight, but had a detached, slightly sour manner, and surprisingly hard eyes, behind full-framed glasses. He was representing Sheffield Wednesday, ‘for today at least. Not that sure about tomorrow.’ A familiar story, of intermittent crisis, unfolded. Told Terry Burton was on his way to assist new manager Dave Jones, he blurted: ‘Well, Chris Evans is still there. He’s my man: assistant manager, chief scout, chocolate teapot.’ Padfield was hardly enamoured of his immediate task, monitoring Colchester. ‘Why now?’ he asked no one in particular. ‘We’re not playing them for six weeks.’

Job satisfaction seemed at a premium. Jason Halsey, son of referee Mark, was there on behalf of Bolton, who, to universal envy, compensated him with a small retainer. He wasted no time in complaining that ‘The train was bleedin’ packed. I couldn’t move and I cricked my neck.’ He consulted his iPhone to plan his getaway and announced, a little too brashly for some, that he would be aiming to get to Liverpool Street by 10 p.m. Like Jones, he had been at Chelsea reserves’ 2–0 defeat by Arsenal the previous day. ‘Poxy,’ he concluded. ‘I’ve spent seven hours today, doing my match report. Try telling the analyst at the club that.’

Halsey was expected to be a human time-code machine. He was obliged to record the precise time of every significant incident, to facilitate editing of the match video. Each set play had to be annotated, and five factors about each player, both good and bad, had to be tabulated. Unlike Jones and I, who had been randomly allocated seats at the back of the directors’ box, Halsey was forced to deal with the added distraction of being amongst the crowd. He was knowledgeable, and incisive, but it was understandably difficult to take a measured view of a typically functional League One match.

Jones did the basics, and attempted to be a little more intuitive. Detecting collective strengths and weaknesses required tactical nous and unexpected emotional intelligence. He was looking for unconsidered nuggets of information; the psychological profile revealed by a player’s reaction to being substituted or the group’s response to things they could not control, such as a referee’s flawed decision. He understood his subject matter, the lower-division footballer. Most find their level; League One features a favoured few, on the way up, and a lumpen majority, whose careers have flat-lined because of limitations in talent or defects in temperament.

Charlton, 13 points clear of second-placed Sheffield United, fell behind after five minutes to the sort of goal which deserved a better stage. Anthony Wordsworth, a tall, languid left-sided player, cut in from the touchline before fashioning a 20-yard shot which dipped and swerved on its way into the top right-hand corner of the net. Impressive, but deceptive, according to Jones: ‘The boy is cheating himself. He’s quite happy picking up his two grand a week, being the best player in an average side. People have been looking at him for two or three years. It tells you something that he is still there.’

As Jones turned, to compare notes with Steve Lomas, who was sitting next to him, a season ticket holder, separated from the directors’ box by a wooden partition, indulged his curiosity. ‘ What do you think of Wordsworth, then?’ he asked, mistaking me for a scout. ‘Rumour has it we’re looking at him. Do a job I’d say.’ I parroted received wisdom, which seemed to satisfy him. Presumably, it was sufficient to enable him to peddle ‘inside information’ in the pub. He sagely advised me to keep an eye on Chris Solly, Charlton’s full back: ‘Bit small, but he’s got skill on the ball, loves a tackle and gets forward well. You probably know that, though.’

Jones, meanwhile, was sketching set pieces into his notebook. These would later be converted into animated computer images, on the Scout7 network. He abbreviated a series of functions: AS meant Attacking Shape, DS Defensive Shape. BH defined Colchester’s best headers of the ball, and MM their main markers. PP depicted pattern of play which, in their case, was a bog standard 4–4–2. It was insight, in shorthand.

‘This is a shape I’m used to,’ Jones said. ‘When England play 4–4–2, they play. When a League One team play 4–4–2 they smash it down the park. The goalkeeper works off Odejayi, the big striker. He also dives to complete the save, when it is not strictly necessary. It buys him ten seconds’ thinking time. At this level it is all about working knowledge. I know who does what, their roles and responsibilities. I rarely write a lot in the second half.’

Full backs were on the agenda at half-time. Halsey recognised the potential of Chelsea’s Todd Kane, whom we had both seen at that Youth Cup tie at Staines Town: ‘Always liked him. Decent. Pace. Discipline. Gets forward well. What about you?’ Jones permitted himself a knowing smile, as Halsey circulated, asking a similar question about Solly, his obvious target for the evening. ‘There you go,’ he confided. ‘He’s looking for answers and reassurance. We’re not short of people who try to pick your brain in this game.’

Gary Smith, the Stevenage manager, was on the fringes of the conversation, monitoring the progress of the night’s matches on a television with his assistant Steve Guppy. He understood the environment; he scouted for Arsenal before making his name in the United States, where he won the MLS Cup with Colorado Rapids. His father, Roger, was recruited by Charlton after leaving Cardiff, where he was chief scout, following the sacking of Dave Jones. Father and son respected the bonds which tied the brotherhood tight.

Each had strong links with Arsenal, where Roger coached at youth level, and scouted in Europe: ‘In truth Steve Rowley [Arsenal’s chief scout] did say there would always be a job for me but there’s a slight problem. It isn’t just about money for me now, but more about involvement. If you are not full time, particularly at big clubs, you can almost be on the outside looking in, you know? I had a conversation with Phil Chappell, Charlton’s chief scout. He is a thoroughly decent guy, very well organised. That might sound odd because you’d think all of them are well organised, but I can assure you they’re not.

‘I’d given in my notice at Cardiff, and they’d been somewhat difficult about arranging for me to go to games. It was bizarre. It was almost because Dave had got the sack, and I was associated with something nasty, that they didn’t want to be tainted. Phil, as somebody I knew well, was getting me tickets so that I could circulate and let people know my situation. I’ve done the same thing myself for other scouts who are out of work. I try to send them to a game. They might do you a little favour with a report but basically you know they’re looking to get back in.

‘After about three months, Phil asked me what I wanted to do. He was honest, that a full-time job might be difficult, but was really keen to do something. I told him I didn’t just want to put one report in a week and then sit there waiting for the following Saturday for a game. It would be nice to be centrally involved. Thankfully, Phil has been as good as his word. Unless they do something radically wrong Charlton are going up, so we’re already looking at players who not only might serve us well in the Championship but at a push, could even play in the Premier League. They’ve obviously had their problems at this club in the last ten years but as somebody put it to me, they’ve bottomed out. They’re coming back the other way, not only on the pitch, but off it as well. These things go together, don’t they?’

His son was doing the managerial equivalent of the Knowledge. He was working 18-hour days, watching as many games as possible. He had inherited a muscular, instinctively conservative side from Graham Westley. His predecessor was a distinctive character in a game more accustomed to laddish orthodoxy. He was a successful businessman, a new age service provider who turned up for training in a Bentley and sweated alongside his players in a self-funded weights room. Change would, by necessity, be gradual, but Gary needed help to find players with pace and potential in the loan market. The obvious option, employing his father, was understandably forbidding.

Roger admitted: ‘It’s obviously crossed my mind, and his. I’m not sure, because I think that could put him under undue pressure. Listen, let’s put it another way round. Blood’s thicker than water and if he wanted me to join him, I wouldn’t be able to turn him down. But I’m still not sure that is the best route. It wouldn’t be a nice day when both of us got the sack, would it? No matter how well it goes, you know at some stage it’s going to happen. Clearly Gary knows he can lean on me for what knowledge I have of the leagues. I’d certainly give him advice because he’s been in America for four years. He’ll remember players who spring to mind easily, but there will be others who have developed while he has been away. He’ll go “I don’t know him, Dad, I’d like to get to see him,” but therein lies his dilemma. He needs to make one or two decisions, and in the short term, it’s highly unlikely he’s going to be able to get to see as many players as he needs. At least if I don’t know a particular player, I’ll probably know someone who does.’