Ollie Read online

  I didn’t care where I went so long as I could spend time with him, though our mutual love of football was the basis of our special bond. I remember being aged around six and Dad saying to me, “I hope you like football, son, because if you do, you’ll meet some wonderful people through being involved.” He never forced me to play, though he’d tried to get my brother interested, but John wasn’t having any of it. “It doesn’t matter if you don’t like football, though” he added, “because whatever you do, I’ll be there to support you.”

  He needn’t have worried. I loved playing and I knew that it also meant I got to spend a lot of quality time with him. I’d go along with him when he played for his team and I’d join in the warm-ups and various training sessions. His mates would all call me ‘Little Ian’ and I loved it because I felt like part of the squad – plus I was there, right by my dad’s side and for a young lad who worshipped his old man, there was no better feeling. He was always very protective of me and if any of his mates kicked me or went in a little harder than they perhaps should have, he didn’t like it one bit and he’d dish out his own brand of justice. He actually had a bit of a nasty streak, though it would only rear its head on very rare occasions, leaving his foot in every now and then as a ‘back off my boy’ warning. I think they got the message!

  It was a very special time for us both and by the time I’d started playing regularly, dad was working as a milkman and I’d help him on his round each Saturday morning to make sure he finished in time to come and watch me play. He’d run from his cart delivering milk and was fit as a butcher’s dog – you had to be. That job made him constantly tired and uncharacteristically bad tempered because he couldn’t sleep during the day, no matter how hard he tried and eventually he got fed up with it and moved on to employment with more sociable hours.

  Dad was a central midfielder with two great feet, though physically, he was a much stockier build than I am now. We both stood at five feet, seven inches, but he was a couple of stones heavier due to a full chest and broad shoulders, none of which was fat. I watched him play whenever I could, though I didn’t appreciate what a good player he was at the time. It was just my old fella playing football, but a lot of people have told me since just how good he was. He was well-respected throughout the amateur game, playing for Radstock & Paulton among others around the West Country and Bristol – even playing a game at the age of 52, which I’ll come back to later.

  He adored football and on any given night he’d go out with a mate and watch a match somewhere, taking in as much local football as he could. He almost got a job working for Bristol Rovers on one occasion and in later years would help out some of their younger age groups in any capacity that was asked of him, just to be involved.

  He took me to watch Bristol Rovers and Bristol City as a kid and though I think he did have a preference, he never tried to influence me either way. There was a bloke who was the son of dad’s boss when he worked for a company called Pomeroy’s, and he regularly had tickets for Ashton Gate. Dad would go along just to watch a match, taking me with him whenever possible because he wanted me to see the best that there was in our area at that time. When City made it to the top flight in the Seventies, I must have gone along to watch them five or six times during one season, always in a Pomeroy’s van with six or seven work-mates of dad’s crammed in the back.

  All the while, my own game was coming along and I was playing for my primary school team, and aged nine, I was invited to trials for the area team, even though the age group was a couple of years older than I was. Dad borrowed his gaffer’s car and took me along and, as usual, he was encouraging me all the way, no doubt picking up on my self-doubt which was obvious even back then. He told me: “Just try your best, son, that’s all you’ve got to do. Work hard and give it everything you’ve got and if you don’t make it, don’t let it be through lack of effort.” He never put one ounce of pressure or expectation on me and that made things much easier, especially in my junior years. I wasn’t trying to perform just to make him happy; I was just playing football and enjoying myself.

  Even at that age I felt the need to organise everyone around me and I think that probably came from dad buying me a proper leather football for my birthday. It was a cracker, much better than anyone else had on our estate and I was never short of mates to have a kick-around with. As a family, we didn’t have much materially, but when we wanted or needed something important, mum and dad would do everything they could to get us the best available. All the local kids wanted to play with my ball, putting me in a position of power. I could kick that ball a country mile with my right boot – not so much with my left – though I’d be sent out into the garden on occasion with a ‘dap’ (plimsoll to non-Bristolians!) on my right foot and a boot on my left to try and balance things out.

  Despite all the coaching and endless practice sessions, I got taken off during the area trials and I thought that was it and that I’d blown my big chance. Joe Davies, a scout for Bristol Rovers, had obviously seen something though, and came up as I sauntered off, head down, and he said, “You’ll be alright, son. You’ll end up being captain.”

  I told him not to be stupid, but my dad, knowing who Joe was, just said, “You see? Who knows if you’re good enough, eh son? Who knows?” Dad would never tell me I was great or went over the top, he just tried to build up my confidence steadily, and not long after Joe had spoken to me, a scout from Bristol City asked dad if he could arrange a time to speak to me. He invited both the City and the Rovers scouts round to our house, both at different times on the same evening, to see what they had to say.

  City have always been the more fashionable of the Bristol clubs, with more money, a better ground and players with exotic names – at least to a nine-year-old Ian Holloway – like Chris Garland, Tom Ritchie and Gerry Gow – unusual names for the era. Rovers had Frankie Prince and Brian Godfrey who sounded like old blokes to me, plus they played at Eastville, with a dog track running round the outside of the pitch for Christ’s sake – hardly the Theatre of Dreams. The fact was that it was much easier to support City at primary school, not that it bothered me. Rovers were my team because I liked the fact they did their own thing and were a good, honest club.

  There were two blokes from City who came round to see me and after a general chat, they offered me schoolboy forms and a professional contract until I was 21, adding I’d never have to buy another pair of boots – quite an offer for a kid who hadn’t even turned 10 yet! They told me what a big club City were and were willing to guarantee me this, that and the other because they were going places and they wanted me to buy into it all.

  All dad said after they went was, “What do you think?” and I shrugged my shoulders and said, “Well how do they know how good I’m gonna be?” It was a simple enough question from a kid my age and he replied, “Well, the answer is they don’t know.” I asked how they possibly promise all that, then? He told me they’d done it because they obviously wanted me to join their club, but added it was up to me and I could do whatever I liked.

  Then, the aptly-named Gordon Bennett, a youth coach from Rovers arrived shortly after. He sat down with a cup of tea mum had made him and said, “I’ve heard that you’re fair, average maybe – how bad do you want to be a player?” That was it – no promises of long contracts or free boots, no dangling carrots – nothing in fact. Yet Gordon said all the right things as far as I was concerned and told me it was all about hard work and how much I really wanted it.

  After he’d left, I looked at dad and he made me choose which club I wanted to join, and I admire him for that. He gave me responsibility, which could have turned out to be a bit risky, thinking about it, but it actually worked out a treat. I opted for Bristol Rovers, happy in the knowledge I’d have to work hard for whatever I got, just as dad had taught me. Things were pretty much black and white in Ian Holloway world, even at that age, and if something came in fancy wrapping, I’d wonder why they hadn’t u
sed brown paper and string instead.

  There were other clubs interested, too and for three Christmases running I got a card from a scout at Birmingham City who were in the top-flight, inviting me to have a trial at St Andrew’s. Dad said, “They obviously want you. You’ve not signed anything with Rovers so do you want to go and have a look?” I asked if it would mean living away from home if I liked what I saw and he told me it would. I said I wasn’t interested, though I think he wanted me to go and at least have a look.

  I’d been playing up to three games on a Saturday for various teams, but Rovers stopped me doing that eventually because I was playing far too much football in their eyes. I’d never miss a training session or game for the school, county or Rovers because I couldn’t get enough. Dad was there with me every time I played, wind, rain or shine and seeing we didn’t have a car, I often wondered how he managed to get me around as well as he did, but he’d find a way and never once let me down.

  I began training with Rovers twice a week and we’d go to various schools around the area, not having a proper base of our own. Gordon Bennett would organise some first-team coaches to take some of the sessions, which was fantastic for us all because we knew we were learning some of the same techniques as the Rovers players were. Wayne Jones, Tom Stanton and Bobby Jones were excellent coaches, full of enthusiasm and bursting with knowledge and advice on how to make you a better player, and I was soaking it all in.

  During the school holidays we were taken by Colin Dobson, Bill Dodgin Senior and former Chelsea player Bobby Campbell. We were always under the wing of a good, solid pro and I consider myself to have been very fortunate to have had such quality coaching as a young kid. One thing they all drummed into us was football was a simple game and the main thing was being in position to receive the ball if you weren’t in possession, and that grounding would serve me fantastically well throughout my career.

  Choosing Rovers over City had been the right choice. From the ages of 9 to 16, the management hardly changed at all so there was a familiarity and consistency that felt comfortable to be around. Not dissimilar to Liverpool’s way, Rovers would promote from within and always had a very strong backroom staff that focused on having an excellent youth set-up. They needed a stream of local talent coming through to the senior side because they didn’t have the money City did to bring in players for big fees. We were tested often, too, against a Rovers nursery side from South Wales, run by another terrific coach called Stan Montgomery. He’d bring various age groups across once a month and we’d play them at a neutral venue, just to make it feel a little more important. I played in those games once a month for seven years and we knew they were, in effect, trial matches, so nobody could ever rest on their laurels. Any one of us could have been thrown out at the end of any of those seasons, but thinking back, I needed that fear to progress.

  Away from football, I wasn’t a big lover of school, especially my first school, Parkwall County Primary which I absolutely hated. I didn’t like having to do things, especially things I had no interest in and I rebelled in my own way, growing my hair fairly long and generally dragging my heels when it came to anything academically related. It was football or nothing as far I was concerned and when my reading wasn’t up to scratch, the school suggested to my parents that they buy football annuals for me so I’d at least read something from cover to cover. They said that it was alright me being good at football, but what if I didn’t make it? What was I going to do then? I didn’t care at the time because I knew I’d be giving everything to be a footballer and I carried that attitude through to my secondary school, Sir Bernard Lovell Secondary, which was about a mile from our house in Cadbury Heath.

  I’d walk there with a couple of mates each morning and in truth, I didn’t mind it as much as I had my primary school. I knew a lot of the lads in my year and they had a bit of respect for me because they knew I wasn’t a bad player and was on Rovers’ books. My work was acceptable, though I probably aimed for the minimum level Bristol Rovers would be happy with. They were always impressing on us the importance of education and regularly checking with the schools to make sure we were attending and doing what was being asked of us.

  They weren’t after scholars with high school degrees, but they did want some assurances in place in case they released us at any stage, otherwise kids would be leaving the club with shattered dreams and no chance of getting a decent job.

  I’d become good mates with a kid called Gary Penrice who was also training with Rovers, although he was a year younger than me. ‘Pen’ as I came to know him, was from a more affluent family and lived across town in Mangotsfield, but we soon hit it off. He was a lad you either loved or you hated because he never shut up, not that it ever bothered me – I wonder why?! When he stopped, I started, so I suppose we were always destined to be good pals. I found

  him to be a fascinating character, totally hyper, but funny and honest as the day was long. He was small for his age, but he had incredible skill once he played and could do things you could only hope or dream of doing and even at that age, he was a precocious talent.

  Pen was also part of a local amateur side that a mate’s dad had started, called Longwell Green Juniors. It was made up mostly of youngsters I’d grown up with and we had a fair old side, too. Rovers allowed me to play for them because they were well-organised and played at a good standard. The team flourished and there was even one occasion when a trip to America was arranged. We were to take part in the Bolingbrook Tournament with teams from all over the place and we had to do all kinds of sponsored events over a period of a year to get the necessary funds to pay for our travel and accommodation. It was an exciting trip to be a part of and five adults travelled over with us, each taking charge of one group of five lads – my dad’s group included both Pen and me, poor sod. Pen was all over the place and never kept still for a minute from the moment we picked him up to the moment we dropped him back at his house. Dad grabbed me after we’d landed in the States and said, “If he steps out of your sight I’m going to kill you first and him second. Make sure he doesn’t get into trouble.”

  We were based in Washington DC and to be honest, Pen was a complete nightmare. “What’s this over here? What’s that? Jesus Oll, look at that.” If he’d had a tail it would have been wagging furiously 24 hours a day.

  “Come on Pen, we’ve got to catch everyone up.”

  “No, no, look it’s the White House... look at those over there.”

  There were huge water sprinklers operating in the grounds near the White House and Pen booted one, causing it to fall over and spray water into a row of parked cars, many of them convertibles. I tried to place it back to where it had been while all these car alarms started going off. Pen rejoined the party a hundred yards down the road leaving me behind. It was like travelling abroad with Frank Spencer. He was a bloody joke!

  By the time we got to New York, the other lads had got so fed up with him that they threw his bag out of a window 18 storeys high. Pen went down to get it and was gone about half-an-hour and when my dad came in, he looked around the room in search of you-know-who and asked me where Pen was. “Don’t worry, he’ll be back,” I said, and, thank God, he sauntered in about five minutes later, out of breath saying, “Christ that was a long way down, I couldn’t believe it! And my shoe’s gone – who’s got it, come on? Where’s my shoe, then?”

  Pen got so annoying that the other lads wanted to throw him in the hotel swimming pool and would have done if I hadn’t stopped them. The trouble was, the pool had a plastic cover over it, with leaves on top of that and it would have likely wrapped around him like a piece of shrink-wrap plastic and drowned the poor bugger. We managed to make it home in one piece, eventually. Hardly surprisingly, the only time I really got in trouble at Rovers was through Pen. I rode over to his house on my bike to go to training with him later that evening. It turned out he was injured and wouldn’t be going, so he asked me to go into town with
him and his mum, which I thought I had time to do, and we ended up watching a film at the cinema. Immersed in the film, I forgot about the training and halfway through I thought, “Oh, shit...” I said I needed to get to training quickly and Pen’s mum said she’d take me. I needed to get my bike first so I could get home afterwards and by the time I’d done all that it wasn’t worth going, so I rode home from Pen’s instead. My stomach churned as I turned into my road because I could see Gordon Bennett, sat on the wall, waiting outside our house. I pedalled a bit slower but eventually drew level with him. He was furious and he tore a strip off me like you’d never believe.

  “I thought you were gonna make it! I thought your attitude was right! I wasn’t sure you were good enough but I’d have put my house on you, but now, there’s a black mark against you in my book. What excuse have you got?”

  “I forgot and...”

  “YOU FORGOT?” he bellowed. “Training’s that important to you then, is it?” He continued the hairdryer treatment and told me Pen’s involvement in the matter was unimportant because he was injured. “You should have remembered,” he said ruefully as he turned and left. I was only 12, but he was right and if he’d wanted to force home a point, he’d done it with relish. I went into the house, devastated, and dad glanced over his paper and said, “Yeah, well he’s bloody right, isn’t he?” Mum called me over and told me everything would be fine – as mums have done since time immemorial – and the ‘red eye syndrome’ kicked in. I was embarrassed and felt a bloody idiot. All the hard work and focus counted for nothing at that moment and I’d have to work even harder from there on in. I cursed Pen, though it wasn’t his fault and I don’t think I was ever late for anything again.