No Hunger In Paradise Read online

  ‘As a football fraternity, we haven’t looked at our players as children. They are treated as commodities, which is what they are, to be brutally honest. We have to ensure they have some sort of childhood to round them off as people. They get identified as a footballer. They don’t get to mix with their peer group outside the game.

  ‘Think about it. They define themselves through the formative years of their lives as good or bad people, depending on how well or how badly they have played. They are expected to deliver a consistently high level of performance over ten years, which any pro will tell you is close to impossible. They are not mini-adults. No wonder some of them go out of the game without laying a glove on it.

  ‘Think about the kid who is brought into the club at seven, and released at eighteen. All those years, training four nights a week, playing matches that he’s told matter. All that time in the car, probably with an over-zealous dad in their ear. Their siblings are dragged along, experiencing a football season without being a footballer. There’s no escape. Again, is it any wonder some of them simply come to the end of their energies?

  ‘I played in the era when clubs had the upper hand. I was on £80 a week when I made my debut for Brighton in the old First Division in 1981, where we won our last four games to stay up. I was eighteen. I was given a pair of boots and a pair of training boots, and had to negotiate a new contract with my chairman, Mike Bamber, and my manager, Alan Mullery.

  ‘I didn’t know what to ask for, so I went for £150 a week. Nowadays kids are secured on silly amounts that give them the sort of comfort which creates apathy, or a sense that the game owes them a living. We are giving teenagers ten, twenty, even thirty grand a week. Give that to a grown man and he is probably going off the rails, let alone a kid who is forming his personality.

  ‘Parental education is so important. As a father, I like to feel I have empathy for children, and I coach in the manner I expect my son to be spoken to. There are times when you have to be harsh, but it is a matter of striking the correct balance. The problem is that so many parents are so desperate for their boy to sign they allow so many horrible things to happen.

  ‘For example’s sake, parents walk into the end-of-season review meeting, complaining that their boy has been bullied. They accuse the coach of berating the kid, singling him out for criticism. I take every complaint seriously, especially when it is made in the right way, but why have they waited so long if the abuse has been consistent and obvious?

  ‘They wouldn’t allow that in any other walk of life. If that was at school they’d be going mad. They’d be steaming in there. Why have they allowed it in this situation? They have only allowed it because it is football and they can see the gravy at the end if their boy makes it. They have been desensitised by the game.’

  Again, it is impossible not be struck by the sense of sadness, underpinned by anger. The venality and vitriol of the senior game is a running sore, an open wound which seeps into youth football. It is a virulent form of infection against which Robinson also struggles. His tone is similarly thoughtful, and tinged by exasperation:

  ‘We have some of the best kids in the world, but the pathway has been narrowed by external influence. Agents make our boys more expensive, so if you are a chairman, what are you going to do? Take an English boy of nineteen for X million, or a cheaper foreign player? What will be the business model that shapes the game in years to come?

  ‘We know agents are going to be part of this industry for the rest of our lives. There are some really good ones out there, who really care, but there are some cowboys. The ones who are not chasing the pound notes, who wait, develop, support and underpin their player, usually make more money in the long run. We need to protect the kids from those who drag them around, move them on as early as possible, and push, push, push.

  ‘I know of certain parents, at clubs at which I have worked, saying, “What is in it for me?” on being told their son is being offered a contract. The true role of a parent is sacrificing your life for your kids, like my dad did for me and like I would for my daughter. Now people are sacrificing their kids’ lives in pursuit of personal wealth.

  ‘Do you want to know what my problem is with the whole thing? I love seeing kids come through. I love it. I hate the shit that swirls around it. I hate the people who want to be deceitful. The bit where I stand on the grass with young players, shouting at them, supporting them, is what I am interested in. I’ll be ruthless with them. I’ll be a friend to them. I’ll love them, manage them, be a psychologist for them. I simply can’t stand the money, the lies, the horrible side of the game.’

  His admonition lingers in the air, as pungent as cordite across a battlefield. Before it is too late, it is time to visit Teesside, and meet an unassuming man blessed with the serenity of a shepherd and the sensitivity of a psychotherapist.

  18

  Portrait of an Artist

  THE SCREENSAVER ON Dave Parnaby’s computer is an image of innocence, a photograph of a baby boy sitting beside a football. He permits himself a grandfather’s indulgence and studies it intently, as if feeding off the joy and release it represents. ‘Little Mason is a gift,’ he says quietly, with a warmth which pervades a large, functional office dominated by an old-fashioned boardroom table.

  Middlesbrough’s academy director has paused briefly during the course of yet another ‘first in, last out’ day. He had a late night, scouting at Scunthorpe, and must accommodate a coach education meeting before a long afternoon dealing with the Premier League’s Action Plan. He has a new recruit to welcome in the evening, and rises impulsively to snatch five minutes’ renewal in the sports hall at the end of an airy, well-lit corridor.

  ‘Poke your head around the door, and tell me what you see,’ he says, conspiratorially. A group of young boys, under-9s at a guess, are on their toes, playing a five-a-side match that flows seamlessly, enthusiastically, occasionally chaotically. ‘Did you notice there were no coaches? Not needed. They just love it, don’t they?’

  It seems impossible to reconcile the pleasure creasing a pale, open face, which retains hints of his own youth with the news contained in a six-paragraph club statement that, at the age of 62, he will retire in mid-March 2017 as soon as his replacement, Craig Little, is in post. Yet when Mason Parnaby came into the world on January 4, 2016, Dave’s world changed, too.

  Mason was born to Stuart, a former England under-21 international who flourished under his father at Middlesbrough’s academy, and his wife Paula. The couple had been expecting their first child in January 2014, but three days after doctors were unable to detect a heartbeat thirty-six weeks into the pregnancy, Poppy Isabella Elizabeth Parnaby was stillborn, weighing 5lb 13.5oz.

  On average, seventeen more families in the UK will endure neonatal bereavement today. They will feel uniquely distressed, numb and, in too many cases, insufferably lonely. Paula is patron of 4Louis, a family-run charity that seeks to support stricken parents by supplying hospitals with ‘cuddle cots’ and memory boxes.

  The Parnaby family’s memory box, lemon with a pink ribbon, contains such unbearably poignant items as an imprint of Poppy’s hands and feet in clay, a curl box for a lock of her thick, dark hair, and an acknowledgement-of-life certificate. A glass angel signifies a sleeping baby. They are prized possessions, a permanent reminder of life’s preciousness.

  ‘We had a tragic time,’ Dave reflects, his eyelids seeming to sag under the weight of recollection. ‘We lost Poppy and, after everything, welcomed little Mason. I have two more fantastic grandchildren in Texas and I’d like to have enough time in my life to enjoy them all. I love this place, but I’m going out on my own terms. It is nothing against the game; as the saying goes, great game, shit industry. I do believe I am very, very lucky to have found this club.’

  And they, in turn, are fortunate to have had him, as the founding father of a productive, universally admired academy that reflects his inclusive personality. One of the touchstone comments of John Wooden, whose books c
an be found alongside those of another inspiration, the educationalist Sir Ken Robinson, in a bookcase close to the window in Parnaby’s office, seems particularly apposite: ‘A good teacher or coach must not only understand others, but himself or herself as well.’

  Parnaby’s childhood ambition to be a professional sportsman, by his own admission more realistic in cricket than football, was tested to destruction at the age of 25, when he scored twice from midfield playing for Rotherham reserves against Barnsley. Ian Porterfield, the Rotherham manager, called the following day, offering a year’s contract.

  Heart met head. Teaching offered security. His wife Jean was pregnant with their first child Ian, a former professional golfer who now works for Callaway in the United States. They had just bought a house. Despite Jean urging him to follow his dream, regardless of domestic responsibilities, he turned the offer down.

  He played for Middlesbrough in the Northern Intermediate League, went on trial to Stoke City with a 16-year-old Paul Bracewell, and turned out at centre half for Gateshead in the Conference. He remained engrossed by the game, and his aptitude for engagement and education marked him out as a natural coach.

  His life was fashioned by a new set of circumstances and unheralded individuals whose influence was imposed imperceptibly in rowdy classrooms, draughty sports halls and on wind-whipped playing fields. They were PE teachers, formidable characters given greater substance by secondary careers as accomplished athletes.

  Stan Stoker played rugby union as a full back for Gosforth, when they were a power in the land in the seventies. He also played cricket for Dorset and his native Durham in the Minor Counties Championship as a right-handed batsman and right-armed medium fast bowler who profited from swing and dip. He remained Parnaby’s advocate and adviser until his death, aged 71, in October 2015.

  Keith Robson was Parnaby’s first head of department at Longfield School in Darlington. He had a rugby background, but specialised in gymnastics. Parnaby marvelled at the unforced authority of both men, the discipline they imposed with such ease that standards of behaviour became second nature. Forty years on, their protégé remains reverential:

  ‘I used to watch Stan at work. He was so relaxed and easy. Keith’s standards were so high, and his discipline was so good. Everything was carefully planned. He took registers before lessons. He would be dressed all in white, immaculately clean from head to toe. He taught me how to teach, the organisation of a class, how to speak.

  ‘The art of teaching is small details. Who is looking at you? Who is picking their arse? Who is picking their nose? Who is looking into the distance? I always say, give the coach the respect of looking at him. You might not be listening but at least you look like you are listening to him. Do you get your points across? Can you deliver a hard message subtly to a fifteen-year-old boy?

  ‘I learned about dealing with parents. Honesty: that is the answer. Me mam always said, you are what you are. I’m pleased people think I have me mam’s blood. My dad was a twisty old bugger, a miner all his life. Me mam gave a lot, she still does, even though she is on dialysis these days. You have to tell the truth. You can’t fabricate, promise something you can’t deliver.’

  The most important lessons never lose their relevance. Parnaby will speak from the heart later that evening, when, together with Barry Watson, the academy’s head of education and welfare, he welcomes one of the new academy intake, disgorged from minibuses to train during school holidays at the club’s Rockcliffe Park complex. His message to the boy and his parents is scoured by two decades’ worth of common sense:

  ‘You come into my office at the age of nine, and I register you. This isn’t a fun activity. It is a professional sport. Somewhere down the line you may or may not progress. I can’t tell you that you won’t be sitting here at ten, and we’re releasing you. You could be here at fourteen, and we’re giving you a two-year extension. You might be twenty-six and have come to the end of your third professional contract, and we’re in the office crying and cuddling because you’ve come to the end of your journey.

  ‘My favourite saying is, “Enjoy the journey.” Make sure you are sticking in at school and you achieve what you can achieve. You parents have to support that. We will do as much as possible to develop your child into a good player and a good person. His well-being, social outlook and education are at the top of our agenda.’

  Boundaries, topographical and moral, might have been bulldozed elsewhere because of the Premier League’s global land grab, but Middlesbrough’s academy remains true to an embattled community. Parnaby has recruited consistently and exclusively from a thirty-five-mile radius; he has been allowed to prioritise identity and local pride.

  Middlesbrough, he says, ‘is a tough, tough town’. There is a sense of abandonment by the southern elite: local steelworks have closed, unemployment is rising and as the population is shifting and the coke furnaces cool, the talent pool available to the football club is shrinking. Social issues – inordinately high rates of cancer, infant mortality and supply of class A drugs – bedevil the region.

  No institution or individual is immune from change. The club’s spiritual link to the town remains strong, and will be protected while Steve Gibson, the steelworker’s son who is by common consent one of football’s most passionate and far-sighted owners, remains in charge. Yet the global nature of senior recruitment is beginning to filter down into the professional development phase, between the ages of 16 and 18, where ’Boro feature players from Austria and Brazil.

  Football is evolving, data-obsessed and centrally driven. Middlesbrough’s academy might have supplied fifty-two first-team players, but it was placed under special measures by the Premier League because investment in it was perceived to be below the level required by the Elite Player Performance Plan. Since criticisms included a lack of GPS monitoring equipment for every player, Parnaby had every right to regard the auditor’s verdict as an insult to the intelligence and informality of his approach.

  ‘I spent twenty-two years in teaching and when I came here in 1998 I told Keith Lamb, the chief executive, that if he was looking for someone to manage the budget he had the wrong man. I have a good relationship with Ged Roddy at the Premier League, but I don’t live in a measurement, target-setting culture. I deal with my gut, my heart, my background, my relationships.

  ‘I sense a sea change. My door is open 24/7 but I get really, really worried when, because of EPPP, and the Action Plan we need to follow to achieve our licence for the next three years, I get stuck in this office and I’m not in the corridors, in the sports hall or down on the pitches. You should be seen by everyone and not hidden in this closet. I’m conscious of being a figurehead; parents should be quite happy to approach you, and the kids should be able to say hello.

  ‘It’s difficult. Any organisation that you work under, be it the Premier League, Football League or Middlesbrough Football Club, has to change with the times. But we always concentrate on the boys themselves. They are better technically, because of repetitive practice and greater access to them, but can the surrounding area supply enough of them?

  ‘When I first started, Steve said he wanted Middlesbrough’s academy to give the children of Teesside the opportunity to become professional sportsmen, and we’ve stuck with that. From a youth development point of view, competition in recruitment has become significant. I haven’t lost a player to a predator club in nineteen years, but I sense more pressure building as the years go by.

  ‘You’ve got to believe in what you’re doing, but maybe we will unearth someone that will be, for want of a better word, stalked. I’ve got to question myself: if I was placed in another environment, that’s bigger, richer, with all those possibilities of recruitment at my fingertips, how would I react? Where would my moral ground be?

  ‘I have always stood by the rules and regulations. They are there to be adhered to, not got around or broken. It is not hard to keep your recruitment staff ethically sound. You just say, well, these things are not h
appening. Whenever they come to me with a possibility of a player, I ask about background research and go through a checklist with Wendy, my administrator, just to make sure everything is being followed correctly.’

  Since the major North-east clubs are officially classified as geographically isolated, the relationships between them are delicate and different. When he took the job, Parnaby called a meeting at Maiden Castle in Durham with Alan Irvine and Ian Branfoot, his counterparts at Newcastle United and Sunderland respectively at the time. Their ‘no poaching’ agreement endures.

  ‘We have to work really hard to find talent, but the reality is a boy could be with us on Tuesday, at Sunderland on Wednesday and Newcastle on Thursday. At that meeting we agreed competition was fair, until the point a boy registered. I promised not to make any form of approach to a parent, agent or player, and that if I got wind somebody was trying to send one of their players to me, I would ring their club directly.

  ‘Touch wood, that agreement still exists between Ged McNamee, at Sunderland, and Joe Joyce at Newcastle. We have a healthy respect for each other. I would almost class us as friends, because we’ve done the job so long now, together. We understand that if, say, Newcastle release a player, and we think we’ve got this magic wand, we’ll have a trial of him. And, vice versa, a boy we released a year ago is doing quite nicely at Sunderland.

  ‘Have they got a magic wand? I don’t know. There are so many aspects to a player’s development, social maturity, mental maturity. Pennies drop, things fall into place at different times in their lives. Ron Bone, who is seventy-four now, but still works as my recruitment adviser, is my barometer. He talks about potential and patience. Our job is to identify the potential. And then you’ve got to be really patient.’

  Soon after our conversation, in late November 2016, another domino fell. Sunderland announced that McNamee, who had overseen the development of such prominent players as Jordan Henderson, Jordan Pickford and Duncan Watmore, was leaving the club after twenty years as part of an academy restructure. It was a signal of more ruthless, less accommodating behaviour, and begged the question of what the game will lose when such men, of high virtue and long experience, walk away.