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Anorak | Kick And Tell

Kick And Tell

by | 20th, August 2002

‘IT is surprising that in a world where brains are routinely found in feet, sportsmen and woman still like to lend their names to books.

How Vinnie convinced publishers a sequel would be good

Apart from ‘Ten O’Levels’ Trevor Brooking, Martin O’Neill and Gary Bailey, few footballers have ever read anything from cover to cover. This is perhaps why football managers read the riot act to them, because if Dave and Steve had to read it, they’d get stuck on the first word.

And let’s not get too involved with the writing act itself. I was once in the players’ lounge at Arsenal when a certain player began to scratch his name in a child’s exercise book. The fountain pen he had been given was being held the wrong way round, point to the rear.

”Not to worry, ***,” said the autograph hunter’s dad to his son, ”you can always go over it in crayon later.”

But such tales are the stuff of asides and gossip. What players want is to write a weighty tome that says, ”I was a professional footballer and that someone else other than me remembers that goal I scored in training and what I said to such and such”.

For that reason, people like David Batty, John Barnes and Andy Cole all call their books ‘The Autobiography’. It’s just not trying. It makes them sound grand, as if this is the last word on their lives. But, in reality, their lives have not been that interesting, and the headline suggests nothing to the contrary will be found within the covers. Even Roy Keane’s use of the eff word shows more imagination than that.

In essence, the authors of the ”The” autobiographies (and include: Peter Schmeichel, Dennis Wise and Ruud Gullit) have had a successful career, great adulation and adoring fans, but have nothing to say. If it weren’t for football, it’s a decent bet none would have earned a mention in the local free advertiser, let alone the national press.

Vinnie Jones published ‘Vinnie – The Autobiography’ in 1998, but has since thought himself worthy of more comment and released a sequel in 2001, called ‘My Life’. The intervening three years had been interesting, but one would hazard a guess much more so for him than the rest of us.

But he did at least recognise his idiosyncrasies, and knew that Vinnie was a better title than Mr Jones or Vincent.

Using the nickname or the football moniker in place of storytelling ability and the perceived need to develop a character on the page is a trick that has been tried by Stuart Pearce (‘Psycho – The Autobiography’), Barry Fry (‘Big Fry – The Autobiography of Barry Fry’) and Harry Redknapp (‘Arry – The Autobiography of Harry Redknapp’).

But this tactic carries risk, and you can end up looking like an even bigger joke than you already are and calling your book ‘Hell Razor – The Autobiography of Neil Ruddock’. Not just Razor, but Hell Razor, as if being overweight and cumbersome presented a danger to anything other than your heart and children.

If Ruddock wants to tell a good yarn he could do far worse than take a leaf from the likes of Garry Nelson’s ‘Left Foot Forward – A Year in the Life of a Journeyman Footballer’ or Tony Cascarino’s truly excellent ‘Full Time’.

Neither player is the most famous name in football, but they create convincing pictures of what it must be like to be them, slightly above average footballers.

Cascarino’s book is a particular gem, in which rather than employing the high and mighty attitude of a Roy Keane (who appears to be a man surrounded only by people who tell him how great and right he is), establishes a tome in which he can be the butt of the jokes.

Only just into the book, and our hero has been called a ”useless big bastard” by a Celtic fans (his then club). Two lines later, and Cascarino’s playing at Chelsea, where he is booed on his debut.

He is then asked – or is it told? – by his six-year-old son, who has just retuned from school, where his dad had been the topic of conversation: ”You’re not very good, Dad, are you?” At football, not bad, but not all that good. But at telling a story, especially of his own life (the hardest tale of them all), he excels.

It’s just a shame Cascarino isn’t playing for Ireland now. His chapter on Keane would be more illuminating than anything currently being provided by the foul-mouthed one or his current apologists. ‘



Posted: 20th, August 2002 | In: Back pages Comment | Follow the Comments on our RSS feed: RSS 2.0 | TrackBack | Permalink