Kennedy

[jdoyle9293]

present day

“You cannot tell anybody about me.”

There, right in that instant, my life had taken a distinct turn. The hum of the town’s suburbs deafened me in my twenty-yard stare across the garden. The invading trees camouflaged the object of my eye in my once peaceful albeit poorly maintained greenery.

So what was Jonathan Kennedy, manager of supremely successful Halifax Town doing, in his horrifically clichéd pinstripe pyjamas, staring out into space at 3a.m., twelve hours before the start of a new season?

I didn’t know how to answer that question.

-------

Championship Manager 01/02 // All leagues loaded.

[tenthreeleader]

Aw, yeah! CM 01-02 Such happy WIBL/WOBLing memories!

Carry on, sir!

[jdoyle9293]

July 9, 2001

“The players’ reception, 9.30a.m.” were the only words the chief executive had to utter down my Nokia 3330 handset to get me stirred up for another week on the job. I wasn’t so naïve as to assume that it directly involved the managerial situation following Paul Bracewell’s resignation from Halifax Town some 72 hours ago. I wasn’t so naïve to assume that I would remotely be in the board’s school of thought with regards to the new job.

I turned a right past the rotting bus depot through a series of awkward traffic lights five minutes outside of the town centre. I retracted the visor as the trees had momentarily shielded a cacophony of sunlight that streamed through my black ’95 Volkswagen Golf GTI. Pulling into the car park I was excited with a tinge of trepidation as the plucky engine forced its way through the slope of the lot’s entrance.

As the reserve team’s manager, I was admittedly the number one pick for a caretaker role, what use that would’ve been in the off-season I didn’t know.

They were waiting for me at the car park, a suit or two as well as a couple of the first team coaches and practically opened my driver’s door for me. An air of impatience struck me as I unshackled myself from the seatbelt and stepped out of the car. Only then did I realise how overcrowded the car park was for a run of the mill Third Division club on a run of the mill Monday morning in off-season July.

“Quick, quick.” Neil Redfearn whispered, the first one of the first team coaches to greet me. I was due an audience with the chief executive in quick double time—or words to that effect. I was all but pushed through the entrance of the stadium, squeezed down narrow corridors beyond hordes of cameras and lighting equipment that had no right being in Halifax.

In a small office tucked away to the side of a vibrating conference room I was whisked opposite the chief executive.

“We had no time, Jonathan, for warnings. We want to keep our players and new manager on their toes today in the hope it might ignite some mini-revolution at this club. We want promotion and knowing that you have the abilities we thought we would give ourselves a head start this season,” he showed me the door, pointing towards the conference room without maintaining eye contact. Without a written—nor verbal—contract I was assigned manager of Halifax Town AFC.

The room had good cause for anticipation, they were being handed the scoop of the Football League’s youngest ever manager on a platter by the club’s executives. It was hardly a bulb-flashing, gasp-inducing entrance as I snagged the door to the conference room on a slice of unkempt, and outdated, carpet. I bundled my way into the room well over capacity. A couple of the Courier journalists were in as well as those from further afield such as the Examiner and the Argus. Aside from that, however, the room was frequented, for the first time I imagine, by those from the national press. Almost all of them were represented, bar the Sunday People, because why would they turn up?

They were obviously briefed by our staff. I was decorated in an unwashed club tracksuit and plain white shirt due to an avalanche of boiler and washing machine related problems in the less than desirable one-bedroom house I rented on the outskirts of the town.

I didn’t look Football League quality.

“How do you feel about becoming the manager of Halifax Town, a club you have worked under for the majority of your adult life?” The whitewash of generic first press conference questions persisted with my dancing-around-the-subject answers. Nonetheless, I exited the conference room before being shuttled directly back into the exec’s office. A pen and a contract sat on the desk.

“It’s all yours if you want it.” The chief executive threw his larger than life grin towards me from the other end of the room.

[jdoyle9293]

April 15, 2002

The Skircoat Road stand rose in anticipation as Adolfo, a free transfer from Portugal, cut inside and outside of Darlington’s left back. The roar could be seen before it was heard, the net creasing under the weight of the curled shot from the edge of the area. 13 minutes in and on our big day, the Shaymen had taken a vital step towards their promotion.

Following our home game at Darlington, which could confirm our promotion to the Second Division, we had just three remaining games. You would expect a team buoyed by the momentum of a seven-game unbeaten run to finish the job off. Just two points were needed so even a draw wouldn’t be a disappointment as Carlisle United, seven points behind in fourth place, weren’t bound to win all their remaining engagements from now until May.

In fact, the hardest of their final four games was underway in Humberside as they battled away at fellow promotion hopefuls Hull City, who occupied sixth place and were all but guaranteed a play-off position. The first half flew by, with the exception of four painstaking minutes of injury time in which Darlington, battling bravely against demotion from the Football League, peppered out goal to no avail.

I hung back at the half-time whistle, attempting to get some knowledge from the announcer in regards to some of the other important matches in the division. Torquay were down 1-0 whilst Carlisle were being held 0-0 by Hull City. As things stood, we were to close the gap to Torquay to just goal difference and head into an unassailable lead ahead of Carlisle.

A skip took me into the home dressing room where an already confident sixteen players were to be bolstered under a pretence that promotion was, for the most part, sealed.

“See out the game lads—Hull are doing their bit for us at home to Carlisle.” As I uttered my one sentence team talk my neck became flustered with a hot glare from my coaching staff over my shoulder. A couple of massages and oranges later, a relaxed eleven sprinted onto the pitch for the next 45. I got pulled to one side by Neil Redfearn, who had stepped out of the starting line-up due to three fixtures in 8 days.

“Boss, I don’t think that was a good idea.” Neil was my senior by a few years and perhaps had match experience over me, but I didn’t relent.

“Why? A relaxed team will be a successful one, especially against one that is without confidence and is shot to pieces. Trust me.” Neil admitted my seniority in terms of job before I allowed us to both leave the dressing room and re-join the dugout for the second half.

By the hour mark we were 2-1 down.

The full-time whistle rang out, a murmur of confusion at our second half performance was swallowed by the stadium. A number of fans had left their seats to get a post-match pie or burger or to walk back into the town centre or to catch a bus into its surrounding areas—some had even caught the 503 bus service into the centre just to be the first in the pub to announce the Shaymen’s capitulation.

Before the rest of the fans could filter out of the stadium, the announcer differed the mood with his post-match announcement atop of the Rocky fanfare that played before and after the game.

“Ladies and gentlemen, playing their football in the Second Division next season—Halifax Town A.F.C.!” A roar came from two of the three occupied ends of the ground, some had leapt over the barricade to join in the celebrations with the players who had formed a huddle closest to the away end.

Carlisle had scuppered their last chance at automatic promotion with a 0-0 draw at Hull. I, Jonathan Kennedy, would be taking the Shaymen into the Second Division for the first time since 1976.

[jdoyle9293]

present day

The kettle rocked ever so slightly on the kitchen worktop, the amber light flashing inferring its boiling point had been reached. I counted three drops of steaming hot water that evaded the cup below the kettle, the tea bag resurfaced. The foreign presence in the kitchen had me on edge, my feet patted nervously on the heated floor.

I had innumerable questions and topics to discuss but in that fleeting moment crushing the teabag against the wall of the cup to enhance the drink’s flavour seemed more important.

In a desperation far beyond my own, I would have reached into the cupboard for a cloth to clean the greasy tiled wall in front of me. It’s funny how such a monotonous chore becomes so inviting when faced with sterner and more immediate tasks.

The presence behind me swayed, almost as I did as I hung the milk bottle above the cup, dropping fifteen millilitres into the drink, joining a spoon and—for the first time in my adult life—no sugar. Things needed to be addressed but instead I delved my eyes into the swirling mixture of blank white milk meeting a tempered brown tea. I wished to be swallowed by it.

“What shall we do next? We can’t exactly let her know what has been going on, can we?” I uttered, finally turning on the spot with the cup in my hand. Facing my fears.

[jdoyle9293]

January 25, 2003

A Wednesday night in Telford, hardly a planned part of my second term in charge of Halifax Town in the Second Division. A third round replay on Shropshire turf blitzed with snow could’ve easily been replaced with a night away from the job had the Shaymen just finished the first game off a couple of weeks ago. Consummate performances in the earlier rounds, a 5-1 thrashing in Dover before a routine 2-0 win in Macclesfield was followed by a tame 1-1 draw at home to Telford. If I had my way, Halifax wouldn't be playing in these earlier rounds again and as of next season that may become a possibility.

First, though, we would have to come from 2-1 down at half-time to gain our entry into the fourth round just three days later in West London against Premiership club Fulham. Typically, a goal midway through the half from Adolfo, a skewed effort into the bottom corner from 14 yards out, earned ourselves another chance at the competition in the third round replay.

Even if we had a week’s rest, we were going to struggle against the mighty Fulham who had survived last season despite all odds but were rooted to the foot of the top tier of English football with four months of the season to go. Halifax, on the other hand, were making a late push to make the Second Division play-offs. Just three places and two points off sixth place with more than a dozen or so games, it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility for the Shaymen, if imbued with enough confidence, to attain automatic promotion.

The distraction of the FA Cup might not have been so welcome for us in February or March, at the season’s business end, but it was one I felt we needed to remain in for monetary reasons. Twelve minutes in and we had gone two goals down. We had come from behind against Premiership clubs before but as the half-time whistle blew, the challenge had become even steeper than the learning curve we set ourselves in a difficult first half.

Steve Marlet broke the offside trap, dancing around our man in the sticks to shuffle the ball into an open net just four minutes into the tie, bringing Craven Cottage to its feet. The Cottagers star man, and Marlet’s strike partner, got on the scoresheet some eight minutes later and what a goal it was.

Slipping the ball through Neil Redfearn’s legs forty yards out from goal was only bettered by skipping beyond our comparably flimsy central defensive partnership before rocketing a 20-yard effort into the top corner. The finish improved aesthetically by clipping the underside of the crossbar and bulging the ceiling of the net, daring the home fans to dream of their first ever FA Cup triumph.

We had escaped the remainder of the half, and most of the second, without punishment but without any penetration of our own as Fulham dictated the entirety of the play. We became penned inside our own final third and, in turn, gave up hope of returning to any real competition in the game. Louis Saha wrapped the game up with a lobbed effort two minutes from time, rubbing salt into unhealed wounds.

Out of the FA Cup but amongst those preparing for an almighty promotion chase.

[jdoyle9293]

May 25, 2003

Embarking on Halifax Town history instilled with a warm nervousness. In the bowel of the Millennium Stadium awaiting a Second Division play-off final was a universe away this time two years ago. For the first time in the job, I clipped a lilac to my suit’s lapel and stood in the middle of the dressing room, looking at the sixteen players I would take to war against Tranmere Rovers. So, how did it get to this stage?

The final day of the season’s league stage saw us in seventh place welcoming the sixth placed Luton Town and needed just a win to overturn the one-point deficit. The Shay sucked in a 3-0 hammering, usurping the promotion hopes and dreams of the Bedforshire team, replacing them with our own. We were by no means close to the First Division and a potential Premiership payday—a secret personal goal. Two testing ties against Blackpool were in front of us.

A 3-1 win at The Shay improved our standing in the four-team promotion race, Adolfo netting two second half strikes but our defensive shape was far too inept. Even with the 3-1 deficit, we could’ve been stung in the return leg at Bloomfield Road. Even with potential promotion, we would suffer poverty in the First Division and return to the third tier of English football with our tails between our legs.

The five days between semi-final legs was crucial to our success both short and long term. A second leg hat-trick for Adolfo quashed any fears of inferiority, confirming a 6-2 aggregate win in a mirrored scoreline from the first leg. Nine days later and we had holed up in Cardiff. Ten days later we had earned ourselves a place in the First Division.

I had made Halifax Town history. We were in the second tier of English football for the first time as well as successive promotions. We could thank Kevin McDonald for that, in a matter of fortunate spontaneity. For the first 72 minutes, Tranmere pinned us to our goal line, in the 73rd minute, Kevin McDonald over-hit a cross from the left touchline that looped into the top corner, dumbfounding the opposition goalkeeper.

Promotion took 48 toiling games and a moment of luck.

[jdoyle9293]

July 29, 2003

The emotional ninety minutes of a play-off final didn’t render me exhausted due to the reward at the end of the road—a promotion and my first medal at the club I had worked for as an understudy and seen the club flit between non-league and Football League. Back in 1997 whilst we all toiled in the Conference, the Football League had become known affectionately as “the big time”. I wanted to transform the Football League into the small time, something undesirable whilst we strived for the big time of the Premier League. In August that would be just one step away.

Only three weeks prior to the start of Halifax’s first season in the First Division, my life had changed drastically. A kiss planted on the turf of the Millennium Stadium from an adoring fan—some would say crazy, I chose to say eccentric—ten weeks after that kiss, we married.

For Kirsten, Halifax Town was forced upon her, and in a blind drunken stupor made the decision to turn both of our lives down the same paths. If we were to marry, we had to do it in pre-season to make full effect of a wonderful honeymoon—something the club didn’t mind too much after my appointment of capable and wise assistant manager, Keith Curle, who had more footballing experience than I.

I fed the chairman with a scrap of paper full of signings. A swift telephone call fourteen minutes after my return home, I had the good news that we had signed all of them.

With a team full of fresh and more talented faces and a happy relationship cemented with an early consummation and an even earlier, by the times, marriage. The whirlwind romance and short pre-season that followed only served as a rejuvenation tool heading into my third season as the Halifax Town manager.

[jdoyle9293]

December 3, 2003

For my first Christmas together with Kirsten, out of jest, I suggested we relented on the gift giving front as all my Christmases had rolled into one given my sudden upturn in fortunes in regards to the whole career and wife idealism. The next step, if we were to complete the trifecta of the stereotypical home was to create our very own nuclear family. We weren’t in the business to do such a thing, not yet anyway.

I had known the woman seven months. Nonetheless, we had moved in together.

Any place above 22nd would have been a successful first third of the season for the Shaymen but we did one better—no we did nineteen better, in fact—playing third as we heralded the Christmas period with the visit of West Ham United. Successive promotions was very rarely seen in such a rapid manner, particularly in English football. I was expected our form to relent sometime around the February or March period, when the blend of FA Cup and high-pressure First Division games would overwhelm the team.

In our League Cup run we had already picked off Premiership opposition in the form of a 2-1 win over Sunderland courtesy of a Jamie Victory brace whilst a similar pairing of goals from Adolfo curtailed West Brom’s hopes in the consequential fourth round, a 3-2 battle. Jamie Victory continued his goalscoring exploits, netting his sixth goal in 19 appearances against a top half Premiership West Ham side currently a few points off the European places when the Hammers visited a frostbitten Shay Stadium.

Within twenty-three minutes we were ourselves blowing bubbles in the Skirtcoat Road stand, our home fans goading the adjacent travellers who must have forked out a small fortune to travel from East London to West Yorkshire on such a poor evening. It was a wonder that the hardened and unkempt turf of The Shay had remained playable in the officials’ eyes. Victory’s twenty-yard effort took a couple of deflecting bobbles on its way to finding the bottom right-hand corner off some upturned tufts of solid mud.

The goal did nothing for us but improve our record in the England as the country’s highest scorers. If anything, it angered West Ham into a swift reply, knocking two past us before the half-time whistle. We were losing grip on a superb chance to jump into a cup quarter final spot in time for Christmas and the New Year. Freddie Kanoute turned our defence inside with the first effort, leaving our goalkeeper stranded on the spot with a perfectly placed shot into the top corner. His second goal was more of a typical robust, number nine header that arrowed into the goal far too quick for anybody to react. In fact, it took the travelling fans a couple of moments to comprehend that they had taken the lead.

This left a frustration of missed opportunity around the stadium at the break, even more so knowing that Sheffield Wednesday and Southampton, who were in second and fifth respectively were holding each other to a 1-1 draw in league competition. A third by the sublime Freddie Kanoute further dampened our day but with other results, we would remain in third as the turn of the year approached with some speed on the horizon but we wouldn’t play another League Cup game this season.

[jdoyle9293]

May 19, 2004

Our juggernaut-like form in the first third of the season had relented, giving way for desperate and gruesome performances that would often warrant more red cards than goals. And yet, we remained in the play-off places with just four matches to go. Despite there being no crisis, I had to spin it in such a manner to the players in mid-April. I wanted the Premier League and all of the glory that came with it. Four teams were in our way and a probable two more should we return to our best in the play-offs.

A trip to Wembley was the stuff of legends, two in successive seasons was in the realm of the impossible.

Notts County were put aside without thought, Watford proved a sterner test but a 1-0 away win was arguably our finest result of the lot. In terms of goals and deficits, it wasn’t our best result but was the most impressive. Wallsall and Crewe were the final two obstacles as we recorded 3-1 and 3-0 wins respectively, sealing, in the end, quite a comfortable route into the play-off semi-finals. Unfortunately we had remained in sixth place and would, based on league form, face the best side in the league not to be promoted. This meant Southampton, who were plotting an immediate return to the Premier League following relegation just twelve months earlier.

In the first leg, James Beattie had almost single-handedly completed the first third of that objective, netting two beautiful goals on the south coast, in their brand new state of the art St. Mary’s Stadium. In the league season we really struggled against Premiership-quality centre forwards. Players in the ilk of James Beattie and Marian Pahars who was, fortunately, suspended for both legs. Freddie Kanoute had punished us in both cup competitions. I was determined, for the second leg and the final, not to be outdone by such talent, to remain rigid in defence, to remain a unit—all those clichés you learn on your first week, and before, on the job.

Matt Oakley had strengthened Southampton’s lead from the first leg, giving them a 3-1 aggregate lead. We were stunned, the almost packed out Shay didn’t know who to blame, what to do. They had never been in such a position of high stakes and high rewards. Alan Mahon—what a player. With eight minutes remaining he had attempted to thread a through ball past a stern Southampton backline but came unstuck. Southampton’s apparent success was rendered temporary when a frustrated Mahon drilled the ball first time as his through ball rebounded directly back to him. Only the one violent swing of his right leg was necessary to draw the two teams level.

A further goal was needed to take the tie the full distance.

The full distance wasn’t required though. Adolfo, second only in our club’s goalscoring charts to Alan Mahon, did his level best to best Mahon in the game if not the season as he, for the first time in both ties, put Halifax ahead on the day. A ball from out wide allowed him to dummy it, which in turn, gifted him the ball back in behind the Saints defence, a simple clipped finish over the onrushing Paul Jones sent The Shay into delirium. The pandemonium in the dugout has been unmatched.

That was, until six minutes later. Alan Mahon, who else, put Halifax into an aggregate lead with just 22 minutes left to play on the clock. It was perhaps one of the scruffiest goals we, as a team, have scored all season. In any normal circumstances we might’ve been embarrassed to score it, but a goal that might have sent us back to Wembley for a shot at the Premiership, we celebrated it for what seemed like days until the referee ordered our players back into their own half.

The following twenty-two minutes felt longer than the preceding thirty-one and a half years of my life. Finally, the referee blew the whistle. We were going back to Wembley in thirteen days’ time.

[EvilDave]

Ah, CM01/02 - speedy seasons, simple tactics and so much satisfaction. Very much enjoying this Mr Doyle, and looking forward to seeing Halifax in the promised land. Up the Shaymen!