Are our young footballers psychologically prepared to cope with the rigours of the English game ?
“If they’re good enough, they’re old enough,” Sir Matt Busby once famously said. The Scot was renowned for his ability to unearth young footballing gems in 1955; a year in which his Manchester United team romped to the summit of English football. The team, with an average age of just 22, obliterated teams across the land, including a record-breaking 10–0 victory over Belgian champions Anderlecht en route to the European Cup Semi-Final. As a result of their domination, ‘The Busby Babes’, as they were known, revolutionised the perception of youth players for many years to come. Fast forward to today, and youngsters are being flung into the deep end of the Premier League from every angle, with the presumptuous expectation that they’ll swim. More and more managers look towards their youth set-up and put their trust into up-and-coming stars in the hope that they can develop, deliver, and eventually, move on. But are they ready?
Jack Wilshere, Rushian Hepburn-Murphy, Jose Baxter, Jack Robinson, Angel Gomes and Reece Oxford all made their Premier League debuts at the terrifying and tender age of sixteen. Yes, sixteen. Whilst their peers were anxiously awaiting their GCSE results, these boys were going toe-to-toe with the world’s most elite footballers. Worryingly though, out of that list, only two remain in the Premier League today: Wilshere (West Ham), and Gomes (Manchester United). Hepburn-Murphy is currently on loan at Derby County in the Championship, whilst Baxter, Robinson and Oxford have all suffered a career landslide, with Baxter being the stand-out casualty. Ever since Baxter made his Premier League debut for Everton in 2008, the Bootle-born attacking midfielder has persistently landed himself in hot water, leading to an underwhelming career dominated by negative front page news rather than the back page coverage that his footballing ability deserved. Oxford has also suffered a significant fall, after storming on to the scene with West Ham back in 2015 with a man of the match performance at The Emirates. Each fall from grace raises some questions though.
Is the psychological strains of being thrown into the deep waters of men’s football at such a young age coming back to haunt them?
Are we doing enough as football fans, players and managers to protect, prepare and nurture the mental well-being of our up and coming talent?
I made my debut for Port Vale in League Two at the age of seventeen, and even at that level it felt like I’d been tipped upside down into an unknown world. It only took a couple of errors in the early stages of my career for me to come under fire from a small portion of fans. Nothing prepares you for that when you progress through the Academy system. There was no consideration for my age or what I was going through; I didn’t know who I was back then, never mind the type of footballer that I was trying to become. I had no idea what I was good at, bad at,loved,detested, and above all, I didn’t have the know-how to cope with the intensity of emotions that exists within the men’s game. I lacked self awareness during the 90 minutes, and didn’t carry the ability to cope with pressure, setbacks or external criticism that came my way. Of course. That’s not to say I didn’t have qualities. I was keen, committed, and obsessed with becoming a success. All of those attributes glimmer when things are going great, but as soon as your confidence takes a hit, they no longer shine so bright.
For me, when I think of a setback or mental challenge, there is one game that springs to mind. One game that shrunk my confidence for a period of time, and upon reflection, heavily shaped my early development as a footballer and as a human being.
It was February, 22, 2014, Port Vale V Crewe Alexandra. For some it was just another local derby; but for me, it was the first time that I would ever come up against my Dad, Steve, who was Crewe Alex manager, and my brother, Harry, who played in the centre of The Railwaymen’s defence. It was an occasion that I’d anticipated, feared, and dreamt of, all at the same time. It wasn’t just a unique experience for me and my family either; it broke a record for being the first time in the history of the game that three family members were involved in the same competitive fixture. The media got hold of it and it was made to feel like a momentous occasion, when in my head I was battling to assure myself that it wasn’t.
In previous years, the manager, Micky Adams, had banned me from the training ground the week before every clash with Crewe Alexandra; just in case I happened to reveal our lineup, tactics or set-pieces to my father when I returned home that afternoon. Not that I ever would of course; something that I tried to explain many times but I suppose he wasn’t prepared to take the risk. On this particular Friday though, I was in the team. I was starting. When Saturday morning came, I didn’t know whether to explode with nervous excitement or bury my head into the pillow. From having my scrambled eggs and toast sat opposite my father- to being told I was man-marking my brother on set pieces; everything felt uncomfortably peculiar in the run up to kick off.
The game began in its usual high tempo, frantic, derby-day manner: and within minutes I felt tired, sluggish and mentally detached from all that was going on. Something didn’t feel right; I felt drained, and was struggling to tune myself into the flow of the game. I didn’t have the coping mechanisms to deal with the emotions or pressures that surrounded me; I didn’t have any relatable experiences to manage the occasion, and as a result, I lacked the self-consciousness to make rational and concise decisions.
Whilst trying to mentally snap myself into the zone, I flew instinctively into a whole hearted challenge on the half-way line. It was late and mistimed, and left Mathias Pogba writhing round in a heap on the floor. Intuitively, I raised a hand to display my sincere apologies for what was, even by my standards, a reckless way to introduce myself to the game; but unfortunately on this occasion, the universal sign for ‘I’m not really sorry but I’ll pretend I am anyway,’ wasn’t enough to prevent a yellow card from being wafted in between my eyes. It was two minutes in and left an agonising 88+ minutes to tread gingerly around ankles and feet. “ Be careful now”, Roger East said to me, whilst tucking the yellow card back into his top pocket and regaining his position in the centre of the pitch. ‘Careful’. That word bounced around my brain like a ping pong ball. It was a word that I didn’t understand- not in football terms anyway. I didn’t know how to be careful. That was a trait that I learnt as I gained experience- how to play with nous, how to be tactful and limit the amount of situations spent isolated in 1v1 positions, especially when your name is in the referee’s book. In those days, my emotions would control my every move, my decisions were made instinctually without a chain of thought.
20 minutes after scathing down victim number one, I was at it again. Another late lunge on Chuks Aneke lifted the crowd off their seats. The whistle blew- it was sharp and loud this time. It felt unnecessarily piercing, over the top and theatrical. My heart sank- usually you can tell by the way that the referee steams towards you that you are in trouble, and this was certainly one of those moments. Two players barged me, whilst the others swarmed Roger East; they were waving their arms equally as theatrical as the blow of the whistle, whilst simultaneously yelling explicit remarks that I shall not repeat. Harry raced in and did his best to usher his fellow teammates away; “Cheers Harry,” my inner voice said politely. East back-pedalled east, away from the chaos and over to the far side of the pitch. In the midst of the carnage around me, all I could hear was my heart beating and a gentle static fizz, almost as if my brain had accidentally switched the setting to ‘do not disturb’. He stiffly raised his arm in my direction and curled his finger in an obedient manner, “Davis, Davis” he shouted sternly, “Go away, back off,” he warned the Crewe players that tried to worm their way back into his line of vision. It felt like ten minutes before I could get close enough to find out whether I would be running an early bath for the second time in my short career. East ducked his head and leaned towards my ear, “Last warning Davis. I know the occasion, and on another day you’d be walking. Use your f***ing head.”. ‘Use your head’. Once again I attempted to process those words, but once again I didn’t know how. “Steady now”, “Calm down,” my team mates mutter around me. Before I had chance to scythe down anymore of the opposition or ‘use my f***ing head’, the fourth official raised the electronic subs board with my number coruscating bright red. Me and Jordan Hugill were taken off on the 33 minute mark, Micky Adams waved his hands for us to convert our disappointed strolls into enthusiastic trots. Players patted the back of my neck as I trudged off, but it offered no sense of consolation or comfort. With my head bowed down towards the turf, Micky Adams extended his hand which I regretfully snubbed. At the time I was embarrassed, but when I look back at the decision I believe it was the correct one. Perhaps he could have left it until half-time to restore a little bit of pride, but I know that he was only doing it to protect me and the rest of the team.
In the days and weeks that followed, my confidence was low, painfully low. It felt as though someone had taken a needle and popped my balloon. I needed time-out to heal; except in the dog eat dog world of football there’s no time to feel sorry for yourself. I remember going out for a drink that night and being approached by several Crewe Alex fans. “You were crap today mate”, “thanks for that today, you won us the game”. I didn’t respond, but it was an almighty kick in the teeth.
That sinking feeling of letting people down, and not living up to expectation stuck with me. I am not suggesting that it affected me enough to alter the course of my career, but it was certainly a moment that I look back on with remorse. Quite simply, I don’t think I had acquired the emotional experience to prepare myself for an occasion of that magnitude; one so personal.
This is a topic that intrigues me and opens up the door to a debate:
Are we doing enough to prepare young players to cope psychologically with the demands of the game?
As fans, coaches, lovers of the game- are we doing enough to protect them and provide a platform for them to flourish as they transition from development football to the first team?
