Vomit, Trentham Hills and fully-clothed baths: How the old-school Micky Adams philosophy built an unbreakable bond
It is August 14th 2012 and the tunnel at Vale Park is beginning to feel stuffy. “Any chance ref,” the opposition goalkeeper shouts.
Somebody bangs their boots into the ground behind me, another jumps up and down, the rest of us are still; focused and in the zone; dabbing the sweat on our foreheads. ‘Boomer’, Vale’s match-day mascot, is doing star jumps in the distance. ‘Who is even under that outfit’?, I thought momentarily.
Behind the star-jumping pooch stands a sea of expectant Port Vale supporters gathering cosily in the Railway Paddock. Some are still shuffling awkwardly to their seats, while others are slurring ‘Vale’ repeatedly – the ten pints of lager seemingly kicking in.
“Nothing stupid…okay? – if it needs to go, it f***ing goes,” were the lucid instructions of Micky Adams that rang between my ears.
As skipper Doug Loft leads the march out onto the turf, a trail of outlandish pink jerseys follow behind. ‘The Wonder of You’ by Elvis Pressley plays softly beneath the roar of four thousand voices.
I could sense the newborn optimism amongst the crowd that day, the disappointment of the previous campaign no longer present; the chance of a new beginning, the chance to dream again, the chance to be a part of something extraordinary. These are the raw emotions that only the opening day fixture can bring.
It was Burnley at home in the League Cup, the team I had followed since I was a boy. Supporters shout and simultaneously shuffle in their seats as the game kicks off. What the majority of those that vacate the terraces don’t spare a thought for, however, is the drudgery that has taken place in the months leading up to that moment. They don’t see the perpetual toil to ensure each and every player is physically and mentally prepared for another rollercoaster season. They don’t see the park runs, the sand dunes, the hill sprints, the bleep tests, the vomit, the blisters, the double sessions, the ice baths.
In the run up to that game, Micky Adams put us through a typically gruelling pre-season programme. It was relentless. On day one we ran around Hanley Forest Park for what felt like an entire day. The second and third were round Westport Lake, Stoke-on-Trent’s largest expanse of water. The remainder consisted of running around the perimeter of Vale Park’s pitch, often known simply as ‘The Track’. A 2000m rowing session was also a favourite, usually done at Dimensions gym around the corner from the stadium and would include a rather pacey run there and back.
“Welcome to the men’s game,” someone mumbled behind me. I bent over with my palms pressed against my knees, deliriously staring into the illuminous yellow laces in my new running trainers. “Why did I eat that chilli at lunch?” I said aloud to nobody in particular. A handful of carrots brightened up the pool of vomit that seeped into the gravel below, with the remainder dribbling into my beard.
Judging by the lack of consolation, I had wrongly assumed nobody noticed my episode at Westport Lake that day, either that or nobody really gave a damn. As I rose, the eyes of Micky Adams locked onto mine. “I knew I’d break someone,” he yelled, laughed and frowned, simultaneously. My team mates, bent over and breathing heavily, chuckled through gritted teeth and screwed up faces.
From that day on, my relationship with pre-season was love-hate. I always enjoyed the end product — feeling fit, strong and ready to attack another 46-games in the realm of League Two. I loved the feeling of fulfilment at coming through some of the most challenging running sessions ever seen in professional football. (Happy to hear from anyone who can challenge that statement!). One man who will vouch for me is Richard Duffy, who on one occasion, subsequent to several very fast laps of the Vale Park pitch, lay slumped in an ice cold bath with his training kit and running shoes on.
So – yeh, getting through those June and July months felt brilliant. But on the flip side, I disliked the ‘doing’ part. The butterflies in your stomach as you wait for the whistle; the battle against your inner-voice that is screaming for you to stop; and the never-ending pain of ploughing through your second, third and fourth wind.
Adams was an experienced manager who found great pleasure in the old-school elements of football management, patrolling the corridors in an oversized Vandanel waterproof jacket, a whistle glued to his neck and a stopwatch wrapped around his knuckles. His outstanding quality was that he was a fantastic judge of character and somebody who got the best out of big personalities. Tom Pope, Gary Roberts, Lee Hughes, all flourished under his guidance after struggling elsewhere.
His guile was calculated and tied into his primitive playing philosophy – ‘don’t mess about with it at the back, no short goal-kicks, get the ball wide and get crosses into the box’.
Although the football wasn’t aesthetically pleasing, as a youngster loitering on the fringes of the first team, I was invigorated by his methodologies and the straightforwardness to which he expected his players to ‘do the basics well’. I found great reassurance in knowing that I didn’t have to spray 50-yard diagonal passes to get my chance in the first-team, I just had to focus on heading and kicking the ball in the right direction, to the right people, and limit the amount of errors I made.
That team would outrun and outbattle the opposition on a regular basis, particularly at home. Ask anybody in the professional game what they thought of Vale Park and they will all give you the same answer – ‘f***king massive’.
They are right, but it was also Adams’ playing style that made it feel that way for visiting teams. There are no hiding places on that pitch, especially with players like Anthony Griffith snapping at your heels for 90 minutes.
New signings were always told that to do well in Burslem you would have to be fit – super fit. You’d have to be prepared to roll your sleeves up and do the horrible side of the game, even as a striker or winger. You’d have to chase lost causes, hook things on and throw your bodies on the line to earn the respect of the Lorne Street and Railway Paddock. If you tick those boxes, they’ll clap, sing and cheer you on until the sun goes down.
Adams always viewed pre-season as the most important period in the calendar, because that was the time in which he could discover who was up for the fight and who wasn’t. He would intentionally set outrageous running drills and demand unattainable times to see who would crumble. He would reiterate the significance of our application and how ‘the work we do now will determine our season’.
‘Who rolled their eyes when I said we are doing another lap of the lake’? ‘Who can I rely on’? ‘Who will run through a brick wall for me’? ‘Who will stick their chest out when it’s pissing down at Bootham Crescent and we are 1–0 down’? These were all the questions swirling behind his eyes as we clambered to the apex of Trentham Gardens in early July. At least that’s what I saw.
On reflection, it was the ideal environment for me at the outset of my career, I just didn’t know it back then. Those gruelling pre-seasons played a huge part in building a dressing-room culture that placed mental-durability and togetherness at the heart of its foundation.
We carried those attributes with us as we gained promotion to League One later that year. And beyond that, the lessons drawn from those months – good, bad and indifferent – I and many others carry around in society today, away from the white lines of a football pitch and into our everyday lives.
Technological advancements in sport and ever-developing data analysis tools have meant that pre-season regimes have evolved significantly since the Adams era. Training loads are measured on a day-to-day basis to ensure players aren’t under training or over training. There’s a whole department that focus on capturing that data and presenting it to the coaching staff, usually to throw the reigns on a physically demanding session.
But, as much as I am fascinated by the stat-driven Head Coach epoch that we find ourselves within, I am still guilty of longing for a team led by that old-fashioned but charismatic figure; a brotherhood beneath him fighting for every ball and running themselves into the ground for three precious points; a glimpse of the yesteryear when football was rough-edged and littered with imperfections.
Ten years ago, Micky Adams engraved characteristics into The Vale’s DNA that should have lasted decades, only to see it dismantled shortly after his departure. Ever since then, the club has yearned for that togetherness and camaraderie on the field, but have been unable to unearth the man capable of recovering it.
