The Nowhere Men Read Free

Villa. ‘Good footballer but an academy player,’ came the reply. ‘Ask yourself the question: will he keep me in a job if I take him for a Championship or League One club? No. He’ll get you the sack.’ Swift duly faded into insignificance.
    The older man was examining body shape, the probabilities of genetic inheritance. ‘Look at Elliot Lee – Rob’s son. Chip off the old block, isn’t he? But a big arse. Not an athlete.’ Few words were wasted, and judgements were harsh: ‘Look at the goalkeepers. One’s a great size, but a coward. The other’s a great shot stopper but too small. Their mistakes prey on your mind.’
    I was struck by Chelsea’s Todd Kane, a full back in the modern idiom. He was strong, adventurous and aggressive, and his delivery from wide areas caused problems. ‘He could have a career, him. My first thought is Brentford. He’s a Nicky Shorey type. He does what it says on the tin. Problem is his size – can’t see him defending at the far post at top level. He’ll be a proper pro though.’
    There was logic to Johnson’s caution, borne out of 27 years’ experience. ‘The window of opportunity isn’t open for long, and they’re out there flicking and farting around. It is a cruel world. They have only one chance to impress. There are too many games, too many players, to spend long on them. When you are working for Liverpool, a lot of the time you are crossing names off your list.’
    Islam Feruz, a small support striker blessed with extreme pace, earned a reprieve by scoring a goal of sublime quality. He picked up the ball midway in the opposition half, surged past four challenges into the heart of the penalty area, and dinked a shot over the advancing West Ham goalkeeper. ‘Blimey!’ exclaimed Johnson. ‘Didn’t see that coming. That was Diego Maradona.’
    Feruz was a child of his times. The only son in a family of Somalian refugees which relocated to Glasgow after fleeing to London from Tanzania, he was saved from deportation, at the age of 12, by the advocacy of Celtic’s youth coach, the late Tommy Burns. He made his first team debut at the age of 14, in a memorial match for Burns, a man of immense integrity in a game of shallow expedience.
    Within 18 months, Chelsea had taken advantage of a loophole in the system to spirit him south. Conscious of competition from Manchester City, they installed the family in a flat near their Cobham training ground. The boy was reportedly being paid £10,000 a month, and had his own website, which proclaimed: ‘Islam Feruz will be famous.’ Wotte, who might have been expected to be a little more circumspect, promptly compared him to Romario.
    With five minutes remaining, and the scores level at 2–2, most of the scouts had seen enough. Only Anderson stayed to witness Chelsea’s win, on penalties, after the game had ended 3–3 after extra time. ‘What have I got to go home to?’ he said with a mischievous smile. ‘I’ll be here helping them sweep up.’ He would make himself busy, networking with agents, parents and coaches. He could talk for England, but, crucially, he was a good listener. He, too, worked a room, like a bee collecting pollen.
    Johnson scurried to his car, in the company of Steve McCall, Ipswich’s chief scout. His small talk – ‘that Nat Chalobah, he’s got Chelsea-itis. Got all the tools, but a laid-back Larry’ – was tellingly deceptive. It was several months before he revealed he had logged the defender’s speed of thought, intelligent movement and ease on the ball. He recommended him, as the putative holding midfield player Liverpool were seeking.
    Johnson had been taken to Anfield by Damien Comolli, with whom he worked, as chief scout, for Tottenham. He recruited Gareth Bale from Southampton, but was a victim of regime change under Harry Redknapp. It was the first time he had been ‘moved on’ since he began scouting, as a self-confessed ‘football fanatic’, in 1985. The following year, on Good