The Nowhere Men Read Free Page A

Friday, he recommended Norwich City sign an 11-year-old midfield player he had spotted playing for Ridgeway Rovers in the Canaries Cup.
    David Beckham was duly invited for trials at Carrow Road, but joined Tottenham’s School of Excellence before Manchester United, and corporate canonisation, beckoned. Since Leyton Orient, the boy’s local club, were also unfulfilled suitors at that time, there was an appropriate symmetry to Johnson’s next tutorial, an Under 19 international between England and the Czech Republic at Brisbane Road.
    Johnson parked in the terraced streets surrounding the ground, and popped into a newsagent to buy a local paper. ‘Everyone canes me for it, even Damien,’ he said, with a self-deprecating chuckle. ‘But I always buy one for the titbits. You never know what you’ll find out.’ He returned to his car, and studied the Czech squad on his iPad for an hour, before he entered the Olympic Suite, 35 minutes from kick-off.
    The scouts were devouring ham and mustard sandwiches, with the obligatory chips, as they retold tall tales of ducking and diving. My favourite revealed the ingenuity and duplicity of one solid citizen, who monitored youth football for Portsmouth, did first team match assessments for Newcastle United, and covered non-League football for Wolverhampton Wanderers. All three clubs were ignorant of his involvement with the others.
    Johnson preferred the company of Tottenham coach Clive Allen. ‘He was good to me at Spurs,’ he explained. ‘He kept phoning to see how I was after they outed me. You don’t forget things like that.’ They discussed striker Harry Kane. He was excelling on loan at Millwall, whose manager Kenny Jackett had worked with Johnson at Watford and QPR. The one doubt, about his pace at the highest level, was neutralised by memories of Teddy Sheringham, a player whose game intelligence compensated for a slight lack of speed.
    ‘I love this place,’ Johnson reflected, as we looked out on to a museum piece, the deserted old main stand. ‘The fans are the funniest around. I was here once when they started chanting “we can see you washing up” at the inhabitants of the flats in the corner. It’s a proper club, with some great people.’ Memories of the old John Chiedozie tea bar, and the fabled eccentricity of former manager John Sitton, stirred a smile.
    Stuart Pearce, who was to make a cameo appearance as England caretaker manager against Holland at Wembley the following night, nodded as he bustled past with his retinue. Johnson had talked football with him the previous week, in Jackett’s office at the Den, but his perspective shifted suddenly, as the teams, and his sheet of A4, came out. ‘We know the England boys so well,’ he rationalised. ‘This is my chance to look at the Czechs. They’ve beaten some top sides.’ He quickly concentrated on goalkeeper Lukas Zima, a tall, slightly built fashion victim in tangerine kit, and predominantly orange boots. All that remained was for him to address the error of my ways.
    ‘Don’t look at the game, look at the man,’ Johnson instructed. ‘You are following play just like the coaches who come out with me. Scouts study their man. I blank the other players out, although if the ball is at the other end of the pitch I’ll watch out of the corner of my eye, just in case I get asked for an opinion. You cannot follow the ball in this job.’
    I felt self-conscious at first, but it was simple, and startlingly effective. Watching Zima so intensely had a strange intimacy. He morphed from an unknown name on a team sheet to a definable human being. His mannerisms became familiar, and the complexities of his character emerged. He unwittingly evoked sympathy and understanding. Johnson was enthused: ‘Look at him. Good concentration. Keeps communicating. Attention to detail. He’s alert, thinking. A good size. I like him. I like his bravery. He’s been out at people’s feet a couple of times. I know he punches,