Football: Legend against all odds

Wembley beckons a journeyman turned idol, a punter turned author. Ian Ridley assesses a singular talent

We were late for a radio interview in west London when he asked me to stop the car in the middle of a busy road because nature was calling. After 10 minutes on a double yellow line I thought I had better look for him. I guessed correctly; nature had called. There he stood in William Hill's, gazing up at the bank of screens, following the fortunes of the tip he had been given for the 2.15. That is Steve Claridge.

Over the past year, it has been this correspondent's pleasure - mostly definite, sometimes dubious - to collaborate with Claridge on a book of his switchback life in football as well as in betting shops. It started as a sort of "Tough of the Track", the story of a sartorially challenged, fish-and-chip cult figure and an insight into the sub-strata of the English game. It developed into "Roy of the Rovers". "The way it's gone," he told me last summer, "I'll be signing for Manchester United on my 40th birthday."

When we began, Claridge was going through an acrimonious transfer from Birmingham City to Leicester City, merely swopping like for like, it seemed, as Leicester languished in mid-table of the First Division. Then came the run to the play-offs and that breathless last-seconds goal against Crystal Palace at Wembley last May. Now comes a return to the Venue of Legends for this legend in his own extra-time as Leicester face Middlesbrough in the Coca-Cola Cup final next Sunday. "Get your money on us," he told me after the goalless first leg of the semi-final against Wimbledon.

Actually, it all began on 12 October 1985, in the bar at Wycombe Wanderers' old sloping Loakes Park ground, where I had just watched my home-town team Weymouth sit on the Chairboys to the tune of 3-0. Claridge was then just 19 and on loan from Bournemouth. I helped convince him that he should sign for Weymouth, then of the Alliance Premier League, to get himself noticed in the game more. It had worked for Graham Roberts and Andy Townsend, after all.

Soon he did and he was off on a madcap dash that would take him to Crystal Palace, Aldershot, Cambridge United (twice), Luton Town, Birmingham and Leicester. It may be counting chickens, but this will be only the sixth time in 15 years as a professional that he has ended a season with the same club with which he began it.

Our paths barely crossed until Birmingham reached last season's Coca- Cola Cup semi-final and, as you do with a player who has touched your life in some way, I recalled him as a good subject for interview for this newspaper. No one interview could contain him, however. Friendship was quickly rekindled, partnership soon followed and *Tales from the Boot Camps, published last week, was born.

"There may not be much money in it," I told him. "That's all right. I'm not Bryan Robson, am I?" he said. Ironies abound in football; next week he has the opportunity to upstage one of the English game's greats. At one end of the pitch will be the wealthy and sophisticated Italian Fabrizio Ravanelli; at the other the "potless", Anglo-Saxon-as-they-come Claridge.

When I did succeed in catching the eel, we met throughout the summer, either at his adoptive parents' farm near Portsmouth (me once walking into the unlocked house at lunchtime and having to wake up the night owl), where he has been known to drive a tractor into a ditch while busy indulging another of his passions, eating fruit, or in Luton at one of the two houses he has bought after transfers, only to be sold by the club within a few months.

A colourful story unfolded: of a gambling habit that has cost him pounds 300,000, starting with the pounds 500 he blew within hours of being paid off by Alan Ball at Portsmouth as a 17-year-old, not deemed good enough as an apprentice; of ending up owing Crystal Palace money, so often was he fined for being late; of 15 weeks without pay at Aldershot. How poignant that now seems as his pounds 75,000 move to Cambridge United helped to keep the Shots in business, until they folded as a Football League club five years ago last week.

At Cambridge came fights - quite literally - with the long-ball disciple John Beck, of refusing to take the pre-match cold showers insisted upon and watching the manager throw away the boot bag in which he kept 15 or so dirty odd pairs. Then the love-hate relationship with Barry Fry at Birmingham, where he had 23 different striking partners.

"Someone once said you could write down Barry's knowledge of tactics on a postage stamp," Steve told the radio interviewer in west London - for a documentary based on the book that will go out on Radio 5 Live tomorrow night - when we finally did arrive (yes, the horse did win). "I would say you need to fold the stamp in half."

Some of it seemed far-fetched, the embellishment of dressing-room tittle-tattle, and sceptically I spoke to managers and colleagues from all his clubs. Not only did they confirm the stories, they added some of their own. To a man, none had a bad word about him. "Silly as Mr Simple and as happy as Larry," said his manager at Luton, David Pleat.

"People say there are no characters in the game these days," said an Aldershot team-mate Ian Phillips. "They've obviously never met Steve Claridge." Birmingham's Gary Poole: "One of the nicest guys I have ever met, but he's daft. Forever on the move, always here, always there. Worst trainer in the world."

He is indeed a singular character. On away trips, he will take his own sheets and pillows to hotels. To receptionists' smiles, I have seen him pinch the fruit from display baskets on the counter, including pineapples. At Leicester's front office, the telephonist has told him, with a forgiving grin, that he'd get her the sack as he sneaked off into a corner for a lengthy phone conversation.

It would be easy to dismiss Claridge as a comic cut, an eccentric journeyman. Such disdain is probably why it has taken him so long to reach the game's higher levels, and, contrarily, why he has done so well this season - 12 goals so far - in defiance of the expectations of many within the game.

Indeed, Leicester is proving a fitting Premiership finale as Claridge approaches his 31st birthday in a fortnight's time. The accepted view has always been that he would score goals in the lower divisions but probably lacked the pace and sharpness to prosper in the Premiership.

His ungainly running style, arms and legs pumping in honest effort, has endeared him to a succession of fans, who forgive him much for his heart of a lion; which speaks volumes since he has a heart defect, controlled since the age of 12 with medication. It mostly failed, however, to attract the managers of the top clubs until Martin O'Neill gave him his head. Neither did his casual appearance, with shirt outside shorts and socks rolled down, reflect a metaphorical smartness needed against the best defenders.

But by underestimating such a "Just William" figure - make that Imelda Marcos, with his copious collection of footwear - many lulled defenders have come unstuck. The sloppy appearance, he is cannily aware, helps mask the fact that his touch is slick. His ability to retain possession while team-mates join an attacking movement has been shown, and not shown up, in the Premiership.

There is a streetwise intelligence to his positional sense as he drifts wide - from where he crosses a mean ball - often taking central defenders with him to open up avenues for team-mates. Emile Heskey, in particular, has benefited from the education. "I wondered if he had the quality," David Pleat admitted. "But I'm really pleased for him."

Claridge's first goal in the Premiership, a spectacular 25-yarder, meaning that he had scored at every level of the English game, came against Pleat's Sheffield Wednesday. "Never did that for me at Luton, did you?" he said to Claridge in the dressing-room afterwards.

His last one to date came against Tottenham 10 days ago (last Saturday's against Southampton was an own goal, he admits privately, though he is claiming it publicly) and almost broke my Spurs-daft six-year-old's heart. Teddy Sheringham's last-minute equaliser made it the perfect night for him, though. Steve had got us tickets for the players' lounge. "You're really scruffy on the pitch, aren't you?" said my son, his initial awe turning to cockiness. "You cheeky little monkey," he replied, before his winning smile lit up his face. That, too, is Steve Claridge.

*Tales from the Boot Camps by Steve Claridge with Ian Ridley (Victor Gollancz, pounds 16.99).