Roopanarine - Harry Redknapp - The Biography

B ournemouth had made a so-so start to the 1982/83 season. By the time the conkers bounced, Dave Webbs side were already occupying the mid-table area in which they would remain for the rest of the campaign. Now it is October and Harry Redknapp, Webbs number two at Dean Court, is driving back to the clubs West Parley training ground after watching a reserve game at Southampton. Still a couple of months away from his first foray into management, he is mulling over the players he has just seen, wondering if any might do a job for Bournemouth. Redknapp is approaching the Eastleigh turn-off when he notices that the car behind is flashing him. At first I thought it was the Old Bill, he would say later. When I saw it wasnt I kept driving, but the geezer stayed behind me. They reach some traffic lights, and the car draws up alongside Redknapp. Pull over, says the driver, I want to have a word with you. They stop at the next lay-by. As the man gets out and starts walking in his direction, Redknapp winds down his window.

How much do you want for your number plate? asks the stranger.

What? stammers Redknapp.

Yeah, how much? Its my initials.

Harry sold his number plate to him for about three hundred quid, recalls Kenny Allen, Bournemouths goalkeeper at the time. It could only happen to Harry. He obviously didnt have the wealth then that hes got now. That was him, always had an eye for a bargain. Now he does it with players, and turns them into decent players.

Fast-forward to the last Sunday of October, 2008. Much has changed. Football is awash with unprecedented wealth and Redknapp, his Third Division days long since consigned to sepia, has established a reputation as one of the finest English managers of his generation. He is not the only one whose circumstances have changed. Ten weeks into the new season, Tottenham a club that finished the 1982/83 campaign fourth in the old First Division are bottom of the table with two points from eight games. Only two sides have ever retained their Premier League status from a similar position. Crucially for Spurs, however, one thing remains unaltered: Redknapps relationship with the unexpected. The day before, he had been the manager of Portsmouth. Now, after a whirlwind sequence of events and with a league game against Bolton minutes from kick-off he is about to be presented to White Hart Lane as the successor to Juande Ramos, the Spaniard given his marching orders late the previous evening. At 5 million, the sum Tottenham have paid Portsmouth in compensation for his services, Redknapp has become overnight Britains most expensive manager.

Driving one minute, dealing the next; Portsmouth manager on Saturday, in charge at Tottenham come Sunday. Such are the natural rhythms of life for one of footballs most whimsical characters. And to think that for the best part of two decades Redknapp took charge of just two clubs, Bournemouth and West Ham.

Suit-and-tie dapper, Redknapp emerges from the tunnel to the inquisitive glare of a battery of flash-bulbs and the sonorous roar of a capacity crowd. Briefly, he stands by the touchline, arms raised, returning the warm applause of the crowd. If this was politics or showbiz, you would swear the scene had been choreographed. Yet Redknapps demeanour the head-bowed entrance, the awkward half-smile hints at anxiety. Within twenty seconds, he turns on his heel and disappears into the bowels of the West Stand.

I didnt sleep much, Redknapp would reveal afterwards, I was very nervous. No wonder. Only twenty-four hours earlier, he had been overseeing training at the Wellington Ground in Eastleigh, preparing Portsmouth for a visit from Fulham. Thereafter events had moved with such speed that uncertainty swirled even within his own, famously tight-knit family. We didnt know anything about it, Mark Redknapp, the older of Harrys two sons, told friends. He just came home on Saturday and told mum he was off. Hes always fancied a go at one of the big clubs; all of a sudden it was bang, Im off to Spurs. You know what dads like.

Of course they knew. It could only happen to Harry.

The surreal nature of the weekend is underlined by events on the pitch. Within seventeen minutes, a Tottenham side previously brittle of confidence and blunt of edge has taken the lead against Bolton through Roman Pavlyuchenko. That in itself is remarkable. Having failed to score in the Premier League following his summer arrival from Spartak Moscow, the Russian had been branded an expensive flop. Now, skilfully fed by David Bentley another costly but hitherto anonymous newcomer he is belatedly displaying the predatory instincts befitting of a 13.8 million striker. The biggest revelation is Luka Modric, the little Croatian who, revelling in the freedom afforded by Redknapps decision to play him in a more advanced role, suddenly looks like a player with magic in his boots rather than concrete.

That is more than can be said for the Spurs goalkeeper, Heurelho Gomes. More than any other player, Gomes has epitomised Tottenhams season-long travails. Today is no exception; colliding with Ledley King, flapping at corners and clearing ineffectually, Gomes looks about as reliable as an MPs expenses form. No matter. Bolton fail to capitalise on the Brazilians blundering, and when Gavin McCann is dismissed shortly after the interval, you begin to sense that it will be Tottenhams day. So it proves, Darren Bent winning and converting a penalty within minutes of replacing Pavlyuchenko. Spurs have their first victory of the campaign; Redknapp has achieved within hours what Ramos could not in over two months.