Harry Redknapp - Harry Redknapp

Contents

About the Book

From kicking a ball as a kid under the street lamps of Poplar and standing on Highburys North Bank with my dad, to my first game at West Ham, I was born head over heels in love with football. It saved me, and 50 years on that hasnt changed one bit Id be lost without it...

Harry is the manager who has seen it all from a dismal 70s Portakabin at Oxford City and training pitches with trees in the middle to the unbeatable highs of the Premiership, lifting the FA Cup and taking on Real Madrid in the Champions League. With his much loved, no-nonsense delivery, Harry brings us a story filled with passion and humour that takes you right inside every drama of his career.

Harry finally tells the full story of all the controversial ups and downs the pain and heartache of his court case, the England job, his love for Bobby Moore, his adventures at Portsmouth with Milan Mandaric, the Southampton debacle, Tottenham and West Ham or the challenges at his current club QPR.

Its the epic journey of one of the great managers and, along the way, the story of the British game itself over the last five decades. In an era now dominated by foreign coaches Harry is the last of an old-fashioned breed of English football man one who has managed to move with the times and always come out fighting.

About the Author

Harry Redknapp was born in 1947 in Poplar, East London. After starting out as a trainee at Tottenham, he signed for West Ham and played for them between 1965 and 1972. He also played for Bournemouth and the Seattle Sounders before injury took him into management and coaching. He has managed at Bournemouth, West Ham, Portsmouth (twice), Southampton, Tottenham Hotspur and currently QPR. He won the FA Cup with Portsmouth in 2008 and took Spurs into the Champions League in 2010. He is married to Sandra and has two sons, Mark and Jamie (who played for Liverpool, Tottenham and England). He is also uncle to Frank Lampard. He has two bulldogs called Rosie and Buster.

For Sandra,
while Ive been managing all these years,
shes the one whos managed me.

CHAPTER ONE

A feeling of sheer relief. But not like I had ever experienced before. Not the relief of the final whistle on a Saturday afternoon, holding on for three points at Old Trafford. Not the relief of a big Cup win, a title won, or of staying up against the odds. Footballs highs and lows were suddenly insignificant. This was a completely different strength of emotion, one I had not felt in all my professional career. I can see her now, the foreman of the jury. Slim girl, nice-looking. Used to come in every day with a newspaper under her arm. I think it was the Times . Not guilty, she said, to each charge, very quietly. And this feeling of release swept over me.

The trial lasted fifteen days, but the ordeal overtook five years of my life. That is a lot of thinking time. Many long hours to consider your days as they might be spent. Without Sandra, the love of my life, without my sons Jamie and Mark, without my grandchildren, without my friends, without football. Shut up in prison with who? Some maniac? I didnt know. Each day in court, Id look at the twelve people that held my future in their hands. There was a chap wearing a bright white jacket in the middle of January. Another had clothes that were covered in stains. These were the people that would decide my fate? They would never smile; they showed no friendliness at all. Just a blank. What were they thinking? Why did a cheap jacket or a coffee stain even matter to me? Why were the details so important? Some strange thoughts went through my head. What if they were all Arsenal fans? What if they all hated Tottenham Hotspur? You know what some people are like. Harry Redknapp? Dont like him, never liked him. Suppose I got one like that. Each night sleepless, fighting with the pillow. Each morning exhausted, waiting for the taxi to Southwark Crown Court.

The night before the verdict I didnt say goodbye to anybody. No last farewells, just in case it was bad news. My barrister, John Kelsey-Fry QC, always tried to give me confidence. He said the case against me wouldnt stand, that it was outrageous that it had even been brought. But I pushed him to tell me the dark side, the downside. Wouldnt you have done the same, in my position? But Kelsey, I said, if it doesnt go right, if they find me guilty, what am I looking at? I had heard people speculating I might only receive a fine, but he pulled no punches. You wont be found guilty, he said. It isnt going to happen. But if it did, it could be two to three years in prison. Suddenly, I felt very frightened. That was a long sentence, a proper villains sentence. And his words hung over me, every day, as I prepared for court. I kept telling myself that Kelsey, the cleverest man I had ever met, the best in the business I had been told, was convinced I would be all right. This is his job, I would reassure myself. He must know what hes talking about. And then my mind would come back to the image of that cell, and my cellmate for two, maybe three, years. How was I going to live? I wasnt sure I could handle it. I knew Sandra couldnt.

I dont think I could have lasted the court case itself without my sons. Jamie came to court with me every day, never left my side, and Mark stayed with Sandra. There was no way I was letting her come to my trial. Being in court would have killed her. It nearly killed me. I simply could not face the thought of her sitting there as well, going through all those emotions, stomach churning in turmoil along with mine.

Life itself was hard enough. I tried to carry on as Tottenham manager, going to our Premier League matches during the case and on one occasion thought it might even be a good distraction to watch our youth team. But those games are smaller, more low key. I couldnt fade into the background, and as I was walking to the stadium I could sense people looking, staring at me. I became convinced they were all talking about me. What were they saying? It was a horrible feeling. I know Sandra found it difficult just going to the shops where she always went. She thought people were gaping, and whispering, too. It felt degrading. Just getting the shopping became a nightmare. Everyone knew where we lived, too, because theyd seen the front of our house on the television news.

One day we went to the supermarket in Bournemouth together and Sandra left her purse at the checkout. I said I would pop back and collect it, but I didnt know the lay-out very well. I saw this door marked Exit and went through it, without realising it was only for use in emergencies. The next think I knew, these huge security guards had my arms up my back, frog-marching me through the underground car park. I was in agony. They were shouting at me, I was shouting back at them shouting with the pain, too. Im not a thief, Im the fucking manager of Tottenham, I told them. At that point, four workmen who were digging up the tarmac spotted me. They all began shouting, too. Its Harry Redknapp! All right, Harry? You OK? See? I told the guards. They know who I fucking am! In the end, we got it resolved, but it only added to fear that I was a marked man. With my name in the papers every week and linked to God knows what, I can imagine what people must have thought when they saw me being led away.

So the idea of having Sandra in that courtroom? I just couldnt. It would have slaughtered me, and slaughtered her, too. I think I would have looked over and cried every time our eyes met and she would have done the same. I decided I couldnt have her anywhere near it. She would be better off out of the way. Her friends were great, Mark was great, the daughter-in-laws were great. They all rallied round and looked after her and she was fine. But the night before the verdict, there was no way I was going to phone up and offer any long goodbyes.