Always Managing: My Autobiography (15 page)

It was at this point that John Kirk announced that all our footwear had long studs, not rubbers. ‘I’ve been telling them about this for weeks, Harry,’ he said. ‘They don’t listen to me.’ I went out for the warm-up and Lincoln were there, wearing boots with little pimples on the soles, running, checking, turning, knocking it about like Brazil. Our centre-half took two steps on to the pitch and went arse over tit. The next two followed him. We walked out like Bambi on ice. It would have been funny had I not known what was going to happen next. Stone me, were we in trouble that day. At 8–0 down we got a corner. John Kirk, who had barely said a world all game, suddenly sprung into life. He was on his feet and charging over to the touchline, screaming to the players, ‘Get up, get up!’ ‘Get up?’ I echoed. ‘What are we going to do, win nine fucking eight? Get back, get back!’ With about 25 minutes to go they scored the ninth and it could have been anything by the end. Luckily, they did not push for double figures and we hung on until the whistle. I thought my world was at an end. I was really looking forward to my first shot as a manager. I had been doing all the coaching under Dave and it was going well. The players had responded to me, but there was nothing I could do that day. We drew the following game, at home to Reading, 1–1, but we didn’t even have the boots as an excuse in our next match, away at Leyton Orient. We lost that one 5–0. I just felt embarrassed by then. What a start – no wins in three and 14–0 down on aggregate in two away games. I hung in there, though I knew the club was looking for another manager.

But, slowly, it started to turn around. We beat Brentford 4–3, we won 3–0 against Millwall, we got a draw at Sheffield United, and then beat Oxford United who were challenging for promotion. We played Gillingham away on 5 March and won 5–2. Before we left their ground, Alec Stock, the old Fulham manager who was by then a director at Bournemouth, got on the team bus. ‘Well done, Harry, well done,’ he exclaimed in his posh accent. ‘I’ve been over at the training ground, I’ve watched you working, I like what you are doing. There is a board meeting on Monday and we’ll be discussing your situation. You’ve done really well and they are going to make you the manager, full-time. Over the weekend, write down what you are looking for: a bit of petrol money, some of your telephone bill paid, we’ll find you a little club car, a runabout, I’m sure.’ I went into work that Monday feeling very happy with life. I sat in my office, waiting for the knock on the door from the chairman. Sure enough, it came. ‘Harry, you’ve done really well,’ he said, ‘but I’m sorry, I’ve just sold the club and they want to bring in their own manager. I couldn’t guarantee your position, I’m afraid.’

I sat there, stunned. Two minutes later, another knock and in walked Brian Tiler, the former captain of Aston Villa. I’d met him a few times in America, where he played for the Portland Timbers, and now he was at Bournemouth as a representative of Anton Johnson, the new owner. ‘Anton wants to appoint his own manager,’ he explained, ‘but we want to keep you.’ I wasn’t sure. ‘We’re serious,’ said Brian. ‘We want you here. We see you as a big part of this club.’ I didn’t really have much option other than to stay and see how it panned out.

Don Megson was Anton’s appointment and, frankly, he was a disaster. The results were not good and they quickly fell out. Now
I liked Don as a bloke, but the writing was on the wall at the end of the 1982–83 season when we went on a brief break to Portugal. We were talking about a transfer target, a boy at Rochdale, who I described as a winger. ‘He’s not a winger,’ said Don, ‘he’s a striker.’ This went back and forth, until Anton intervened. ‘Don, he’s definitely a winger,’ he said. ‘How do you know, Anton?’ asked Don. ‘Because Harry says he’s a winger and he knows ten times more about fucking football than you,’ Anton replied. When results did not go well at the start of the 1983–84 season, it was only a matter of time before Don left.

I was in a stronger position by then. Jimmy Melia kept ringing me up to ask me to go to Brighton and Hove Albion, and Anton knew he had made a mistake not giving me the job in the first place. At first, when he asked me to be the manager, Don volunteered to work as my assistant. I wasn’t having that. You couldn’t have players wondering which of the two of us was in charge. ‘That isn’t going to work, Don,’ I told him. ‘You can’t go from being a manager to being assistant.’ I was determined to be my own boss, with no interference.

What a great year that turned out to be for Bournemouth. We won the Associate Members Cup, the inaugural competition for lower-tier clubs, now called the Johnstone’s Paint Trophy. It may not sound much, but for Bournemouth it was a huge deal. We played Hull City in the final and my only regret is that the Bournemouth lads did not get to play at Wembley. The Horse of the Year Show had destroyed the turf, so, after beating Millwall in the semi-final, we went into a draw for home advantage in the final, and Hull won. They were a strong team and had finished level on points and goal difference with third-placed Sheffield
United that season, but had missed out on promotion to Division Two on goals scored. Colin Appleton was the manager and he had Billy Whitehurst as a striker and Steve McClaren buzzing about in midfield. We went 1–0 down but won 2–1, and had a big party on the coach all the way down. Anton had sold the club by then, and it was back in the hands of Bournemouth people. The next season we knocked Manchester United out of the FA Cup.

I’d like to say there was some wonderful secret plan that day, some masterstroke of tactical imagination – but it was sheer hard work, nothing more. We weren’t lucky, don’t get me wrong. The best team won. There were no issues with the pitch or bringing United down to our level. We raised our game, inspired by the occasion, and played better than we had done all season, and maybe United took us a little lightly. We certainly weren’t in any trouble. Once we got in front, there was never a moment when I thought we would lose it.

It wasn’t an upset you could really see coming. We had played Walsall in the first round, and won comfortably, 4–0, but Windsor and Eton, a non-league side, had really given us a scare in round two. We drew the first match 0–0 at their place, hanging on for our lives in ankle-deep mud, and only went through in a replay. By then we knew Manchester United were waiting for us if we won, and it was definitely an incentive. In the end, we beat Windsor in the replay by the same margin, 2–0, that we beat Manchester United – and I still say the non-league lot gave us more of a game. We had a team that hadn’t cost a penny, really, and they came down with all of their big stars: Norman Whiteside and Frank Stapleton, managed by Ron Atkinson. They were the FA Cup holders, too.

I could tell my players were nervous the day before, so that night I took them all out to an Italian restaurant in town. The chap that ran it promised our goalkeeper, Ian Leigh, free pizza for life if he kept a clean sheet.

We were a middle-of-the-road team, nothing more, but we didn’t play like it that day. The crowd got behind us and we never stopped working and closing them down. We ran and ran, fought for every ball, never let them play – it was a typical underdog victory in that way. More perspiration than inspiration. Milton Graham and Ian Thompson scored and, out of the blue, we won. Unfortunately, ‘Nipper’ Leigh never got his lifetime of pizza. A few years later that Italian restaurant changed hands and the new owner refused to honour the existing arrangement. The name of that miserable, skinflint proprietor? Harry Redknapp.

Three seasons later we won promotion to Division Two – the highest up the league that Bournemouth had been. Putting that side together probably made my reputation as a manager who knows his way around the transfer market. They were great times. Some of my best signings were at Bournemouth – even if I had to pull the odd stroke on the way.

Colin Clarke was my first big transfer there. He was available from Tranmere Rovers for £20,000. The only problem was that Bournemouth did not have £20,000, according to our chairman. So I hit on a plan. I spoke to three friends, who were all vice-presidents of the club, and persuaded them to put in £5,000 each. I would put in the remaining £5,000. ‘When we sell him,’ I told the chairman, ‘we split the profits. In the meantime, the club gets the benefit.’ He eyed me suspiciously. ‘You sound very keen to buy this player; he must be good,’ he said. And, hey presto, the
£20,000 was found. I was right about Clarke, though. He played 38 times for Northern Ireland and later had two cracking seasons with Southampton in the First Division. And he was the straightest boy I’ve ever met – as I discovered on the day he signed.

Colin came down from Merseyside to do the deal and we put his wife up in a little guest house around the corner to the ground, while we talked business. I was sitting drinking tea waiting for his contract to be formally prepared when the phone rang. It was Colin’s wife to say that Chelsea had been on and their manager, John Neal, wanted to buy him.

I could only hear Colin’s end of the conversation but I knew it was bad news for Bournemouth. When he told me what had happened, I thought the deal was over, particularly when he added that he was a Chelsea supporter and the club were sending down a car down to collect him. I could have strangled our secretary. He had been messing around with the contract all afternoon and because of that we were going to lose the player. But what could I do but accept it? ‘Colin, I understand,’ I told him. ‘Chelsea are in Division One, we’re in Division Three, I know there is nothing I can do or say. You’ve got the chance to go and play in the best league, I don’t blame you for taking it.’

He kept repeating that he was a Chelsea fan, which made it difficult when, out of nowhere, he changed his tune. ‘No,’ said Colin, suddenly and very definitely. ‘I shook hands with you two hours ago on this deal, and if we’ve shaken hands, that’s enough. I gave you my word and to go back on that wouldn’t be fair.’

I was so surprised I nearly let him slip away again. ‘Are you sure, Colin?’ I asked.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘My handshake is my word. As long as if in a year or two if I do well and a big club comes in for me, you’ll help me move.’

‘Colin,’ I promised, ‘that won’t be a problem. I cannot believe what you’ve done.’

We had Colin for one season. He played every game, scored 26 goals, we won promotion and sold him to Southampton for £500,000. What a boy. That just wouldn’t happen these days. There would be an agent and the whole deal would go through an owner or the chief executive without that personal touch. The idea of a player like Colin sitting in the manager’s office on his own would seem strange to most modern chief executives or chairmen. I cannot remember the last transfer deal that did not involve an agent, and these days they don’t want to know the managers anyway. We don’t do the deals any more. We come and go and a lot of the time have no say in buying policy. The CEOs and the chairmen are the friends of the agents these days; they are the ones getting wined and dined.

Jimmy Case, the Liverpool and England midfield player, was another old-school transfer, although this one took place many years later at the start of my last season with Bournemouth, 1991–92. I was sitting at home watching the local news on television when it said Jimmy had been released by Southampton, despite playing almost every match of the 1990–91 season in Division One and being selected for a representative Football League XI. Ian Branfoot, the new Southampton manager, did not want to renew his contract. I was straight on to it. I knew Jimmy only lived twenty minutes up the road; I phoned him up immediately. ‘Jimmy, I’ve
just seen the news, can I have a chat with you? How about a cup of tea? Where can we meet? Is now a good time?’

We got together at a service station on the M27. No agent, just Jimmy. He said he was interested.

‘Jim, you’ve only been released half an hour ago,’ I told him. ‘You probably want to have a hunt around as well, yes?’

‘No, that’s fine,’ he said, ‘I’d like to come and play for you.’

We hadn’t even talked money. ‘What are you looking for,’ I asked, nervously.

‘Make me your best offer,’ said Jimmy.

Now, I couldn’t sugar-coat it any longer. ‘I’ll be honest, Jim, we’re struggling,’ I said. ‘It’s Bournemouth. We’ve never had a lot of dough. I can stretch to £300 per week.’

‘Fine,’ he said. And we shook hands. ‘If someone comes in and offers me a grand now, Harry, the answer is no. I’ve given you my word, so don’t worry.’

I could still hear alarm bells. ‘Tell you what, Jim,’ I said. ‘Let’s go back to the ground and get that contract done.’

‘Don’t sweat,’ he assured me. ‘We can do it in the morning.’ He could obviously see the look on my face because he kept repeating, ‘Harry, I’m signing for Bournemouth.’

And he was a man of his word. The next day, his phone was ringing off the hook, but he came in and put his name on a piece of paper with us.

If only they were all like Jim. One of the reasons I am still so insistent on the need to move fast for a transfer target is that, in the early days, as my reputation for spotting a bargain grew, so did the chances that other clubs would profit from my hard work. Each week there were the nightly slogs up and down the motorway that
made losing a player particularly frustrating. One of the minuses of managing, and living, on the south coast is that unless a fixture involves one of a handful of local clubs, scouting usually demands a good two or three hours in the car – and then back. It is a little galling to later see the object of those visits spirited away by another manager. Ian Woan was a perfect example.

I went to watch him twice in the bitter cold at Runcorn with Stuart Morgan, my chief scout at Bournemouth. A long old journey, but what a player. Great left foot, great ability, played on the wing. We had the deal done at £40,000. Met his dad – nice guy, used to be a professional at Aldershot but had since qualified as a quantity surveyor. It was all arranged for him to come to Bournemouth and sign. The night before, his dad called. ‘I can’t get down tomorrow,’ he said, ‘we’ll come down later in the week.’ I was a tactful as I could be in the circumstances. ‘Well, we don’t really want you, Mr Woan,’ I said. ‘It’s Ian we need. You don’t have to be there at all.’ But he sounded a decent guy. He said it had always been his ambition for his son to be a professional footballer and he wanted to be there when it happened. I had no reason to disbelieve him – or to think this small delay would cost us such a talent.