Always Managing: My Autobiography (22 page)

Ronnie was a nice man, but if you showed him Lionel Messi, he wouldn’t be able to make his mind up on whether to sign him or not. You rarely got a hard, firm opinion from him, and that’s no use in a scout. This may seem harsh, but there is a great temptation in football to keep people on for old time’s sake. When I brought Jimmy Hampson in, full-time, it was hard replacing Jimmy Neighbour: I had known him for a long time, took him to America, brought him to Bournemouth on loan. But we preferred Jimmy Hampson and, of course, before long, we had six young players in the England team. Much of that was down to Jimmy Hampson, the man who changed the club. I’ve heard all sorts of people getting credit for producing West Ham’s golden generation, but the club hadn’t produced a player for ten years before this batch came along. Tony Carr nets a lot of the glory,
but he didn’t suddenly unearth some genius method of finding footballers. All that altered was Jimmy Hampson started bringing us some of the best kids in London. And one, in particular, that I will never forget.

I first saw Joe Cole when he was 12. It didn’t take much to make him a player. The daftest bloke in the world could have spotted Joe was a star in the making. I remember standing there with Frank, Alan Sealey and Peter Brabrook, and none of us had seen a kid like it in our lives. It must have been like watching Messi for the first time at that age. We were playing Norwich City’s under-13 team. It was a 2 p.m. game, middle of winter and ankle-deep in mud at Chadwell Heath. After ten minutes we were all looking at each other. ‘Who is this kid?’ He was playing a year up from his age, the smallest on the pitch, all these big lads from Norfolk towering over him and he was getting the ball, spinning, beating three or four of them – and goal. Then he’d do it again – and goal. Don’t get too excited, I was told. One of our staff had walked in behind Joe’s dad, George, and had overheard a conversation. George was wearing bright red shoes, so he stood out a mile, and had been telling his mates on the way in that there was no way Joe was coming to West Ham. But he was the best player for his age that I have ever seen, and Jimmy grafted every day with George to make sure Joe kept coming back to our club. I would travel to Chadwell Heath to watch under-13 games just to keep in contact, too. We played Arsenal, won 3–1, Joe scored a hat-trick. We played Tottenham, it didn’t matter who they had, Joe murdered them.

By now, every club knew about him. Sir Alex Ferguson sent him a Manchester United kit with COLE 10 written on the back. ‘This is what your shirt will look like when you play for Manchester
United,’ read the message. Alex was desperate to get him. He even invited him to travel on the team bus when United got to an FA Cup final. Arsenal were into him, Chelsea were into him, but I knew Joe was happiest playing for West Ham. So I gave him some space. When George said Joe had been invited up to train for two weeks with Manchester United, I let him go. I could have got annoyed, said that he had signed schoolboy forms with us and threatened to report United, but what good would that have done? It would just have antagonised George and we’d have lost the player. ‘Great, George,’ I told him. ‘Let Joe go, let him have a look around, but never forget, we’d love him here. He’s going to be in the first team in no time, you know. But Manchester United? What a great experience. Tell him to enjoy himself.’ So we’d lose Joe for two weeks, but he wouldn’t have as much fun as he did at West Ham where he knew everybody and got on with all the boys, so he’d come back more in love with our place than ever.

One Friday morning, we were preparing to play Everton away and Joe came over and trained with the first team. We ended up playing nine-a-side, his team won 4–2 and Joe scored three. He was still in our under-15 team and I can remember David Unsworth asking if he could play the next day. He was deadly serious. That is how good he was.

I tried to get Joe back at Queens Park Rangers, but he chose to return to West Ham. Looking at our league position at the time, and the pull to return to his former club, I could understand his decision. I wouldn’t hold a grudge against Joe at all. He has always been a lovely lad. When Peter Brabrook needed a knee operation a few years back, Joe paid for it, because he remembered all the years Peter spent coaching him as teenager. That’s class.

Meanwhile, at the same time, Rio Ferdinand was coming through our academy courtesy of Jimmy. He had arranged a game against a district team from south London at Chadwell Heath. They had some good boys and Frank and I started chatting up the chap who ran the team, Dave Goodwin. We said that if he ever saw one that he thought would benefit West Ham, we would reward him for the information. Every club has a whole roster of youth scouts that are paid for a good tip on a boy. It wasn’t long before Dave phoned to tell us about one who had just attended his trials. ‘He’s different class, fantastic, the best I’ve seen in years,’ he said, ‘and he’s only just started playing football.’ That was Rio. He came over and, clearly, Dave was spot on. Rio was a natural.

Later that season, 1994–95, we played Chelsea in the South-East Counties Cup final. The first leg was at home in front of a good crowd, nearly 10,000, but we lost 4–2. The return was at Stamford Bridge and clashed with a first-team game. At the end of the match, the first call I got was from my dad. He had been over to Chelsea to watch the youth team and he was raving. ‘What a game,’ he said. ‘It was fantastic – you won!’ I couldn’t believe it. We had turned the tie around and smashed Chelsea by four or five. ‘I’ve seen a kid playing for you tonight,’ Dad continued, ‘he’s the best I’ve seen for years. A midfielder – what a player.’

I thought he meant Frank Lampard.

‘No,’ he said. ‘His name is Ferdinand.’

I didn’t believe him. ‘Rio Ferdinand, Dad?’ I quizzed. ‘It can’t be him. He’s not a youth player yet, he’s a schoolboy.’

‘Rio Ferdinand – that was it,’ the old man said. ‘I’ve seen nothing like it. He kept picking the ball up, running fifty yards, drifting by people, they couldn’t get near him. What a player.’

Next on the telephone was Tony Carr. ‘We played fantastic,’ he said. ‘And Rio Ferdinand was unbelievable. You’ve got to watch him again, Harry. I’ve never seen one like him.’

From there, we knew we had to get Rio on the fast track – and keep him at West Ham. Frank Senior was brilliant with that. Rio didn’t really have a football background and when Millwall came in for him, because he was a Peckham boy and it was close to home, he couldn’t make his mind up. Frank spent ages around his house, talking to Rio, talking to his mum, explaining the difference between the clubs. Dave Goodwin was grafting for us as well, to be fair, and in the end between the three of us we persuaded him to sign. The next step was to get him out on loan, so I recommended him to Mel Machin, who was then the manager of Bournemouth. He hadn’t seen him play but he took my word and he went straight into the first team after a few training sessions. And that’s how we nearly lost him.

Not long after the loan began, Mel came on the phone to tell me he had just received a call from Martin Edwards, the chairman of Manchester United, wanting to buy Rio. ‘He thought he was our player, Harry,’ said Mel. ‘I told him to speak to you.’

Someone had clearly seen Rio in action and alerted Martin. I thought it was strange that he was conducting the business, not Alex Ferguson. Even so, I waited for his call. About half an hour later, it came. ‘I’ve been speaking to Mel Machin about the boy Ferdinand,’ Martin said. ‘He’s a bit of a player, isn’t he?’

‘He’s fantastic, Mr Edwards. He’ll be the best defender in Europe one day.’

‘That’s some statement, Harry,’ Martin replied. ‘How much is he?’

I told him Rio wasn’t for sale.

‘He must have a price,’ he insisted.

‘Not this boy,’ I said. ‘No price.’

‘Would you take £1 million, or good money adding up to it?’ he asked.

‘Mr Edwards, you could not buy this boy, he’s that good,’ I told him.

Eventually, he backed off. It eventually cost Manchester United £30 million to buy Rio from Leeds United in 2002. And he was still worth every penny.

Michael Carrick also ended up having a fantastic career at Manchester United, and he was another of Jimmy Hampson’s discoveries. Jimmy got him down from the north-east and he was a prospect, but a late developer. I suppose that was lucky for us, because if he had shown his true potential at a young age Newcastle United would have snapped him up. But Michael was one of those kids who had a sudden growth spurt. He went from 5 feet 2 inches to 6 feet 2 inches in about six months, went from being a kid to a man, and it gave him a disorder called Osgood–Schlatter disease, which is common in sporty adolescents whose bodies struggle to adapt to their rapid growth. Michael was stick thin and certainly no schoolboy superstar – if he had a bad game he could look like Bambi on ice – but you always knew that if he got stronger and moved around the pitch a bit quicker, there was a lovely footballer trying to get free. Eventually, we started seeing that side of him, and I loaned him out to Swindon Town for experience. It definitely worked because soon after John Francome, the former National Hunt jockey, was on the phone: ‘Harry, I saw a player at Swindon last night, he’s the best since Glenn Hoddle,’ he said. ‘Your boy
Carrick. I’ve never seen anyone pass a ball like he did. He was fantastic.’ And John wasn’t a bad judge, of horses or footballers, because, from there, Michael never looked back.

Around that time it seemed every week Jimmy would come in with a new player. Using his south London connections, he managed to smuggle Jermain Defoe away from Charlton. We had to pay compensation and they were furious, but it was worth it. We could see he was scoring goals every week in the South-East Counties League. When Sean O’Driscoll of Bournemouth came on, desperate for a striker, it seemed a perfect fit. ‘I’ll let you have Jermain Defoe on loan,’ I said. ‘He’s a terrific player and he needs the experience.’

‘How old is he,’ asked Sean. I told him 17. ‘That’s no use,’ he said. ‘We can’t score goals, Harry, and you know what this league is like. Kids are no good for me. I need a man.’

Loans were also limited in the lower divisions and I could tell Sean didn’t fancy making a commitment. ‘Trust me, Sean, he’ll be great for you,’ I insisted. ‘He’s different class.’

‘Is he a big ’un?’ he asked.

‘No, he’s a little titch,’ I replied, and I could almost hear the sigh down the telephone line. ‘Sean, I’ll tell you what I’ll do: take him for a week,’ I said. ‘We won’t make it a loan. Just take him and let him train and if at the end of that you don’t want him then you haven’t used your loan up. But you’ll see that I’m right.’

It took Jermain one training session to make his mark. First day, I got another call from Sean. ‘We had a practice match today and he scored five goals,’ he said. ‘My God, Harry, he’s the best we’ve had down here.’ Jermain was a phenomenon at Bournemouth. He scored five goals in four games for them, didn’t score in a match
against Dover Athletic, and then scored eight in seven. Between 28 October 2000 and 23 January 2001, he scored in every League and FA Cup game he played.

I’ve taken Jermain with me since to Portsmouth and Tottenham. His mum isn’t exactly his agent, but she exerts a strong influence. When we did the deal at Portsmouth, I left the room while the contract was being negotiated. Peter Storrie was in there and Milan Mandaric, Jermain and his mum. I was having a cup of tea next door when Peter burst in. ‘You’d better come through,’ he said. ‘We’ve got a problem.’ It turns out Jermain’s mum was insisting on a goal bonus. That’s right, for a striker. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I thought it was a joke. ‘Mrs Defoe,’ I said. ‘Jermain is costing us £12 million and he will be earning £50,000 a week. What do you think we’re paying him for? To effin’ miss ’em?’

‘I thought it would encourage him to score,’ she said.

‘We were rather hoping the fifty grand would do that,’ I replied. Anyway, Jermain signed his contract – without his goal bonus.

And then there was the player who arguably became the pick of the bunch. Frank. Junior, not Senior. His attitude was amazing, the best I have seen from any young player. But I know his secret: parental influence. The only professional I have known who came close to his commitment was his dad. Like father like son is genuinely true in this case. If anyone ever marvelled at Frank Junior’s dedication, I simply told them what I knew about Frank Senior. In my playing days at West Ham he was the best trainer at the club, and he made a career from the game when others would have just given up.

I remember Frank as a 17-year-old left-back with the pace of a three-legged carthorse. He was a lovely footballer, but he couldn’t
run. We all knew it. One day Ron Greenwood walked into the dressing room and told Frank in front of everybody that he had fixed him up with a loan to Torquay United. There were a few ex-West Ham people down there at the time: Frank O’Farrell was the manager and he had taken John Bond and Ken Brown, with Malcolm Musgrove as his assistant. ‘They will have you on loan,’ Ron said, ‘and if you do well, they would like to keep you.’

Frank was adamant. ‘I don’t want to play for Torquay,’ he said. ‘I want to play for West Ham. What’s wrong with me? Why don’t you ever tell me? What do I have to do to play for West Ham?’

We were all looking at the floor, because young players – or old ones – just didn’t speak to Mr Greenwood like that. There was silence.

‘What do I need to work on?’ Frank said.

‘Your speed,’ said Ron. ‘You’re not quick enough, Frank. Work on your passing a bit, too, but it is your speed that is the problem.’

‘I’ll show you,’ Frank shot back. ‘I ain’t going to Torquay. I’ll play for West Ham and I’ll show you.’

Everyone thought he was mad. Speed was considered a natural attribute in those days. You were just born fast – or you weren’t. Nobody was going to get quicker simply by running. Yet Frank showed them, all right. He bought a pair of running spikes and came back every day after training – and I mean every day. As we were leaving, we would see Frank out on his own: run, jump, jockey, turn, jockey, jockey; run fifteen yards, turn, come back; run to a ball, turn and jockey. He would be out there for hours, working on these short sprints. And gradually, he got quicker.