Always Managing: My Autobiography (16 page)

‘We’ll be there Friday morning,’ he promised. ‘I’ve got the day off, we’ll be there, for sure.’ I don’t think he was pulling a fast one, he wasn’t angling for more money or a longer contract. In fact, I don’t think even he could have known what would happen next. It was Alan Hill, Brian Clough’s assistant at Nottingham Forest, who told me the rest. The news of the prospective transfer made it to the local papers and, from there, to the news service Teletext. Clough was sitting in his office reading through the transfer gossip. He saw the story about Bournemouth and Woan. ‘That Redknapp
does well with non-league players,’ he announced. ‘Who is this fella Woan?’ Forest didn’t know him, didn’t have any reports, but Ronnie Fenton, another of Clough’s backroom staff, was a pal of the manager of Runcorn. He made the call. ‘Is Woan any good?’ he asked. ‘He’s too good for bloody Bournemouth,’ came the reply. And that was the end of our deal. Forest doubled our offer, paid £80,000, and his dad phoned me at 11.30 p.m. on Thursday night. ‘You won’t believe this, Harry, but Nottingham Forest have come in.’ We lost a good lad that day, with a great attitude, too. He played ten years at Forest.

One of my most important signings was John Williams, a big centre-half who I got for £30,000 from John Rudge at Port Vale. He helped us win the Third Division title in 1986–87, one of three promotions he won with as many different clubs. John was different class. We only lost two games after Christmas that season, and for one of them he was suspended. He was a bit of a lad, John, but I loved him. What a competitor – if I made a list of my best signings, he would be on it. When he retired he came back to Bournemouth as coach and was caretaker manager for a short while. He still works in the local media.

Sometimes new players came from the strangest sources. As well as Bournemouth, I was coaching an under-10 team that Jamie played for, Mudeford Boys Club. Jamie was only about seven, but he was good enough to go up against the older boys. Our secret weapon was that our goalkeeper was a complete ringer. He was actually 14 but was quite small for his age and could pass for ten. He was a cracking keeper, too, when needed, which wasn’t often because the rest of our team was quite useful. Then one day I looked over and he’d got bored and lit up a fag while leaning on
the goalpost. So that was the end of our cunning plan. It was a bit hard to pass him off as ten after shouting at him to put the fag out. Anyway, one Sunday another manager from our boys’ league rang up and said one of the older teams at his club had a lad who was outstanding. He thought I might like to give him a trial for Bournemouth. ‘He was at Portsmouth, but they let him go,’ the chap said. ‘He’s too good for Sunday morning; can he come training with you?’

I was reluctant at first. ‘If I let him in, I’ll have everyone asking,’ I said.

‘Well, he’s old enough to work, but he isn’t working,’ the chap continued. He made it sound a matter of some urgency that this lad got a trial.

I decided to take a chance. ‘What’s his name?’ I asked.

‘Steve Claridge,’ I was told.

‘Well, if he’s doing nothing, tell him to come tomorrow morning,’ I said.

Within half an hour, I knew he was good enough to play professionally.

We ended the training session with a little competition, one on one in the penalty area. Steve won it. His last goal was bent into the top corner, an absolute beauty. ‘We’ve got to have him,’ I said. ‘What were Portsmouth thinking?’

He went on to have a super career, playing over a thousand games for clubs across the whole spectrum of league football, and Steve is now a respected media pundit – but back then he had a few strange habits. The penny soon dropped about why Portsmouth may have let him go. Boots, for instance, were an obsession with him. He thought certain pairs were lucky and would just pick them
up and wear them, whatever the size, whoever the owner. It was superstition, not stealing, but it made for some bizarre moments.

The first match he played for us was at York City. Someone had told him that glucose gave you energy, so he had six packets of glucose tablets and two Mars bars on the coach on the way there and ended up being sick. Next thing, during the warm-up, I noticed he was walking like an arthritic old man, as if he was in pain. It turned out he was wearing new boots, size six and a half, and Steve is size eight. I got hold of John Kirk. ‘Sort him out, John,’ I said. ‘He’s driving me mad.’ John came back and said that Steve didn’t want size-eight boots. The person in the shop had said these ones would give out. Fine if we were playing ankle deep in mud and water, they might let a little bit – but York’s pitch was rock hard. ‘Let him get on with it,’ said John. ‘He says he’ll be fine.’ The game was two minutes old when Steve came over to the touchline. ‘Have you got any bigger boots?’ he said. ‘These ones are killing me.’

It was all nerves with Steve. When he felt under pressure he would shave his head. I’d come into a team meeting and it would be like that Tommy Cooper routine where he plays two characters by turning sideways. On one side Steve’s hair would be normal, on the other it would be half-bald. He would claim his dad had given him a bad haircut. I hit on the idea of making Billy Rafferty his roommate on away trips, to try to calm him down. I’m still good friends with Billy; he’s a lovely, sensible lad and was a very decent centre-forward. One night in a room with Claridge, though, and he came down as white as a sheet. ‘Boss, it was like fucking
Psycho
,’ he said. ‘He kept going into the bathroom and every time he came out, he’d shaved more off his head. I haven’t slept a wink all night.’

But Steve was a good player for us – so much so that I bought him twice. I sold him to Weymouth Town and when they messed his contract up, I bought him back on a free. Then I sold him to Crystal Palace. He was a strange one, an oddball – but he ended up with a great career. And all from a tip from the manager of a Sunday boys’ team.

Brian Clough was right, though – I could spot a diamond in the non-league game back then. Maidstone United had a cracker called Mark Newson, who had been selected for the non-league representative team. I had been tracking him for a while and when Stuart Morgan rang and announced Mark was going to Tottenham Hotspur on trial I was choked. He was the best player in non-league by a mile. Stuart said Spurs had a match at their training ground the next Tuesday, Newson would be playing and he would find a way to watch. He phoned me immediately after. ‘Best player on the field by a mile,’ he confirmed. Tottenham had put four past Norwich City and he had played at centre-half and right-back.

‘We’ve got to get him,’ I said.

‘We’ve no chance,’ Stuart replied.

But that night I got the luckiest break. An old mate who had contacts down there called me. ‘Harry, I know you’re after Mark Newson,’ he said. ‘I wanted to tell you, Newson’s not under contract. He’s not registered. He’s a free transfer, Harry. Tottenham want him and I think they are ready to pay £200,000 for him, but he’s unsigned.’ I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. ‘I’ve got Mark’s number if you want it.’

He didn’t need to ask twice. Mark lived in the Isle of Dogs and he took a little persuading at first. ‘I’m at Tottenham at the
moment, Harry,’ he said. ‘I’m having a week there and things have gone well for me – I think they might sign me.’

‘Just come and meet me, Mark,’ I pleaded. ‘Get on the train, I’ll pay your fare and pick you up from the station.’

‘Well, we do have a day off tomorrow …’

I could tell he was wavering, so I went in for the kill. ‘Mark, you’re different class, but you’re not going to get a game at Tottenham, you know that. If you come to Bournemouth you’ll play every game. You’ll be a star for us. We’re putting a good team together.’

We agreed to meet and our conversation continued at an Italian restaurant. Every time Mark mentioned Tottenham, I had my answer ready: ‘They might take you, they might not take you, and even if they do, if you don’t make it you’ll be out on your arse and then what happens? You might not be able to get in anywhere else. You might end up on less than you earn at Maidstone.’

In the end, we offered £200 per week. ‘I want some time to think it over,’ said Mark.

‘No way,’ I insisted. ‘You are not leaving here until this gets done.’ Brian Tiler came up with an extra £20 and Mark seemed happy. Now the deal was finalised.

The next call was to league registrations to confirm what my source had said was true. Yes, it was confirmed, there was no contract between Mark Newson and Maidstone United. It only remained for me to tell genial Barry Fry, the Maidstone manager, the good news. Barry was his usual self. ‘How you going, Harry?’ he asked. ‘How have you been, son?’

‘I’m feeling great, Barry,’ I told him. ‘I’ve just signed Mark Newson.’

Barry didn’t want to believe what he had just heard. ‘You want to sign Mark Newson?’ he replied. ‘I’m afraid not, mate. It looks
like he’s going to Tottenham. We’re getting two-hundred grand plus another hundred in add-ons. I don’t think Bournemouth can match that.’

‘You misunderstand, Barry,’ I said. ‘I’ve signed him.’

There was a brief pause. ‘Have you been drinking, Harry? he asked.

‘No, you didn’t have him under contract, Barry, so he’s a Bournemouth player now,’ I explained.

Quickly, the gracious mood changed. Now Barry was shouting, ‘Don’t fuck with me, Harry. I’ll tell you what, I’m gonna send two geezers – there’ll be two blokes coming down to see you and shoot your fucking knee caps off, you—’

‘Unlucky, Barry,’ I said, as I put the phone down. ‘That’s the chance you take.’

Ten minutes later, the telephone rang again. Now it was Maidstone’s chairman, trying a more conciliatory approach. ‘I must apologise for the way Barry spoke to you there, threatening to have you shot and heaven knows what,’ he began. ‘We don’t work like that here. So let’s all be gentlemen about it. We’ve made a mistake, you’ve clearly been clever and capitalised on our mistake, so let’s come to an arrangement. Now we’re obviously not going to get what we would have been paid by Tottenham, but I’m sure we can find a fair way forward.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘there’s nothing to pay because he’s a free agent. We don’t need an arrangement with you.’

Then it was back to kneecaps. ‘You fucking bastard,’ he said. ‘I’ll come down there and do you, and your mate, Tiler.’ The phone went down. The following day, Brian and I were in the office when we saw a car pull up outside. Out got Barry, his
chairman, and another chap we didn’t recognise. We decided not to hang around and find out what they wanted. We dived out the back way, across the pitch, over the turnstiles and someone got a car to come around and drive us away. They didn’t bother coming back, luckily, and Mark was great for us. He captained the team when we won the league and I sold him to Fulham three years later for £100,000.

One of my favourite signings, and not just from my Bournemouth days, was a striker called Carl Richards. I took him from Enfield and he was a real one-off. He was a big lad, and looked more like Carl Lewis. I remember driving to Nuneaton Borough’s old ground, Manor Park, on a bank holiday Monday in 1986 to watch him play in a representative game between the non-league teams of England and Wales. After the game, there was a trophy and speeches and sandwiches, and I went and hid round the back of this little hut because I didn’t want any of the other managers to see me. Carl came out on his own. ‘Psst,’ I said, from behind a fence. ‘Carl, I want to talk to you.’

‘Who are you?’ he asked. ‘What do you want?’

But he came over. Massive shoulders, trim waist, really fit. ‘I’m Harry Redknapp, manager of Bournemouth,’ I said.

‘Bournemouth?’ he replied. ‘Never heard of you. What league are you in?’

I told him we were in the Third Division.

‘Well, I’m not dropping down to the Isthmian,’ he said. ‘Not the third division of the bloody Isthmian,’ I told him. ‘The Football League. We’re in Division Three.’

‘What, professional?’ he asked. Now he was interested. ‘I always wanted to be a professional,’ said Carl.

‘Well, that’s handy,’ I told him, ‘because we’re professional, and we want you.’

‘Train every day?’ he asked. He really didn’t have a clue. I bought Carl for £10,000, went to pick him up from Enfield, and while he went in to say goodbye to his manager, he left me with his mate. ‘What are you signing him for?’ said this kid. ‘I’m ten times better than him. I’ve got twenty-six goals this season, he’s only got twelve. I’m different class than him. Why don’t you sign me?’ Now I was worried. Stuart Morgan, my assistant, had recommended Carl. I had never seen him play for Enfield, only that one game up at Nuneaton. He was great that day and I loved him, but I couldn’t help wondering if I had bought the wrong player. ‘I can’t buy you, I’m buying him,’ I told Carl’s mate, ‘but I’ll keep an eye out for you, don’t worry.’

So we took Carl and he was absolutely useless. He could run, but that was about it. The pre-season was a nightmare. Yeovil Town, we got beat. Weymouth Town, got beat. Bath City, got beat. We played about six games, couldn’t win one. Carl was terrible. After about four games of this, he came to see me. ‘I’ve got a mate,’ he said. ‘He was asking if he could have a trial. He’s a striker, like me.’

‘And is he as good as you, Carl?’ I asked, suspiciously.

‘No, he’s not as good as me,’ he said, ‘but he’s decent.’

‘Well, tell him not to fucking bother then,’ I snapped, and that was the end of it. The following Saturday, we went to play Crystal Palace. ‘My mate, the one who wanted a trial, he’s playing for Palace today,’ said Carl. ‘Oh good,’ I thought. ‘No problem there then.’ Anyway, three goals later I realised Carl wasn’t much of a scout, either. His mates’s name? Ian Wright.

Yet Carl ended up doing fantastic for Bournemouth and I loved him to bits. He didn’t have a clue about the real world. On his first payday he knocked on my door, accusing me of having him over. ‘You told me I was getting £220 a week and I’m only getting £150,’ he said.

‘That’s your deductions, Carl,’ I explained. ‘Income tax, national insurance.’

‘What’s that?’ he asked. ‘You never told me about that.’