Always Managing: My Autobiography (33 page)

Looking back, I think that maybe they liked me so much when I was there, that we had such a good relationship, that my leaving hurt far more intensely than the departure of another manager would. They treated me like God because we had gone from being nowhere, to being a Premier League team that had survived. We had the best year, winning the title to get promoted, and I don’t think any of us felt we could top that. So when I went to Southampton, it was as if I had betrayed all that affection. They were too upset to step back from the situation and think, ‘Harry got pushed out because they brought this other bloke in.’ They would just look at it and think, ‘He’s gone to Southampton. He’s scum.’

So I do understand the resentment, even if I don’t agree with it. What I cannot understand, and what I will never understand, is the more extreme levels of abuse. It is often said that football people don’t understand the fans, but I think that cuts both ways. Supporters have never been in our position, where we have to be loyal to a number of clubs through our careers. West Ham wanted me out as a player, and then as a manager. Portsmouth shunted me out as a manager, too. The majority of departures in football are like that. People don’t go because they are disloyal, but because the club makes a decision – and we all know and accept that from day one. It would make life impossible if players thought like fans and could only care for one club all their lives. Most players once supported a team; but when a man enters professional football, he supports the team he plays for, and loses interest in the rest.
Supporting is kid’s stuff – it was what we did before we started working. I was only 11 years old when I followed Arsenal and, sorry, but that means nothing to me now. I don’t love the Gunners any more; I’m not interested in Arsenal, only in beating them. Apologies, but it’s true. Once I went to West Ham, Arsenal were never again a part of my life. As a schoolboy I used to spend all week hoping they would win – no different from any fan – but how could I carry on doing that while playing for West Ham? Once a player signs professional forms, that is his team. I’d be a liar if I said I ever looked for Arsenal’s results once I became a professional footballer. I look for the results that affect my team – Queens Park Rangers now. Before that Tottenham, before that Portsmouth or Bournemouth.

My dad was an Arsenal man, my uncle was an Arsenal man, I could have signed for Arsenal – but it was bottom of my list of clubs. You learn very early on that you can’t make decisions with your heart. Jamie Carragher was a mad Everton fan, who has probably spent most of his adult life hoping they lose every week. As a Liverpool player, he’s desperate to finish ahead of Everton. His old allegiance doesn’t come into it. When I was at West Ham and Tottenham, I was desperate to see Arsenal lose, desperate to finish above them. They were our rivals. If I’m at Portsmouth, I want to beat Southampton; if I’m at Southampton, I want to beat Portsmouth. How could I look at it any other way? I have never met anyone in football who I would call a genuine fan: someone who fervently supports a club that is not his. They might still have supporters in the family, but even that changes. When I was manager of West Ham, if we played Arsenal, I know who my dad wanted to win. He’s my dad, what do you expect?

The abuse aside, Southampton was as Dennis Roach told it: a good stadium, a good training ground, and a good club. Even the team was decent, really. I just felt we were we incredibly unlucky. That may sound glib, but it is not an explanation I trot out very often. I have been involved in good seasons and bad seasons and, usually, a team gets what it deserves. Yet it seemed as if we couldn’t buy an even break at Southampton that season. We played Everton at home on 6 February and absolutely battered them. We went a goal down almost from the kick-off, but after that it was all us: Peter Crouch equalised before half-time, Henri Camara scored ten minutes into the second half, but we couldn’t get that third goal. We had so many chances: Alan Stubbs cleared one off the line, David Weir handled the ball but the referee missed it, and our players were queuing up – Camara, Crouch, Rory Delap, Graeme Le Saux, they all could have scored. Then, in the second minute of injury time, Crouch got the ball and set off on a run downfield. Instead of taking it into the flag and eking the remaining time out of the game with a throw-in or a corner, he decided to go for glory, and have a shot. He hit it straight at their goalkeeper, who hoofed it up to Duncan Ferguson, out to Marcus Bent, past Calum Davenport, right foot, 2–2. And I never saw him score another goal like it. He wasn’t a top player, Marcus Bent. Strong, big physique, but I can’t remember him getting too many like that. It went off the underside of the bar at an angle and down like one of those goals Brazilians score at World Cups. We had barely kicked off when the referee blew the whistle. And that was typical of our season. And, of course, it’s not all bad luck. If Peter doesn’t have the shot, we win. Yet if we made a mistake, any mistake, it seemed we got spectacularly punished that year.

In my very first game, on 11 December, we were leading Middlesbrough 2–0 when the referee put the board up for time added on. Middlesbrough had a corner, they whipped one in to the near post, it skimmed off Danny Higginbotham’s head and went in at the far corner, an own goal. Almost from the kick-off, Middlesbrough won the ball back and Stewart Downing scored an absolute corker from twenty yards. He didn’t get another goal until 23 April. It was if they were saving them up for us. We were winning 2–0 against Aston Villa at home, and murdering them, when we lost our centre-half, Andreas Jakobsson, a big Swedish lad who hadn’t given Carlton Cole a kick. We brought on Davenport and he just got bullied by him. We ended up losing 3–2. It was one of those years. In the penultimate game of the season, we went to Crystal Palace and got a point in the last minute, but Crouch was sent-off – so he would miss the last match. It was a big one. On the final day of the season, any three of four teams could have gone down.

‘Survival Sunday’ they called it on Sky. Norwich City had 33 points, Southampton and Crystal Palace had 32 points, West Bromwich Albion had 31, but we had the toughest game. Palace were away to their big south London rivals, Charlton Athletic, Norwich had to go to Fulham and West Brom were at home to Portsmouth. We were playing Manchester United. I wasn’t expecting too many favours from Portsmouth, either – their fans turned up wearing West Brom shirts! We had two advantages – we were at home and Manchester United were playing Arsenal in the FA Cup final the following week. If Sir Alex Ferguson rested some of his big guns, as he often did before important matches, we might have a chance. The league was over from Manchester United’s point of view, anyway. They were coming third. They
couldn’t catch Arsenal in second place, and couldn’t be caught by Everton in fourth. And then I saw the team-sheet. Up front: Wayne Rooney and Ruud van Nistelrooy. Manchester United had played West Brom, managed by Old Trafford legend Bryan Robson, eight days before and neither man made the starting line-up. West Brom got an unlikely point away from home that night; Southampton weren’t going to be so lucky.

West Brom moved from bottom to 17th place and safety on the last day. They were the only threatened team to win on ‘Survival Sunday’ and I’m sure the Portsmouth fans were delighted. Norwich got chinned by six at Fulham, Palace could only draw at Charlton, and we lost 2–1 to United. As was the story of our season, we went a goal up but couldn’t hang on. Van Nistelrooy scored the winner with 27 minutes to go.

That was the most dispiriting day of my time at Southampton; but the most traumatic? Not by some distance. In the draw for the fourth round of the FA Cup we got paired with, of all teams, Portsmouth. Fortunately, it was at our place, because even in a minority, the Portsmouth fans could clearly be heard telling me exactly what they thought. We were two minutes into injury time, drawing 1–1, with a very uncomfortable replay beckoning when a cross from David Prutton struck Matt Taylor’s arm. The referee, Steve Bennett, did not see it, but thank heavens a linesman did, and after what seemed an age of consultation – and silent prayers from me – he pointed to the spot. Peter Crouch was our third-choice penalty taker, but the first two were not on the pitch, and he stuck it away nicely. It was only a temporary reprieve, though. On 24 April we were due at Portsmouth in the league – and there could be no escaping that one.

By then, I was under no illusions about the nightmare I would be facing. The abuse from Portsmouth’s end had not let up all season and, whether at Sandown races or in my back garden, there always seemed to be someone shouting at me. I’m sure those bloody workmen near the training ground had made the job last longer just so they could carry it on, too. Then the nearer it got to the Fratton Park game, the more poisonous the atmosphere became. Whatever had been said, however threatening, I never thought that anyone would physically hurt me. Suddenly, I wasn’t so sure. The abusive messages became death threats, and now the police were involved. They said the match between Southampton and Portsmouth was always their busiest of the year. The previous year, when I was at Portsmouth and we won 1–0 at Fratton Park, there had been about eighty arrests made. My situation was only going to make it worse, they reckoned.

It had not crossed my mind before, but now I was afraid of some nutter running on and trying to do some damage. Going right back to that day with Bobby Moore in the Blind Begger, there is always some bloke out to make a name for himself. All week we were in consultation with the police and private security firms. Whatever was lying in wait for me in Portsmouth, at least I was going to be surrounded by some big powerful boys. The police were at the training ground keeping us informed of strategy. They said I would have two policemen with me on the bench, and a couple more behind the dug-out. They told me exactly what I had to do in the event of a goal or a Southampton win. ‘If you score, don’t jump up and start celebrating,’ I was told. I assured them I had no intention of doing that. I wasn’t mad.

As soon as we arrived at the training ground the police were waiting, and from that moment they never left my side. They even escorted my car safely back on to the motorway when our coach had returned at the end of the day. It was reassuring but at the same time unnerving. The fear of an attack wasn’t all in my mind, then. Clearly, the police were worried about it, too. They were everywhere: on the bus, on the bench, outside the dressing-room door, and on every bridge from Southampton to Portsmouth. We had six ex-SAS man travelling with us just in case we were ambushed
en route
. The police stood patrol in case a lunatic tried to drop a paving slab on to our coach. We had two helicopters overhead all the way there keeping an eye on the surrounding roads. It was terrifying for the players. It wasn’t like going to a football match – it was unreal. The police got us there and inside as quickly as they could, but just driving through the streets in Portsmouth, the abuse we were getting on the coach was scary. As we disembarked we could hear this furious reaction – without doubt the players were petrified, and I don’t blame them at all for losing the game that day. It felt like we had driven into a war zone. It was a scary few hours and impossible for them to play their best football.

We felt protected in the dressing room, but the players could still detect the anger outside and a lot of them didn’t want to go out for a warm-up, particularly those with connections to Portsmouth, like Nigel Quashie and Peter Crouch. They were also targets. Crouch was doubtful with a hamstring – we had been fighting to get him fit all week – and when he heard the abuse before the game, it definitely tightened up – along with a few other body parts, no doubt. The atmosphere felt alien, considering it was only
a football match. I have never experienced anything like it and you could tell the players were frightened out of their lives.

My son, Jamie, was in our team that day and it was very hard for him to hear what was being said about me and stay focused. I know I found it difficult to concentrate. It was just a wall of hateful noise, and you were always on the alert for that lone nutter ready to go one stage further. Jamie knew what it was going to be like every time he touched the ball, but he was determined to see it through. ‘Look, Dad, walk out with your head held high,’ he told me before the game. ‘Whatever they say, you’ve done nothing wrong.’ But, hearing the reaction, I couldn’t help but feel I had made a terrible mistake. I didn’t need to put my family through this. How could I have got it so horribly wrong?

God knows what would have happened had we won, but there was precious little danger of that. Portsmouth were in a different class and I took no personal satisfaction that it was two of my players, Yakubu and Lomano LuaLua who bashed us up. It made it very difficult for me, but I’m sure for the police it came as something of a relief when Portsmouth surged ahead. To be fair, the Portsmouth players were fantastic. They all came up, wished me well and still called me gaffer. LuaLua was on fire, and I think he took pity on me, because they scored four goals in the first 27 minutes and a minute later he came off. I shudder to think what the score might have been had he played the whole game. He was ripping us to shreds. We did score, after 20 minutes, but there wasn’t much danger of causing a riot with a spontaneous celebration because we were already 2–0 down by that time and I could see the way the game was going. Portsmouth were soon 4–1 up and I think it was at that point LuaLua decided enough
was enough. We had always got on well and he didn’t want to rub it in. The day was going to be difficult enough for me as it was. The people around me were nice, too, funnily enough. I’m sure there were some Portsmouth supporters who remembered the good times and were embarrassed by the worst of the chanting, because I didn’t get much of the really revolting abuse in my ear. The bad guys kept their distance. At the final whistle, I looked up to the directors’ box and I could see Milan Mandaric standing up applauding his players, so I gave him a little wave. He waved back and maybe that was the beginning of our
détente
. He was on his third manager of the season by then, Alain Perrin replacing Velimir Zajec at the start of April, and perhaps we were missing each other. I certainly didn’t enjoy the same rapport with Rupert Lowe that I had with Milan, and he probably missed our weekly barney on a Friday night.