Always Managing: My Autobiography (34 page)

It didn’t get much easier even after the game. To get to the press room for the post-match conference at Fratton Park, you have to go up the stairs past the hospitality boxes and, as you can imagine, there were a lot of Portsmouth punters lying in wait, who had been drinking all day. It wasn’t pleasant. Some grounds shut the managers off from the public, but I had no such luck. It was pretty quiet on the coach on the way home. Guys like Jim Smith and Kevin Bond had been around a bit, but they had never been confronted by an atmosphere like that, either. I’m not particularly communicative after a defeat anyway, but this time my disappointment at losing was mixed with regret. Southampton was a poor choice.

I cannot blame myself completely, though. I keep coming back to a simple fact: it is supposed to be a game of football. I still think
that, one on one, many of those hurling the abuse might have been different. I did meet the odd guy in that time who expressed his disappointment in a way that allowed us to talk, sensibly. ‘Harry, we loved you at Portsmouth, why did you go?’ If I fell into one of those conversations, I was always polite and I always explained as best I could. They might not have agreed, but at least they heard my side of the story.

It was a pity that Jamie had to go through all of that with me, too. It was the first time I had managed him since he was a youngster at Bournemouth, and I don’t regret the signing, more the way it ended. That was Jamie’s last season as a professional footballer and it ended in relegation. He didn’t deserve that.

Jamie was one of those kids that just looked like a player from the start. Going all the way back to our time in America, he had a football with him wherever he went. He’d come in training with Bobby Moore in the morning, and in the afternoon, when we went to the lake, he’d spend all his time volleying footballs around with Mike England or Geoff Hurst. I can’t remember a day when I didn’t see him playing and then, when I was manager of Bournemouth, he would go to work with me just the same. I’d tell Sandra I was taking him to school, but let him stay in the car and go on to the training ground with me instead. He’d train with us and then put his school uniform back on and return home with me, as if I’d picked him up from a day of history, geography and maths. Sometimes he’d drop me in it. ‘What did you do at school today?’ ‘I kept the ball up fifty times, Mum.’ I did the same with Jamie’s older brother Mark, too. He could have been a professional footballer as well – he was a big defender with a lovely touch – but a kid smashed his ankle to pieces playing for Bournemouth against
Cardiff City reserves. It was a horrendous tackle and the doctors couldn’t repair it. I felt sick for him, he had so much promise. He ended up in non-league football with clubs like Bashley and Dorchester Town, but even then it would take him two days to walk properly after a match.

Jamie, though, flew through. He was on the books at Tottenham Hotspur as a young player and, by the age of 11, was having the odd session with the first team. At 12 he was taken away for a league game by the manager, Peter Shreeves, just to give him the experience of sitting in the dressing room with the top players. He was always going to be among them for real one day. The problem for Jamie was that Tottenham liked him more than he liked Tottenham. Later, under Terry Venables, Spurs were still very much a buying club, and Jamie didn’t think he was going to get an opportunity. When he was up there, he had shared digs with Shaun Murray, who had been regarded as the brightest prospect in the country as a young teenager. He had even played for an older team as an England schoolboy, which is very unusual. Murray had signed for Tottenham with a big fanfare, but hadn’t made a single appearance for them. He was from the north-east and went from being the next Bryan Robson to scraping a game in Tottenham’s reserves. Jamie didn’t want the same to happen to him. He had signed schoolboy forms but was adamant he wanted to leave. ‘I won’t get in the team at Tottenham, Dad,’ he said. ‘They’re not giving kids a chance. I want to come to Bournemouth with you. If I’m good enough, you’ll play me, won’t you?’

Terry and I had a big fall-out over it. He said, ‘We’ve signed fourteen kids this summer, and he’s the only one we think is a certainty.’

‘What can I do?’ I asked him. ‘He’s my son, and he doesn’t want to come. I’ve tried to talk him round, but I don’t want to make him unhappy. He wants to play league football.’

‘He could play league football here,’ Terry insisted, but Jamie had made his mind up. I know Terry still thinks I just wanted him for Bournemouth, but it wasn’t like that. If anything, being my son held him back at first.

It was 11 April 1990. We were playing away at West Ham and Shaun Brooks fell ill on the way to the game. Paul Miller, the former Tottenham centre-half, who was coming to the end of his career and had dropped down a division to play for us, asked if I was going to play Jamie. I said I wasn’t. ‘Why?’ he asked. ‘If he wasn’t your son, you would play him. He’s the best we’ve got.’

‘Maybe,’ I said, wavering.

‘So you’re wrong,’ Paul continued. ‘If the only reason not to play him is that he’s your son, you’re wrong.’

So I picked Jamie. It was a hard game and we lost 4–1, but Jamie was far from out of his depth. Not long after that, I met Kenny Dalglish at a function in London. He interrupted my dance with Sandra. ‘Harry, they tell me your boy’s a good player,’ he said. I told Kenny he was doing OK. ‘Ronnie Moran saw him play at Birmingham on Saturday, and loved him. Can we have him up to train with us for a week?’ I knew Kenny really trusted the judgement of Ronnie Moran, a coach who had been at Liverpool for ever, and it was a fair sign that he would be given a chance. Even so, it would be difficult if Jamie wanted to play first-team football. ‘West Ham, Arsenal, Tottenham, Chelsea, they’ve all been in for him, Kenny,’ I explained. ‘He just wants to play.’ In the end, we agreed that Jamie and I should go up to watch Liverpool’s FA Cup replay with
Blackburn Rovers that week. They made a real fuss of us and we finished up going out to eat with Kenny. He was very enthusiastic about Jamie’s chances and I agreed to a one-week trial. Jamie had only been there a day when I came back to eight messages from Kenny. My first thought was that he had broken his leg. After what had happened to poor Mark I couldn’t stand more terrible luck. I rang back immediately. Kenny picked up the phone full of the joys. ‘Hello, Harry – have you got any more at home like him?’

‘We’ve got to sign him,’ Kenny continued. ‘Just got to have him. He must come to Liverpool.’

‘I warned you about this, Kenny,’ I reminded. ‘He wants to play first-team football, and he won’t get that with you. He won’t be in the team.’

‘Trust me, Harry,’ Kenny insisted. ‘He will be in the team. He’ll be in the team quicker than you can believe.’

So Jamie signed for Liverpool. I don’t think Terry Venables has ever forgiven me.

As Liverpool manager, Kenny was fantastic with Jamie – for all of thirty-eight days. Jamie joined on 15 January, and on 22 February, following a 4–4 FA Cup replay with Everton, Kenny resigned. In that brief time, though, he had been a magnificent influence on Jamie’s career – even letting him stay at his house so he would feel more at home than he could in digs. Jamie still idolises Kenny.

His next manager was Graeme Souness, and it felt very different. Graeme didn’t know who he was and Jamie thought he had walked into the precise situation he was trying to avoid at Tottenham. I went up to see him play Wolverhampton Wanderers in the reserves one Tuesday and went back to his digs. They faced straight into
the ground in what looked like a big, old haunted house. It was freezing cold and he was on the top floor. Mrs Sainsbury was the landlady and she was a lovely person, but the house was spooky. I’m not a religious person but there was a statue of the Virgin Mary on the wall with a big chip out of it, and you wouldn’t want to walk past that every night. It was eerie and Jamie’s room was so cold. Even the inside of his windows were frozen up, and I knew reserve-team football was getting to him. He was getting a bit emotional. ‘The manager don’t even know me, Dad,’ he said. ‘I’ve been here six months and he hasn’t even spoken to me. I’ve got no chance with him.’

Not long after, I received another phone call, a little more excited this time. ‘Dad, I think I’m playing tomorrow in the UEFA Cup against Auxerre,’ he said. ‘The manager’s pulled me in and put me in the first team.’ He never looked back after that. Graeme Souness loved him.

To be fair, Terry Venables didn’t bear any grudges. He picked Jamie for England and played him at the 1996 European Championships. It was a pity that, against Scotland in the second group game, he broke his ankle landing after jumping for a ball. That became a big problem throughout his career. Jamie ended up having a bolt through his ankle to strengthen it. Long-term, that proved a mistake. He went back to see his specialist in London, to have the bolt out, and it was decided to let it be to add support. Jamie said he couldn’t feel the presence of the bolt, but it made him run differently and, without knowing it, his gait changed and he began wearing his cartilages away. That was beginning of his knee problems, which were complicated by another unsuccessful op. The first guy that performed the operation was in Sheffield
and, after it, Jamie’s knee was still falling to pieces. Jamie should have gone to Dr Richard Steadman in Texas, who is the world leader in this area, but it was too late, the damage was done. He did end up with Steadman but by then all he could do was repair previous mistakes. By the time Jamie came to us at Southampton, it was close to the end. I knew he was what we needed, because he was still a classy midfield player, and he ran a couple of games, at home to Liverpool and Tottenham, just like the old days, but he was in a constant battle with knee injuries and, after we were relegated, he retired. He loved football as much as ever, but his body couldn’t take it.

There was never a problem with Jamie in the side, though, never any resentment from the other players. They knew he was worth his place, and he’s always been a popular guy with the group. I’ve managed teams that have included my son, and my nephew, Frank Lampard, and if your kid is a proper player I don’t see the issue. If you keep picking your boy and he isn’t any good – that’s a problem. But I’m sure Paul Ince doesn’t think twice about picking young Thomas at Blackpool, and it was very much like that with Jamie and Frank. I copped it over Frank at West Ham, but I think I was vindicated, and it never crossed my mind to duck out of bringing Jamie to Southampton, for that reason. Jamie was up for it, and I don’t think he considered any potential for negative reaction. He certainly didn’t come for the money – compared to his previous contracts, he was earning peanuts. It was just sad how it ended for him. Speaking as his dad, more than his manager, I just think it was a shame he didn’t have the length of career available to other modern players, when you think that Ryan Giggs and Kevin Phillips were born in the same year, 1973.

Relegation invariably comes at a cost, and Southampton’s, sadly, took a toll on my backroom staff. I didn’t know whether the club would want to keep me but, following talks with Rupert Lowe, I stayed on. He was insistent, however, that we had to cut the number of coaches and that either Kevin Bond or Jim Smith would have to leave. Kevin, the younger man and the first-team coach, remained. Jim had only been given a six-month contract when we arrived and was coming up to his 65th birthday. My wages were cut back, too. The chairman was adamant that we could not exist on Premier League funding in what was then Division One. Jim and I parted amicably. He had been great for me.

I don’t think either of the chairmen, Rupert Lowe or Milan, quite understood what Jim brought to the club. They just saw him as this old-school, bluff figure, maybe a bit confrontational; but he was so much more than that. It wasn’t as if we were huge mates when I took him to Portsmouth in 2002. I had known Jim, obviously, as a contemporary in football management, but my first thought at Portsmouth was that he was a man who knew the game but equally knew the club, and would have an immediate bond with the fans and the people. He was ideal for all those reasons. Jim wasn’t averse to steaming into the players, either, if he thought there was a problem. It took some of the pressure off me that I didn’t always have to be the bad guy. A lot of managers work like that. Brian Clough did. If he thought the players looked unfit he would get Ronnie Fenton to have them running up and down the steps in the main stand, which they hated. After half an hour of this, he would suddenly emerge. ‘Ronnie, what the bloody hell are you doing that for – come on, let’s get the ball out, have a bit of fun.’ And suddenly he was the good guy, and they wanted to play for him.

I think every manager needs someone like Jim. An assistant doesn’t need to have Jim’s experience, necessarily, but it is good to have a colleague on the same wavelength when you want to sound off. Jim wasn’t a big presence coaching, he was there to talk to. He’d been a manager, he had been in all the same situations, and it can be a lonely job when results are not going well. Those long coach journeys after a defeat, you need a friend. It’s horrible sometimes. A lot of clubs fly or take high-speed trains around the country these days but, believe me, there is nothing quite like the coach journey back from Newcastle, as a manager, if you’ve just got beat 3–0. You hear someone laugh at the back of the coach and straight away, you get the needle. I used to look round and think, ‘What are you fucking laughing at?’ The irony is, that when I was a player, I would be one of those up the back carrying on. I can see why it drove Ron Greenwood mad now. He was sitting there stewing, and we were all planning where we were going to go out on the Saturday night. You’ve lost, you feel so low – you can’t bear to see anyone smiling. That’s where Jim would come in. He’d start talking about next week’s team, how we are going to win, what we should change, and by the end of the trip you almost had your team in mind for the following Saturday and the lousy result was gone. Suddenly, it wouldn’t be about how bad we were that afternoon; we would be looking forward. ‘We ought to bring him back in, and he hasn’t done it, and what about if we play him there and him there?’