Read Online Always Managing: My Autobiography by Harry Redknapp - Free Book Online

Heath, rain, wind or snow.
    Sometimes you wondered how he did it. You would leave places barely able to stand up and Bobby would look like he’d just walked in from having his dinner suit fitted. He was like that as a player, too. He used to stand there in the dressing room before a match,everything on bar his shorts, waiting for the bell to go. He’d be wearing his jock strap but holding his shorts by the band with two fingers. When the bell went, he’d slip them on and they would have creases – creases! – along the side. He looked a million dollars as he led the team out. We all started to copy him, but nobody pulled that perfect groomed appearance off quite like Bob.
    And he loved football. We all did. We might not have been diligent or looked after ourselves like today’s players, but I think we all had real love for playing the game. We would even get together on Sunday, the day after the game, to have a match with our mates. We would either go to our training ground or, if it was a nice day, over to Lambourne End, a patch of land by the forest in Hainault. We would put our coats down and play, just like any other group of mates. Bobby was a regular. There would be England internationals, West Ham players like John Charles or Brian Dear, and some of our friends, like Terry Creasy, who was in business with Frank Lampard. There would be a load of us, we’d play for an hour and then go over the road to a pub called the Retreat. Sometimes, if Tina, Bobby’s wife, was away, we’d go back to his house for a party. I loved those days, playing football for fun with Bobby in his prime, weaving away from his big house in Chigwell at eleven o’clock at night. It was great to see Bobby so relaxed and enjoying himself – he was captain of England at the time and he found it hard to let himself go in public.
    Even if we didn’t play at the weekend, we would find an excuse for a kickabout in midweek. We’d persuade the groundsman to open the gate at Chadwell Heath for us, or even Upton Park, and all pile in. There was a ticket tout that Bobby nicknamed Tostão, because he had a bald head like the great Brazilian. He was alwaysup for a game. The teams would be evenly split up – there were about ten players and ten pals – and off we go. When the real football wasn’t going well, that became the highlight of our week. We’d pile in the shower afterwards, get spruced up and go out.
    One Sunday, we had played at the main ground and Terry Creasy was relaxing in the bath before we went up to the Black Lion in Plaistow. He was there, soaped up, lying in the bubbles when Ron Greenwood walked in. It took us all by surprise – he never went near the ground on Sunday, and I still don’t know why he was there that day. I can see Terry now, tummy sticking out of the bubbles, feet out the end of the bath. Ron took one look at him and turned to us. ‘Who’s this chappie?’ he asked. ‘What’s he doing here?’ We were all left staring at the floor. We couldn’t tell him that Terry had a few pubs with Frank and sold tickets for the lads on the side. I think one of us mumbled that he was a friend of ours and we had all been for a run together. I don’t think Ron bought it. We were more careful where we played after that.
    I think, deep down, Bobby was a shy person and he had to have a drink to let go. Once he’d had a few, he would open up and then he could keep any of the lads company. The boys from Manchester, like George Best and Mike Summerbee, Alan Ball, Norman Hunter, whom he kept out of the England team, they all liked a night out with Mooro. As far as those lads were concerned he was just the best character, a lovely man and great company. I think most of the footballers from around that time wanted to be like Bobby. If he started wearing his clothes a certain way, or going to a certain place up town, everyone followed.
    Did we really know him, though? I’m not sure any of us did. Bob wasn’t an open personality.