Sober

by Tony Adams

  Because it is so rare in the modern era, I can remember the draw for the quarter-finals being made on a Monday lunchtime, though the fact that Harry was less cheery and less quick to come through to the coaches’ office had nothing to do with any back-to-work feeling. In fact, we were in there, Harry was in his own office and we could hear him swear and kick the table when the name of our opponents came out of the hat. MANCHESTER UNITED. And we would be away.

  This was a United team at the peak of their powers, and with a manager in Sir Alex Ferguson still the dominant figure in English football. That year, they would win the Premier League and the Champions League and while, to our advantage, their eyes may have been more on those prizes in the March of 2008, they still fielded their strongest team, including Rio Ferdinand and Nemanja Vidic, Paul Scholes and Wayne Rooney, Cristiano Ronaldo and Carlos Tevez.

  I don’t know what added value I was able to bring to the game and the occasion as a coach, or what percentage of what happened that day was down to my input, but I do know that I truly understood how to handle those big occasions while most of the Pompey players didn’t. Not even Harry had been to an FA Cup final. I hope Harry and I were a good combination at Old Trafford that day, me a calming influence, him passionate and using that instinct that would serve him so well.

  Naturally we came under pressure, and I recall Sylvain Distin getting away with a penalty shout early on when Ronaldo went down. At half-time, it was 0-0. I backed up Harry, telling the players at the interval that we were doing well, not to worry about coming under pressure, to keep it tight and believe in the game plan of full-backs tucking inside to thicken up the midfield alongside our trio in there.

  ‘Just stay patient,’ I said. ‘We will get a chance.’

  I looked at Sol Campbell, one of the few who had also been there and done it, sitting quietly in the corner, and smiled at him.

  We did get a chance. The boys were growing in confidence as they kept out all United’s attacking talent, and then Harry made a fantastic decision in bringing Kanu off early in the second half and putting on Milan Baros to utilise his pace against defenders who might be tiring.

  Now, Milan had done nothing for us since he arrived and he would do nothing again for the rest of his time at the club. But this was his day. Our day. I had sensed it earlier, knowing we had done our homework properly and our game plan was working. On top of all that, Harry had a bit of a jinx on United in the cup, having beaten them with Bournemouth and West Ham.

  Soon Milan was running at the United defence and he won us a penalty when Tomasz Kuszczak, substitute goalkeeper for the injured Edwin van der Sar, bundled him over. Sulley Muntari drilled home the kick, soon after which, at the other end, Sylvain kicked one off the line before the post stopped a shot from Patrice Evra. We were through to the semi-finals. Pompey were at Wembley – for a last-four game if not yet for the final – for the first time since 1942. And Lassana Diarra had run an unprecedented 890 metres at high intensity.

  We couldn’t deny that the draw had opened up for us, with West Bromwich Albion now the opponents, but we deserved it after beating United at Old Trafford. I don’t think semi-finals should be played at Wembley as I am an old footballing romantic and believe the national stadium should be reserved for the final, but it was a wonderful day out, especially for the supporters, I have to admit.

  And it was another fantastic occasion, with 83,584 rocking Wembley. Again we nicked it, this time Kanu poaching the only goal of the game against his old club. Milan Baros missed a great chance to seal the win – normal service having been resumed – but we held out well enough in the end.

  Pompey were in an FA Cup final for the first time in 69 years – and would have a great chance of winning it now. Championship club Cardiff City had won the other semi by beating Barnsley, who had beaten Chelsea in the quarter-finals, so we would be the favourites. And I would have been at the new Wembley more times than the Arsenal.

  With the cup job done and us safe in the league, I asked Harry straight after the West Brom game if I could nip off for a few days’ skiing with Poppy. ‘Course you can, Son,’ he said. ‘You’ve done great for me.’ And so we headed for Val d’Isere and had a great time, spoiled only a little by the team beating West Ham 1-0 without me to show how dispensable I was. It would be the team’s only win for the remainder of the season as we lost four of our last six league games, with the cup now our main focus.

  The only win apart from the final, that was.

  It was a smashing week leading up to it. We stayed the night before at a lovely hotel in Windsor, right next to the racecourse, from where you could walk into town to the castle. It was funny, I had once stayed there with Caprice. And we were given smart Paul Smith suits, which I still wear to this day.

  The game itself was a good battle of wills. Cardiff were managed by Dave Jones, with Terry Burton, my old Arsenal youth-team coach, as his assistant, two good footballing brains. I knew it would be tight, but I always sensed that a piece of quality would settle the game and believed that we had the greater quality in our side.

  So it proved. Again, Kanu grabbed the goal, 10 minutes before half-time, and we saw it out to lift the cup. Harry was finally the manager of a cup-winning side, though it was not a typical Harry performance, more an old-fashioned Tony Adams one. One-nil to the Pompey once more. My old Arsenal boss George Graham would have been proud of me.

  I was coach to a cup-winning side. I had a quiet satisfaction about that but I was not one for wild celebrations any more. In fact, I don’t think I was in any of the photos. It was the players’ day, the fans’ day. I suppose, yes, I did feel aloof in many ways. I didn’t want to build up my role too much. I felt part of it but didn’t . . . I just didn’t have the same buzz as the players and the fans. I felt that I had helped them a great deal to win the cup, but I was humble enough to recognise my part in it without having to shout about it.

  I thought I had contributed a lot and I’m not sure they could have done it without me, but perhaps they could. I certainly believed I’d had some input into team selection for the final. The day before, Harry said he wanted to play Papa Bouba Diop, but I said, ‘Not for me.’ Pedro Mendes was the man, I said. ‘Wembley feels massive. We need people who can keep the ball and Pedro is the one to do that.’ Harry went with it and it worked.

  There it was again, the trouble with being an assistant: you don’t get the crap stuff but you don’t get the good stuff either. Some people like not having their heads above the parapet. I didn’t. I was always disappointed I wasn’t making the calls. It was just a good set of circumstances and personnel – Harry, me, Joe and the players. I do remember Harry saying at Wembley: ‘This club will never do this again.’ Well, who can say, but there was a sense that it would never get better than this.

  We all headed back to the hotel in Windsor, where Poppy and the kids were waiting for me, and we enjoyed the party for a couple of hours before heading back to the Cotswolds. I didn’t go on the open-top bus ride around Portsmouth the following day. I told Harry that my daughter Amber was playing for Millfield School in an England Schools hockey final in Nottingham and I wanted to go to that. It’s not every day that happens so I wanted to see her play and support her.

  Besides, all that celebration and fanfare was unusual for the Pompey people, but it wasn’t for me. I had done more than my fair share of open-top bus rides through Islington with Arsenal. I had won the cup as a player and now as a coach, but I didn’t feel the necessity to take part in the celebrations. I can understand how Harry thought I was aloof, yes. I did feel different. Clean and sober, I did things differently, the way I wanted to do them.

  It was strange. While there was elation at winning the cup, there was also that emptiness you feel afterwards once it’s over, with nothing now to focus on for a while. One thing I do remember in the aftermath was Steve Rowley at Arsenal contacting me for the stats from the final for a young Cardiff player called Aaron Ramsey, and my opinion of him. Arse
nal were thinking of signing him. I thought he was a good footballer, honest and hard-working; thought he could become more than just an up-and-downer, I said . . .

  When it did come time to go back for pre-season training with Portsmouth, things didn’t quite feel the same this time around, not as they should have been for a cup-winning club. There was a very real sense of something having ended, rather than this being the start of something big.

  10

  Premier Pressures

  Take risks.

  If you win you will be happy.

  If you lose you will be wise.

  ANON

  It’s hard to mention the name of Portsmouth Football Club around that era, from 2006 to 2009 when I was there, without the talk moving quickly from all the success of the time – embracing high Premier League finishes, winning the FA Cup and playing in Europe – to the state of the finances that would eventually lead the club into administration and acrimonious disputes about ownership and who owed what to whom before regrouping under a supporters’ trust.

  Did it not occur to me that Pompey were paying transfer fees and wages to players beyond what the club was bringing in through the gate and commercially? Of course it did, but it is the nature of football – and was even more so at that time, before Financial Fair Play regulations kicked in – that a rich man can bankroll a club if he so wishes. That is the market and, while it has become more prevalent since Roman Abramovich took over Chelsea, it has always been true, going back to the earliest history of the game, that owners and directors can finance footballing dreams. Even if they can turn into nightmares.

  In Portsmouth’s case, the promises that it would all be underwritten came from the owner, Sacha Gaydamak. People always pointed to his father Arcadi – who was tried in France for arms dealing, which was not proven, though he served a short jail sentence for tax evasion and money laundering – being the one who pulled the strings, but the Premier League said it was always satisfied that Sacha was the sole owner. Only later would it emerge that most of the money going in was loans, which would lead to all sorts of wrangles when the cash injections dried up and potential new owners emerged, only for Sacha to demand his money back.

  All dealings with him were more Harry’s issue than mine. It just wasn’t my agenda and I hardly ever came across Sacha. I was gaining my Premier League coaching experience, working with the players who came in, so wasn’t that interested in the bigger picture of the club. I was in my own footballing bubble. It sounds selfish but it was out of my control anyway. My energies needed to be concentrated on preparing and sending out the best side possible for the fans. A successful side drives revenue. And my line manager was Harry, not Sacha.

  Harry did speak about it often, however, and was concerned by what was going on, if never fully conversant with where the money was coming from. ‘Who is this guy?’ he would say. ‘What’s he doing? . . . What does he want? . . . He doesn’t really seem interested in football . . . He never speaks to me in person . . . Only phones now and then to say, “Well done, Mr Redknapp . . .” ’

  He was a difficult owner for Harry. Harry was used to having a personal relationship with Milan Mandaric. They would go out for dinner on a Saturday night after a game and talk it all over. It was almost the beginning of the time when relationships at the top changed, as the increasing number of new owners from overseas in the Premier League – a bit like absentee landlords – no longer had the same everyday contact with managers as the old-style chairmen did.

  When we got back to work in pre-season, it became clear that Pompey were suddenly a selling club rather than a buying one. In the previous few years, around £180 million had been spent on the squad, but now those coming in were costing less than the money being raised by player sales. In hindsight, it is easy to see that the powers that be were reining in, with the money drying up, but at the time it was just an impression that things were changing.

  Sulley Muntari went to Inter Milan for nearly £13 million and Pedro Mendes to Rangers for £3 million. There was lots of interest too in Lassie Diarra, which would culminate in him going in midwinter to Real Madrid for a then amazing £21 million. We would be losing the best-quality players in the squad.

  There were signings. Peter Crouch came from Liverpool for £11 million, Younes Kaboul from Spurs for £5 million and Nadir Belhadj from Lens for £4.5 million – with all the movement, no wonder agents loved Harry. But he was uneasy in pre-season. We were now in Europe and he talked about needing a bigger squad and rotating. But the squad seemed to be getting smaller, not bigger.

  ‘I don’t know what’s happening with the money,’ he would say regularly, along with: ‘I don’t like this team. Don’t fancy us at all.’ He was unsure of formula and shape, was worried we were just going to knock the ball up to Peter Crouch, whom he had taken but seemed uncertain about. We discussed going three at the back. At times things would get a bit fractious. He was arguing more with Joe.

  The club had been on a pre-season tour to Portugal, which I swerved – and this one was partly due to my fear of flying. I stayed at the training ground, meanwhile, working with the players coming back to fitness and was glad I didn’t go as there were reports of some players getting drunk. And so Harry was not in a good mood when things were not going well in a friendly at Oxford United. He rounded on Martin Cranie, gave him a real volley of abuse. ‘You’re fucking shit, you’re a fucking disgrace,’ that kind of thing. Soon Martin would be out of the club, on his way to Charlton on loan. It was a result of the fallout from Portugal.

  Such an outburst was not like Harry. This was that only time I mentioned earlier when I saw him do this kind of thing, despite all his old-school reputation or tendencies. It was another example of things not feeling right around the club, which was strange given we had won the FA Cup just a few months earlier. I think Harry was also deeply affected that summer by the death in the spring of his wife Sandra’s sister Pat Lampard, Frank’s mum.

  I was unsure about my own position, too, amid all these negative signs. I wondered if I had gone as far as I could, as I wanted to become a manager in my own right. Should I resign with nothing to go to? Do I stay and wait till something comes up? I had also been offered a new contract which I informed Peter Storrie I couldn’t sign since there was a compensation clause if I left. They wanted £50,000 – half my salary – if I went. That was surely going to put off another club from hiring me, if an opportunity arose.

  Early in the season, a job did come up and I thought about going for it. It was at West Ham, with Alan Curbishley having resigned after disagreements with the then Icelandic owners. I thought the best thing was to talk to Harry about it, not least because he might be going for it himself. He said he wasn’t; he’d decided not to go back, having already had a long spell there, so I asked if he could put in a word for me. I also asked him to speak to Peter Storrie to see if I could get that clause taken out of my contract.

  ‘No problem, Son,’ he said, on both counts. ‘I know you want to have a go yourself.’ But nothing happened. I don’t know if he ever did put in a word at West Ham, but I didn’t pursue my interest in the job and it would go to Gianfranco Zola. The stuff about my contract went on for weeks. Whenever I asked about it, Harry would say he had told Peter. Peter would say that Harry hadn’t.

  I was sympathetic to Harry’s situation at the time, as I knew he was starting to have his doubts about the club and wondering whether to quit while he was ahead. He had been courted by Newcastle United back in the winter when they sacked Sam Allardyce and, amid a big media frenzy, I know he was close to taking it, even telling Mike Ashley that he would. In the end, his wife Sandra had a say because I don’t think Harry could face long spells away from her and their home at Sandbanks near Bournemouth.

  But it meant that he was open to offers and I began to wonder now where I stood. I didn’t know if he maybe hadn’t put in a word for me with West Ham because he didn’t want to lose me . . . I was feeling a little isolated now
, not as much a part of things as I had, and began to get more withdrawn. I wasn’t sure I believed in what we were doing any more, either. I just didn’t know what was going on so sat tight for the time being. Sometimes doing nothing is also a decision.

  It was no disgrace losing to Manchester United on penalties in the Community Shield at the start of the season, but we struggled to get going in the league, losing to Chelsea and Manchester United before winning two then getting thrashed 6-0 at Manchester City. Harry and Joe went bonkers.

  I asked Lassie into the office on the Monday and pointed out his stats to him. He had done just 240 metres of high-intensity running, almost three-quarters less than he had in the FA Cup quarter-final win against Manchester United. Against that, his opposite number at Manchester City, Stephen Ireland, had run 1,500 metres at high intensity, mostly off the back of Lassie, who was just not going with him.

  ‘You’ve thrown the towel in here, buddy,’ I said to him. ‘It doesn’t happen again. I like you. It’s in you.’ He nodded. He knew that he had let himself and the team down. But I think even then the talk was building. Real Madrid was beckoning . . .

  The result was thankfully a one-off and might have been explained by us playing Vitoria Guimaraes of Portugal on the previous Thursday night in a UEFA Cup qualifying-round tie, beating them 2-0 ahead of a 2-2 draw out there a fortnight later and so going through to the group stages. We did not make a great start to that, losing 3-0 away to another Portuguese side, Sporting Braga, but otherwise we put together a decent run of form that also included wins over Tottenham and Stoke.

  Something was in the offing, though. Spurs had been really poor when we played them and were bottom of the table after taking just two points from their first eight games. Juande Ramos, their Spanish manager, was duly sacked and the public clamour – and all the press speculation – seemed to be about Harry going to White Hart Lane.