Harry's Games by John Crace Read Free Book Online Page B

him.
    â€˜Really?’ Redknapp replied. ‘That’s news to me.’
    It couldn’t have been, of course. The idea he would have had no idea that Spurs were in the market for the Everton striker and the chairman had gone ahead and bought the player without even bothering to consult the manager was laughable. Rather it was just an endearing Harryism, a perfectly harmless, if not quite true, quote to lift the football pages out of the banality of the run-of-the-mill transfer speak – ‘The boy will give the squad a real lift’ – that might guarantee him top billing the following day.
    Redknapp was on equally good form later that night as his Spurs side took on Wigan in a Premier League fixture at White Hart Lane. He had every excuse to give the game a miss and leave the team in the hands of his deputies, Kevin Bond and Joe Jordan, as he was due to give evidence himself the next day. A night in at the London hotel where he had been staying throughout the trial to gather his thoughts and rehearse his answers might not have gone amiss.
    Not a bit of it. Redknapp led the team from the dugout and waved happily to acknowledge the support of the crowd who chanted his name appreciatively throughout much of the game. Whether he heard all the chants was another matter. ‘
He pays what he wants . . . he pays what he wa-a-ants . . . He
’
s Harry Redknapp . . . he pays what he wants . . .
’ wasn’t quite the ringing endorsement of the belief in his innocence Redknapp might have wanted, but there was no mistaking the affection. His Spurs sideeven seemed to have read the script, cruising to an easy win to go a long way clear in third place in the league table.
    Football was also clearly on Redknapp’s mind first thing the next morning. When he took his place in the dock before the judge and jury arrived, he gave a big grin and made a 3-1 sign with his fingers, a reference to the scoreline the night before. You couldn’t help but admire him – here was a man with the focus to engineer a comfortable league win and still have a laugh when he was due to give what could turn out to be the most important performance of his life later in the day. Even Mandaric, who had remained polite if reserved throughout the trial, seemed to be infected by the party spirit. When he returned to the dock, his cross-examination complete, he pretended to throttle Redknapp. Redknapp slapped him on the back and grinned.
    There were more laughs – albeit muted – from the press gallery, when Kelsey-Fry called Redknapp to the stand.
    â€˜Why were you all laughing when my dad was called?’ Jamie Redknapp whispered to me.
    â€˜Because Mr Black had told us all in the adjournment that the defence wouldn’t call your dad to give evidence,’ I whispered back.
    â€˜Why wouldn’t he?’ replied Jamie, genuinely perplexed.
    Why indeed? It didn’t feel like quite the right time to explain to Jamie that the laughter was all directed at Mr Black, a man who may well have been an extremely competent barrister, but who appeared to have read almost every nuance of the trial rather differently to everyone else in court.
    Once in the witness box, Redknapp didn’t disappoint for a minute, delivering a one-man show rich in both comedy and stream-of-consciousness passion. In response to Mandaric’s barrister, Lord Macdonald, describing Redknapp as an average footballer, the chirpy defendant kicked off in fine style, saying, ‘He would say that – he’s an Arsenal supporter.’
    When asked why he had called the Monaco bank accountRosie47, Redknapp replied, ‘Because Rosie was my dog . . . she was a lovely dog . . . you would be a lucky man to have a wife as lovely as Rosie . . . and 1947 is the year of my birth. It was like a security code. Like I have to say my mother’s name, Violet Brown, to get access to my HSBC account over here.’ Oops – that was