Alex Ferguson My Autobiography (4 page)

‘We’re no listening to that. It’s crap,’ came the reply. They are good solid people. Most have been married over 40 years. God, they give me stick. They pummel me. They get away with it because they are so like me; they are the same stock. They grew up with me. But they were also supportive. When they came down we tended to win. But if we lost a game they might say, sympathetically, ‘That was hard work.’ Not, ‘That was rubbish’, but ‘That was hard work.’

My friends in Aberdeen remain close. The thing I learned about Scotland is that the further north you go, the quieter people are. They take longer to forge friendships, but when they do those ties run deep. Gordon Campbell goes on holiday with us, my lawyer Les Dalgarno, Alan McRae, George Ramsay, Gordon Hutcheon.

As I became more entrenched in the job at United, my social life diminished. I stopped going out on a Saturday night. The football was exhausting for me. Getting away from
the ground after a 3 p.m. kick-off, I wouldn’t return home until quarter to nine. That was the price of success: 76,000 people all going home at the same time. The urge to go out weakened. But I developed some strong friendships: Ahmet Kurcer, the manager of the Alderley Edge Hotel, Sotirios, Mimmo, Marius, Tim, Ron Wood, Peter Done, Pat Murphy and Pete Morgan, Ged Mason, the wonderful Harold Riley, and my staff, of course, who were loyal to me. James Mortimer and Willie Haughey were two old pals from my home town, there was Martin O’Connor and Charlie Stillitano in New York and Eckhard Krautzun in Germany, all good people. When we did summon up the energy, we had good nights out.

In my early years in Manchester I grew friendly with Mel Machin, who was manager of City, and who was fired not long after they beat us 5–1. The reason given, I seem to recall, was that Mel didn’t smile enough. I would have been sacked a long time ago had that logic applied at United. John Lyall, the manager of West Ham, was a rock to me in those days. I didn’t know all the players in England and wasn’t sure of the scouting department at United. I would phone John often and he would send me reports on players to supplement my own. I could trust him and confided in him a lot. As a way of telling me United weren’t playing well, he would say: ‘I don’t see Alex Ferguson in that team.’

Jock Wallace, the fiery former Rangers manager, also said to me in a hotel one night: ‘I don’t see Alex Ferguson in that team. You’d better get Alex Ferguson back in there.’ Those men volunteered their advice, knowing that friendship was at the base of their observations. I call those the best friendships. Bobby Robson was manager of England, so that was a different relationship at first, but we too became close. Lennie Lawrence was another friend from that time, and still is.

Bobby Robson and I re-established close contact at Eusébio’s testimonial in Portugal when he was coaching there with Porto and Sporting Lisbon. Eric Cantona made his debut in that game. Bobby came to our hotel and I will always remember him seeking out Steve Bruce to say: ‘Steve, I made a mistake with you. I should have given you an England cap and I want to apologise for that.’ In front of all the players.

So much of what I knew at the end of my career I learned in those early days, sometimes without realising the lessons were sinking in. I learned about human nature long before I headed south to United.

Other people don’t see the game or the world the way you do, and sometimes you have to adjust to that reality. Davie Campbell was a player I had at St Mirren. He could run like a deer but couldn’t trap a rabbit. I was into him at half-time when the door opened to reveal his father. ‘Davie, you’re doing brilliant son, well done!’ the dad announced, then disappeared.

We were at Cowdenbeath one day with East Stirling and made the mistake of not checking the weather. The pitch was brick hard. So we went into Cowdenbeath to buy 12 pairs of baseball boots. We had no rubber soles in those days. We were down three-nothing at half-time. In the second half I feel a tap on my shoulder from Billy Renton, a former team-mate of mine. He says: ‘Alex, I just want to introduce you to my son.’

I say: ‘For God’s sake, Billy, we’re getting beat three-nothing.’

That same day, Frank Connor, a lovely man with a hellish temper, watched a decision go against him and threw the bench on the pitch. I said: ‘Bloody hell, Frank, you’re winning three-nothing.’

‘It’s a disgrace, that,’ Frank fired back. These were the passions swirling all around me.

A story comes back to me of Jock Stein and his battles with Jimmy Johnstone, the brilliant player and legendary carouser. One afternoon, Jock took Jimmy off in a game as punishment for Jimmy not wanting to play in a European away game. As Jimmy came off he said: ‘You big one-legged bastard, you,’ and took a kick at the dug-out. Jimmy runs up the tunnel and big Jock gets after him. Jimmy locks himself in the dressing room.

‘Open that door,’ shouts Jock.

‘No, you’ll hurt me,’ replies Jimmy.

‘Open that door!’ repeats Jock. ‘I warn you.’

Jimmy opens the door and jumps straight into the bath, which is red hot.

Jock shouts: ‘Come out of there.’

‘No, I’m not coming out,’ says Jimmy. Outside, on the pitch, the game is still going on.

Football management is a never-ending sequence of challenges. So much of it is a study in the frailty of human beings. There was an occasion when a number of Scotland players, after a night of liquid entertainment, decided to jump in rowing boats. This ended with Jimmy Johnstone, wee Jinky, having the oars taken off him and the tide taking him out, while he was singing away. When the information got back to Celtic Park, Jock Stein was informed that Jinky had been rescued by the coastguard from a rowing boat in the Firth of Clyde. Jock joked: ‘Could he not have drowned? We’d have given him a testimonial, we’d have looked after Agnes, and I would still have my hair.’

Jock was hilarious. In our time together with Scotland, I recall us beating England 1–0 at Wembley in May 1985 and then flying out to Reykjavik to face Iceland, where we were feeling pretty pleased with ourselves. On the night of our arrival, the staff sat down to a banquet of prawns, salmon and caviar. Big Jock never drank, but I leaned on him to take one glass of white in celebration of our victory over the English.

In the game against Iceland, we scraped a 1–0 win. The performance was a disaster. And afterwards Big Jock turned to me and said: ‘See that? That’s you and your white wine.’

Despite having all this experience to draw on, I felt my way in the early years at Manchester United. Having a quick temper helped, because if I lost my rag my personality came through. Ryan Giggs has a temper, but a slow one. Mine was a useful tool. I just weighed right in. It helped me to assert my authority. It told the players and staff I was not to be messed about.

There are always people who want to take you on, defy you. When I started, even in my first days at East Stirling, I had a defining confrontation with the centre-forward, who was the son-in-law of one of the directors, Bob Shaw.

I was informed by one of my players, Jim Meakin, that his whole family went away for a weekend in September. It was a tradition.

‘What do you mean?’ I said.

‘You know, I’ll not be playing on Saturday,’ Jim says.

‘Well, I’ll tell you what,’ I said, ‘don’t play on Saturday – and then don’t bother coming back.’

So he played, and straight after drove down to join his family in Blackpool.

On the Monday I receive a phone call: ‘Boss, I’ve broken down.’ In Carlisle, I think it was. He must have thought I was stupid. Quick as a flash I said, ‘I can’t hear you very well, give me your number, I’ll call you back.’

Silence.

‘Don’t come back,’ I said.

Bob Shaw, the director, was deeply unhappy with me. This went on for weeks and weeks. The chairman was saying. ‘Alex, please, get Bob Shaw off my back, get Jim back playing.’

I said: ‘No, Willie, he’s finished. Are you telling me I can do my job with guys deciding when they’re going to go on holiday?’

‘I understand the problem, but is three weeks not enough?’ he said.

The next week he followed me into the toilets at Forfar, stood beside me, and groaned: ‘Please, Alex, if there’s any Christian understanding in your body.’

After a pause I said: ‘All right.’

And he kissed me. ‘What are you doing, you silly old sod,’ I said. ‘You’re kissing me in a public toilet.’

In October 1974, in the next stage of my apprenticeship, I went to work for St Mirren. First day, a photograph in the
Paisley Express
. In the print I noticed the captain making a gesture behind my back. The following Monday I called him in and said: ‘You’ve got a free transfer if you want it. There’s no place for you here. You’ll not be playing.

‘Why?’ he says.

‘For a start, doing a V-sign behind a manager doesn’t tell me you’re an experienced player, or that you’re a mature person. If I’m looking for a captain I’m looking for maturity. That was a childish schoolboy trick. You have to go.’

You have to make your mark. As Big Jock said to me about players: Never fall in love with them, because they’ll two-time you.

At Aberdeen I had to deal with all sorts of transgressions. I caught plenty out. Afterwards you kill yourself laughing at their reactions.

‘Me?’ they would say, with the most brilliantly wounded expression.

‘Aye, you.’

‘Oh, I went to see a mate.’

‘Oh did you? For three hours? And ended up pissed?’ Mark McGhee and Joe Harper would test me plenty. Then there was Frank McGarvey, at St Mirren. One Sunday in 1977 we took 15,000 fans to a cup game at Fir Park but lost 2–1. Motherwell kicked us off the park and I was reported
to the SFA for saying the referee had not been strong
enough.

That Sunday night my home phone rang. My mate John Donachie said down the line: ‘I didn’t want to tell you before the game because I knew you would go off your head, but I saw McGarvey in the pub, pissed, on Friday night.’ I phoned his house. His mother answered. ‘Is Frank in?’

‘No,’ she said, ‘he’s in town. Is there anything I can help you with?’

‘Can you ask him to phone me when he comes in. I’ll stay up. I’m not going to bed until I’ve spoken to him.’ At 11.45 p.m. the phone went. Pips sounded, so I knew it was a pay phone. ‘In the house,’ Frank said. ‘But that’s pips,’ I said. ‘Yeah, we’ve got a pay phone in our house,’ says Frank. That much was true, but I didn’t believe he was ringing from there.

‘Where were you on Friday night?’

‘I can’t remember,’ he says.

‘Well, I’ll tell you. You were in the Waterloo bar. That’s where you were. You’re suspended for life. Don’t come back. You’re out of the Scotland Under-21s. I’m withdrawing you. You’ll never kick another ball in your life.’ And I put the phone down.

The next morning, his mother rang me. ‘My Frank doesn’t drink. You’ve got the wrong man.’ I told her: ‘I don’t think so. I know every mother thinks the sun shines out of their son’s backside, but you go back and ask him again.’

For three weeks I had him suspended for life and the players were all muttering about it.

A League decider against Clydebank was approaching and I told my assistant, big Davie Provan: ‘I need him back for this one.’ The club do was at the town hall in Paisley the week before the Clydebank game. I walked in there with Cathy, and suddenly Frank jumped out from behind one of the pillars, begging: ‘Just give me one more chance.’ This was a gift from heaven. There was me wondering how I could bring him back into the fold without losing face and he jumps out from behind a pillar. I told Cathy to walk in while I maintained my sternest tone with Frank: ‘I told you, you’re finished for life.’ Tony Fitzpatrick, who had been watching, steps forward: ‘Boss, give him another chance, I’ll make sure he behaves.’

‘Talk to me tomorrow morning,’ I barked. ‘This is not the right time.’ I enter the hall to join Cathy, triumphant. We won the Clydebank game 3–1, and Frank scored two.

With young people you have to try to impart a sense of responsibility. If they can add greater awareness to their energy and their talents they can be rewarded with great careers.

One asset I possessed when I started as a manager was that I could make a decision. I was never afraid of that, even as a schoolboy picking a team. I was instructing players even then: ‘You play here, you play there,’ I used to tell them then. Willie Cunningham, one of my early managers, would say: ‘You know, you’re a bloody nuisance.’ I would talk tactics at him and ask: ‘Are you sure you know what you’re doing?’

‘Nuisance, that’s what you are,’ he would answer.

The other players would sit there listening to my interventions and assume I was about to be killed for insubordination. But it was just that I could always make a decision. I don’t know where it comes from, but I know that as a boy I was an organiser, an instructor, a picker of teams. My father was an ordinary working man, very intelligent, but not a leader of any description, so I was not copying a parental example.

On the other hand there is a part of me, I know, that is solitary, cut off. At 15, playing for Glasgow schoolboys, I came home after scoring against Edinburgh schoolboys – the greatest day of my life – to be told by my father that a big club wanted to talk to me. My response surprised us both: ‘I just want to go out. I want to go to the pictures.’

‘What’s the matter with you?’ he said.