Still the Boss
I’VE HEARD IT said that a manager can’t do anything once the players have crossed the white line. And it’s bollocks. Anyone who says that has never had a good manager.
Our boss has a massive effect on the team whenever a match is on. You can feel him in your head. At the back of your mind – sometimes at the front, too – you’ll be thinking, ‘Christ, I’ve got to go and face him at half-time. I’d better start playing better or he might rip my skull out.’
Don’t get me wrong, you aren’t living in a state of fear. Mostly you are concentrating on your game. But you know, deep down, that you are puppets at the end of his string. He’s in control. He makes or breaks your career. He decides whether it’s going to be a great Saturday night – ‘Well done, son’ – or a sleepless weekend. It’s down to him whether you get to enjoy your Chinese meal and your glass of wine with your family after a match or sit there in miserable silence. He controls your destiny.
Managers helpless on the sidelines? You won’t hear that from any United player who sees our boss on the side of the pitch shouting his head off. You’ll see him out of the corner of your eye, you’ll know he’s coming after you so you’ll try to make it look like your concentration is elsewhere. You pretend not to see him – Giggsy’s become a master of it down the years – or you start a totally unnecessary conversation with a teammate to fool him that you’re busy. But you know he won’t let it slide. You know it’s coming at half-time or after the game unless you get yourself out of a hole sharpish. That has a massive effect on you. It makes you regret any lapse and work twice as hard to put it right. You could argue that it’s the manager’s greatest talent – to always make you feel his presence.
He’s there all the time. At the training ground he’s never been one to lead the sessions. He must have done a handful in all my time at the club. He’s always been strictly manager, not coach. But somehow he never misses anything.
He’ll suddenly appear, walking up and down the sidelines, chatting to the coaches or talking into his mobile, but always alert. Everyone knows he is a workaholic, into the training ground before the milkman. And there’s nothing his eyes and ears don’t pick up before he leaves.
He’s a constant presence, but it’s on match day he really comes alive. From 1.30 p.m. until two is the manager’s team talk. This is his moment, his most important thirty minutes of the week. He’ll tell us the team, how we are going to play, the strengths and weaknesses of our opponent. In later years we had a video to watch too, but the manager always spoke from his handwritten notes. There might be half a dozen points to make, some to the team, some to individuals. He might mention a danger man, or the need to avoid conceding set-pieces. He might say, ‘Let’s get behind their left-back because he can’t run.’
He doesn’t shout, he just delivers his message, like a general before battle, clearly and confidently. Every word is said for a reason. It’s mostly serious, though sometimes he’ll lighten the mood, often unintentionally. We’d always look forward to playing Aston Villa just to hear him mangle Ugo Ehiogu’s name. ‘Make sure you pick up Ehugu, Ehogy, whatever his name is.’ We’d always chuckle at that one. He never got it right.
In the dressing room before the match, he’ll not say too much, though occasionally he’ll feel it’s the time to rouse the players. He’s got a squad of different nationalities, different ages, different characters, kids from Brazil and local lads like me, and he wants to make us all feel like we’re in it together. Part of a team.
Three or four times a season he’ll make the same speech – and it never fails to work. ‘Look round this dressing room,’ he’ll say. ‘Look at each other and be proud to be in this together.’ He’ll point to an individual. ‘I’d want him on my team. And him, and him.’ By the time he’s finished, you can feel the hairs on the back of your neck standing to attention. Your skin will be covered in goosebumps. Your heart will be thumping.
Sometimes he might latch on to a specific incident, like when a Chelsea groundsman took a swing at Patrice Evra. ‘Look at Patrice, he’s four foot tall and he’s not afraid of anyone. He’s not giving in to anyone. He’s a fighter. Now, what about the rest of you?’
Then, just before you go out, he’ll stand at the dressing-room door. No player leaves without him being there pre-match and at half-time. You walk past him and he shakes the hand of every player and every member of staff. He doesn’t have to say anything. He’s the boss, probably the greatest manager ever in this country. What more motivation do you need?
The influence and intensity of our boss has never dimmed for a nanosecond, even as he approaches seventy. So it’s amazing to think he was planning to quit in 2002. What a waste that would have been. Just think of all those championships and trophies he’d have missed out on. Count all the rivals he’s seen off since then.
As we went into the 2001/02 season, there’s no doubt that we were counting down the days until his retirement. He’d confirmed that this would be his last campaign, even though we’d won the last three championships. We’d been a machine trampling over our rivals, but now every week brought another story about the club’s future, about who might take over and what role the manager would play.
I couldn’t specifically say how all this chatter undermined the team. Most of the talking went on outside the club, but its unsettling effect was indisputable. There was no waning of the manager’s authority – not by a fraction – but I guess subconsciously you start to waste energy thinking about what lies ahead. And you can’t afford even the slightest distraction when you are in the business of chasing trophies.
Fearful of what the future might hold once the manager had gone, Steve McClaren departed to Middlesbrough, and he wouldn’t be properly replaced that season. We could have done with his tactical insight given that the team was in transition.
Jaap Stam was sold, which was a bombshell as big as Sparky leaving, even for the players – especially for the players. We were as mystified as anyone. All kinds of conspiracies swirled around because Jaap’s exit came on the back of his ‘controversial’ autobiography; but I’ve always believed that the book was a minor factor, perhaps irrelevant. I know the manager wasn’t thrilled about the book, and nor was I at being called a ‘busy c***’. Jaap had called me that to my face many times, and I know it was meant affectionately, but it didn’t look quite so clever spread across the front of the
Daily Mirror
.
He was very apologetic, because he was a big softie at heart, a big playful bear. Phil, Butty and I used to wind him up by flicking his ears or tapping him on the back of the head so he’d run after us, like a father chasing after a naughty kid. He didn’t mean any harm with the book, he’d just not thought through the consequences of serialisation, when little passages get blown up into big stories. As I explained to him, you can say Ruud van Nistelrooy was selfish when he was near goal but the headline won’t explain how that selfishness was part of his brilliance.
People came up with their conspiracy theories for Jaap’s exit, but all that counted was that the manager had lost confidence in him – a mistake, as he’d later admit. He thought Jaap had lost a bit of pace, and was dropping off. But even if that was partly true, he remained an immense presence for us in defence. He was missed.
Understandably, Jaap was in a state of shock when I bumped into him coming out of the manager’s office.
‘I’m out of here. I’m flying to Rome tonight to sign for Lazio.’
‘You’re under contract. You can stay.’
‘No, he wants me out. There’s no point staying where I’m not wanted.’
It was a strange one, made more bizarre when Laurent Blanc, a class act but clearly past his best, arrived as replacement. There aren’t many big decisions you can point to and say the manager called that one wrong. This was one.
On the positive side, we made some marquee signings. A year later than planned, Ruud van Nistelrooy arrived. What a class striker he’d prove, as good as any I played with.
And then came Juan Sebastian Verón, bought from Lazio for £28 million. Like everyone, I was excited about Verón coming. He’d had success in Italy. Perhaps a bit of South American flair combined with our British doggedness would make a perfect mix as we strived to reconquer Europe.
Sadly, that’s not how it worked out. We’d see Seba in training and he was fantastic. He could pass and shoot, he had vision and athleticism, and he was a hard worker. But it proved impossible to integrate Seba into the side. Using him alongside Roy meant pushing Scholesy further forward, as a second striker behind Ruud. He wasn’t happy now he was being asked to play with his back to goal. We had a squad of great players, but we weren’t clicking.
I could understand what the manager was trying to do. We needed to control games better in Europe, to dictate and vary the pace rather than try to outgun every team. Champions League defeats to Madrid and Bayern had taught us that. But now we were caught halfway.
We still had wingers but they were delivering balls to a centre-forward in Ruud who didn’t like to use his head. We’d try to go through the middle but Scholesy and Seba were getting in each other’s way. We’d needed to move on, but it wasn’t easy to change our habits. In December we found ourselves down in ninth place after three consecutive league defeats. This was not the way the manager had wanted to say farewell.
There were rumours that the club was trying to lure Sven-Göran Eriksson at this time – and it made sense, given the instant, positive impact he’d had with England. Perhaps another manager, maybe Sven, could have come in at United and led us on to many triumphs. But I’m glad we didn’t have to find out. Following the boss is going to be a huge job for someone one day – probably requiring a manager with José Mourinho’s track record and self-confidence – but I couldn’t imagine playing under anyone else. I was thrilled when in February the boss revealed that he wouldn’t be retiring after all.
He gathered all the players in the dressing room to tell us. There was no great emotion expressed on either side – that’s not how it works in a dressing room – but we were all very happy deep down. I say ‘all’, but Yorkie’s face dropped because he was being left out by the boss and he could maybe start afresh under a new manager. The boss had barely left the room when Keano piped up, ‘Well, that’s you fucked, Yorkie.’
The manager’s decision to stay was a massive boost, ending all the uncertainty, but it came too late to save a domestic season that was full of inconsistencies. The upside was Ruud’s form. He had made up for lost time by scoring twenty-three goals in thirty-two league games in his first season. He was a proper goalscorer, obsessed with hanging around the penalty area, which was both a great strength and, occasionally, a huge frustration. He’s the only teammate I’ve almost come to blows with.
We were playing away at Middlesbrough and I hit a ball down the channel. Ruud threw up his arms in the air, as if to say ‘What am I meant to do with that?’
I ran forward. ‘Run after it, you lazy bastard.’
I was thinking that Sparky, Andy Cole or Ole Gunnar Solskjaer would have chased it all day. But not Ruud. He wanted to save his energy for the penalty area.
I forgot all about it, but after the game I was sitting in the corner taking my boots off when he came flying towards me, swearing his head off. ‘Don’t fucking shout at me on the pitch!’
I stood up and tried to push him away. The lads jumped in and separated us.
It was handbags, really, though Ruud had properly snapped. Things simmered overnight, but we shook hands the next day.
Partly I could take his point. Ruud played within the eighteen-yard box. That was his strength, and he’s probably the greatest goalscorer United have ever had. In terms of ratio of goals to chances, he was unbelievable. He was right up there with Shearer, probably just above, with that steely mentality that he was born to score. There was an arrogance about him. He probably thought I was a hairy-arsed English right-back while he was the heir to van Basten. Chasing the channels wasn’t his strength, and in some ways he was right. In McClair and Sparky’s time, they would chase wide and hold the ball up, laying it off to a full-back. But that had become too predictable. The game has changed, and changed for the better. It’s become more sophisticated.
Despite Ruud’s goals, 2001/02 was notable for being our first trophyless season since 1997/98. We’d lost too much ground in the league to Arsenal early in the season, and of all our defeats in the latter rounds in Europe, perhaps our least forgivable was at the hands of Bayer Leverkusen.
We were knocked out in the semi-finals by a team there for the taking – and I broke my foot in the second leg and missed the World Cup finals. I’d been feeling pain in my foot and had actually gone for a scan the day before we played Leverkusen. I was told it was just bone bruising. Then during the match I went for a tackle and something went. After a few minutes of limping around, I knew I had to come off. Within an hour I’d be in hospital in an X-ray department and the doctor would be telling me I’d broken my fifth metatarsal.
‘What about the World Cup?’
‘Sorry, no chance.’
It was going to be eight to twelve weeks. Even with my maths, I knew that ruled me out. It was a disaster, really, because I was at a peak moment. I’d recovered from the debacle of 2000 and was back in top form.
I’d resolved to change my lifestyle. I used to read the papers, probably too often. I’d note down all the bad articles. I was too intense. So after Euro 2000, and my own crap season at United, I decided I had to loosen up. I decided to be tabloid-free.
I moved home, too, from a house outside Manchester into a nice penthouse flat on Deansgate right in the heart of the city. I wanted to have more of a social life. This wasn’t Gary Neville becoming a party animal – far from it. I was still tucked up early a couple of nights before a game. But I might at least go out for a meal and a glass of wine on a Thursday night rather than lie in bed at 9.30 thinking about my opponents. I was finding more balance in my life. About time, too.