DYING ON YOUR FEET
21.11.06
Celtic 1
Manchester United 0
Champions League, Group F
All the laughter stops tonight. The team lose, which is a minor miracle considering the way they dominate the match, and Ferguson is gruff and irritable in his press conference, in no mood for an inquisition. He cannot comprehend how his players could be so careless after having so much of the ball. United have given Celtic a lesson in everything apart from the art of putting the ball into the net. He is shaking his head, a fatigued expression on his face, trying to fathom out how they could possibly have lost.
He says United should have won comfortably, and it is difficult to disagree given the obvious imbalance of talent between the two teams. Yet United are not incisive enough inside the penalty area and for the first time, they conspicuously miss Van Nistelrooy. Celtic keep going, throwing themselves into every tackle. Ten minutes from the end, they are awarded a free-kick thirty-five yards from goal. Shunsuke Nakamura, their Japanese midfielder, wraps his left boot around the ball and suddenly it is spearing into the top left-hand corner of Van der Sar’s goal. It is a once-in-a-lifetime goal, a swirling, dipping, piercing shot over the defensive wall and down and suddenly Ferguson is the one Glaswegian in Parkhead whose blood has not been converted into red wine.
Even then, United should salvage the draw that is needed to send them through. In stoppage time, the referee awards United a penalty and suddenly the Celtic Roar is replaced by a long howl of anguish. Saha picks up the ball but his eyes are glazed and his body language is all wrong. A few minutes earlier he had run clear on goal, only to imagine a non-existent offside flag. He paused, waiting for a whistle, when the first rule for a centre-forward is to score first and ask questions later. Now, with the chance to send United into the knockout rounds, he looks incapable of getting his butterflies to flutter in formation. Gary Neville watches him measure out his run-up and Neil Lennon, the Celtic captain, asks him what he thinks. Neville shakes his head – Lennon later claims – and says that Saha is going to screw it up because ‘his head has gone’.
It is the first time all season that Saha has found Van Nistelrooy’s shoes too big to fill. His nerve deserts him and when his shot – on target, to the goalkeeper’s right, but not close enough to the corner and neither low nor high – is palmed away the Celtic fans reach a point of near-hysteria. Relief and joy and euphoric incredulity all come together to form an explosion of unremitting noise. A din that screeches through Ferguson’s ears like fingers running down a blackboard.
He talks afterwards about how the team cannot get away with being so wasteful, how they will have to take a greater percentage of chances if they want to be successful in the Champions League. There is only one game left in their qualifying group, at home to Benfica, and he can scarcely believe that United’s qualification is going to the wire after winning their opening three games.
He looks sick with misery, hating the feeling of defeat, hating that it has happened in Scotland, clearly angry with his players. Ferguson is not a man who is capable of hiding how he feels and, most of the time, he does not even try. We can sense everything from his abrupt, defensive tone and the way the skin is cinched around his eyes. The way he looks at us. The way he stares into our eyes, flashing us coded messages.
Peter Martin, the reporter for Radio Clyde, asks him: ‘Are you angry with your players, Alex?’
Ferguson looks him in the eye. ‘I don’t think I’m angry with anyone,’ he says, a flash of irritation sweeping across his face. ‘Maybe with you for asking such stupid questions.’
He says it like a slap. Quick, like a cobra strike, and Martin’s reflexes aren’t ready. He gently tilts his head, as if to say: ‘Did I hear that right?’ Then he realises he did and for one awful moment he looks as if he might say something back. Or laugh. Or make some other dreadful mistake. He sneaks a look at the rest of us and we play dumb, offering him absolutely no support. We’re bastards like that. If Ferguson is having a go at someone we will happily let him get on with it. Nobody will ever butt in and say: ‘Hang on, Alex, that’s a bit unfair.’ We’re far too gutless. And besides, it can be quite entertaining watching someone get it in the neck.
We have all been there at one time or another. The blood rushing to your head. The sudden sensation that your mouth has gone dry and sticky, as if you have swallowed a tablespoon of baking soda. Then afterwards, the sweeping sense of indignation and the horrible feeling that people are sniggering behind your back. Which they usually are.
THE SPECIAL ONE
26.11.06
Manchester United 1
Chelsea 1
The front cover of Red Issue carries a picture of Ferguson and Jose Mourinho deep in conversation. Ferguson is chuckling away, looking very pleased with himself, and Mourinho has a pained expression on his face.
Mourinho’s voice bubble says: ‘I never expected you to be clear at the top at this stage.’
Ferguson replies: ‘Aye, me neither pal …’
For forty-five minutes today United pass and move with wonderful precision. They knock the ball around. There is pace and refinement and when Saha soothes his confidence with the opening goal, half an hour in, they have Chelsea on the rack. The crowd are on their feet, loud and excitable. The football is bold, incisive, beautifully choreographed. Everything is tipping in their favour.
But Chelsea are fortified against the possibility of losing football matches. Mourinho’s team may not compare with United as crowd-pleasers. They may not ping the ball about in such a pretty fashion and work such elaborate, triangular patterns. But they are brilliantly efficient. The second half is theirs. They force their way back into the match, equalising with a deflected header. When the ball hits the net Mourinho is off, machine-gunning his fists, running down the touchline in his black overcoat and polished shoes. The Special One, the star in his own movie.
United stay top of the Premiership, three points clear, but there is an overwhelming feeling at the final whistle that it is an opportunity lost and, afterwards, Mourinho emphasises the point with a certain smugness. His is a world-class display in his press conference, talking up Chelsea’s powers of recovery, gently questioning United’s durability. He describes it as a psychological victory for his players and he guesses that Ferguson must be ‘very disappointed’. Every sentence is laced with spin.
To watch Mourinho in these high-pressure situations is to witness a hypnotic presence. He isn’t like a normal football manager. He is too chiselled, too debonair. Mourinho is Hollywood handsome, all Don Johnson and George Clooney. Prada scarf. Rolex watch. Expensive aftershave. He nods to the sound of his voice, as if he likes what he is hearing. He has an intense look on his face and when he has said what he wants to say – mostly, it is one long speech rather than the typical question-and-answer session – he nods curtly and slides out of his seat in one movement, his eyes darting around the room as he whacks open the door and floats away.
Ferguson seems almost doddering in comparison. For such a powerful man, his are surprisingly small steps. He wears a sensible coat, nothing too flash, and when it is cold, like today, his shoulders are hunched to his chin. He is not bothered about designer labels and he doesn’t exude Mourinho’s flamboyance or showmanship. At this point in Ferguson’s life, he is not seduced by fame. He still gets his hair cut for eight quid at Trims in Cheadle Hulme and he owns one of the few cars at Carrington not to have blacked-out windows. He has sufficient power not to have to flaunt it.
Twenty-one years separate him from Mourinho and, in many respects, they are poles apart temperamentally. In one corner, the Glaswegian street-fighter; in the other, the Portuguese smooth-talker. Sir Chalk and Senhor Cheese – two men of vastly different backgrounds and lifestyles.
The paradox is that they share many of the same behavioural traits: the passion, the control freakery, the refusal to suffer fools, the desire for conflict, the humour, the attitude. Mou
rinho, like Ferguson, is capable of turning the toughest journalistic Rottweiler into a spaniel. Neither is a tall or imposing man, but their personalities are forceful enough to create the aura. They are hardnosed, driven, famously unapologetic, and they have the best CVs in the business. Maybe not the most controversial and outspoken men in football – but certainly on the group photo.
You wonder how long it will be before the friction starts to warp their relationship. Sooner or later one of them will say something the other doesn’t like. There will be a reaction and suddenly they will be bustling past each other without even raising their eyes. For now, though, they genuinely seem to get on as well as can be reasonably expected for two men in such direct opposition.
‘I like Jose,’ Ferguson says. ‘I see him as the young gunslinger who has come to town to challenge the old sheriff. He has a great sense of humour and there is a devilish wit about him. He’s like me, he speaks his mind. I understand his passion for the club, so there’s no problem. We were at a dinner in London the other week for a children’s charity. There was good banter, honest conversation and I enjoy that. We get on well.’
At the final whistle they shake hands straight away. There is even a quick embrace and Ferguson invites Mourinho into his office for a glass of wine. Mourinho has come prepared, with a £200 bottle of Portuguese red, and for ten minutes they sit together and talk about football and life.
SUGAR LOUNGE
1.12.06
Ronnie Wallwork, a former United player, is in hospital after being stabbed at Sugar Lounge, a bar in Manchester where a lot of the footballers drink. The police are calling it attempted murder and Ferguson is asked for his reaction at today’s press conference.
‘I just hope the boy’s going to be all right,’ he says. ‘I can’t believe it. I’m shocked.’
He asks us if we have heard any updates and he shakes his head in disbelief. ‘Jesus … don’t go to that Sugar Loaf!’
It is a serious subject but there is a squawk of laughter on the back row. Someone else joins in. Then, very soon, it is like that moment at school when the teacher is standing at the front of class and everyone has an uncontrollable fit of giggles.
Ferguson looks utterly bewildered, completely at a loss about what is so funny, until someone puts him out his misery.
‘I think it’s known as the Sugar Lounge, Alex.’
He lets the moment hang then he heaves with laughter. It is one of those rare moments when all the barriers come crashing down and everyone is on the same level.
‘Ah well, Sugar Lounge then. Don’t go there, whatever it’s called …’
He is still laughing when a reporter from The Times raises his arm. ‘Don’t your players drink in that bar as well?’
‘No, no. Not at all. None of my boys ever go there.’
‘They do, you know. They’re quite often in there.’
‘Listen, I’m telling you – they don’t.’
‘I’m sorry, Alex, but I’ve seen them there myself.’
His eyes squint at that revelation. Ferguson is not keen on his players being out at night, particularly if it means they have been drinking.
‘Well,’ he says, after a few long seconds, ‘you shouldn’t be in a place like that either … it says more about you than me, son.’
BENFICA II
6.12.06
Manchester United 3
Benfica 1
Champions League, Group F
Mission accomplished. The team have had a scare but the important thing is that they have finally made it through to the knockout rounds, even if it is amazing that they make life so difficult for themselves.
Tonight is classic United: going behind, then springing into life and dragging themselves out of trouble. Never has a team won their opening three Champions League group games and failed to qualify, so Ferguson is probably a little embarrassed that his side nearly became the first. But the only thing that really matters is that they are in the draw for the last sixteen, courtesy of an impressive feat of escapology and goals from Vidic, Saha and Giggs. They have put Benfica in their place and Ferguson can joke about the ‘torture’ his team put him through: ‘Why do my players take us right to the very edge so often? Why do they do it to me? It’s as if the makeup of this club has a built-in requirement to take the difficult route.’
Hopefully they will learn from it. They may have to. All of Europe’s top clubs – Barcelona, Madrid, Milan, Bayern Munich and so on – have made it to the knockout rounds. The serious business begins now and it does not reflect well on United’s chances that they have hobbled over the line.
THE COMIC STRIP
8.12.06
The Sunday newspapers have linked United with a £10 million move for Charlton Athletic striker Darren Bent. Ferguson thinks it is hilarious.
‘Jesus Christ, how do you lot come up with this stuff? It’s Korky the Cat, Dennis the Menace stuff. Do you read Lord Snooty? Which comic is it you guys work for these days? Absolutely priceless.’
He is wheezing with laughter. ‘I get the papers every morning and I have a good laugh about them. I get my cup of tea. I look at what you’ve written. I get an aspirin to make sure I get over it. And then I go about my day’s work … still laughing.’
FERGIE AND HIS BUS PASS
29.12.06
It’s Ferguson’s sixty-fifth birthday on New Year’s Eve and we have clubbed together to buy him a bottle of Pinot Noir, with a card that reads: ‘Hope this is better than the paint-stripper Mourinho gives you. Many happy returns. The dailies.’
No official presentations though. We simply give it to Diana Law, asking her to hand it over after Ferguson has finished his press conference and driven back to the main building at Carrington. We are not sure if our relationship with Ferguson is ready for a public love-in yet and we are very aware that the Sundays would find it hilarious. We are not even sure whether buying him a present is a good idea, considering our grievances about access. It is the first time we have done anything like this and it needs a show of hands before we decide to go through with it.
Two abstain, one votes no ‘unless it’s Blue Nun’. Six of us chip in a fiver each, albeit with one complaining that it makes us look ‘desperate’. Which, unfortunately, is true.
Still, you’ve got to make the effort, haven’t you? We are going to need Ferguson if the team carry on doing well. He has generally been a lot better with us this season. And, besides, how can you fail to be impressed by someone who is on the verge of turning sixty-five yet still puts in enough hours to shame the average workaholic? Ferguson may have his faults but he is an example to us all in terms of his dedication and commitment. It has been an epic run. Nobody has beaten the system so emphatically. Nobody has done it for so long or with such tireless enthusiasm.
To most men, sixty-five is the time to slip into dotage as if it were a nice warm bath. Bus-pass time: pipe, slippers and port and lazy afternoons watching Countdown. Except that Ferguson was out of bed at half past five this morning and into Carrington with his hair still wet from his morning shower. ‘Sometimes it is even earlier,’ he tells us. ‘I’ll often get up at five. It’s just the way I am, you know. Hard work and long hours do not scare me and I’ve always got up early. As a young boy, my dad used to get me up at six o’clock every day. So it’s no different to when I was growing up. To me, it’s just a normal way of life.’
Growing old, he says, does not scare him. ‘The thing about turning sixty-five is that it is a milestone because it’s the age when people normally collect their pensions. I’m waiting for the envelope to drop through the door. I’ll get my bus pass and heating allowance and after the length of time I’ve worked I probably deserve them too. But the important thing is that I feel fine. I’m as fresh as can be.’
He doesn’t look bad for it either. He jokes about being ‘ravaged by time’ but there isn’t a hint of pot belly on his body. His hair, once chestnut, is greying and his face is full of worry lines and bags, like an offic
er from the Serious Crime Squad. Yet he still looks young for a man of his age, more like fifty-five than sixty-five.
Ferguson’s enthusiasm for life is so intense that it is easy to forget he had to go into hospital in 2004 to have a pacemaker fitted after he was diagnosed with a heart condition known as supraventricular tachycardia, or SVT. Ferguson had wanted to keep it secret but someone sold the story to the Sun, making a tidy little profit in the process.
For most men, an experience like that could have been life-changing, the body’s way of pointing out that it was time to take life at an easier pace. But Ferguson’s a monster. He was back at work for half past six the next morning, talking about ‘business as usual’, and it doesn’t seem to have altered his lifestyle one bit. Occasionally, he talks about trying to get more time off and scolds himself for not delegating more of his jobs. But he never goes through with it. He is still clocking up air miles, scouting foreign players and watching European games, still ‘never out of bloody hotels’. He can still be found presenting prizes at some under-12s’ competition in Collyhurst or on the edge of a muddy school field in Burnage, running his eye over some promising kid he has been told about. And he still gets by with an unfeasible lack of sleep: in bed by midnight, into Carrington before sunrise. Half an hour in the gym. A bit of toast and cereal, a cup of tea, then into his paperwork.
This is the One: Sir Alex Ferguson: The Uncut Story of a Football Genius Page 20
