‘I was dismissed from the room. About ten, fifteen minutes later I got summoned to Fergie’s office, just a wee cubby hole. He was sitting behind the table and I just stood. “What is it, boss?” He says, “Don’t ever go to my fucking chairman.” I said, “Excuse me, he’s my chairman as well, and you don’t need to swear at me, you can express yourself and I can perfectly understand what you’re saying.” “Get out of my fucking office!” He cleared the table. I always say I was the first to get the hairdryer [treatment]. That was his way. And he sorted out many bigger superstars than me.’
The third of the so-called Westhill Willie-biters, Ian Fleming, was a small, gutsy, street-fighter of a striker who had been brought to the club by Ally MacLeod and had subsequently proved himself invaluable to McNeill. Fleming suspected that Ferguson had a problem with him because of on-field issues from the past, in particular challenges on two St Mirren players, Bobby Reid and Iain Munro. On both occasions Ferguson’s dug-out exploded in angry protest at Fleming. Now Ferguson was his boss. Fleming said: ‘I was quite hard. If I thought defenders were going out to nail me my attitude was that I would get in there first. I remember those St Mirren games. Their dug-out were out shouting at me, “Fleming, ya dirty…Yer an animal.” I turned and said, “Sit on yer arses, I never touched him.” So me and Fergie had history. I just got it in my head that he didn’t want me. He did say, “I want you here as a pool player.” But I’d always been a first-team player with Kilmarnock and then with Aberdeen. I kept going in to see him. I’d tell him it wasn’t working. Stevie Archibald and I used to sit outside his office at dinner-time, both waiting to see him. He’d say, “You two again?” Did I give him a chance? Maybe I didn’t. I should have sat tight and fought my case. He thought there were cliques. He thought the likes of me and wee Joe were troublemakers. Maybe I was wrong and was too sharp in wanting away. But I loved the club. I still do.’
The Westhill lads may have grumbled about Ferguson’s methods but they never short-changed Aberdeen on the pitch, or moaned to the press. Nor did they attempt to enlist others to provoke a mutiny. There would have been no point. Three of the most powerful figures in the dressing room–Willie Miller, Stuart Kennedy and Bobby Clark–were supportive of the changes Ferguson was imposing, and the more they got to know him, the deeper their loyalty grew. Miller was aware of the mutterings against Ferguson, and resisted them: ‘I was never part of that group. I was the captain and felt I had a responsibility to support the manager. Even if it was a bad manager I would have felt that responsibility. But he wasn’t a bad manager, he just rubbed people up the wrong way. He wanted to win titles and he kept drilling that into us. I assessed it and I thought if someone’s that determined to be successful then he would do for me. Alex assessed it pretty quickly; he didn’t really need me to tell him. He knew who was for him and who was against him. One of his great attributes is judging characters and knowing who he can trust, who is 100 per cent with him and who is not. But he found it tough going in the first year.’
Clark was the team’s elder statesman and a highly respected professional. He recalls those early tensions with frustration: ‘Some of the older boys had been Billy McNeill’s boys. I remember grabbing some of the guys and saying, “Billy’s not coming back, so why are you doing this? First of all give him a chance.” I said, “Let’s get this thing going again because you’re just taking money out of your own pockets here, you’re self-destructing, you’re winning the league for Celtic.” And then Alex grew and people began to realise that he was very, very good.’
Ferguson needed people he could trust. Chairman Dick Donald and vice-chairman Chris Anderson were influential allies, so was trainer and reserve-team manager Teddy Scott, while the loyalty of his assistant, Pat Stanton, was beyond question. One player made the mistake of going to Stanton with a gripe about Ferguson. ‘It was a football issue, but it was about Alex,’ said Stanton. ‘I stopped him and said, “Listen, before you go any further, Alex Ferguson brought me here to help him and I’ll no’ help him by talking behind his back. So if you continue this conversation, and say what you’re about to say, I’ll tell the manager because that’s what I’m here for. I’m on the manager’s side. I owe it to him to cover his back.”’ Stanton was respected by the players, and they confided in him, but his commitment was to Ferguson. When the pair of them discussed the squad in that first season they reached similar conclusions. Anyone they had reservations about would have to go. Stanton said: ‘I remember sitting talking to him one day, just running through the players. One thing about Alex Ferguson is that he saves himself a lot of time. He clears things up quickly and he can spot a phoney. I just said to him, “Some of these players here, they’re not going to do it for you so what’s the point of them being here?” I felt there was a wee bit of resentment towards him. I said to him, “Just get rid of them or they’ll get rid of you.”’
Ian Taggart, club secretary during Ferguson’s time, observed the fate of dissenters at close quarters: ‘The directors were aware of it and they talked about it. I don’t think they talked to Fergie about it. But the senior players nipped it in the bud and that was the end of it. Too many of the players could see that he had it. He weeded out the other players. They all disappeared.’ Defender Doug Rougvie put it more bluntly: ‘The Westhill Willie-biters? He got them out. They all got bombed. He slaughtered them.’
Fleming was first to go. He made more than 100 appearances for Aberdeen, but he did not last five months under Ferguson before he was sold to Jack Charlton’s Sheffield Wednesday in February 1979. ‘I regret leaving so early,’ he says now. ‘I would have liked to have played for him because I would have suited him. But the damage was done. That’s the regret of my football life, but how could I know they were going to win so many trophies? In football there are people you get on with and people you don’t. He’s maybe the greatest manager there has ever been. But the best manager for me was Billy McNeill. I’ll always say that.’
Sullivan was next. Eight months later Celtic came in for him again. He received a phone call from Ferguson: McNeill wanted to see him, and this time there would be no objections. ‘Come in at 7 o’clock, get your boots, be out of the place at half-seven.’ Sullivan was a fine footballer and the move to the club he had supported since childhood would result in him winning two league championships. Eventually he would make peace with Ferguson as well. ‘We met years later at the opening of a pub in Glasgow. I sat with Fergie, “How you doing, boss?” I sat with him for two hours. And he says, “I was probably too hasty with you.” I said, “Boss, I was never against you and I never wanted to leave.”’
Surprisingly, the Westhill ringleader, Joe Harper, survived far longer than the others. After the clash in Ferguson’s office, he vowed to keep his head down and lasted another two-and-a-half seasons at Pittodrie. However, serious knee injuries kept him off the pitch for long spells, and his solitary appearance in the 1980–81 campaign, a home defeat by Kilmarnock in the final match of the season, marked the end of his Aberdeen career. He had lost the battle with Ferguson, but he had preserved his regal status in front of the fans. He left Pittodrie with tears in his eyes after Ferguson broke the news that he would not be getting a new contract. The mutual mud-slinging of their later autobiographies showed that the bitterness between the pair was irreparable. But supporters have refrained from picking sides, then and now: Harper remains ‘King Joey’.
There was one other powerful character in the Aberdeen dressing room who travelled in from Westhill. He was as headstrong, stubborn and potentially troublesome as any of the other three, but Steve Archibald was no ‘Willie-biter’. Nor was he rushed out by Ferguson. Archibald was his own man; a serial complainer who was rarely without a grumble, often to do with his wages. But he had no inclination to resist or undermine the new boss. Unlike the others he was young, his best years in the game still ahead of him. Ferguson saw this, and in an early display of his capacity for pragmatism, giving leeway to those who were valuable to h
im, he shrugged off the player’s moaning. In turn, Archibald blossomed. When he left for Tottenham, at the end of Ferguson’s second season, it was on his own terms, having completed an £800,000 move the Dons could not refuse. It pained Ferguson to lose him.
Whether the dressing room was united in support or not, Ferguson’s ultimate vindication lay in results. Aberdeen’s first clash with Celtic on 7 October would be another test of the team’s nerve. However, they delivered a stirring 4–1 win at Pittodrie and Ferguson purred: ‘In all my years associated with football, both as a player and as a manager, I have never seen an Old Firm team demolished so successfully or beaten so easily as Celtic were here.’ Gradually the worries about his handling of the job began to ease. The season continued with a European exit at the hands of Fortuna Düsseldorf, but only after a performance of character and quality in the second leg on 1 November. ‘German clubs always fear playing in Scotland, and this is why,’ Fortuna manager Dieter Tippenhauer said after losing 2–0 at Pittodrie, but going through 3–2 on aggregate. ‘Aberdeen were strong, aggressive and never gave up. The Aberdeen team is young. I will be looking at their fortunes with interest in the future. Their day will come in European football.’
That result was the beginning of a ten-game unbeaten run which continued until the penultimate day of 1978, when Morton won at Pittodrie. Five of those matches may have been drawn, but at the turn of the year Aberdeen were sitting third in the Premier Division. Beating Meadowbank Thistle, Hamilton, Ayr United and finally Hibs in a semi-final won by Stuart Kennedy’s extra-time goal, the Dons had moved through to the League Cup final where they would face Rangers in March. By now a Ferguson team was emerging. Bobby Clark was the regular in goal, behind full-backs Stuart Kennedy and Chic McLelland. Willie Miller and Doug Rougvie provided a physically formidable central defence–the latter stepping in for the injured Willie Garner–and Gordon Strachan was emerging as a wee, red-haired box of tricks in the middle, offering far more than he had in his debut season under Billy McNeill. Alongside him, completing a midfield quartet, were John McMaster, Drew Jarvie and either Dom Sullivan or winger Ian Scanlon. And up front there were goals in both Archibald and Harper. In fact, between that finger-bending confrontation in the manager’s office and the end of the year, Joe Harper scored fifteen goals. The presence of a couple of ‘Willie-biters’ in the side evidently did nothing to disrupt the team’s spirit, or its improvement. The threat of rebellion they had presented to Ferguson had petered out. The results eased him out of trouble. On the field at least.
Even when the football offered solace, the second half of 1978 remained relentlessly stressful for Alex Ferguson. On 2 November, the day after Aberdeen were eliminated from Europe, the Evening Express’s front page headline was FERGUSON CHEATED ON EXPENSES. He had carried out his threat to take St Mirren to an industrial tribunal and now the dirty laundry was being hung out in public. The tribunal sat over four days between early November and early December and was an unwelcome distraction when Ferguson was still finding his feet at Pittodrie. There were more long journeys between Aberdeen and Glasgow, more long phone calls, and more meetings with solicitors. For reporters it was a dripping roast of juicy stories. Sacked football managers rarely take their former clubs to court and this revealed why: the questioning was done under oath and inevitably details emerged that neither party wished to make public. Among the reasons St Mirren gave for his dismissal were the drawing of £25-a-week unauthorised expenses and his payment of bonuses to players without the board’s permission. (In his defence, Ferguson produced a club letter from 1977 which he said showed he was entitled to all the expenses he had claimed.) The tribunal was also told that Ferguson was unhappy that St Mirren were prepared to pay three players more than he earned himself. There were vivid accounts of arguments with the directors, and of Ferguson walking out of a board meeting and threatening to sue. He was accused of engineering his own dismissal in order to earn £50,000 compensation, and of receiving a case of Champagne for acting as an advisor to a bookmaker friend. He denied all the allegations against him.
St Mirren’s lawyer remarked pointedly that it was ‘an extremely happy coincidence’ that Aberdeen should approach him with a job offer on the very day of his dismissal. St Mirren vice-chairman John Corson claimed that Ferguson had been described as ‘impossible to live with’ and revealed that most of the board had decided to sack him on 15 May, eleven days before a full meeting could be convened to ratify the decision. There was also evidence presented that he had had poor relationships and rows with office staff at Love Street, and an allegation that he had sworn at his female secretary when they argued about paying tax on a player’s expenses. His income was disclosed, too: a basic salary of £15,000 at St Mirren compared with £12,000 at Aberdeen, though at Pittodrie there was the incentive of bonuses of £6,000 for winning the league, £4,000 for finishing second and £2,000 for third place. Aberdeen, incidentally, had also given him an £18,000 interest-free loan to buy a house and provided a £7,500 Rover club car. For a man so guarded about his private life, it was galling to have such personal information disclosed in public. In response, Ferguson’s solicitor accused St Mirren chairman Willie Todd of pursuing a vendetta against the manager and of being ‘vicious and underhand’ in the way he handled the sacking.
Having heard all the evidence the tribunal took a fortnight to deliver its verdict. Although some of the individual charges were dismissed, including the one about advising the bookie, the tribunal ruled in favour of St Mirren and Ferguson lost the case. The dismissal had not been unfair, the tribunal concluded: relations between Ferguson and the board had become irrecoverable and he had charged £25-a-week expenses without permission; the club had been entitled to sack him on those grounds. It was his ‘impatient energy and single-mindedness, which so contributed to his success as a team manager, that led to his downfall,’ said the sixteen-page conclusion. In regard to the incident with the secretary, though, the report’s choice of words soon looked comical: ‘It shows him as one possessing neither by experience nor talent, any managerial ability at all…’
The verdict, delivered four days before Christmas, shattered Ferguson. ‘I would not like to go through something like that again. It took me away from my players at Aberdeen for three weeks and that is what is important to me now. I am strong enough to take it,’ he said afterwards. Fortunately his relationship with the Aberdeen directors, especially Dick Donald and Chris Anderson, had deepened as they stood by him. Donald dismissed the tribunal’s verdict as irrelevant to Aberdeen: it was a matter between Ferguson and St Mirren. Case closed. Such unquestioning loyalty made a lasting impression.
The episode had been an embarrassing career low. Ferguson then suffered a far greater personal trauma.
After four decades in the Clydeside shipyards, Alexander Beaton Ferguson reached pensionable age the year before the eldest of his two sons took over at Aberdeen. Alex senior spent nearly all his days in Govan, Glasgow, living and working in the shadows of the giant cranes. He was a plater’s helper, assisting the men who bolted iron plates on to the sides of ships. Later he was an assistant timekeeper in Fairfields. His son would name his house after that shipyard. Ferguson senior was a Protestant and the product of an area riven by sectarianism. Yet he married a Catholic girl, Elizabeth Hardie, and went against the grain by supporting Celtic rather than Rangers, even becoming chairman of the local supporters’ club. That showed his independent mind and he did not care when his boys, Alex and Martin, took the more conventional path and followed Rangers, the club based less than a mile from their tenement home.
He was a quiet, almost reserved man, well known and respected both at work and around the community. He avoided the two curses that so often blighted West of Scotland working-class life, bigotry and heavy drinking. And the long hours and endless overtime he put in at Fairfields meant his family lived in comparative comfort. Their home was clean and tidy and the boys always had clothes and regular meals. There was even an insid
e toilet, which was more than the neighbours could say. But he was also impatient, punctual and demanding, and possessed a volcanic temper. Discipline under Alex senior was strict, and that extended to his sons’ growing enthusiasm for football. When he watched them play he would bark instructions from the touchline. It was always ‘Ferguson’ he shouted, not Alex or Martin. He was a harsh judge, sparing with praise and quick to find fault. But he understood the game and his criticism was always constructive. The boys were told to keep their feet on the ground, never to get carried away. ‘He never allowed me to be satisfied,’ said Ferguson of his father. ‘Without him I would never have made it into football.’
Alex had been forced to take on less physically demanding work in the yards after surgery for bowel cancer in 1961. His health remained an ongoing concern for the family thereafter. In the second half of 1978, aged sixty-six and when his son was 150 miles away in Aberdeen, he fell into poor health and was diagnosed with lung cancer. Shortly before Christmas he was admitted to the Southern General Hospital in Glasgow. Already shuttling back and forth for his industrial tribunal hearings, Ferguson now crammed hospital visits into his relentless schedule. He saw his dad as often as possible, accepting that their time together was becoming increasingly precious.
Fergie Rises Page 6
