Leading: Learning from Life and My Years at Manchester United

by Alex Ferguson

  Some of our most experienced players formed parts of our intelligence network. I could always count on Ryan Giggs, Paul Scholes, Gary Neville and Rio Ferdinand for sound opinions on players from other top-tier clubs we were scouting or contemplating signing. They all knew what was required of people we would bring to United. They would tend to have very sharp opinions about other English players, and I’d always ask them whether they knew anything I should worry about. I always used to ask the players in the England squad whether they considered any players from other clubs were good enough for United. In 2006 that led us to sign Michael Carrick from Tottenham.

  The players would also work hard to try and help me sign prospects with whom they had some tie. Ryan Giggs was relentless in his quest to try and land his fellow Welshman, Aaron Ramsey, from Cardiff City. We flew Aaron up to Manchester but it was too late. I had got word from Dave Jones, the Cardiff manager, that Aaron had originally wanted to play for us, but Arsène Wenger had somehow managed to turn his head and convince him that his future lay at the Emirates. A couple of years later I got my revenge when Roy Hodgson, then the manager of Fulham, was instrumental in helping us snatch his defender, Chris Smalling, away from Arsenal.

  Great networks often extended well beyond the current crop of first-team players. It’s easy to forget about someone who has left an organisation and assume that because they’ve retired, or because their most fruitful years are behind them, they are no longer of any use. Quite the contrary. If the organisation has done right by them they will usually have fond memories of it, harbour considerable affection for it and be very happy to help. We tried to do this at United–inspired, in part, by what I saw at Bayern Munich.

  In the mid-1990s I approached Martin Edwards and suggested that United take a leaf from Bayern’s book and cultivate the talents of some of our best former players. They were familiar with the club, knew what we stood for, appreciated our pursuit of excellence and had the standing and reputation to act as role models. Bayern did this very well, and their greatest players were effectively running the club.

  I could never persuade Martin of the benefit of doing this and I think he might have been a bit suspicious that I was trying to rearrange the board of directors. So he just paid lip service to the idea and all we ever did was use former players such as Norman Whiteside, Paddy Crerand and Wilf McGuinness to help entertain supporters during the lunches and dinners that bracketed home games.

  When David Gill became the CEO, he embraced the thought because I wanted former players to help with the increased burden of the commercial side. These days we have a number of former players who do a lot of very useful work for the club. Obviously, Sir Bobby Charlton stands in a class by himself, having been a club director since 1984 and who, for 35 years before Ryan Giggs eclipsed his record, had played the most games for the club. But there are others, too, who act as club ambassadors and go on tours or spend time making sure that our commercial sponsors are happy and we retain them. Some of United’s all-time greats, like Peter Schmeichel, Andy Cole, Dwight Yorke, Bryan Robson, Denis Law, and, more recently, Ji-sung Park, all do this; it removed a lot of the burden from my shoulders and those of other members of management.

  Maybe the most important benefit of our network is the way we threaded former players into the coaching organisation. It’s a marvellous way to ensure continuity and excellence, because they know what enormous success tastes like and what is required to achieve it. Over the years we had plenty of other former players sprinkled through the coaching organisation, such as Brian McClair, Tony Whelan, Jim Ryan, Mick Phelan and Paul McGuinness. Ryan Giggs is today’s standout, in his role as Louis van Gaal’s assistant manager, but Nicky Butt is also assisting in coaching the reserve team and Paul Scholes returned to the club, albeit briefly, to assist Giggs when he was made caretaker manager. We also tried to stand by former players. For example, after Bryan Robson was sacked as the manager of Middlesbrough, I invited him to keep his hand in the game by helping with training sessions at United.

  If, as the years go by, some of United’s great players have earned their managerial stripes and come back to help run the club, I will have succeeded in bringing a touch of Bayern Munich to Manchester.

  I also tried to ensure that our club network extended to the supporters. Just as I was eager to know what was going on in the dressing room, I also liked to know the sentiment of long-time supporters. There were three guys I counted on for this: Norman Williams, Jim Kenway and Bill McGurr. I invited them to watch our training every Monday and Friday because I knew they would be discreet, keep their own counsel and refrain from blabbing to the press. I always used to chat with them while the players were warming up because they struck me as representing the heart and soul of the club and I knew they wouldn’t mince words. Every big club has factions among its supporters who are upset about one thing or another, and I just liked keeping my finger on the pulse. In 2011, after we overtook Liverpool’s Championship record, Norman Williams turned up to congratulate and thank every player. He was in his eighties and Manchester United was his life–I felt, in hindsight, that this title win completed his life. He certainly said as much to the players when he told them all the same thing: ‘You’ve made my life.’ He died the same night.

  Oddly enough there was another vital part of our network, and that was my fellow managers. Whenever I called another manager for an assessment about a player I was contemplating signing, I always got a candid assessment. In 1989 I went down to spend a day with John Lyall to get his opinion about Paul Ince, whom he had managed at West Ham. John was glowing in his praise, and Paul made 281 appearances for United and played 53 games for England. In 2010 I briefly flirted with the idea of signing Mario Balotelli, the talented but controversial Italian striker. I did my homework on him, speaking to a few Italian contacts, but the feedback I got confirmed it was too big a risk. I don’t know whether this sort of candid, professional courtesy exists in other fields, but for me it was a godsend. And in return I was always careful not to beat about the bush with other managers when they wanted my opinion on a particular player.

  Fellow managers steered me away from players but, on occasion, they also stiffened my backbone when I was trying to make a decision. In 1991, I was looking around for additional defensive help, as Steve Bruce–who was then 30 years old–was becoming more prone to injury. We had heard that Everton had made a bid for Paul Parker, who was playing for Queens Park Rangers, and so I phoned their former manager, Jim Smith, to get an opinion. He was unequivocal and said, ‘Sign him. He’s quick, he can defend, he recovers well. He’s like a Rottweiler.’ Parker had actually travelled to Everton, but we managed to lure him to Old Trafford the same summer afternoon. I took him out on to the pitch to look around and he was amazed that there were dozens of United supporters in the stands just watching the grass grow. He signed for us that afternoon and went on to make 146 appearances for United–which could have been a lot more had it not been for niggling injuries.

  I tried to return these kinds of favours whenever a fellow manager called with a similar question, or to ask my opinion about whether they should take a job at a particular club. In football there’s an odd camaraderie between managers. On Saturday afternoons or Wednesday evenings we may be going at each other hammer and tongs and, during negotiations, we’re inevitably trying to get the better of one another. Yet, maybe because we have this odd bond, there is always an inclination to extend a helping hand if someone is going through a rough time. I learned about this in Scotland, and when, eventually, I was in the position to continue the tradition, I tried to do so.

  When I used to phone Jock Stein to ask for a favour or to see if he could help me get tickets for some game, he always used to say, ‘If I can.’ That was a great retort. It’s easy to forget about the troubles of others but, if you take the time to remember, it goes a very long way. In 1978, when I was coaching St Mirren, we had lost a cup tie to Kilmarnock; the following morning I was feeling pretty despo
ndent when the phone rang. It was Jock Wallace, the manager of Rangers, phoning to cheer me up. So, decades later, when a journalist phoned me to let me know that Chris Wilder, then the manager of Oxford United, was having a lot of problems with the club chairman, it was just second nature to try and help. I gave Chris my phone number and we talked on a number of occasions. I speak to Steve Bruce fairly often, and in the past couple of years have chatted with Alan Pardew, Sean Dyche and Neil Lennon. It is an informal network–full of wisdom and good humour and sympathy–but one I have always valued. Every manager feels lonely when he has to make an important decision. He can consult with his staff but ultimately he needs to make that decision himself. I know what it feels like for these men because as Premier League managers, they are under constant pressure and others keep their distance–either because they see them as damaged goods or because they don’t want to intrude. Either way, if I can help some of them when they are in a tough spot, I am more than happy to do so.

  Firing

  Nobody should look at football for lessons about the way to fire people. It’s terrible. I got my first taste of that at Rangers when they fired their manager Scot Symon in 1967. He’d been there 13 years, won 15 trophies and had been incredibly loyal. John Lawrence, the chairman of the club, sent an 80-year-old accountant to tell Symon he was sacked. It was unbelievable. The same thing happened to another pal of mine, John Lyall, who, as both player and manager, devoted 34 years of his life to West Ham United. His reward? When he was fired in 1989, the owner did not even have the grace to thank him for his loyalty. I also never forgot the shabby way in which the board of Celtic treated Jock Stein after his 13 years at the club–in an era where the best teams in Scotland could more than hold their own with their English counterparts–during which he won the European Cup, ten Scottish League championships, eight Scottish Cups and six Scottish League Cups.

  Carlo Ancelotti was brutally fired by Roman Abramovich in 2011 after Chelsea lost to Everton, having already lost to United and drawn with Newcastle in the previous two weeks. Carlo had won the ‘Double’ of the Premier League and the FA Cup for Chelsea the year before and was only the fifth manager ever to do so. Carlo kept his composure, didn’t blast Abramovich and behaved perfectly. I don’t think I would have been able to do the same if I had been in his shoes.

  Most football managers are treated without a shred of dignity. Some owners don’t even pay them the courtesy of talking to them in person. They will fire them over the phone or even by text message, or they will use a surrogate, like an accountant, to deliver the message. The reasons for the dismissals are often ludicrous. One manager I know got fired because he banned the chairman’s wife from the players’ dressing room. Mark Hughes’s dismissal from Manchester City in 2009, while he was in the midst of re-fashioning the side, was just a high-profile example of the madness that occurs at clubs every week.

  I’ve always found it hard to get rid of people I liked. Harry McShane was aged about 85 and had been associated with United since the 1950s, first as a player and then as a scout (as well as spending time as the club’s stadium announcer). Les Kershaw, our chief scout, wanted me to do the dirty work, so I invited Harry to lunch and tried to talk to him about quitting. He knew exactly what I was doing and didn’t make my life easy. He kept saying, ‘Aye. Get on with it. What is it you want to say?’ And I just couldn’t bring myself to fire him and instead copped out. I told him that we’d continue to pay him but wanted to change his roles and he could come to watch the first team and offer me advice about them.

  While we sold lots of players and gave others free transfers, I actually did not fire many people. We had one doctor who I agreed could spend time on another job for a limited period. When he decided to extend that period I felt I had to act. I felt let down. He had betrayed my trust, so I got rid of him. But for the most part there were very few dramas among the staff at Old Trafford who fell under my authority. When players leave, especially those who have been pillars of the side, their departure, even if expected, is often tinged with mixed emotions. Sometimes, but not often, the partings were abrupt and took people by surprise. That was the case in 2005 when Roy Keane left after over 12 years with the club. When I broke the news to the players, I was careful to praise all his enormous contributions to United and said that these should be recognised in any comments they might make to others.

  By far the hardest conversations were with youngsters who, from the time they had sat on their father’s lap watching football on television, had dreamed of playing in the Premier League but were just not good enough to step on to the pitch at Old Trafford. From the moment I started managing, I dreaded these sessions. At St Mirren I decided to make my life a bit easier by delivering the same message to five boys simultaneously. One of them broke down crying and I concluded that, while I was making it easier for myself, I was making it a lot tougher on them. Whether it was at St Mirren, Aberdeen or United, the only message they heard was that I was not hiring them. Conveying that message to teenagers was far harder than selling most first-team players, who had been given an opportunity to demonstrate their value. These boys, and their families, had frequently given up everything to pursue their dreams. Goodness knows how many times the parents had accompanied their boy to practices and games. Lord knows how often they had endured rain and cold to cheer on their son at a game everyone else had forgotten. I felt as bad for the parents as I did for the boy and, quite frequently, all three would break into tears. I would try and console them by explaining that the boy had enough talent to make a life in football and that, just because he wasn’t being signed by United, about the hardest club to join, that did not mean his future in the game was closed off.

  There were plenty of examples of players who had thrived after being released by Manchester United, and I sometimes used the example of David Platt. He was given a free transfer by United shortly before I arrived, but went on to captain England. Platt had plenty of company. Robbie Savage never played for the first team, but he went to Crewe Alexandra and three years later was playing in the Premier League for Leicester City. There are dozens of Premiership players who have been through the United academy, such as Ryan Shawcross, Phil Bardsley, and Kieran Richardson. It says much about the quality of an organisation if you can help ensure comfortable landings for people who just don’t quite have what is required to make it within your own.

  If players in the prime of their careers have not been seeking a new club, the news that they are being transferred from Manchester United is akin to hearing that they have been fired. Sometimes, the arrival of a new player, whether a youngster or a purchase, who begins to command a spot in the first XI can also spell extinction for the lad who once owned the position. Though there were a handful of players whose departures were a relief, for the most part I tried to make sure we engineered a good landing for those we transferred. We tried to do everything we could for all the players we released to help them have a career in the game. My coaches and I were on the phone trying to create opportunities for these boys. We were also regularly contacted by other clubs to see what our plans were for our young players. As a result, many of them already had options on the table by the time they were released by United. I was only too aware of what life was going to be like for these players. They would be going from playing in front of 75,000 people and enjoying some of the best training facilities available anywhere, to a far smaller stage. It’s a cruel adjustment to play in front of 15,000 people, disappear from the back pages of the newspapers, have a much smaller pay-cheque and, most of all, know that your dreams of playing at the pinnacle of the game are finished. It can destroy the soul.

  Firing people, irrespective of their age, is never easy. I gradually learned that there was no point beating about the bush by taking somebody out for dinner or sending his wife a box of chocolates or flowers to try and soften the news. The gimmicks don’t change the message. If you have decided you are going to get rid of someone, nothing beats honesty.
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  FOCUS

  Time

  My father always said, ‘Don’t lie, don’t steal and always be early.’ I cannot stand being late. I’ve always been early for meetings. I was always the first into work. It just came naturally. I’ve always been an early riser so it was no great hardship for me to get to work early. I remember talking to Jean-Claude Biver, the CEO of the watchmaker, Hublot, who told me that when he had applied to work at Omega, the person who interviewed him asked him to show up at five o’clock in the morning. During the interview, Jean-Claude enquired about why he’d been asked to appear while it was still dark. The interviewer said, ‘I start at five o’clock in the morning so I’m three hours ahead of everyone. I’m working while you are still asleep.’ I was a bit like that.

  Youngsters think they have all the time in the world. If you are a boy who has just had his tenth birthday, your next one seems an eternity away. That’s because the single year that stretches ahead amounts to 10 per cent of the time you have been on earth. It’s a different sensation when you turn 50, because the distance to your 51st birthday amounts to just 2 per cent of the time you have been alive. As you get older and more experienced, you start to think about how you allocate time. You gradually come to appreciate that an hour–or weekend–squandered is time you will never recapture.