As a teenager, part of my desire to squeeze the most out of every day was born of necessity because I had to hold down two jobs. I was working as an apprentice tool-maker, which meant leaving home at 6.45 a.m. and putting my card in the punch-clock at 7.40 a.m. After work or at the weekend, instead of going to the pub or snooker halls with the other apprentices, I was playing football. When I was training with St Johnstone I used to have two and a half hours to practise and usually didn’t get home until 1 a.m. I did this three times a week and each trip involved multiple bus, train and tram rides.
After players retire and go into management, they often have a series of nasty shocks. One thing that always surprises them is the length of the workday. As a modern player, unless it is on the eve of a game, the day is always done soon after lunch. These days most of them go home, relax, and park themselves in front of some digital device. When you become a manager you discover three things. There is an endless set of tasks to complete and people demanding attention; the day does not stop and there is never enough time.
When I began managing, I had no idea how to budget my time. I was pathetic. I tried to do everything. This was exacerbated by the fact that–when I became manager of St Mirren in 1974–I was also running two pubs that were three miles apart. Fergie’s was in Kinning Park, near Govan, and Shaws was in Bridgeton. I only got into the pub business because playing and managing East Stirlingshire on a part-time contract did not put enough bread on the table for a young family. Although St Mirren paid me, I sometimes wonder whether I would have fared better at the club if I had not been managing the pubs simultaneously.
The combination of managing St Mirren and running my pubs meant that the only time I saw my boys was on the occasional school run, and the only time we would be together as a family would be for a few hours on a Sunday. When I started managing Aberdeen I sold the pubs, because I wanted to concentrate entirely on football. At Aberdeen my workdays were always 12 or 14 hours long, and I didn’t stop work when I got home. Then I was on the phone to scouts, coaches or players. I might have put in more hours every week than my father, but I’m not complaining. His work was far tougher than anything I ever did.
In Manchester I continued with a similar daily and weekly rhythm, although the demands were much greater. I’d be at the ground about seven in the morning and would have a stroll around with my cup of tea. I’d always keep eight to nine in the morning wide open so that if anyone wanted to see me–a coach, a doctor, or a player–I was available. At about nine o’clock we’d go to the video analysis room and watch edited footage of previous games or opponents we were about to face. I’d remain at the training ground throughout the day to watch the youth academy work in the gymnasium. I’d get home around nine o’clock in the evening on Monday and Tuesday and sometimes also on Thursday. On Wednesday, if we were playing, I would either be with the team or I would be watching the reserve team, a future opponent or a player we were interested in. When United were based at their old training ground, The Cliff, I used to go to Old Trafford in the afternoon to do some paperwork or make telephone calls. The Carrington training ground included an office for me so, after we moved there, that’s where I’d do my paperwork in the morning. Fridays, whether at The Cliff or Carrington, were always a bit different. Every Friday morning David Gill, United’s CEO, would come to see me, and after that I would have a pre-game press conference at nine o’clock.
Nights and holidays were not sacred. If I woke up in the middle of the night, I’d usually sneak upstairs to my study and watch a game. I didn’t see the point of wasting perfectly good time trying to go back to sleep. I also husbanded my time by never taking the holidays to which I was contractually entitled. From 1995, I was allowed five weeks’ holiday a year, but that seemed like an excessive amount of time not to be working. So I always just took two weeks a year and would usually go with the family to mainland Spain or Majorca. It wasn’t until I was in my fifties that I started taking three weeks a year. By then our boys were older and starting to live their own lives and Cathy and I made some trips to America. When the two of us started going to the south of France about 15 years ago, I often had meetings with players we wanted to sign in the restaurant of our hotel. It has a fabulous view over the Mediterranean and Cap Ferrat, and I never encountered a player whose contract couldn’t be closed at that corner table.
As I got older, two things happened. First I discovered my body slowed down a bit and I found it harder to maintain the energy levels I had when I was much younger. When I was a young manager I could get by on four hours of sleep, but I needed more as I grew older. So I’d often go home and take a nap for an hour before going back to the ground. Then Cathy kept warning me that I was going to kill myself if I kept working so hard. I was painfully aware of how stress had contributed to the heart attack that led to Jock Stein’s death during the Scotland–Wales game in Cardiff in 1985, when I was at his side as his assistant manager. So I took Cathy’s advice seriously and developed interests outside football–horses, wine, reading. None of these hobbies took up a huge amount of time, but I enjoyed the distraction and the distance they gave me from football. I used to nip down to Newmarket the morning after Champions League games at Old Trafford to watch the horses train. Those early mornings were quiet and peaceful, and I also received an education in some of the nuances of the sport. Not only did I enjoy drinking the wine I bought, but I got interested in monitoring the price fluctuations. It was absorbing and would take my mind off the daily worries. I found that helpful ideas would sometimes pop into my mind from out of nowhere while I was playing cards or reading a book or going through a wine catalogue. I’m sure the same sensation occurs to other leaders when they are riding their bikes, pruning their roses or climbing a mountain. But I didn’t find that these pastimes were a miracle cure. I still often found myself unable to sleep or awake in the middle of the night thinking about something concerning United.
Distractions
I have yet to encounter anyone who has achieved massive success without closing themselves off from the demands of others or forgoing pastimes. I’m not suggesting that being completely obsessed with a pursuit leads to a healthy lifestyle or eternal happiness, but I just cannot imagine how, if you aspire to be better than everyone else, you can have balance in your life. If you have two people of equal talent it will be the way in which they marshal their ability that will determine their eventual success. Some people are just better at shutting out the rest of the world than others, and that means they have more time to foster their talent or improve their organisation. One of the most vivid examples of an obsession, mixed with devotion, is the tale of my fellow Glaswegian, Jimmy Sirrel, who managed Notts County. He and his wife were extremely close and, after 40 years of marriage, she suddenly died–early on a Saturday morning–at the age of 60. Jimmy was devastated, phoned his two children to break the news but then, without informing the players of what had happened, managed his Notts County team against West Bromwich Albion to a 1–1 draw that same afternoon.
When you are in your teens or your early twenties, it is fairly easy to concentrate on your obsession–especially if, as a footballer, you steer clear of alcohol and the party scene. A 16-year-old player brimming with talent might have a casual girlfriend and a few mates but, apart from those, the only thing in his life will be football. It will occupy his every waking moment and also enter his dreams and nightmares. All he will dream about is playing for the first team, representing his country, scoring a winning goal or lifting the World Cup. The urge to improve himself dominates everything. Ten years later, everything can be different. He might be mentioned in the newspapers every other day. He might have a wife and young children. He may be a millionaire many times over. He will be unable to walk down a street or enter a restaurant without being asked for a picture or autograph. He may not have a moment’s peace unless he is behind the gates of his large house. The same goes for managers of high-profile clubs.
I was fortunate
that I had a wife and sons who did not make me feel guilty about spending so little time with them and allowed me to be selfish. I always tried to make sure nothing intruded into the heart of my work life and, unless there was a dire emergency in our family, football always came first. Cathy took care of raising our three sons and I was absent for a lot of the time. For example, I did not watch the boys play in their school games because at weekends my job was to be with Aberdeen or United. For me the Christmas break never really existed, because it falls in the middle of one of the heaviest periods in the top flight of English football. I didn’t really appreciate it at the time, but now, with the help of perspective, it’s clear that my family gave me the greatest gift that I have ever received: time to concentrate on my obsession with the round ball. I never had to deal with the tension that exists between so many husbands and wives, or parents and children, when the spouse or the young ones feel they are not getting enough attention and that a family member, even when physically present, is emotionally absent.
When I got to United I still hadn’t mastered the art of eliminating distractions. I’d automatically accept most invitations to charity dinners or supporters’ club events. For my first 12 years at Old Trafford I used to read every letter I received and, during some weeks, I’d get a couple of hundred. I just felt an obligation to take care of these because many of them were from people for whom Manchester United was the most important thing in their lives. We’d get letters from people notifying us of a death in their family and asking us to send a note to the bereaved. We’d hear from parents who had a sick child in the hospital asking for an autograph, or there would be people requesting a message to be read out at a birthday or wedding. I used to dictate answers to all these letters.
I gradually became better about controlling my time. Lyn Laffin, who became my assistant shortly after I joined United, started shielding me from many of the incessant telephone calls, and dealt with some of the fans who used to call with suggestions about players who should be sold or new tactics I should employ. I never did get used to e-mail, so I didn’t have to worry about this perpetual, intrusive distraction that can play havoc with even the most concentrated train of thought. During my last ten years at United Lyn took care of almost all the correspondence, because she knew my prose style, so all I had to do was approve it and add my signature.
There were some other rules that also helped me make the most out of every day. I would never accept a lunch invitation, except for sponsors’ lunches at Old Trafford and the annual Football Writers’ lunches in Manchester, because before you know it, especially if a drive is involved, those midday breaks can gobble up three hours. I also started to eliminate many of the charity functions. As manager of United you are expected to make some appearances to help the cause. Part of this was just a case of getting older, because the midweek dinners aren’t as easy when you are 65 years old as when you are a 35 year old. Some were just rituals like meeting with sponsors, charity events and award ceremonies. I would always attend the annual League Managers Association dinner, United’s annual dinner on behalf of UNICEF, and the events for the charity I formed, The Elizabeth Hardie Ferguson Charitable Trust. Whenever one of our players won the Professional Footballers’ Association Player of the Year, or the Ballon d’Or, I’d be sure to attend those festivities.
I stopped attending supporters’ club dinners about a decade before I retired. They usually made for very long nights, with never-ending queues for autographs and photographs. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful or aloof–the supporters at Manchester United are the best in the world–but my job was to win trophies, not sign autographs, and I always felt that I was better off focusing on that. I also became more disciplined about which teams I’d go to watch. In my last decade at United I tried to limit it to teams we’d be pitted against in European fixtures. Mick Phelan, my assistant manager, and I would fly out in a chartered plane, have dinner, watch the game (leaving ten minutes before the end) and be back in Manchester by 1 a.m. That might seem like a long day, but it was an abbreviated version of what I did when I was younger.
Learning to concentrate on the essentials was a skill I gradually acquired, and it was something I was keen to hammer into the skulls of all the players. Young players, being teenagers or 20-somethings, usually have two things on their minds. One is football, the second is the other half of the human race. All the nightclubs in Manchester have always been eager to attract United players because they know that word would soon spread among the young ladies. They used to dole out special passes to the players; these allowed them to jump the queues and gain free admission. I have yet to meet a 15-year-old aspiring footballer who wants to live like a monk. It is impossible to completely remove the boy from the man, particularly the young man.
It’s no accident that the best players, and the ones who play at their peak for the longest, tend to be those who can shield themselves from the demands of others. Cristiano Ronaldo was among the very best. He didn’t drink and he didn’t smoke. When he came to Manchester his mother and his sister lived with him. Every now and again he might appear in a TV advertisement or on a magazine cover or, during the summer break, in a Los Angeles nightclub. But don’t be deceived, Cristiano knew how to manage himself and his time.
Apart from his skill and his fame, Cristiano–and players of his generation–have far more distractions than I did as a player. They need far more internal discipline to shut off the outside world than people of 50 years ago. When I was a boy, the biggest distractions were the radio, the newspaper, a book–and church on Sunday. I listened to the great boxing matches on the radio with my dad–Randolph Turpin, Sugar Ray Robinson and the last fights of Joe Louis and Jersey Joe Walcott–and we would also tune in to hear the music hall singer, Ronnie Ronalde, on a Sunday, or the quiz show, Top of the Form. The local cinema, The Plaza, was about a hundred yards from our door–so that was always good for Tarzan and the Flash Gordon films, featuring Buster Crabbe. But beyond that there were only street fights, snooker, games of dice and football. There was no telephone or television, let alone 60-inch colour screens with 300 channels, or mobile phones with millions of apps, e-mail, Facebook and the internet.
I was always alive to pressures on my players and kept an ear cocked for word of distractions they might be facing. The constant worry with the English players is drinking and the bookies. Weakness for the bottle has destroyed many careers, while gambling is a cancer in a dressing room. I usually had a pretty good sense of which players had been out and about because I would get calls from club owners or fans alerting me to the fact. At least for me, these pursuits were less of a concern with the foreign players. We also tried, best as we could, to ensure that they didn’t squander their money, although one look at our car park would suggest we weren’t that successful. From time to time there were distressing stories in the papers about some players who would blow a king’s ransom in the betting shops. We would bring in financial consultants and lawyers to offer advice. We even had one person suggest that players contemplating marriage should exchange vows in Scotland where, according to him, the law is more favourable to husbands than in England. That prompted Cristiano Ronaldo to say that when the time came he would only get married in Scotland.
It is true that few footballers spend a lot of time studying or trying to excel in school examinations. That’s one of the reasons why they are successful on the field. When the academy system started, the structure was 12 hours’ education and 12 hours’ coaching (including matches) per week, which, to me, was an imbalance. My job was to produce footballers. But if any player wanted to pursue qualifications–or if his parents wanted him to do so–we agreed that the club would pay for it. This was a rare occurrence; these boys wanted to be footballers. I understand the benefits of a fine education and how it equips people for their journey in life. I recognise too that many footballers who get injured at the age of 25, or whose careers end in their early thirties (particularly those playing in the lower league
s), don’t possess the education, skills or financial cushion required to have a decent life in today’s world. Yet the job of a football manager is not to make sure that a boy can become a biologist or geophysicist, or that he is equipped for the 40 or 50 years that will follow his playing career–it is to make sure he will be a great right-back or winger. Eleven Nobel laureates are not going to win the FA Cup.
We faced this issue with my eldest son, Mark, who could probably have carved out a life as a professional footballer. He played for Aberdeen’s reserves as a boy, but he had other interests too, and Cathy and I could tell he was ambivalent about a life in football. We were careful not to exert any pressure on him to follow in my footsteps. It’s just as well, because he studied at Sheffield Hallam University and at the European University in Paris, became enchanted by the world of investments and, after five years at Goldman Sachs Asset Management, helped form Generation Investment Management, a much-respected fund manager in London.
I’m sure it would be wonderful if one of my young players had had the grades to gain admission to Cambridge University or Imperial College London, but I can more or less guarantee that, if that were the case, they would not have been able to devote the time required to progress to the first team. There would have been a significant impact on their momentum as footballers. More experienced players are able to deal with this and the example of Vincent Kompany, who combined his studies at Manchester Business School with his role as Manchester City’s captain illustrates this. In all my time at United I cannot think of one player who had a degree. Colin Murdock, who did not make the first team but played on our youth team in the early 1990s, got a law degree from Manchester Metropolitan University in the mid-1990s while playing for Preston North End. But Murdock is the exception that proves the rule.
Leading: Learning from Life and My Years at Manchester United Page 14
