As well as preparing teams for games, the manager was always very careful to prepare each individual too. In the dressing room, whether it was before a Champions League match or before a pre-season friendly, he made sure I knew what he expected from me. And he gave me the information or advice I needed to make sure I was up to that.
He takes whatever time he needs with each of his players. And that tells you he values what every single player can bring to the team. By the autumn of 2001, I’d already known the manager for a very long time: his experience, though, meant I was still learning from him almost every day. Look at his record, at United and, before then, at Aberdeen. The idea of him not being there was going to take some getting used to. Like everybody else inside and outside Old Trafford, I couldn’t help wondering who could replace him.
There are great managers around and lots of them—like Martin O’Neill of Celtic and Giovanni Trapattoni of Italy and even Sven-Goran Eriksson—were talked about for the United job. At Old Trafford, though, the job would take more than the right CV. Any new manager would have to be like the boss is: a man with a mission. It’s why so many people admire him so much. It’s also why he gets under the skin of so many others. Whatever the manager says or does, it’s never: I want this for Alex Ferguson. It’s always: I want this for the club. He is Manchester United, through and through. Anyone who cares about United, anyone who really understands soccer, recognizes that. Even after we’d won the Treble, although he recognized what an achievement it was for us as a group of players, he was immediately thinking about the future. About the need to go on and match what we’d just done and then better it next time round.
The desire to bring success to Old Trafford was what had driven every single one of us on; for the best part of fifteen years, in the case of me and the Nevilles, Paul Scholes, Ryan Giggs and Nicky Butt. The boss, though, was always more intense than anyone: never sitting still, always concentrating on the next challenge. I’d say his drive was more important to our success than anything else. He didn’t spend too much time saying it in public, but the players knew the boss valued what we’d achieved. In my case, I was sure he recognized—back then, anyway—that, whatever else was going on in the rest of my life, I would never let United down through lack of effort. Above everything, I was a Manchester United player. Since I’d arrived at Old Trafford, of course, that had meant working for the boss.
Early on in 2001/02, our form was up and down. Lots of pundits jumped to the conclusion that uncertainty about the manager was the explanation. There were all sorts of rumors that we got to hear about, like that the boss regretted having had to tell us he was leaving because it meant we weren’t frightened of him any more. I can honestly say that wasn’t true. None of us wanted him to go but, once we were into the week-in, week-out business of training and playing games, the idea of May coming and the boss packing it in didn’t really affect us. We definitely couldn’t use it as an excuse for losing games. My only concern was about who’d be replacing him. I was sorting out a new contract at United and I was worried that my relationship with a new manager might not be as good as the one I’d always had with the boss. For all that I’d been a United supporter, Alex Ferguson was one of the main reasons I’d left London and signed for the club when I was a boy. Even so, any doubts about the future didn’t get in the way of playing for United in the here and now.
If the team was unsettled, it probably had more to do with having lost Steve McClaren over the summer. I’ve already said how highly I rate Steve as a coach. In June 2001 he left United to become manager at Middlesbrough. With the boss expected to leave, I don’t think it was a case of Steve wanting any kind of guarantee that he’d replace him. He just wanted to know he’d be considered. I think there were meetings behind the scenes and it became pretty clear that United didn’t see him as the future number one. So, when Steve was offered the ’Boro job, nobody was surprised he took it. And all of us, including the manager, wished him well. During that season, the boss stepped in to take training from day to day: he’s a decent coach as well as everything else. Never mind winding down for retirement, the boss was more involved than ever in 2001/02. Steve was a big loss, though: sessions with him were really enjoyable and, technically, right up to the minute.
He knows how to communicate information to players better than anybody I’ve ever worked with. In his couple of years with us, he’d made his mark at Old Trafford just like he had in the England set-up.
Of course, I still had the chance to work with Steve on international duty, as he stayed on with England, while he was managing ’Boro, until after the 2002 World Cup. We’d been together again for the game against Germany in Munich. And, four days after that, we were up at St James’ Park for Albania. Steve talked about lifting ourselves for it. So did Sven. The Wednesday night after the Saturday afternoon was the time to make the 5–1 result count: another three points for the taking. But being ready for it didn’t make any difference. Albania at home turned out to be a much harder game. The players were tired. There was expectation in the air again, especially after what had happened in Munich. People thought that, if we could beat Germany 5–1 away, we could beat anybody. Well, we beat Albania but it was close and it wasn’t a performance to remember. They were already out of the World Cup and had nothing to lose. They got plenty of players back in defense and hoped for a breakaway. They looked like they were enjoying themselves. I can’t say we did. The best that could be said was that we stuck at it. We won 2–0 and got our three points.
So it came down to Greece at Old Trafford. Beating Albania meant we went into our last qualifying game level on points at the top of the group with Germany but with a better goal difference. Perhaps it would have been easier—on everybody’s nerves, at least—if we could have gone straight on to that game the following weekend. We’d have been tired but we were so disappointed by how we played against Albania that we’d have had something to react to and something to prove. If we’d played Greece that Saturday I think, like a club side, we’d have kicked on and beaten them. Instead we had to wait a month. A month during which everybody needed to concentrate on winning games back with their clubs. A month for doubts to set in ahead of the match that might decide England’s international summer. Those weeks dragged and, once the squad got together again, so did the days building up to the game itself.
We met up on the Sunday and stayed at the Marriott Hotel in the suburbs of Manchester. It seemed like we were rattling around there together for ages, just wanting to get on with Saturday afternoon and what we had to do. Inside the hotel, just like outside it, everybody was talking about the importance of the game and about what automatic qualification for the World Cup would mean. Did we have to win? Would a draw be enough? What about goal difference? You can get suffocated with all that. What was important was that beating Greece would mean it didn’t matter what the Germans did. That was what we had to keep in focus. It didn’t help that the media and England supporters seemed to think the hard work was over and that we were on to a sure bet. Saturday came and there was far more tension about than there should have been.
I was on edge as much as everybody else, although I had more to help me get through it than some of the other England players. First, the game was at Old Trafford. I’d come on as a substitute the last time we’d had an international there, against South Africa, back in 1997. Now, 6 October 2001, and I was a United player leading out the England team as captain. Who wouldn’t be looking forward to a moment like that? Second, we were playing in an all-white strip. During the week, the England equipment man came to find out if I thought he should ask Sven if we could. United’s all-white change strip, the England version or even Real Madrid’s colors, come to that: I’ve always loved that uniform. And the England manager agreed that we’d wear it against Greece. I had that and my home ground to look forward to. What I didn’t know too much about in advance was that I was going to meet an angel in the tunnel at Old Trafford that afternoon.
; The first time I heard about Kirsty Howard was from my Dad in midweek. He phoned to tell me about her:
‘She’s a lovely girl, David, but she’s not well at all. She’s going to come out for kick-off with you on Saturday. Make sure you take good care of her.’
Dad had been involved in the arrangements along with the FA and that’s why he knew all about Kirsty and the Francis House Children’s Hospice she’s raised so much money for. That phone conversation was as much as I was told. When we arrived at Old Trafford on the Saturday afternoon, before I went into the dressing room to get changed, I went down to the tunnel to meet her. Kirsty was waiting for me with her mum and dad and a couple of people from the charity. She was standing patiently, a little girl with a smile almost as big as she was. I saw that smile before I even noticed the oxygen cylinder Kirsty has to wheel around behind her. I sat down on the step next to her and we talked for a few minutes; about what she had to struggle with, her being born with her heart the wrong way round and some of her other organs out of place. She explained how she was trying to raise money for other children at the hospice where she got her treatment. I asked her how she was feeling and, before she could answer, someone behind us said:
‘Do you want to give him a kiss?’
For the first time, Kirsty seemed a little bit embarrassed but she gave me a peck on the cheek anyway and we had a bit of a cuddle. It was time for me to go. I stood up and said:
‘I’ll see you in a minute, though, won’t I? When we go out on the field?’
Kirsty looked back up at me. She nodded and smiled and I went back in to the dressing room. I was miles away. It took me a minute or two to realize that the atmosphere was weird, quiet. Not like this England team. Nobody seemed to have much to say to each other. Sven said:
‘Make sure we get the ball moving quickly.’
Which was exactly what we didn’t do for the rest of that afternoon, of course. The bell rang and it was time to go out. In the tunnel, I came up alongside Kirsty and took her hand. She’s got the tiniest little hands you could imagine, just big enough for her to wrap one around one of my fingers. She held onto me. I asked her if she was nervous: ‘No.’
I had to smile.
‘Well, there’s 65,000 people out there in the stadium waiting for us, hoping we’re going to get to the World Cup. If you’re not nervous, you must be the only person here who isn’t.’
‘No, I’m not. I’m not nervous.’
She looked up at me and gave me that smile and that was enough to tell me she was fine. We walked out into the roar and the sunshine. The cameras were on Kirsty all the way to the center spot. I hardly needed to ask if she was okay. She was just so graceful and so poised.
I wish us players could have been as relaxed as she was: the coolest person inside Old Trafford. She was great.
Since that afternoon, Kirsty and I, and Victoria too, have become really good friends. We help her with fundraising whenever we can but I wouldn’t want anyone to think that’s all our relationship is about. Kirsty’s an amazing person, so full of life and energy. When you’re with her, you don’t think about what’s wrong with her or the fact that she’s hanging on for her life against all the odds. You see past that cylinder, past what you might call her disability. You see her personality, her determination to make a difference for other people, her happiness in the face of it all. She’s the bravest person I know. I remember the summer of the 2002 Commonwealth Games in Manchester when I ran with the baton into the stadium and met up with Kirsty before the two of us met The Queen. All the way round the running track, I was convinced the flame on the baton would blow out, or my tracksuit bottoms would slip down, or I’d trip on a trainer lace. As soon as I was face to face with Kirsty, though, all the nerves disappeared. Suddenly, it was this private moment, as if it was just the two of us in the stadium together: you look into her eyes and what comes back to you is calmness and inspiration. Kirsty’s smile takes you out of your own world and into hers, where she takes it all in her stride. England captain? Her Majesty the Queen? Thousands of people watching in the stands? Pleased to meet you, I’m Kirsty Howard and this is all just fine by me.
That’s how it was as we made our way to the halfway line at Old Trafford. I’d been fretting all week. Suddenly, I wasn’t thinking about the game at all. I wasn’t thinking about how big the occasion was or how desperately we wanted to win. I just wanted to be sure Kirsty was all right, walking beside me. The girl touches every single person she meets. She glows. In my memory, meeting Kirsty at the start of the afternoon is up there with scoring my goal at the end of it.
Eventually, Kirsty had to find her way off the field and I had to remind myself we had a soccer game on here that needed winning. You’re never sure until you kick off but we were right to have been worried about Greece. They were really up for the match, despite having already missed out on qualification. I remember one or two of them having a go at us after challenges, although not speaking Greek, I haven’t got a clue what they were actually saying. They played well and we just couldn’t get started. The players were uneasy and the crowd picked up on that. The game felt flat, like we needed a goal just to get us going. The trouble was, after half an hour or so, I found myself thinking that I couldn’t see us scoring one. Ten minutes later, disaster: Greece scored. It was a sloppy goal, too, and between then and half-time we didn’t find anything like the rhythm we needed to get back into the game. From thinking we needed the win to be sure of our place at the World Cup, we were in a position where we had to start thinking that at least a draw would give us a chance. At half-time, Sven wasn’t panicking.
‘We need to lift the tempo. We’re waiting for things to happen. We need to push on and be the team that’s making things happen.’
The start of the second half was better, but not by much. Nobody said anything but I just got it in my head that I needed to go looking for the ball. I was angry. Angry with myself. Angry with the Greek players who were having digs at us. Angry about the situation we’d got ourselves in. It was hot and we looked tired. It’s not right to rely on anybody else in that kind of situation. You have to try and do something about it yourself. It wasn’t a case of thinking it was my responsibility or something I had to do as a skipper. It simply felt as if it was time to take risks. If I wasn’t getting the ball in my position, I decided to try and get involved somewhere else. I remember Gary Neville shouting at me:
‘You’ll get caught. We’ve got to keep our shape or they’ll break off us and score again.’
In almost any other game, Gary would have been right. But that afternoon against Greece, for once, I decided to take no notice of Gaz. I tried running at players and drew a couple of fouls around the penalty area. It was the kind of afternoon, though, when every free-kick was going high or wide however hard I tried. Nothing seemed to be going right for us, at least until about twenty minutes into the second half. The Greeks had been attacking and almost scored, which might have finished us off. Nigel Martyn, in goal, threw the ball out to me, on the left wing. I’m sure Gary was thinking: what’s he doing over there? I sort of barged past one player, took another one on and, ten yards outside the corner of their box, the ref gave a foul which probably wasn’t. It was too wide of goal for a shot. Teddy Sheringham was just about to come on as a substitute in place of Robbie Fowler. While I was waiting for the changeover, I noticed a piece of red card on the field by the ball. I grabbed it and flung it away from me. I was so frustrated I was blaming our troubles on the litter by then. As Teddy jogged past me, he said:
‘Watch me. Just watch me.’
I knew what he meant: we’d played that many games together for United. I lifted the free-kick towards the space I knew Teddy would run into. All he needed was a touch: he knew exactly where the ball was going, beyond their goalkeeper and into the far corner. We were level and back on track for the finals. But for only a minute. We’d hardly finished celebrating before Greece broke away and scored again. That’s it. This isn’
t going to be our day, is it?
I was frozen to the spot. I could see other players’ shoulders sagging at the same time, the same thoughts running through their minds. We kept going, of course. You have to. But I couldn’t see us scoring again. Another couple of free-kicks; another couple wide of the post. Maybe that was why I was running round like I was. The frustration of getting chances with that many free-kicks, seven or eight of them during the game, and not getting a single one on target. It was the last minute and Nigel didn’t have time for anything other than a big boot downfield. Teddy went up for it. He did well. I don’t know if he really got a shove in the back or not but it was enough to get a foul, five yards outside the Greek penalty area.
I put the ball down. Teddy came over as if to grab it and take the free-kick himself.
‘I’ll have this.’
I’d missed a few that afternoon but I wasn’t going to give this last one up.
‘No, Ted. It’s too far out for you.’
I don’t know why I said that because it wasn’t. But Teddy looked up, looked at their wall, and let me get on with it. I knew this was our last chance. I tried to slow my nerves down by blowing out a couple of long breaths. Teddy did what he always does. He’s great at it: behind the wall, he finds where the keeper is and stands in front of him, without obstructing him. Just at the last moment he’ll move away and it throws the keeper’s positioning off every time. Without Teddy doing that, maybe the Greek keeper would have got across in time to make the save. I was just concentrating on making sure the shot was on target. I ran up and the moment I made contact with the ball, I knew this one was in.
Anyone who was at Old Trafford that afternoon, anyone who was watching on television, won’t need reminding that I got a bit carried away after the goal. Teddy went and got the ball out of the back of the net. I was gone, celebrating with Rio and Emile and Martin Keown, not even remembering that we might need another goal and the win. It was a fantastic feeling and it wasn’t just me who lost it completely for a minute or two. Martin’s a great professional and a very funny man. I’d never seen him like it: it makes me laugh now, thinking back to the look on his face and his eyes popping out of his head. He was hanging off me, laughing and screaming:
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