We asked him if United had the resources to turn their season round. He didn’t seem at all convinced.
‘That’s the question. Do we? I really don’t know. It’s what we all want. But the question is, how are we going to do it? We have to look at everything: the squad, individuals, everything. Each of us knows within ourselves what needs to be done. But when you compare our squad with Chelsea … that says it all. Whether they play team one or team two they are nearly all internationals who have played at World Cups. We just don’t have that strength in depth. A lot of our experienced players are injured so there’s pressure on the younger ones and, sure, we miss Keano. But that’s not an excuse. We don’t have any excuses for what’s happening.’
RESPITE
6.11.05
Manchester United 1
Chelsea 0
We pack the pressbox today expecting to write football’s version of the post-mortem. This is a game Ferguson dares not lose and all the big-hitters are here. Nobody knows what to expect. But, whatever happens, it is going to be huge. We feel like bloodhounds. The fox is in United’s dugout.
But we never get our kill.
To see United today is to witness a team that is affronted by their league position and determined to end the descent into despair. At Middlesbrough, their play was dead, untouched by the qualities of overflowing brilliance that have been the hallmark of Ferguson’s teams. Yet here, written off as being on the point of professional bankruptcy, they are quick to the ball, strong in the tackle, and when it comes to their intentions there can be no room for misinterpretation. There is a blunt refusal to accept that they are inferior to Chelsea, or that the malaise is fatal. Fletcher heads in the game’s decisive goal just before halftime: a moment of supreme irony given Keane’s MUTV tirade. United survive a late onslaught and at the final whistle everyone is on their feet, triumphant and euphoric. There are blokes punching the air, clutching each other and bellowing with relief. It is Ferguson’s first victory over Jose Mourinho in six attempts and, finally, Chelsea are reminded what it is like to lose a football match. It is their first defeat in the Premiership for 386 days.
United! United! United!
The story has been turned on its head. We arrived at Old Trafford assuming we would be writing long eulogies about Chelsea going sixteen points clear. But the story now is of a possible turning point, of life being breathed back into the title race. And, most of all, of never writing off Ferguson. The decibel levels are cranked up to a volume not heard at Old Trafford for years. Genuine affection pours from the stands and Ferguson waves to the crowd, sticking out his chest, determined to milk the moment.
His eyes are sparkling as he makes his way along the touchline at the final whistle. He pauses a few yards from the tunnel. Then he looks up at the section of the crowd that flashed Vs at him after the Blackburn game and does something he has never done before. He takes a bow and throws his arms in the air, with the palms of his hands upwards. And the crowd roars.
Every single one of us loves Alex Ferguson
Every single one of us loves Alex Ferguson
A few minutes later Sky’s pitchside reporter, Geoff Shreeves, stops Ferguson in the tunnel for a quick interview and asks him if he’s been feeling under more pressure than at any time in the last decade. Ferguson looks witheringly at Shreeves and tells him live on air that he is talking ‘bollocks’.
In the pressroom there are loud cheers and great laughter. Nobody in Fleet Street wants the title to be rendered a fait accompli before the leaves have stopped falling from the trees. In fact, most of us have been rooting for Ferguson today. He has been pretty hellish to deal with recently – in fairness, he would probably say the same about us – but there is no point harbouring a grudge. We saw him at Carrington on Friday and he was on great form, full of levity and humour, his demeanour totally at odds with what might have been expected.
He wanted to know if any of the ‘miserable soand-sos’ sat before him had brought a present to mark his nineteenth anniversary as manager. He burst out laughing when he saw that some of the chief football correspondents had flown in from London, accusing them of travelling north because they ‘scented blood’. Then we started talking about Chelsea and he asked how many games they had gone unbeaten. Nobody knew. His eyes lit up. ‘What, you don’t know?’ he exploded. ‘That’s classic, absolutely brilliant. Some journalists you are. And you’ve got the cheek to criticise me when you can’t even do your own jobs. Research is the most important thing a journalist should have and you’re sitting there, not a fucking clue, any of you. That’ll do me. Brilliant.’
It was difficult to believe this warm, humorous man was the same guy who had told a Sky Sports reporter at Manchester airport earlier this week that he was ‘finished’ for daring to ask a question about Roy Keane. His performance earned some sympathetic press. But none of us honestly thought he would produce his get-out-of-jail card today. Nobody who was in Paris could have believed that his players, with their professional reputations on the floor, would take on and beat the most richly endowed club in the world. Chelsea were unbeaten in their previous forty Premiership games. They did the double against United last season, as well as dumping them out of the Carling Cup. They had already been crowned champions when they came to Old Trafford for their penultimate game, and United’s players had to grit their teeth and clap them on to the pitch in a guard of honour.
Today feels like a little bit of payback. Except there is one problem: if United are good enough to beat Chelsea, why can’t they do the same against, say, Blackburn Rovers? How can they win 1–0 against the best team in the country yet lose 4–1 to sixteenthplaced Middlesbrough?
No, there’s a distinct feeling of ‘one-nil-in-your-cup-final’. Every single player gives his all. Even Ferdinand finishes the game pumping his fists and kissing the badge on his shirt. Yet one result does not make a season. United need to play with this sort of passion every week, as they used to – it shouldn’t be the exception, as it has become. Because if anyone seriously thinks that this result washes away all of United’s problems, both with the team and behind the scenes, it is a blinkered belief.
Mourinho is not fooled. ‘I’m not afraid or worried,’ he says, chewing his gum and smirking out of the corner of his mouth, as if he thinks he is the Fonz. ‘Not at all. Manchester United defended with good spirit but they are not good enough to be champions and there is still more pressure on them than us. If you asked them if they wanted to change positions they would do so in a flash. Chelsea will be the champions this year.’
CLOCKING OUT
18.11.05
Today is the first time for two weeks that Ferguson has held a press conference: there has been a break from the regular 12 noon gathering over the last fortnight for internationals. ‘And thank Christ for that,’ Ferguson jokes before taking his seat. ‘I needed a break from you. Did you know Bayern Munich have a press conference every bloody day? Can you imagine that? I have to summon up every ounce of energy to do it once a week.’
He is jovial, bantering, on the edge of breaking into song. Encouraged, we ask him if he can update us with any news about Keane’s future. ‘Anything you can tell us about Roy’s contract situation? Any developments?’
Putting on his best poker face, he says there is ‘nothing going on – nothing to report, it’s just like I told you a few weeks ago’. He says Keane is training well, nearly back to full fitness and ‘not far away’ from returning to the team.
He cracks a few jokes, takes the piss a bit more. He goes over the Chelsea game again, nodding his head in deep satisfaction as he talks through the winning performance. He jokes about Scotland lifting the ‘unofficial World Cup’ and rocks in his chair when he is asked about England’s chances of hosting the 2018 World Cup. ‘Dearie me,’ he says, ‘I’ll be seventy-six by then – if I’m still alive!’
It is a pleasant little session. He ushers us out at 12.25 p.m. and goes straight into the same routine with the Sunday g
uys. And we do what we always do when it looks like being a relatively quiet news day – we leave the training ground and drive along Isherwood Road to get a round of bacon sandwiches from Gail’s snack bar.
And there we are – innocent, naïve lambs. Just before 1 p.m. someone’s mobile rings. Bang! – newsflash!
ROY-KEANE-HAS-LEFT-MANCHESTER-UNITED
Pandemonium. Shock. Horror.
It feels like a bad joke. By the time we arrive back at the training ground everyone is swearing or jabbering into mobile phones. Press releases, still warm, are being handed out in reception. They say it is an amicable decision. There is a line from Ferguson, thanking Keane for his twelve years of service and describing him as a fantastic servant, and a couple of quotes supposedly from Keane: ‘Whilst it is a sad day for me to leave such a great club and manager, I believe that the time has now come for me to move on.’
The whole thing stinks, but we will have to worry about that later. It is Friday afternoon, which tends to mean one thing to newspaper journalists: early deadlines. And we are sweating, bursting with tension, desperate for the facts. We need the precise sequence of events, a blow-by-blow account of what really happened. This is a huge story by any standards. Yet there is no way of dressing it up: none of us had the faintest clue it was on the cards.
There is a maze of fairground mirrors to navigate. Everyone has a slightly different story, every phone call muddies the water a little more. There are wild rumours that punches have been thrown. Speculation mingles with fact and guesswork. It is difficult to know what to believe. All we can really think is that this could be the single most dramatic sports story of the year.
What we hear is that Keane arrived at Carrington at 9 a.m., went up the stairs and knocked on the door marked ‘Manager’.
You can call Keane what you like, but not stupid. Going into that meeting, he knew. He had cleared out his locker the previous night. He had his solicitor with him and the final meeting was solemn, brief and to the point. Ferguson told him there would be no new deal at the end of the season and that the club wanted to come to a financial arrangement about the rest of his contract. His testimonial was still on the table because he had been made a promise, but he was no longer deemed a part of the club. He had crossed the line. He had to go.
The two men shook hands and said their goodbyes. David Gill said he would take care of the relevant paperwork. Keane left at 9.20 a.m. for the final time, carrying his belongings. He had a gaunt, sulphurous stare, as if a contract killing was his next job of the day.
Ferguson went into the canteen and asked everyone to be quiet for a minute because he had an important announcement to make, something that would affect everyone at the club and mean that things would never be the same again. When he broke the news to the players there was an audible gasp. Nobody had expected this.
Van Nistelrooy put his hands on his head. He couldn’t hide his disappointment. ‘Shit.’
Whatever happens now, Manchester United will be a quieter, less tempestuous and much more boring football club to cover.
The official line from Old Trafford is that it’s ‘mutual consent’. All grown up. Keane gets the kids, Ferguson keeps the house. Everybody lives happily ever after. The truth is entirely different.
People at the club say there was an almighty shouting match at Carrington a couple of weeks ago. It was the first time Keane had seen his team-mates since MUTV took Play the Pundit off the air. The players were studying his body language, looking for a sign of contrition – anything to break the ice.
Keane being Keane, his demeanour was of a man who had not once thought: ‘Shit, what have I done?’ He didn’t seem to have had a single moment when he thought it would be a good idea to build bridges. The players were treating him like an unexploded firework, pretending everything was normal, pottering about and exchanging small talk. But the atmosphere was driving Keane mad. He couldn’t stand all the fake bonhomie.
He exploded. ‘If they aren’t going to show you the tape then, fuck it, I’ll tell you what’s on it. I would have been happy for it to be played. In fact, I think it should have been played. I judged your performances honestly and if you are not criticising yourself in the same way then you shouldn’t be at this club anyway.’
Keane was throbbing with fury by the time Ferguson walked in. He had nothing to be ashamed of, he said. He had told the truth and it was nothing he wouldn’t say to the players’ faces. If the club, the players, or anyone else couldn’t cope with a few verbals then, Christ almighty, what kind of people was he dealing with?
He got no joy out of Ferguson. There was a brief exchange and a standoff before a decision was made that everyone should watch the Play the Pundit tape. Ferguson switched on his video recorder, pushed in the cassette and the players sat in silence while thirty minutes of car-crash television unfolded in front of their eyes. Keane stood throughout: arms folded, unshaven, unapologetic.
The tape was nothing like as bad as the players had imagined. At one point Keane even said he knew Ferguson would ‘put it right’ and made it clear that he was totally behind the manager. But Ferguson was as angry as Keane by the time it had finished. He accused Keane of ranting, of bringing the club into disrepute. Keane listened, took it in and returned fire.
It has been tough for Ferguson, tougher than we could ever imagine, and it has taken him a fortnight to make up his mind. But, in the end, he has decided that Keane is no longer good for the club.
It’s clear that he remains absolutely The Boss. Ferguson has made his career from being braver than any manager before him and, in all probability, any who will follow. He has never shirked the idea of discarding loyal servants if he felt it was his duty to do so, no matter how strong the emotional attachment. Keane has become a pebble in United’s shoe and Ferguson has decided they cannot hobble on any longer. ‘Anything we do at this club should remain indoors,’ he said after the Lille game. ‘We can’t allow United players to be demolished by criticism. Young lads like Darren Fletcher are the future of our club and we do not want to destroy them. These lads have not cried off and they have not deserted their posts. They have wanted to play every game and carry us through. We need to help them, not destroy them.’
There are reporters outside Old Trafford and supporters milling around, shaking their heads, talking as if they have seen a plane going into the Arndale Centre. One woman, in her forties, looks as if she has been crying. Keane played through injury for the shirt. He suffered for the cause that took fans to loan sharks to pay for pre-season tours. He may have black edges to his heart but the supporters worship him. Even on the occasions when he acted like an idiot, he somehow emerged with his immortality enhanced. As a player and a man, his contribution was so enormous that he helped to define what the very words ‘Manchester United’ mean.
His downfall, ultimately, was that he was a 24-hour-a-day obsessive and couldn’t understand why he was the only one. When he looked around the dressing room he was convinced that some of the players were coasting, hugging the shores when the high seas offered so many new adventures. He couldn’t see the team winning another European Cup and it wounded him that they didn’t seem to hurt like he did. He grew bitter and resentful, and when he turned on his team-mates he knew he was taking on Ferguson too. And players who do that always come off second best.
Problem dealt with, Ferguson will move on. The popular belief is that United without Keane is a car without petrol, but there is a long line of distinguished players who have crossed Ferguson and been expelled from the payroll. Eventually, the club will always get over it. Norman Whiteside and Paul McGrath were sacrificed because Ferguson grew intolerant of their boozy all-dayers. David Beckham was sold to Real Madrid because Ferguson hated his showbiz lifestyle. Jaap Stam was abandoned after writing an autobiography that embarrassed Ferguson with its revelations of dressing-room secrets. After twelve years on the payroll, Keane can hardly claim he was unaware of the history.
The next step, in theo
ry, is that Ferguson owes the fans a proper explanation. Not the day-trippers who come along once or twice a season from the Home Counties, or the businessmen whom Keane once derided as the ‘prawn-sandwich brigade’, questioning whether they could even ‘spell football’, but the diehards who follow the team to bear-pits in Istanbul and iceboxes in the eastern bloc. The supporters certainly deserve an explanation, although whether they will get one is another matter. Ferguson can be a coldblooded so-and-so sometimes and Keane, it seems to us, is already a part of the Old Trafford history, someone to let go and forget about. Ferguson has made his decision. Once that happens, he never allows himself any regrets.
It has been bugging everyone. How, today of all days, could he come into the pressroom at Carrington looking so bright and breezy and making jokes about Scotland’s record in international tournaments? Keane’s world had just turned upside down and one of the strongest manager–player relationships in the game had disintegrated into dust. Yet as Keane was breaking the news to his wife, Theresa, and their five kids, Ferguson was full of bonhomie and good humour. It is difficult, in fact, to remember him in a better mood at any time in the last year, and that is just crazy.
This is the One: Sir Alex Ferguson: The Uncut Story of a Football Genius Page 9