This is the One: Sir Alex Ferguson: The Uncut Story of a Football Genius

by Daniel Taylor

  Everyone expects Ronaldo to cross but he hits it, hard and true, and Liverpool’s goalkeeper Pepe Reina is partially unsighted. He dives to his right and the ball bounces off his shin. It is football’s version of the yorker. The rebound falls, fortuitously, to John O’Shea and, suddenly, in the very last minute, at the home of United’s most despised rivals, he has the chance to win it.

  Everything seems to go into slow motion. Ferguson is crouched in his seat, the upper half of his body leaning towards the pitch, his mouth forming a little ‘o’. O’Shea brings back his right boot. It’s in. And Ferguson is out of the dugout, dancing a grandfather’s jig of delight on the touchline, and it is the celebration he reserves only for special occasions: a running skip, a clap of the hands and a jerky sequence of peculiar little hops and twirls.

  A true test of any championship team is to go to a fortress such as Anfield and win. United are now twelve points clear, albeit having played two more games than Chelsea, and their goal difference is so superior it is worth a bonus point. They are, in effect, thirteen points ahead and the United fans are, for want of a better description, going loopy.

  The celebrations at the final whistle are long and impassioned. No one even tries to pretend it is just another three points. Ronaldo rips off his shirt and throws it into the away end. Evra is next. Then Giggs. Soon, half the team is bare-chested. Neville, whose dislike of Liverpool is legendary, does his version of the Mancunian Haka. Rooney, who has come off with blood streaming down his leg, limps out barefooted. The away end is a scene of delirious jubilation and Ferguson is soaking it all in, flushed with pride, arms aloft. He has a rubicund glow and he is still beaming thirty minutes later when he does his television interviews. ‘It’s a massive result for us,’ he says, and we know we are listening to someone savouring that rare experience of complete accomplishment. ‘You cannot minimise the importance of this victory. It is a championship win, there is no question about it.’

  CRISTIANO RONALDO AND PLASTIC SURGERY

  17.3.07

  Manchester United 4

  Bolton 1

  The mood at Old Trafford now is that of champions-in-waiting. There are long, enthusiastic chants of ‘we want our trophy back’ and ‘we shall not be moved’ and a touching moment when Ferguson is invited on to the pitch before kick-off to collect February’s Manager of the Month award. There is a huge, vibrating roar of approval and a standing ovation. Ferguson walks on to the pitch, waving to the crowd and the fans rise to salute him. It is a spine-tingling mix of affection and gratitude and, above all, sheer admiration. He raises a triumphant arm and the volume goes up again.

  What a difference a year makes. This time last season it was impossible to start a conversation about United in any Manchester pub without someone saying it was time for him to go. The phone-ins crackled with animosity and a browse through the fans’ websites would habitually uncover page after page of vitriolic essays demanding his removal from office. Many of the dissenters were anti-Ferguson because of his support for the Glazers – in other words, there were as many political reasons as football ones for the disillusionment – but it feels hugely paradoxical now that he was demonised in such a way. Or that three weeks into the season five season-ticket holders with a pot of paint and a spare bedsheet took it upon themselves to make a ‘Fergie Out’ banner and stand outside the gates at Carrington for two hours, chanting for him to go.

  What is clear is that there are a lot of people, from a lot of different walks of life, with a lot of egg on their faces. At one point last season the newspapers were so convinced Ferguson would be frogmarched kicking and screaming into retirement the debate ceased being about when he would go, or even if, but of who would replace him. Guus Hiddink and Paul Le Guen were both prominently mentioned which, in hindsight, is laughable in itself – Hiddink has just been convicted of tax evasion and given a six-month suspended prison sentence and Le Guen went to Glasgow Rangers and was sacked after six months in which he seemed to take his inspiration from the theory of chaos.

  All that feels like a distant memory now because Ferguson has had some wonderful press this season, with more than one correspondent ungrudgingly acknowledging they were too hasty to write him off. Richard Williams, the Guardian’s chief sports writer, has written that it is time to ‘shut up and join in the applause’, although he points out he was ‘not the only person who got it utterly, absolutely, laughably wrong’. Matt Dickinson, The Times’s chief football correspondent, has predicted Ferguson could be dishing up the ‘world’s largest humble pie’ at the end of the season, and that he might be ‘surprised how many willing eaters he would find in Fleet Street’.

  The win is United’s sixth in succession in the Premiership and it is another performance that has Ferguson applauding warmly from the sidelines. Bolton are a strong team, competing with Arsenal for the fourth Champions League spot, but United have rattled eight past them this season and when you see the way Ronaldo runs the show it feels like we must have dreamt what happened in the World Cup.

  We didn’t, of course, and this is where Ferguson comes into his own because what we have here is a classic example of his man-management at its very best. Ferguson has never spoken about it publicly, but after the World Cup he flew to Portugal to take Ronaldo out to dinner and convince him that, if he placed his trust in the Manchester United family, he could beat the hate mobs at opposition grounds. Ferguson told Ronaldo he wanted to build the team around him and that there would be only place to go if he left Old Trafford: down.

  These little touches of genius – for that is what they are – have been an essential part of Ferguson’s success and that heart-to-heart in Lisbon is up there with his very best work because Ronaldo’s form this season has put him on the way to achieving what was once thought impossible at Old Trafford, eclipsing the players who wore the club’s number seven shirt before him: David Beckham and Eric Cantona.

  To see him right now is to witness a player whose speed across the ground, with the ball under total control, can make traffic bollards of the most accomplished defenders. Ferguson has always encouraged his wide players to play with freedom and not be frightened about running at full-backs but he has never had a wide player who has taken the art of wing play to such dimensions. Ronaldo may not have invented dribbling but he has elevated it to its highest tier. Nobody – not even George Best – has tormented opponents so mercilessly.

  He flicks the ball with the outside of his left boot while leaning back, looking at the clouds. He conjures up shots that dip at the last moment, like a beach ball on a windy day. He looks one way and caresses a pass in the opposite direction. He has strapping shoulders and the torso of an Olympic swimmer, nothing like the classic rake-thin winger of old. But when he moves with the ball he looks like he wouldn’t make footprints in snow. It is a blur of white boots and gelled hair and improvisational brilliance.

  Defenders try to kick him. They yank his shirt, stand on his feet, scratch his neck, prod, poke, pull and pinch and, in the worst cases, try to point him in the direction of the local hospital. And none of it works. Ronaldo, like Best, knows how to ride a challenge. Unlike Best, there is never a flicker of retaliation. Everything with Ronaldo is so beautifully packaged and polished he would rather hurt his opponent with the ball.

  When he first arrived in Manchester, at the start of the 2003–04 season, he wore braces on his teeth, his forehead was pockmarked with adolescent pimples and after a dazzling start his obsession with stepovers and showy pyrotechnics marked him down as a playground show-off who had stayed young too long. There were times when he would get into a good position and try another piece of extravagant, showboating skill rather than a simple pass, and team-mates, most often Neville and Van Nistelrooy, would drag their hands down their faces and spread their fingers into the air as if they would cheerfully throttle him.

  Ferguson, in time, has turned him into a far more accomplished package. His work now is informed by an adult intelligence of when to pas
s, when to keep it and when to try his tricks. The ball is welded to his right toe and even when Bolton surround him with three, four, sometimes five defenders they are powerless to do anything about it.

  Henrik Pedersen, the right-back, is so befuddled Sam Allardyce substitutes him only twenty-eight minutes into the first half. It is the ultimate indignity but Pedersen is traumatised. And in the press conference afterwards a reporter from the Bolton Evening News asks Allardyce whether Ronaldo’s performance could leave his defenders with psychological scars. ‘Scars?’ Allardyce replies. ‘We’re going to need a fucking plastic surgeon after that.’

  FERGUSON AND GEOFF SHREEVES

  19.3.07

  Manchester United 1

  Middlesbrough 0

  FA Cup sixth round replay

  This has been such an aggro-free season it is easy to be lulled into a false sense of security. The more we have seen of Ferguson, the more we have become convinced that he has taken a strategic decision that falling out with journalists is not worth the hassle and that it would be better for everyone to work in peace. A large part of this is because of the ubiquitous television cameras. But he has also mellowed in line with the turnaround of his team and the admiring headlines they have received. Even when something is written that offends him the rebuke comes via the press office these days rather than the public ordeal of being bawled out. Ferguson has been serene and good-humoured and his temper has been kept on a leash – which is just the way we like it.

  Tonight, though, it breaks loose and when we hear what has happened in the tunnel it is clear that The Hairdryer has been only in hibernation and that Ferguson is still as accomplished as anyone in sport when it comes to terrorising men with microphones.

  The man whose eyebrows are scorched is Geoff Shreeves, Sky’s pitch-side reporter.

  Ronaldo has won another man-of-the-match award and at the end of the game that means collecting a bottle of champagne and answering half a dozen or so questions from Shreeves in the tunnel. It is one of his first interviews without using an interpreter and Ferguson is watching the television in the dressing room. Ronaldo has been the outstanding player, scoring the decisive penalty after having his heels clipped by Jonathan Woodgate. But he has a habit of going down under minimal contact and Shreeves begins by asking whether he could have stayed on his feet, even though the television replays show he was caught. Then Shreeves wants to know why Ronaldo always seems to be embroiled in controversy when he plays Middlesbrough. Ronaldo is bemused but smiles politely and comes out with a line that is pure Ali. ‘I don’t know,’ he replies, ‘maybe it is because I am too good.’

  He handles it superbly. But Ferguson is protective of Ronaldo to the point of being a surrogate father and he is furious that one of his players has gone to collect a bottle of bubbly and found himself being interrogated about being a serial diver. He thinks the line of questioning is pointed, to say the least, and he is off his seat, out of the dressing room and marching through the labyrinthine corridors to find Shreeves.

  Gareth Southgate, the Middlesbrough manager, is in the interview area, taking questions from Match of the Day’s Ivan Gaskell, when Ferguson suddenly appears. He is shouting, calling Shreeves a ‘fucking bastard’.

  This is the point when the subjects of his wrath usually freeze to the spot and either blurt out something completely wet or lose the power of speech entirely. Except Shreeves refuses to accept what is happening. He looks Ferguson in the eye and tells him in a firm voice to stop shouting because he is out of order. It is very apparent that he is not going to accept being sworn and shouted at. ‘Do not talk to me like that,’ he says.

  Ferguson is not used to being rebuked in the middle of a full-blown rant. He splutters back: ‘Fuck off to you.’

  Shreeves tell him again: ‘Don’t talk to me like that. Don’t even think of it.’

  ‘Don’t you think about it,’ Ferguson yells back. ‘Fuck off, right?’

  Shreeves refuses to back down. He doesn’t think he has done anything wrong. At least half the country thinks Ronaldo goes down too easily, or has done in the past. Earlier this season Southgate was all over the sports pages calling Ronaldo a ‘diver’. Ferguson, in turn, described Southgate, the Premiership’s newest manager, as ‘very naïve’. Resentment has been festering and when Ronaldo scores tonight he runs past the Middlesbrough bench and dedicates the goal to Southgate. There are shouts of ‘cheat’ and Queiroz has to be pulled away from confronting Southgate’s backroom staff. The game ends with the Middlesbrough players trying harder to kick Ronaldo than to get an equaliser, and one of their substitutes, James Morrison, gets a red card for chopping him down by the corner flag.

  ‘Listen,’ says a red-faced Shreeves, ‘are you going to do an interview in a professional manner or not? Do you want to do it or not?’

  But Ferguson isn’t interested. ‘You fucking be professional,’ he says. ‘You be professional. You’re the one.’

  Shreeves tries to defend himself some more, but it is useless and he begins to stutter.

  ‘I’m entitled to ask … Cristiano gave the right answer …’

  Ferguson is turning to go.

  ‘Fucking hell with your answers,’ he says, and then it is Shreeves’s turn to lose his rag.

  ‘Don’t talk to me like that. Go away. If you want to behave civilly, fine. But don’t talk to me like that.’

  ‘Fuck off!’

  Ferguson has said enough and disappears. There is a short silence, maybe ten or fifteen seconds, and then Gaskell apologises to Southgate.

  ‘I’m sorry Gareth, but I’m going to have to ask that question again.’

  The news has seeped through to the pressroom by the time Ferguson does his MUTV interview and when we see his face it is obvious he is still angry. ‘I watched the interview with Sky and it was a poor interview, a disgraceful interview,’ he says. ‘He was stretching it out, hoping Cristiano would trip himself up, but he doesn’t know how intelligent the boy is. It was a poor interview and I’m disgusted. Sky should have a good look at themselves.’

  ROME

  3.4.07

  Geoff Shreeves has emailed Ferguson with a request that they put the slanging match behind them and don’t let it affect their working relationship. Sky pump an awful lot of money into the Premiership and normally get privileged access at Old Trafford, second only to MUTV. But Shreeves’s bosses are acutely aware of what Ferguson has done to the BBC and that there have been at least three occasions when he has threatened to boycott Sky in the past, even when his son Jason worked there as a producer. The first was in 1993 after the cameras zoomed in on a touchline row with Gerry Francis, then the QPR manager. The following year Sky upset him again when they set a series of Eric Cantona’s illegal tackles to music, and he was livid again in 2003 when a television crew made the mistake of interrupting him and Cathy on holiday in France to ask about David Beckham’s impending move to Real Madrid.

  Jason, incidentally, became Sky’s senior football director before changing careers to become an agent in 1999. On one occasion, seeing his father’s pained stare during a particularly tense match, he was famously heard to yell in the production room: ‘Get the cameras on Fergie, he’s looking angry!’ Ferguson found that story rather amusing when it got back to Old Trafford, chuckling with journalists one day that ‘even my family are playing up the Fergie-fury angle’.

  The issue with Shreeves is whether or not it was fair to ask Ronaldo in effect: ‘why is it always you?’ Ferguson is angry because he thinks Shreeves was trying to lead Ronaldo into saying something he might later regret. Shreeves’s argument is that he would have been accused of ducking the issue had he merely patted the player on the back and complimented him on his performance. The truth is probably somewhere in between, but the important thing is that it doesn’t seem to have caused any lasting damage. One thing about Ferguson is that he has more respect for victims of The Hairdryer if they are willing to stand up to him. Shreeves, by all accounts, refused t
o budge an inch as they went toe to toe in the tunnel and Ferguson might even be secretly impressed because when we check in at Manchester airport today – the team play AS Roma in the first leg of the Champions League quarter-finals tomorrow – there is confirmation that he is willing to speak to Sky, and Shreeves, after the game.

  Ferguson is in a good mood on the plane and the only spark of anger comes when we are interviewing him at Ciampino airport and a Scandinavian tourist starts to click away with a camera phone without asking permission. This is one of Ferguson’s pet hates. ‘Have you finished?’ he thunders and even when the tourist scuttles off Ferguson is so annoyed he can barely concentrate for the next couple of questions. ‘It’s unbelievable,’ he says, ‘that someone can just come up to you and stick a camera in your bloody face.’

  His tactics are always interesting before these big games because he will invariably plan in advance what he wants to say to the media and how to exploit the headlines for his own benefit. Today, for example, he is no admirer of the referee Herbert Fandel, and his carefully delivered message is that he wants the officials to be ‘strong’. It is a classic Ferguson ploy. Before home games he will often appeal for the fans to get behind the team and intimidate the opposition. Or there have been times when he deliberately seems to want to disrupt United’s opponents by getting under their skin.

  Before the quarter-final against Inter Milan in 1999 UEFA fined him £2,000 after he voiced his distrust of Italians. ‘When an Italian says it is pasta,’ he said, ‘I check under the sauce to make sure.’ He went on to predict Inter’s tactics would include ‘scheming, diving, referee-baiting, the full works’ and he was at his most provocative again before the quarter-final against Real Madrid in 2003, claiming that the Spaniards would try to ‘get’ the referee and that the draw had been fixed because ‘they don’t want us in the final’. Marca, the Madrid newspaper, responded with a front-page headline of ‘Hooligan Ferguson’, and the Real coach Vicente del Bosque said Ferguson was being ‘ridiculous’. UEFA agreed, describing the comments as ‘unfortunate and silly’ and fining him £4,600.