The final at Wembley in 2011, when we were supposed to put right what had happened in Rome, turned out to be even worse. We had a two-week lead-up to the game and the manager thought long and hard about how to play. His plan was basically to do what we’d tried and failed to do in Rome when we’d been derailed by their early goal. The idea was to stop Barça dominating us by dominating them: attack would be our defence.
Sir Alex asked Vida and me and a few of the other senior players if we were happy with the tactics. We weren’t really, but we’re professional players; we want to do what the manager asks and he was a great manager. So we went with it. And lost 3–1. The score sounds respectable but it was hardly even a battle. We couldn’t attack because we hardly ever had the ball, and at the end we came off the pitch embarrassed – they were head and shoulders above us.
Again, the most painful part of it was that we never got to show our qualities. We’d won back-to-back league titles; we’d been in three Champions League finals in four years. Yet here we were, getting taken apart in our own country. It was some coming down to earth for our players to be mauled like that at Wembley in front of our fans. It was particularly hard for Edwin van der Sar because it was his last ever game.
Tactically, the 2011 game was another disaster for us. As defenders, we never got to grips with Messi at all. Most of the time he played deep, well away from us. Then he’d suddenly ghost into the box and you couldn’t catch him. I thought: ‘That is fucking special. That is different. You’re not going to see that ever again in your lifetime.’
Again, we had the impossible problem: stay back or go out and try to stop him. As defenders in England we thrive on contact. Look at Steve Bruce’s nose – it’s all over his face! That represents battle. Bruised ribs, broken ribs, knees, back … everything usually hurts after a game because you’re fighting with forwards. But we barely even had a sweat on after that game. Normally you dictate to their forwards, but with Barcelona it was the opposite: they took the power out of our hands and dictated almost everything. I remember coming off at the end and saying to Vida: ‘What the fuck just happened?’
We tried to find the answers in the game and in the second half I was almost playing in midfield some of the time, trying to go after Messi. The problem was, the minute you went out, their runners saw it, and Vida would be left alone with guys coming towards him from all angles. Barça posed questions we hadn’t been asked before, and we didn’t have answers. But if we’d played the way we were accustomed to playing I still think it might have been different.
When people talk about that Barcelona team they usually focus on Xavi, Iniesta and Messi. For me, though, the real killers were the wingers, Pedro and David Villa. They were fast and skilful, and played almost ridiculously high and wide, looking to get behind us. Since we wanted to take the game to Barcelona, our midfielders and forwards kept going forward, but the defence was pinned back by the danger of the wingers. If we’d all gone forward they’d have picked us off and it could have been a rout. Pedro was disciplined, intelligent and always did the right thing for his team; he never showboated or did flashy skills. For me, he was the one who really made them tick: he was also one of their best at pressing the ball and was so aggressive the whole team followed in behind him.
In his autobiography, Sir Alex criticises Vidić and me a little bit for those two games, saying we wanted to sit back and defend space rather than come out and pressurise Messi. As I’ve explained, I don’t think that would have worked. But I can’t be too critical of the boss. If I was being honest, I’d say, yeah, tactically he did get it wrong, but I think that’s understandable. He feels the romance and history of the club deeply and I think he worried that United’s tradition might be made to feel inferior to Barcelona’s tradition. Like us, they’re known for stylish attacking football. It’s the Cruyff way of playing which they’ve brought all the way into the present. Guardiola’s team was almost a reincarnation of the ‘total football’ of the 1970s. People raved about how good and beautiful Barcelona’s tiki-taka was. But if we’d played defensively, where would that have left the history of United?
We have our own fantastic tradition: the Busby Babes, Best, Law and Charlton, 1968, all the great teams through the 1990s up to our own time. I think that’s what drove the manager. He thought: I want to win our way, meaning the old Manchester United way, which was all about attacking, taking risks and meeting opponents high up the pitch. He let his heart rule his head, which isn’t a bad thing sometimes. He was hurt at least as much as the players. To get to three finals in four years and only win one of them? He’d never have seen that in his wildest dreams.
What counts for me more than comments in his book is what Sir Alex said to us privately and from the heart in 2013. For me, it’s one of his great moments. We were playing Real Madrid and before the game, during his team talk, he went back to those two Barcelona games. He opened up and said he thought he’d got our tactics wrong in both finals.
I’m man enough to admit that I didn’t play well enough in either game. I think all our players would say the same thing. We’re not stupid; we’re not selfish enough to think, ‘Oh, it’s the manager’s fault.’ We didn’t carry out his instructions as well as we could have done. Then again, he was asking us to do something different from normal. So whose fault were those defeats? Maybe the blame was a bit of a 50-50. Or maybe it was no one’s fault. Barcelona, after all, were brilliant. But those games haunted us. On that day the manager took responsibility; he took the blame. It was one of those occasions that showed you the value of the man and why he is held in such high regard. Sir Alex is not just a great winner but he has a decency and a strength of character. What he said that night made me respect him even more: ‘I’m not going to get it wrong this time against Madrid and trust me, believe in what I’m doing.’ I was impressed and moved and felt that a burden had been lifted from my shoulders. It made me want to run through brick walls for him even more.
On Gay Footballers
Society has changed
Football’s attitude to gay players is out of tune with the rest of society. I was impressed when Thomas Hitzlsperger came out, but it would have been much more powerful if he’d come out when he was playing. I know it’s easy for us to say, but it would have been great. We often talked about it in the Manchester United changing room. We’d say ‘Listen, man, based on the polls that are done and the latest research – there must be one amongst us who’s gay. Come on. Who is it?’ It was just a laugh but the feeling that came out was always that we wouldn’t be bothered if there’s a gay man in our dressing room. I’d rather someone come out and told me this: ‘Listen, I’m gay man.’ I’m not going to not talk to him or treat him any differently. That was the common feeling even in a macho dressing room like ours: just be the person you are and don’t change and we’ll be fine with that. Whether you’re gay doesn’t bother us. As long as you’re playing football to the best of your ability, and you’re helping us win things, who cares?
My general feeling is that I don’t think someone coming out as gay would destabilise a changing room at all. What would probably happen is that if you came out and said you were gay, it would be like coming out and saying I’ve had a hair transplant or any other personal thing – you’d get banter but nothing nasty. It would be tongue-in-cheek like when Wayne Rooney got his hair transplant. That’s how changing rooms are: it’s part and parcel of it. ‘Oh no, it’s going to rain today,’ we’d say, ‘What’s going to happen with his hair? It’s going to be everywhere … he looks like Bobby Charlton and he’s only 21.’ Anything at all that sticks out about someone becomes a thing you tease them about. When Cristiano Ronaldo wore tight jeans, we use to destroy him: ‘We can see the veins in your bollocks, what’s going on?’ But he would laugh and come back and say ‘You English guys don’t know fashion, what are you talking about?’
If someone announced they’re gay, I’m sure the atmosphere in the changing room would be like: ‘Do we say
anything about it?’ and then I’m sure after 10 minutes someone would make a joke and it would break the ice and then everyone would just be getting on like normal. How refreshing that would be for football and everything. It would show people that we’ve all got a common goal and that is to win. It doesn’t matter what colour you are or what you’re into, if you’re gay or not, or how you want to dress, whatever you want to do in life; as long as it’s not going to get in the way of winning, it’s all fine. I’m also guessing it would free up a lot of energy that is presumably wasted in people feeling they’ve got to hide something as fundamental about themselves.
Look at Hitzlsperger. Maybe if he’d come out sooner he could have got another 15–20 per cent out of his career. If he didn’t have that stress and pressure of hiding and feeling apprehensive about showing his true feelings, you never know, he might have had 100 caps for Germany. We remember the tragedy of Justin Fashanu – but he was playing more than 30 years ago. I’d like to think being gay in football today would not affect a player’s chances in Britain in this day and age. Society has changed and football is a part of that.
On Being Captain
It’s a beautiful thing
But I’m not bitter
People think it’s just an armband, but being a captain really is a beautiful thing. You lead your teammates out onto the field; your chest puffs out with pride. I loved the role and it was an unbelievable responsibility and privilege to be captain of Manchester United and England. You think of some of the great players who’ve gone before you.
I just wish I could have done it a bit more often. In one case I felt uncomfortable about doing it at all. At Leeds, when I was 22, I felt very awkward when David O’Leary gave me the job. It was the way he handled it: Lucas Radebe was captain when I arrived; he was a top respected player, a top respected man and a great fella at the club. But he’d also had a lot of injuries. I’d only been at the club a couple of months when the manager pulled me out of the physio room. I found myself standing in the corridor with him and Lucas was there as well. O’Leary went: ‘Rio um … Rio, I’m going to make you captain.’ Dropping a thing like that on my toes right in front of Lucas! I didn’t know what to say. Lucas was typically gracious. He smiled and said, ‘Rio, you’re the man, and you’re the one to lead the club now. I want you to be the captain.’ I just stood there. I said ‘Sorry, man … I didn’t want … I didn’t expect it to be like this …’ I was embarrassed.
Leeds had a special parking space for the captain. But I didn’t want to use it because I felt it was out of order. It became quite a thing. Some of the lads hammered me over it. When I arrived each morning guys like Lee Bowyer, Gary Kelly, Jonathan Woodgate, Michael Duberry and Robbie Keane would be standing there doing a commentary: ‘Will he do it today? Is he going to park there? He is …. He is … He isn’t!’ At lunchtime, if I went up first for food, some of them would go: ‘Lucas, to the back! You’re nothing now.’ The lads made it uncomfortable. But it was funny too. Then one day Lucas came to me and said, ‘Rio, just park there, please. I want you to park there. You deserve it. You’re the captain now.’ And eventually I did.
But later, there were times with England and Man United when I thought I should have been captain and it didn’t happen. I can hardly be bitter about it, though; everyone has their disappointments, moments in their career where they feel undervalued. No one has a right to be captain and my attitude was always the same: as long as I’m playing and I’m winning how can I moan? With England we didn’t actually win any honours, but to be captain of your country is a massive honour in itself. I was devastated when I finally got my opportunity to lead the team at the World Cup in South Africa and I got injured; I felt as if it had been snatched away from me.
I was disappointed, though, when I was overlooked by Fabio Capello at the beginning of his time in charge. I felt the way he handled it was almost guaranteed to upset someone. He kind of put me, Steven Gerrard and John Terry on trial, giving us a match each to see how we coped, then finally picked John. It would’ve been far better if he had just come in and said, ‘He’s captain.’ Bang. That’s it. Or if he had asked the players, or taken an anonymous vote. I didn’t see what he could have learnt from those three games. The problem for me was that you couldn’t help get your hopes up and then get disappointed. It’s one of the biggest things in football. So I was gutted. But I made sure I didn’t let it affect my demeanour around the camp; I just got on with things.
At Manchester United there were times when I thought I could or should have been captain – but the hardest moment was when I actually was. It was the day we won the league on the last day of the season at Wigan in 2008: I’d been acting captain all season because Gary Neville had been injured for a long time. We won the game 2–0 and it was a fantastic feeling. Just after the match but before we went out for the silverware, I was sitting in the changing room when the manager comes to me and says, ‘Ah, can you … um … let Ryan Giggs pick up the trophy?’ My heart just sank, and I was like, ‘Oh no … this is a childhood dream!’
The most important thing is winning, of course. But to do it as captain puts the icing on top. I didn’t say that, of course; I just said ‘Yeah, no problem. It’s fine. Great. Go. No worries.’ I understand why Sir Alex did it. Giggsy had won the league for … I don’t know … the trillionth time. I think it was his tenth one. So it was a landmark moment for him. But I was thinking: ‘Fucking hell, man … this is only like my third or fourth one. And how many more times am I going to get the chance to lift it as captain?’ (None, as it turned out.)
So it was a bittersweet moment. Perhaps Sir Alex was thinking ‘Rio doesn’t need this so much because he’s going to be around for a long time and win a few more of these.’ But you never know what’s around the corner. Over the next year, whenever I saw Giggsy with the trophy on the Sky match-day programme credits I thought: ‘I might never get a moment like that.’ I carried on being captain for a couple of years while Gary Neville was out with his injury problems. But when Gary retired I started getting injury problems of my own and the captaincy passed me by. My mate Vida got the gig and did a great job.
Giggsy never said a word about Wigan until, in the programme for my testimonial game, he acknowledged I’d given up that moment for him and he said he appreciated it. I appreciated what he said and it softened the blow. In any case, I can’t complain too much; I got to lift the Champion’s League trophy in Moscow a few weeks later and the Club World Cup Championship the following season. I’ve never been one to disgruntle my teammates; the well-being of the team is always more important than how you feel as an individual.
The Nice Guy
Mixed messages and low-fat chips
Just before Manchester United sacked David Moyes, I heard a journalist on the radio try to explain the crisis. There had been loads of discussion all over press, TV and social media, most of it ill-informed. But this explanation struck me as particularly bizarre because of the guy’s tone. He was talking as if he was speaking the gospel truth – and at least half of what he was saying was complete bollocks!
‘The club is not going to make the decision until Thursday … the players won’t play for the manager any more … they’ve started calling him “eff-off”…’
What? As I listened I thought: Where are you getting this rubbish information?
On television the same week Roy Keane told the world the players had ‘let the manager down.’ I thought: ‘Who do you know at Manchester United these days? Tell me! Who do you know? Who do you talk to? You left years ago!’
Other people even claimed we deliberately played badly through the season to get the manager sacked. Crazy! Maybe journalists think: ‘I don’t fancy this editor geezer so I’m deliberately going to to write rubbish this weekend … and he’ll get the blame!’ But I don’t know any players who’d ever down tools like that. At United it would be unimaginable to even think it. We were going to give 100 per cent for whoever became manager after Fergie
, because that’s the only way we know; we want to win, so we’ll give the boss everything.
I was actually very optimistic when David Moyes arrived. Sir Alex was a great leader of people, and brilliant at judging people’s character. Naturally, we all trusted his judgment. I think he identified with David Moyes purely on human qualities – and he was right. As a human being I think David Moyes is close to perfect. I like him: he’s a real nice fellow, a genuine guy. His desire to succeed, his work ethic, his integrity are all fantastic. He’s honest, trustworthy and passionate, and I totally see why Sir Alex warmed to him. Moyes was never going to be some fly-by-night manager who’d leave when it suited him; if he’d been successful he’d have stayed as long as the club wanted.
No one could have worked harder: Moyes was always the first one into the training ground and the last to leave. He is a true football man; he tried his best, and I can see why he got the opportunity. He’d proved himself at Everton; he consolidated them as a consistent top half of the Premier League team. But getting that opportunity and taking that opportunity are two different things.
Moyes never solved some of the football problems he faced. He brought ideas and tactics, which had worked for him at Everton, but didn’t adapt to the expectations and traditions of Manchester United. He tried to impose a vision but never seemed to be completely clear what that vision should be. Unintentionally, he created a negative vibe where, with Fergie, it had always been positive.
I think he was entitled to bring some of his staff from Everton but it was an absolute mistake not to keep United stalwarts like Mick Phelan who knew all the quirks and sensitivities of the players. It meant Moyes missed a lot of the subtleties about players and the culture of United. But I have to stress, we all wanted to work with him and do well for him. It wasn’t like Brian Clough going to Leeds and pissing off all the players by telling them to stick their medals in the bin. It was nothing like that!
#2Sides: My Autobiography Page 10