#2Sides: My Autobiography

by Rio Ferdinand

  I was desperate to play, especially in that great stadium. And because I’d played well in the first game then didn’t play against Newcastle, when I travelled to Munich I knew I must be in the team. On the morning of the game everything seemed wrong. To practise our set pieces and stuff we went to a public park. It was bizarre! Local people started coming from all over to watch us, take photos and videos. It’s not how Manchester United do things! You don’t want to be giving away the secrets of your formation and how you’re going to play! I mean, why not just send Bayern an email or a DVD? It was amateurish.

  But worse was to come. As we’re standing there in public on this bit of grass, the manager just taps me on the shoulder and says: ‘Rio, listen, I’m not going to play you. I feel we need a bit more pace in the back line.’

  It killed me. Inside I wanted to scream and grab him. I’m a team player, so I just had to bite my tongue and stand there. But it was probably the worst single moment I ever had at United. I’d never been dropped for a big a game like that, and to drop that on me in front of everybody when I can’t react. ‘Fucking hell; why didn’t you tell me before?’

  Objectively I just thought he was dead wrong. Chris Smalling, who was going to play in my place, had been injured. The Bayern strikers, Thomas Müller and Mario Mandžukić, weren’t blisteringly quick; pace wasn’t their game; it didn’t make any sense. I’d rather he just said, ‘I think Chris Smalling is in better form than you are,’ or something like that. But it was just the way he told me. I didn’t even get a chance to say my piece. He might not want to hear it, but it just leaves you feeling frustrated. He must have known 24 hours beforehand that I wasn’t going to play. If he’d told me earlier I could have dealt with it better.

  Several teammates told me later that my reaction was something they’d never seen from me before. I went into a daze and even took my anger and the debate about him onto the coach as we waited for him to finish doing set pieces with the first XI. I’d never shown my feelings like that in front of my teammates so openly before. My anger came out straight away with no filter. I knew my time at United was coming to an end and, where I had once had time to prove myself, I felt this was different.

  Not being involved in the game, at least I had the chance to watch how it all went wrong. Sir Alex used to give simple, concise, clear instructions. Depending on the opponents, he’d say: ‘Tight early on,’ or ‘Blow them away early.’ The thing he always stressed was: CONCENTRATE! That was his favourite. But before the game Moyes said that, depending how Bayern played, we could use three different formations! He’d let the lads know which one when the game got underway. Danny Welbeck was going to play on the right … or it could be on the left … or behind. Shinji Kagawa was definitely going to play behind, or the left … all through the team. The whole thing created uncertainty: how could Danny prepare if he had to think about doing four different jobs on the pitch? It even puts doubt in the mind of experienced players. Wayne Rooney would normally be sitting in the dressing room before a game thinking: ‘Right, I know that I’m centre-half, so I’ll make these kind of runs, and if he comes tight I’ll spin him.’ We all try to see the game in our minds before we play. Of course players have to be able to adapt but people were going onto the pitch not knowing what they were supposed to do.

  In the event, the team played much the same way we started, defending and looking for a quick break. It almost worked: Patrice Evra scored a fantastic goal out of nothing and for a few minutes it looked like we could get through. Then Bayern scored three quick goals and it was all over. What was fascinating was watching Moyes in action. Or in inaction. Fergie’s approach was always the same: we’re going to beat everyone. I noticed the difference between the two benches – ours was animated and nervous with Moyes moaning about every decision; Pep Guardiola, on the other hand, was completely calm. One of the things a great manager does is create a mentality throughout the club. Like Diego Simeone at Atlético Madrid: he makes everyone feel involved. It’s not just the players who determine results; it’s the players who aren’t playing, and the backroom staff – from the kit man to the sports scientists. The staff have to be happy; it’s part of what keeps players going sometimes. As I understand it, Moyes actually did that at Everton. But he couldn’t do it at Manchester United. At Everton the objective wasn’t: ‘Let’s win every game and every trophy.’ It was: ‘Let’s not get beaten by Manchester United and the other top four teams.’ By the time he left us I don’t think a lot of the staff even really felt part of his team.

  Well, as everyone knows, the Bayern game turned out to be one of his last games in charge. Eleven days later he took the team to Everton – I didn’t travel – and we got thumped 2–0. Two days later he was sacked. It wasn’t done in a dignified way: the club let rumours circulate for almost two days before putting him out of his misery. But, as you’d expect, David Moyes behaved with great dignity.

  Us players were as much in the dark as the fans. The club never told us a thing. I only found out Moyes had gone when Anders Lindegaard texted us all to say ‘It’s official, guys. It’s official.’ I drove to the training ground at Carrington as normal; outside there were dozens of TV cameras. Inside, a players’ meeting had been called. Everyone knew why.

  Moyes came in with Steve Round and Jimmy Lumsden and said they were all leaving. He didn’t sound happy with the way information had leaked out the day before, and we could understand that. We’ve all got our pride and our families, after all.

  He made a good speech: ‘I’ve had a fantastic time here but unfortunately we’ve not had the results, and it’s a results driven game, so … um … I’ve been sacked. This is the best club in the world, make sure you try and stay here as long as you can. And all of us, I am sure, our paths will cross again in the future.’

  He thanked us again, said goodbye and shook everyone’s hands, and that was it. Then Giggsy came in, and made a little speech saying he was manager till the end of the season. When he was finished, I had a question for him. I said: ‘What do we call you? Gaffer? Giggsy? What?’ And he laughed and said ‘Giggsy’ was fine. Then we went out and straight into the day’s training.

  It’s an unforgiving game. Obviously you feel sad for somebody who loses their job, but as a professional all you can do is get on with things and move on. It’s a bit cold, but that’s the business that we’re in. Things change fast in football; the next game against Norwich was coming up and you just have to put everything else out of your mind. I didn’t know something similar would happen to me a few weeks later. But it was the only way to react. You know a career can be over very suddenly; it’s something everyone at some point has to go through. You’ve just got to get on with things and keep moving on.

  Some people argue the manager is overrated in modern football. But one of the things the whole saga showed me was just how important the manager can be in a club. Even if you’ve got great and highly motivated players it all has to be channelled in the right way; you need someone to put all the elements together. Someone’s got to create the right environment in the changing room; someone’s got to create an environment that carries out onto that pitch. It doesn’t just happen by itself. You can’t just throw a group of players together and expect them to be a great team – someone at the top has to be driving that.

  You can see the difference between the confusing Moyes approach and the absolute clarity Louis van Gaal brought to the job. I’m just disappointed I didn’t get a chance to work with him because it would have been an education. The players at United now tell me Van Gaal is strong and determined and clear in his methods and his philosophy. If you can’t buy into his philosophy, he’ll find players who can. There was a fascinating quote from him: ‘I am training the players not in their legs but in their brain, in brain power.’ I think I could have learned a lot from Van Gaal.

  Looking back, I’d say David Moyes was unlucky. He and Manchester United were just oil and water somehow. His ideas weren’t bad in themselves; th
ey just didn’t fit with the group of players and the tradition and recent history of the club. As players we also have to stand up and be counted and say we didn’t perform. It’s a fact. But at the same time we needed to be given the right framework and structure for our strengths to come out. We get paid to play well, and the fact that we failed wasn’t for lack of effort. We tried as hard as we could. But we didn’t play to our strengths under Moyes.

  It was always going to be hard for him following such a huge character not just at the club but in the world of football. Don’t forget he also had the added disadvantage of arriving just after the departure of David Gill, the chief executive who was very influential in buying players and running the club. United was in transition and it would’ve been difficult for any new manager. Even so, David Moyes wasn’t right for Man Utd – he wasn’t clear in his ideas and he couldn’t get what he wanted over to the players.

  The question of who was to blame does keep going back and forth in my mind, though. I wish he could have seen me last season, when I had one of my best seasons at United, or a few years ago when I was fighting fit and in my prime. I don’t think I was responsible for him getting sacked. I couldn’t have given more, but I do wish I could have played consistently well under him. He might have been still in the job, or at least he’d have seen me in a better light as a player. On the other side, you think: ‘Did he set us up properly to be able to give the best of ourselves as players?’ No, he didn’t. But that’s the kind of tennis game you have in your head: ‘Was it me? … Was it him? …’ That’s what goes round in your mind if you’re a good professional. You never say: ‘Oh it’s his fault.’ You are always at odds with yourself a bit. Was it him or was it me? It’s a never-ending rally.

  On Pressure and Boredom

  It does strange things to you

  Some players just don’t cope with the pressure of being in the England squad. Like Jimmy Bullard. Jimmy might never have set the world alight for England – but he was a hell of a good player I knew from way back. He made two squads but never actually got a game. It was a shame. And I think it tells us something about another thing that is wrong with England.

  I knew Jimmy when we were about 11 and played against each other in the Bexley and Kent League. He was with YMCA and I played for Eltham Town. He was one of the most sought-after young players in the area – technically good, very fit. He could shoot and pass, and he was built like a marathon runner. Then I lost track of him and I heard he went into painting and decorating. Then years later, he turned up at the West Ham reserves, then went off and did well for himself. He became bit of a cult figure along the way at places like Wigan, Fulham and Hull. I think fans saw themselves in him: he was a kind of ‘Jack the Lad’ mess-about-merchant who never took himself too seriously. But he was always a better footballer than most people noticed.

  When Jimmy retired he wrote a very funny book, pointing out, among other things, that Fabio Capello looks just like Postman Pat. He also made a serious point about the oppressive seriousness of the England setup. He felt a bit lost within the system, was never comfortable and couldn’t flourish. I’ve spoken to him about it and it was a real problem. He said the seriousness of the England camp just made it impossible for him to be himself so he didn’t really train that well.

  It’s an issue because you go away and you’re suddenly completely outside your comfort zones. Like with food. At home you eat when you want. Normally I eat with my kids at about 6pm and if I feel like having something else later, I’ll just go to the fridge. But with the national team everything is so regimented. It’s almost like being in prison!

  I remember one time we played a game on the Wednesday and had another game on Saturday. That left us locked in the hotel for days. So after the Wednesday match John Terry, Ashley Cole, Shaun Wright-Phillips and I organised to get some Nando’s in for all the lads. We knew they’d be hungry and wouldn’t want the official food. So we all went to dinner with the team, but ate minimally, knowing the Nandos was on its way. After half an hour we left the dinner table and … enjoyed the food we wanted. If you could’ve heard us! We were like hyenas at feeding time with a limitless supply of dead wildebeest. If somebody had got those sound effects on tape it would’ve been hilarious.

  We did that sort of thing a couple of times. Another time we went for McDonald’s and everyone ordered Big Macs, and chicken burgers and stuff. It was quite an operation: the food would be delivered through the back of the hotel by one of the lads’ drivers. In the normal run of things you’d never think of doing that; it would only ever be once in a blue moon. We’re not stupid. We know what to eat. But we were stir-crazy: we’d been locked away for like a week and no one had had any food they really enjoyed. At times like that that kind of stuff tastes fantastic. It’s a reaction to being bossed about.

  One time Fabio Capello said we couldn’t have butter on our toast in the morning. I remember sitting there and putting olive oil and salt on instead. What would be worse? The olive oil and salt, I’m sure. Or another time it would be: ‘no ice cream’. We were absolutely forbidden to have even a tiny bit of ice cream. I mean – we’re only with the team for about four or five days. Do you really think it’s going to affect my performance if I put a bit of butter on my toast when that’s what I do every other day of the year?

  Sometimes you have to give players responsibility. We’re all professionals; we didn’t get to this point in our lives by being unprofessional. We can look after ourselves. If you treat us like kids we’ll behave like kids.

  It’s not just food. I remember in Glenn Hoddle’s time – because he was as strict as anyone else in this regard – we were at the hotel in Burnham Beeches and we weren’t allowed out anywhere. I was 19 or 20 years old and used to going out all the time. Suddenly I was in what felt like a prison lockdown. So I asked one of my mates to come and get me in his car after dinner. The routine was that we would finish training and then have lunch at 1.30pm or 2pm … and then there was nothing to do until a 7.30pm meeting! So we were supposed to sit in the hotel the whole time. It freaked me out. So I’d get my mates to wait with the car outside, by the perimeter wall. I’d sneak through the kitchens, escape through the back door then jump over the back wall. Me and Frank Lampard did that a couple of times: all we wanted was to go for a drive or to the local town listening to music and chilling – just normal 18- or 19-year-old stuff but without the alcohol. We never drank. And we were never the worse for it, I can assure you. It wasn’t like being off clubbing – we just didn’t want to be stuck in the room. You’d never do that at home, so why do it before a big game? You just seize up. Boredom is a problem.

  Long, boring stays in hotels can have a dark side as well. Being stuck away from home, alone in a room, players can easily get caught up in gambling. It’s just a laugh at first, but within a couple of months you can easily find yourself chasing hundreds of thousands of pounds. At that point you are too deep in a hole to climb out, and you can’t speak to anyone because you’re either embarrassed or genuinely addicted.

  I talk from experience. I was once £200,000 down because I was gambling on rugby, dogs and horses. I gambled by text and on credit and the process was so easy I was in trouble almost before I realised. My bookie knew I was good for the money, and I started with bets of a couple of grand here and there. Next thing I know, I owe him £200,000 and I’m worried sick.

  In the end, I was very lucky to escape. I managed to get my debt down to £107,000, then staked the whole amount on an evens bet on the favourite in a seven horse race. Watching on TV that horse seemed to run in slow motion and I was panicking. But after some of the scariest minutes of my life, it came in and I was able to settle my debt. But I’d learned my lesson. I paid the bookie what I owed – then told him never to send me odds or contact me again and deleted him from my phone.

  Roy Keane

  Is he putting this on?

  I have say that as a captain Roy Keane was brilliant in most departments. He’d ru
n the training and be very disciplined about it. If people seemed to be taking their foot off the pedal he would hammer them. He called a meeting once to have a go at Darren Fletcher for talking on his phone, and laid into some of the other young lads for not going to the gym and doing extra training. That was all good because the younger lads started to change their ways – and that was needed. But the next day I walked in and saw Roy talking on his phone, doing the exact same thing he had criticised Fletcher for! I just raised my eyebrows to say ‘Woah, you remember what you said yesterday?’ He just kind of smiled in embarrassment. He was probably thinking: ‘Yeah, but I can do this because I’m a senior player – I’ve worn the T-shirt, I was talking to the younger lads.’

  The only thing that I was really gutted about was that I didn’t get to play with Roy during his best years. He was still a top player when I arrived; he knew the game and dictated a lot of matches by the way he played, but he wasn’t at the peak of his powers.

  In his book Ferguson says how great Roy was as a player then says he could be very harsh with people: ‘The hardest part of Roy’s body is his tongue …’ It’s true that in the changing room he would come down on people, especially on Ollie, John O’Shea and Fletcher. With those three I think he saw a little bit of himself, especially Sheasy and Fletcher. They were young lads who came over from another country and he didn’t want to see them coasting or resting on their laurels.