Red: My Autobiography

by Gary Neville

  Becks was made to travel with the team to the big game at Leeds that weekend, but he wasn’t even on the bench. He had to sit in the stands – which of course only brought more attention, with all the photographers at Elland Road taking pictures of Becks seething in his seat.

  After the game we went straight off on international duty with England. We were playing Argentina at Wembley on the Wednesday. At least it gave things a few days to calm down, and Becks and I could chat about how he was going to work this out. We decided that I should be the mediator.

  When we got back on the Thursday, I went and had a word with Steve McClaren.

  ‘Look, I’ve had a chat with Becks and he wants to clear the air with the manager. But I think we need to help them find a solution.’

  So we decided to have a meeting – me, Steve, Becks and the boss. To make sure it went smoothly, I sat down with Becks before the meeting and wrote down on a piece of A4 paper a list of commitments – pledges that he would stick to. The big thing for the boss was the travel, the shuttling up and down the motorway, so I wrote down that Becks would not go to London for the three nights before a game, that he would tell the manager about his movements, and that he would limit his travel. Knowing the manager, he’s probably still got that piece of paper in a drawer somewhere.

  To everyone’s relief, the meeting was civil. They shook hands and agreed to put it behind them. The manager wasn’t daft – Becks was a massive player for us, one of the best right-wingers in the world, and one of the hardest workers. And Becks was at his dream club with the chance to win trophies every season. Of course they had to patch things up.

  Kevin

  THERE WAS A chant, ‘If the Nevilles can play for England so can I’, that became very popular for a while. At the worst moments during Kevin Keegan’s reign as England manager, I’d have happily swapped places with the clowns on the terraces.

  I always took great pride in playing for my country, even though United always came first in my heart, but things got so bad during Kevin’s reign that it was a relief to be left on the sidelines or injured.

  It wasn’t all Kevin’s fault. His time in the job happened to coincide with my most miserable period as a player, when I lost all my confidence. I wasn’t playing well at all for club or country. But the bottom line is that the England job brutally exposes any manager’s failings. His weaknesses are put in the full glare of the media and then picked apart by the fans. And Kevin, as he’d eventually admit with admirable honesty, fell short of the level required.

  We’d seen a lack of strategy during qualification for Euro 2000 with some strange decisions, like putting Sol Campbell at right-back in the play-off against Scotland. He’d chopped and changed between a back four and wing-backs. None of us was certain of our best eleven or the overall pattern.

  There was still no sense of direction when we travelled out to our base in Belgium for the tournament, and I had bad vibes right from the start. I know it’s a privilege to play for your country. You shouldn’t complain. But we were staying in a really drab old hotel in the town of Spa. I wasn’t in the best frame of mind, and as I put my bags down in my bedroom my mood darkened. ‘This is going to be a long few weeks,’ I thought. The tournament hadn’t even started.

  My form was poor and the team was desperately short of spark or imagination. I think Kevin’s overall strategy was to make us a typical English side, based on power and high tempo. But you need youth and legs even to think about that, and we were so one-paced. Too many players were like me – solid and unspectacular. We had Ince and Batty in midfield but neither was the most creative. Becks had real quality, but on the left we had Dennis Wise ahead of Phil which was suicidal. We didn’t have a single left-footer in the entire team, no one who could penetrate down that wing.

  Kevin was unlucky on a few counts. Steve McManaman started the tournament and quickly got injured. Steven Gerrard, though young, was already a star in the making, but he got injured too. The player who should have been the exciting young talent, Michael Owen, was at odds with the manager. We could all see that from their curt exchanges. Michael came back from the 1998 World Cup as the big name but he just couldn’t agree with Kevin’s reading of his game. It was a professional issue that became a personal one. Kevin wanted Michael working deeper, with his back to goal. Michael thought that was a waste of his talents.

  Not only did we have Michael in a bad mood, but we had the slowest England team in history. Two Nevilles, Keown and Adams, Batty, Ince, Wise and Beckham, with Owen up front and Shearer, who was retiring as soon as the tournament was over. We could have played for thirty years and we’d never have succeeded. We weren’t good enough, not by a million miles. My brother would take terrible stick for the way we went out, but he did us a favour by sparing us any more punishment.

  As well as the problems with the team, I was never thrilled about the gambling culture off the pitch. Too much of anything is bad, and the amount of time spent on horse racing or cards was ridiculous. It was all very old school, completely different to what I’d become used to in terms of discipline, focus and preparation at United. We’d have a ten-minute coach journey down to training and players would get the cards out. We’d lose a match and the gambling school would start up again.

  There’ll always be players who gamble, but this was too much. At United, we’d play cards, but never for big money. Even if we’d wanted to, the manager would have found out and stamped it out. Gambling is a cancer in a changing room.

  I remember the only time I got suckered into a heavy card game. We were on a pre-season tour with United in Malaysia and I ended up with Yorkie, Keano, Butty, Giggsy, Scholesy and Teddy playing for a few hundred quid a hand. This was big by my standards and it got right into my head. I went to bed thinking about the Jack of Hearts, the King of Spades. Gambling blows your mind. I can see why players fall into it. You’ve got money and you’re spending a lot of boring hours in hotel rooms. But losing fifty grand and playing for ten hours until two a.m. can’t be good for anyone’s concentration. And at Euro 2000 the players definitely weren’t gambling in moderation.

  Socially it’s divisive, too. If you have ten players in a room watching the racing or playing cards, it splits the camp. During Euro 96 a few of the senior players ran a book, but that was on the football matches. We watched the games together. That was sociable, and good homework. But some of the players at our hotel in Belgium were locked in rooms losing thousands on the turn of a card. If something goes to excess it can never be good. To be fair to Glenn Hoddle, he would never have allowed it.

  You might have been fooled into thinking we were going to be contenders for Euro 2000 when we rushed into a 2–0 lead in our opening game against Portugal. That was as good as it got. They battered us in the second half. Luís Figo scored a screamer from thirty yards, straight through Tony’s legs, for the equaliser, and then for the third I was in a bad position to cover Tony. It was typical of how I’d been playing for the previous five months. From 2–0 up we were lucky to only lose 3–2.

  Germany, the old enemy, were next up, and I can’t believe there’s ever been a worse game played between the two countries. We scrambled a 1–0 win but, honestly, I don’t know how. In the dressing room afterwards the players were euphoric and Kevin suggested that if we won the next game he was ready to snub the press after all the stick we’d been taking. But there’d be plenty more criticism.

  I was already thinking about how much longer we’d be stuck out in Spa. I hate admitting that, but I knew that this team wasn’t good enough and my own form was the worst of my whole career. It was obvious that we were going to be found out as a team.

  As a man-manager, Kevin was great getting round the table and talking to players. Morale had been low when he took over from Glenn, and he was always great to deal with one-to-one. He’s a good guy, full of enthusiasm and a real love for the game. But there was no strategy, no plan in our heads of how he wanted us to play. If you mixed the best of Kevin and G
lenn together, you might have a good England manager. But, in very different ways, the demands of the job found them both out.

  Under Kevin, we didn’t learn. There were seven, eight coaches, all decent people, like Peter Beardsley, Derek Fazackerley, Arthur Cox and Les Reed, but there was no tactical nous being passed down to the team.

  That was summed up one day when Les gave one of his lectures about our next opponents – and Kevin fell asleep. He was sitting on the front row and we could see his shoulders sagging, his head nodding forward. He woke up with a start and all the lads burst out laughing. It’s unbelievable to recall that now, even though it was funny at the time.

  We went into the last group game against Romania needing just a draw to reach the quarter-finals, but we were chaotic in defeat. We fell behind before Alan equalised from the penalty spot. Then we went ahead through Michael before we wobbled again. We were riddled with nerves and couldn’t string more than a few passes together. We couldn’t control the game at all. Then Viorel Moldovan burst towards the byline in the eighty-ninth minute and Phil stuck out his leg. It wasn’t the greatest tackle in the world. He should have stayed on his feet. Ioan Ganea scored the penalty and we were out.

  As Phil sat devastated in the dressing room afterwards, I told him repeatedly that he had nothing to feel bad about. ‘We were shit, Phil. We were going home soon enough anyway.’

  I was as much to blame as the next player. I’d been lousy. But England fans love a scapegoat and the sinking feeling I felt when Phil made that tackle was as much out of a feeling of protectiveness towards my younger brother as despair for my country. I’d seen the appalling stick Becks had suffered after the ’98 World Cup. Phil was never going to endure that level of abuse, but he got it bad enough. When he arrived home there was a burning shirt on his gates and graffiti on his garden wall. It was probably a set-up by a newspaper because I can’t believe anyone in Rossendale would have been stupid enough to do it. Either way, it was out of order.

  I wish I’d made the tackle rather than Phil, but whichever of us had done it the stick for the Nevilles was guaranteed to climb another few decibels. I’d joke with Phil after Euro 2000 that he was to blame for all the abuse, though he’s entitled to claim that I’ve made it a whole lot worse for him down the years.

  At club level, I’ve always believed that you have to take the stick – especially if you give it out as I’ve done. I’ve never complained, however bad it’s got. As long as we were winning on the pitch, a bit of chanting couldn’t hurt me or my family.

  But abuse from England fans when you are wearing the England shirt has always been plain idiocy. It’s hard enough playing for your country without feeling that the supporters are ready to get on your case. As a young player it can really hurt you. It was pretty constant from around 1998 for a good few years, and obviously Phil’s tackle didn’t do much for the popularity of the Nevilles.

  I expected Kevin to carry on after Euro 2000. He cared about England, and about his job, and he wanted to leave on a better note. But I couldn’t see how things were going to improve.

  In the end, it was a more depressing climax than even I’d feared: defeat at the hands of Germany in our opening World Cup qualifier – at home, in the rain, in the last game at the old Wembley, with another shocking performance.

  Germany weren’t much better. They were rubbish, in fact, just not as rubbish as us. Kevin had put Gareth Southgate in central midfield, even though Incey was on the bench, and it didn’t make any sense.

  I was as bad as anyone. Physically I wasn’t right so it was a relief when the manager took me off at half-time. We needed some pace, and at least we would get some from Kieron Dyer.

  But we couldn’t get back in the game and it was a miserable, silent dressing room that Kevin entered after the match. I was already showered and changed but most of the lads were sitting, staring at the floor, when he started speaking. He began by talking about the game, just as normal.

  ‘Lads, you’ve given your all, much better in the second half. I can’t complain about the effort you’ve put in.’

  Then, after a pause, he dropped a bomb on us.

  ‘Anyway, I’ve taken it as far as I can. That’s me finished.’

  We were all stunned. I’d watched the second half from the mouth of the tunnel so I’d heard the fans getting wound up. I’d heard the chants of ‘What a load of rubbish!’ and some of the abuse Kevin got as he walked off. It was obvious he was under massive pressure. But I hadn’t seen this coming.

  Arthur Cox stepped in. ‘Whoa there, Kevin. You need to have a think about this.’

  Tony Adams tried to say the same thing.

  Kevin wouldn’t be swayed. ‘No, I’ve made my mind up. Thanks for everything you’ve done. You’ve been brilliant. But I have taken it as far as I can go.’

  Before we knew it, all the suits were rushing into the dressing room – David Davies, Adam Crozier, the PR people. They were off in huddles, talking in groups. Yet another FA crisis.

  It was a sad end to a sorry day – the lowest point of my England career. At United life was brilliant. We were winning trophies every year, playing great football, scoring goals galore. With England I was playing in a poor team and taking loads of grief. The only relief on the day was that I’d never have to play again in that crap old ground.

  I hadn’t expected Kevin to quit but I respected him for the way he handled it. It’s not easy to admit when you aren’t good enough, especially live on national TV. Kevin was probably right: he had taken it as far as he could and he was falling short. But there’s plenty of managers who would have carried on taking the money, waiting for the sack. Kevin had the guts to front up in public.

  With Kevin gone, the FA had to put someone in place for the trip to Finland a few days later. So in came Howard Wilkinson – the second time he’d been caretaker. On both occasions I had to drop out on the eve of the match. Howard probably thought I was chucking it in. I wasn’t, although knowing his training methods I can’t say I was itching to play for him. Before the France game in 1999 he wanted to practise free-kicks near the halfway line. His instruction was to stick the two centre-forwards and the two central defenders on the edge of the box and punt it forward. Against the world champions at Wembley we were going to resort to chucking it into the mixer.

  It’s fair to say that I hadn’t heard anything like it in all my time at United. When I think of the quality of Spain, France, Real Madrid and Barcelona over the last decade, it goes to show how the English mentality was so far behind. And Howard was the FA’s technical director.

  Still the Boss

  I’VE HEARD IT said that a manager can’t do anything once the players have crossed the white line. And it’s bollocks. Anyone who says that has never had a good manager.

  Our boss has a massive effect on the team whenever a match is on. You can feel him in your head. At the back of your mind – sometimes at the front, too – you’ll be thinking, ‘Christ, I’ve got to go and face him at half-time. I’d better start playing better or he might rip my skull out.’

  Don’t get me wrong, you aren’t living in a state of fear. Mostly you are concentrating on your game. But you know, deep down, that you are puppets at the end of his string. He’s in control. He makes or breaks your career. He decides whether it’s going to be a great Saturday night – ‘Well done, son’ – or a sleepless weekend. It’s down to him whether you get to enjoy your Chinese meal and your glass of wine with your family after a match or sit there in miserable silence. He controls your destiny.

  Managers helpless on the sidelines? You won’t hear that from any United player who sees our boss on the side of the pitch shouting his head off. You’ll see him out of the corner of your eye, you’ll know he’s coming after you so you’ll try to make it look like your concentration is elsewhere. You pretend not to see him – Giggsy’s become a master of it down the years – or you start a totally unnecessary conversation with a teammate to fool him that you’re busy. But yo
u know he won’t let it slide. You know it’s coming at half-time or after the game unless you get yourself out of a hole sharpish. That has a massive effect on you. It makes you regret any lapse and work twice as hard to put it right. You could argue that it’s the manager’s greatest talent – to always make you feel his presence.

  He’s there all the time. At the training ground he’s never been one to lead the sessions. He must have done a handful in all my time at the club. He’s always been strictly manager, not coach. But somehow he never misses anything.

  He’ll suddenly appear, walking up and down the sidelines, chatting to the coaches or talking into his mobile, but always alert. Everyone knows he is a workaholic, into the training ground before the milkman. And there’s nothing his eyes and ears don’t pick up before he leaves.

  He’s a constant presence, but it’s on match day he really comes alive. From 1.30 p.m. until two is the manager’s team talk. This is his moment, his most important thirty minutes of the week. He’ll tell us the team, how we are going to play, the strengths and weaknesses of our opponent. In later years we had a video to watch too, but the manager always spoke from his handwritten notes. There might be half a dozen points to make, some to the team, some to individuals. He might mention a danger man, or the need to avoid conceding set-pieces. He might say, ‘Let’s get behind their left-back because he can’t run.’

  He doesn’t shout, he just delivers his message, like a general before battle, clearly and confidently. Every word is said for a reason. It’s mostly serious, though sometimes he’ll lighten the mood, often unintentionally. We’d always look forward to playing Aston Villa just to hear him mangle Ugo Ehiogu’s name. ‘Make sure you pick up Ehugu, Ehogy, whatever his name is.’ We’d always chuckle at that one. He never got it right.