I was from London and the other boys were from the Manchester area but it was surprising how much we had in common. Apart from loving football and having the ambition to play for United, there were things in our backgrounds that brought us together as well. Gary and Phil’s mum and dad, for example, were so much like my parents. They’d be at every game too. I think the Nevilles and the Beckhams had the same sort of values and saw life in much the same way. I know the four of them took to each other straight away and I’m sure the similarity in our upbringings had a lot to do with why Gary and I became such close friends.
Gary, Nicky Butt and Paul Scholes had all played together for the same Sunday League team. Boundary Park must have been a northern version of Ridgeway Rovers. Not only was the team successful, it had the same spirit and sense of loyalty that we’d had at Ridgeway. Those boys had been learning to approach football in the right way, picking up good habits, at the same time as we were. It was natural that a sense of togetherness grew pretty quickly at United. Quite soon after we started, we went off to Coleraine in Northern Ireland for a tournament called the Milk Cup. Teams came from all over the world to compete, and that was the first time we represented the club as a group.
We had a brilliant time. We were all about sixteen, on a tour together and getting to know each other, as players and as people. The Milk Cup competition is still going. As well as the games, there’s quite a lot of ceremony: I remember us being paraded through the streets of the local town, trying to look sharp in our Manchester United tracksuits. Nobby Stiles was in charge of the trip, along with a physio named Jimmy Curran. Nobby knew me and trusted me, and he made me captain for the tournament. It was some team: as well as the players who are still at Old Trafford, there were plenty of others who went on to have good careers elsewhere. Ben Thornley was our best player on that trip and got the award for Player of the Tournament. He’s done well since leaving United, despite some shocking injury trouble over the years. With Gary, Phil, Paul Scholes and Nicky Butt playing alongside the likes of Ben, Keith Gillespie, Robbie Savage and Colin Murdock, it’s no wonder we won the cup. We stayed at a hotel owned by Harry Gregg, who was a United great himself. He survived the Munich Air Crash and he loved having the United youngsters around the place. The Milk Cup was the first silverware any of us ever won as United players.
Every single day was an exciting one back then. Before I’d left home to start as a trainee in Manchester, Dad had drummed one thing into my head.
‘You may have signed for Man United, but you haven’t done anything yet. When you’ve played for the first team, then we can talk about you having achieved something. Until then, don’t start thinking you’ve made it.’
Did he need to tell me that? Well, it did no harm to know Dad would be around to keep my feet on the ground. But I hadn’t been running around boasting, telling everybody that I had signed for United. I’d just been looking forward to going and couldn’t wait to start work. Once I did, of course, I realised what Dad had meant. I’d been to United’s old training ground, the Cliff, as a boy to watch the first team train. Now I had to be there for training each morning myself, along with the senior players. It dawned on me straight away that the most important thing wasn’t being at United. It was working hard enough to make sure they’d let me stay there.
Come to think of it, there was never any chance of us not working hard; not with coach Eric Harrison in charge. If I think about the people who’ve really shaped my career, that has to mean my dad and Alex Ferguson – of course – but it’ll also mean Eric. Even now, a dozen years on from first meeting him, I look to him for guidance and advice. He’ll tell me what he thinks, not what he thinks I want to hear. And, like every other boy he worked with at United, I know he’s always cared about me. Back then I was sure he had my best interests at heart. I still feel exactly the same.
Eric could be scary, though. We knew about his reputation and I was a bit anxious beforehand because of that. But I soon found out what a brilliant coach he was. Everything he did with us was spot on: the sessions he ran, how hard he made us work, how he understood how we were feeling and how much he made us believe in ourselves. Eric might have had a talented group of lads to work with, but the credit goes to him for turning us into footballers and, during the next three years, turning us into a team.
That fierce reputation, though, it’s all true. When Eric was angry with you, he could dig you out worse than anybody I’ve ever known. We were younger then, obviously, but I’d say the volleys you got from Eric were even more terrifying than the manager in full flow. I remember when we had matches at the Cliff, Eric had an office with a big window that looked out over the pitch we used. If you made a mistake or did something you knew you shouldn’t have done, you’d hear this furious banging on the glass. You didn’t dare look up in that direction because you knew it would be Eric, not best pleased. But you’d have to have a quick glance. And if you couldn’t actually see him shouting from behind the window, that’s when you knew there was real trouble and it was time to disappear over to the other side of the pitch. It meant Eric was on his way down.
When Eric was pleased with you, it made you feel great. If I heard him say: ‘Great ball, David’ once in the morning, that would set me up for the rest of the day. Likewise, if he criticised something, you thought a long time before doing it again. I remember one session when, every time I got the ball, I was trying to pick someone out with a sixty-yard pass. Even when I was young, I was able to see what was going on ahead of me and could strike the ball a very long way. That particular day, though, nothing was coming off and Eric wasn’t impressed.
‘David. What are you playing at? Hitting those flippin’ Hollywood passes all day?’
Hollywood passes? I’d never heard that before. I knew exactly what he meant, though. And I thought twice before I hit the next one. Truth is, I still love playing those long balls; they’re a part of my game. But, even now, whenever one doesn’t make it, I imagine Eric, shaking his head and grumbling: ‘flippin’ Hollywood passes’.
It’s not always been true with Alex Ferguson or other coaches I’ve worked with, but with Eric you always knew exactly where you stood. If he lost his temper with you, he made sure you understood why and, somehow, he had the knack of shaking you up without ever abusing you or putting you down. We always knew, however hairy it got, Eric only ever wanted what we wanted too: to get the best out of ourselves and to achieve everything we could as individuals and as a team. No wonder he commanded the respect of every single one of us young players. Some young players nowadays who sign for a big club suddenly think they’ve hit the big time. There was none of that with our generation. And if there had been, Eric would soon have sorted us out.
I was lucky. I had good coaching all the time I was growing up but, of course, when I got to United and started work with Eric, I knew straight away that I’d moved up to another level. I remember hearing the argument a lot when I was young: that it would be best to start with a smaller club and work my way up to a bigger one like Manchester United. And I can see the sense in that. Once I began training at the Cliff, I realised that the only way from here, if things didn’t work out, was going to be down. But my feeling then, and even more so now, is that if you’re given the chance to be with the best, you should take it.
Everything at United was right: the facilities, the kit, the training and the other players in our group. Who wouldn’t want to have Eric Harrison as a youth team coach? I couldn’t get enough of it all. While we were trainees, Gary and I would go back to the Cliff in the evenings twice a week, when Eric was working with the schoolboys on the big indoor pitch, and join in the sessions just to get extra training under our belts. Phil Neville was in that age group – two years younger than me and Gary – and so was Dave Gardner. I don’t know how you find your very best friends. Maybe they just find you. Dave and I just hit it off and we’ve been close ever since: I was best man at his wedding in the summer of 2003. He stayed on as an apprent
ice until he was eighteen, by which time I was playing regularly in the first team. Dave turned professional with Manchester City and he still plays non-League with Altrincham. Nowadays, for him, football’s about staying fit and keeping his eye in: he’s a full-time director of a sports management company.
During those first years at United, Eric used to make sure we went to every first-team game at Old Trafford. Not just to watch the game, but to watch individual players. I’d think back to Dad taking me to Cup Finals when I was a boy.
‘Never mind the game, David. Just watch Bryan Robson. Watch what he does.’
Now Eric was telling us the same thing: ‘Watch the man playing in your position. One day, you’re going to take his place.’
To hear something like that gave us so much confidence; not that we realised at the time how soon the manager was going to make us all part of his first-team plans.
Going to those games at Old Trafford was a chance, as well, for Eric to insist on the importance of having standards. He always made sure that we turned up in a blazer, with a collar and tie. It reminded me of Stuart Underwood wanting the Ridgeway players to be well turned out when we arrived for big games. I still think those things make a difference. Some teams might be seen arriving at a ground or walking through an airport in their tracksuits. The fact that a Manchester United team will always be wearing club blazers is part of having a professional attitude. That smartness said something about our respect for ourselves and for the club.
Our training sessions weren’t all about technique and tactics and learning new tricks. If Eric spotted a weakness in your game, you could be sure he’d do his best to confront it. I don’t know if ‘Headers’ was designed just to make me suffer, but some mornings it felt like it. As a forward player, you need to be strong enough to hold your own physically against bigger and tougher defenders. Heading and tackling weren’t exactly my strong points, especially as I was smaller than most of the other lads. ‘Headers’ was Eric’s way of toughening up young players like me. There were two teams: midfielders and forwards lined up against defenders. The ball was chipped up and you could only score with your head. That would have been fine, except it was an invitation to the likes of Gary Neville and Chris Casper to come crashing into you from behind in order to stop you. Gary was the worst. You’d end up bruised all over, wondering what you’d done to annoy him. I dreaded those sessions then but, four years later, by the time I was lining up in the Premiership against the likes of Stuart Pearce and Julian Dicks, I was grateful that the first serious knocks I’d taken had been off my own team-mates.
It wasn’t just when we were doing that particular routine that Gary and Chris Casper did their best to give me grief. Busy they were, the pair of them. Cas was very big and strong for his age. His dad, Frank, had been a player with Burnley when they were a top side in the sixties, and Chris had obviously picked up habits from him. He had this very grown up, professional attitude. And, when we were playing together, he talked non-stop through every single game. Sometimes Cas played at the back; he ended up playing centre-back as a professional. Other times he’d get a game in central midfield, which meant I’d be playing alongside him. He’d be geeing me up, telling me who to pass to. And not just me: he’d be telling anyone within earshot. He even used to talk to himself. After ninety minutes, I’d have a splitting headache and what made it worse was that Dad thought it was good to be like that.
‘You should be like Cas, you know. You should be talking like him. More than him, even.’
I’d be thinking: I prefer silence. As I’ve got more experienced – and especially since I’ve been a captain – I’ve come to understand how important it is to communicate on the pitch. Obviously you have to let a team-mate know if someone’s coming to close him down but, if someone can’t see a pass for himself then, by the time you’ve told him, the moment’s probably gone anyway. If you’re playing for Man United or for England, do you need your mate telling you, minute by minute, if he thinks you’re playing well? Of course you have to talk. Half the time, though, I thought Cas was talking just for the sake of it. It was like lining up alongside a commentator.
He used to get on my nerves when we played together, but Cas and I were good mates too. He was one of a small group of us who went away on holiday together. My mum and dad were the first people to meet Joe Glanville: they’d always run into him at games. Joe was Maltese, and United mad. They got to know each other and, the next thing I knew, my parents were telling me we were going on holiday to Malta. Everything was being taken care of that end and we just had to get ourselves to the airport at the right time, with our bags packed.
We had a lovely time that summer. While we were out there, there was a United supporters’ club function which Steve Bruce and Lee Sharpe were helping with. Joe and his friends put us up in a nice hotel. We’d wake up in the morning and someone would be there to take us wherever we wanted to go: down to the beach, into the village, or round the island. It was a great set-up and the Maltese loved their football. The next summer I went back with Cas, Gary and Ben Thornley. It was a lads’ holiday; or, at least, as laddish as it was ever going to get with us – a couple of beers and a little holiday romance but nothing you’d need to keep a secret from your mum.
We’d told Joe beforehand not to book us a smart hotel or anything, although when we got to our apartment block we wished we hadn’t mentioned anything. The place was terrible. There was no air-conditioning and Malta, in the summer, is stifling hot. Gary and Ben grabbed the one room that had a fan in it and Cas and I just sweated away, all day and all night. Those were really good times, though. I loved it so much I went back the next six summers on the trot. Gary even got himself his own place over there.
The four of us used to knock about in Manchester, too, along with Dave Gardner, who was younger than us but always knew the best places to go. Our regular night out together was on a Wednesday, usually to a place called Johnsons, which was in the centre of town but slightly tucked away. We were sensible lads – Ben, I suppose, was the most outgoing – and we knew when to stop; when to go home and when to get out of a place if it seemed dodgy. We also had Gary with us, who’s one of the most paranoid people ever. He’d drive us mad sometimes. We’d all walk into a place, then turn round and see Gary, standing there bolt upright.
‘No, lads. I’m not comfortable here. We’ve got to get out. Come on, we’ve got to get out.’
All it would take would be one funny look from someone. In a way it was good, because it meant we never had a whiff of trouble. Later, we’d all end up at Ben’s to stay the night. He was still living with his parents and his room was right up at the top of the house: a big room but absolutely freezing. Ben, of course, would be tucked up cosy in his bed. Me, Gary and Cas would be lying on the floor, shivering. I miss those nights out: I couldn’t do anything like that now, after all.
Like all young players, we had our jobs to do around the training ground. I remember Cas and I being put on the first-team dressing room, which meant we had to scrub the baths and showers and clean the changing room itself. I got in there first and got the easy half of it: got my shorts on and just sploshed around till the baths and showers were hosed down. Cas was too slow off the mark and got left with the mud and rubbish in the changing rooms. We had a bit of a row about that one, and almost ‘got the ring out’, which was when we’d wrap towels around our hands and have mock boxing matches to sort out an argument. To make it even worse for him, we changed over around Christmas. That meant I was on the changing rooms, looking busy cleaning boots, and ready to pick up the bonuses from the senior players at just the right time. Cas couldn’t believe I’d got away with it.
It’s one of the sad things about a life in football. You get really close to people and then, when they move to another club, you lose touch. I still see Ben Thornley now and again and I know Gary talks to Chris Casper sometimes. But I think back to when we were teenagers and the four of us were together all the time, and got on
so well: once Ben and Cas moved on, that all finished. It’s a shame but, perhaps, it just goes with the job: you have to focus on the players who are in the dressing room alongside you at the time.
Even though I was occasionally homesick, it was a fantastic life. Mum and Dad were great, coming up to watch me play every weekend without fail. And day to day at United was everything I’d imagined it would be. It hadn’t taken long for me to become friendly with the lads I was training alongside all week; or for us to start winning football matches together five- or six-nil. Because I was smaller and, at first, Keith Gillespie used to play in my position on the right, I did worry that I wasn’t getting in the team for some of the bigger games. That first season, most of the players we were playing against were a year older than us when it came to FA Youth Cup ties and, to start with, Eric used to leave me out of those games.
Eventually I got my chance. Keith Gillespie got moved to play up front so I could play wide right. I was competing with Robbie Savage for that position as well, but Robbie got injured during that season. I’ve found out since that United hadn’t won the Youth Cup since 1964, when George Best was in the team, so what we achieved in 1992, with most of us in our first full year at the club, meant something special as far as history was concerned. At the time, though, none of us were really aware of that: it was just the excitement of playing and winning games for United.
I remember beating Spurs in the 1992 Youth Cup semi-final. Then, like the semi, the final was played over two legs. We beat Crystal Palace 3–1 down in London. The game almost never happened: it had hammered down all day and the pitch was waterlogged but, just as they were deciding to call it off, the rain stopped and we went ahead. Nicky Butt scored two and I got the other – a volley, left foot, from the edge of the box after Ben Thornley cut the ball back – and then we won 3–2 back at our place. The bond in that team was amazing, with Ryan Giggs, who was a year older than most of us, as captain.
David Beckham: My Side Page 5