Red: My Autobiography (5 page)

After the 3–3 draw at Old Trafford, the game was heading towards a goalless draw and we were sliding out of the European Cup (I still prefer the old title to ‘the Champions League’) in only the second round when I came on for Mike Phelan.

It had been a trying, frustrating evening and it was all too much for Eric Cantona, who was sent off right on the final whistle for a gesture to the referee. The crowd grew even more frenzied, and as we walked off a couple of missiles landed at our feet. Suddenly we were being surrounded by a gang of policemen with shields. I’m guessing their job was to protect us, but you wouldn’t have known it as we were shoved down the stairs which led from the pitch to the dressing rooms. Eric was steaming, and then he took a whack on the back of the head with a truncheon. He flipped. Suddenly it was a riot, with police batons flying and shields clashing everywhere.

Kiddo and the other coaches were grabbing us, trying to pull us into the dressing room. We bundled through the door into sanctuary but all the shouting carried on outside. Pally, Robbo and Brucey had to drag Eric in and hold him there. The experienced lads were going to the shower two by two so that Eric was never left alone in the dressing room. They ended up walking him to the coach to stop him going back after the police.

There’s no doubt that team – the club’s first Double winners after they thrashed Chelsea in the 1994 FA Cup final – had a massive influence on me and the rest of the young players coming through. They established the standards for the rest of us to match.

Just to train with the likes of Ince, Hughes and Cantona was a thrill. Eric could make an average pass look brilliant. But even the slightest mishit, or a lost tackle, would earn you a glare. You’d feel two inches tall. A mistake was a crime in that team.

As if it hadn’t been competitive enough already, Roy Keane had now taken the squad to another level after joining United and coming in alongside Incey. There was a time, a match at Coventry, when Keano came storming at me after I’d taken an extra touch to steady myself before getting a cross over. Thrusting his head forward – I honestly thought he was going to butt me – he screamed, ‘Fucking get the ball over!’

‘Can I not take a fucking touch?’

‘Who the hell are you talking to? Get the fucking ball over!’

It was like having a snarling pitbull in my face. And I’d thought Schmeichel was a hard taskmaster. One extra touch and Keano was slaughtering me.

We were already fiercely competitive ourselves, but now we were seeing how even the very best players took immense pride in their performance. We were seeing up close what it took to be winners at the highest level.

The ethos had been created by the manager: success was expected, and it was the players’ responsibility to go out and seize it. After twenty-six years in the wilderness United had won two titles in a row. From now on, a season without the championship could be measured as a failure. And that’s been the case ever since.

It was just my luck, then, that the 1994/95 season would be one of those years when we fell short – because that was the campaign when I properly became a United first-team player.

After a couple of one-off appearances in the previous two seasons, just before Christmas 1994 the boss gave me a little run of four games at right-back, though you never quite knew what he was thinking. He left me out for a couple of matches when I’d been playing well, never wanting to overexpose a young player. One of them was a trip to Chelsea when there’d been a lot of talk in the build-up about hooligan trouble involving Combat 18. The manager sensed it was a night for the old hands.

I only had myself to blame for another spell out of the team – a rare lapse involving K cider. Strong stuff, that. I’d been travelling with the first team so I was caught totally by surprise when the manager suddenly threw me into an A-team game at Chester on a Monday morning. After a Saturday night out, I was all over the place.

‘It’s gone to your head, Neville. Well, you won’t be travelling with us again any day soon.’

And I didn’t travel with the first team for six weeks. That would teach me to take my eye off the ball, even for one night. No more K cider for me.

That Premiership campaign was shaped, unforgettably, by Eric’s kung-fu attack on a supporter at Crystal Palace in January. I was out in a bar in Manchester that night when someone said to turn on the telly because Eric had been involved in some bother. I’d seen Eric lose his rag spectacularly in Istanbul, and everyone knew he wore his heart on his sleeve. I couldn’t say I blamed him. Eric had a unique personality and didn’t give a stuff what anyone else thought of him.

The club, rightly, stuck by him, but Eric was a huge player to miss. It was always going to be hard without our talisman but we were still chasing the league and the FA Cup as we went into March and I enjoyed another run in the side.

We were in a frantic race with Blackburn Rovers for the title. They didn’t have United’s flair, but they had a goalscoring phenomenon in Alan Shearer and an experienced manager in Kenny Dalglish. It was obvious from a long way out that the title would be tight, and it went right down to the final game of the season.

Our last fixture was at West Ham United – and all to play for. Blackburn were two points ahead but had their own tricky trip to Liverpool so we had to give ourselves a good chance of overtaking them. That’s why I was surprised, like all the lads, when the boss left out Sparky. Sparky had started every game in the previous few months. He was a fixed point in the team, one of our leaders. I’m still not quite sure why the boss didn’t play him in a game we needed to win.

We fell behind but had enough opportunities to win several matches. Brian McClair equalised and we had three or four chances to win in the last ten minutes but it just wouldn’t fall for us. One goal to win the league – that’s all we needed. That’s the fine line you are treading sometimes between triumph and disaster.

Afterwards in the dressing room it was the most disappointed I’ve ever been at a football match. Throughout my career I’ve been able to handle defeat pretty well. Particularly as you get older, you learn to take the blows. But that was one of the real low points. My first championship race, and it had ended disastrously. As we made the long journey home I felt physically sick.

Perhaps the FA Cup final could provide some comfort. I’d been cleared to play by the FA despite amassing eleven bookings. In my eagerness to become a tackling full-back I’d been launching myself into some shocking challenges. I’ll admit I was a bit of a maniac in those early months. There was one tackle, on Jason Dodd at Southampton, that was terrible, deserving a straight red. I can also remember going into a fifty-fifty with Carlton Palmer against Sheffield Wednesday and cutting him in half. The coaches had told me to make my mark and, typically, I’d taken it to heart. I knew I had to take my chance, to make an impression. It’s always been said, rightly, that you can’t be ordinary at United and expect to survive for long, but maybe I’d got a bit carried away in my eagerness.

I was due to miss the final, but we appealed against the suspension. You know, a young lad, making his way in the game – just over-enthusiasm. I went down to London to plead my case, explain that I hadn’t been booked for anything too bad and it wasn’t fair to deprive a twenty-year-old of participating in such a big occasion. And they let me play. I did, however, have to pay a £1,000 fine for the privilege of a Wembley appearance. I didn’t have the cash – I was earning £210 a week on my first professional contract – so I had to borrow the money off my dad.

It was my first hearing in front of the FA disciplinary panel and I thought they were a fair bunch then. That wouldn’t last.

I loved all the build-up to my first big game at Wembley. Call me sad, but I like the tradition of the cup song, even if ours for that year – ‘We’re Gonna Do It Again’ with a rapper called Stryker – is probably best forgotten. I felt in good form and I was really confident we were going to win. Ince, Keane, Bruce, Pallister, Hughes – these guys were winners. We knew Everton were beatable.

I don’t remember much about the game apart from the gaffer going mad at us for the goal when they broke on us to take the lead. Scholesy almost scored, then Sparky went close. But after letting the league slip on the last day, again we just couldn’t get the vital goal.

So that was two crushing disappointments in a week. A Double gone in two tight games. I’d made twenty-seven appearances, which should have been something to be pleased about, but this was no time to smile. United were not in the business of trophyless seasons.

They say you learn most from defeats, and that campaign would certainly lead to major changes at the club. But that was for later. Coming straight off defeat in that 1995 FA Cup final, we headed off for a team party. It came as a bit of a shock to see how the senior lads stayed up drinking until breakfast – but there’s something to be said for drowning your disappointment. I sank a few myself, but next time I hoped I’d be drinking out of a trophy.

Win Nothing With Kids

I’LL ALWAYS REMEMBER one newspaper article at the time when the manager was being asked a lot about the gamble to promote his ‘Fledglings’. One line stuck in my head. The great thing with young players, the boss said, is that if you confront them with a barbed-wire fence, they’ll run straight through it; an older player will walk two hundred yards to find a gate.

That’s the sort of hunger he knew he would get from us. We were so eager, so willing. We would have run through a brick wall for him, never mind a barbed-wire fence. This was the Busby philosophy, moulding young players so that you know exactly what you will get from them when they break into the first XI. We were already steeped in the disciplines of the club, the way to play the game, the work ethic, the way to behave.

It doesn’t matter how much homework you do, sign a player for £20 million and you are always taking a gamble on whether he will adapt to a new environment, a new style of playing, the new level of pressure that comes with representing United. With us, the manager knew our games and our characters inside out.

He knew that Butty wasn’t scared of anything, and never has been. He’s got this fantastic temperament to confront whatever’s in front of him. Put him up against the best player in the world, or the hardest, and Butty would roll up his sleeves and get on with the job.

The only time I’ve ever seen Butty run away from anything was after he’d held a scalding-hot teapot right next to a naked Schmeichel in the dressing room so that when Peter turned round his privates got burnt. Everyone found it funny, apart from the big Dane. As Butty legged it, Peter picked up one of those massive drinks containers and hurled it across the room. ‘I’m going to kill you!’ he screamed, sounding like Ivan Drago from
Rocky IV
. But Butty was long gone, leaving Peter nursing his burns.

Scholesy, the late developer, was blossoming into the player the coaches always knew he’d become. He had eyes in the back of his head and a pass as accurate as a laser. Half the time he’d use it on the training ground to smack you on the back of the head when you weren’t looking. You’d turn round and he’d be about sixty yards away pissing his sides.

It would be another year before Becks scored from the halfway line, but he had started to come through, stronger and better after a loan spell at Preston, and already plenty of people were taking notice of his technical prowess. He could hit a brilliant pass off any part of his foot – spinning, dipping, a low grass-cutter or whipped into the box. And, game after game, you’ve never seen anyone cover so much ground.

It must still have taken massive courage for the manager to throw us in together, but he’s never lacked that quality. Plenty of other clubs talk about bringing through young players. They spout a good game about youth philosophy. Our boss has demonstrated as far back as his days at Aberdeen that he’s willing to put his trust in kids. ‘Young players will surprise you,’ he says. And we certainly did.

My first championship would be unforgettable for a few reasons, but perhaps mostly because Alan Hansen claimed we couldn’t win it. Mind you, it wasn’t Hansen who put the wind up me after we were thrashed at Aston Villa on the opening day of the season in August 1995, even if it was his remark – ‘you’ll win nothing with kids’ – which has gone down in folklore.

When we came in to train on the Sunday morning after our drubbing, ‘Choccy’ McClair demonstrated a nice line in dry wit: ‘Well, lads, only forty points to avoid relegation.’ Everyone laughed, but they were nervous giggles.

We’d been shambolic at Villa Park, playing three at the back. We must have looked a mile from championship contenders with a team that contained Butty, Scholesy, me and Phil in the starting XI, and Becks and John O’Kane off the bench – unknown youngsters to most of the country. On
Match of the Day
that night we were pulled apart a second time. Win nothing with kids … on that evidence, it didn’t sound a daft thing to say.

Plenty of people wondered what the boss was doing. After the disastrous conclusion to the previous campaign, he’d wielded the axe. Incey was off to Inter Milan. I was sad to see him go. A lot was said about his self-styled reputation as the Guv’nor. He could be brash, but what did you expect? He was from the south. He’d been encouraging us young lads and looked after us on the pitch. He was a fantastic midfielder for United.

Andrei Kanchelskis was next out after some row about his contract. On his day, there was no better right-winger in Europe, though it was fair to wonder if we’d seen the best of him.

The big shock was Sparky. I was in my car when I heard on the radio that he’d left for Chelsea. I was as stunned as any Stretford Ender. With Incey, I half knew he’d reached the point where his relationship with the manager was strained. And Andrei had agitated for a move. But Sparky was a United legend. I guess he must have known that Cole– Cantona was the first-choice partnership, and being left out of that title-decider at West Ham can’t have helped. He was too good and too proud to be sitting on the bench.

The fans, and the media, were in uproar. The
Manchester Evening News
conducted a poll asking ‘Should Fergie go?’ It couldn’t have been more ludicrous, looking back, but it showed the pressure we were under.

It was the first of many little crises we’d confront over the years. The world would be going crazy outside, but inside the camp the manager would tell us to keep our heads down and get on with our jobs. And we had plenty to think about that late summer of 1995 with three big games in a week straight on the back of our humbling at Villa.

First up was West Ham, when Becks would face Julian Dicks. We knew Dicks would want to clatter him early, put the kid in his place, so Becks made sure he got stuck in early, showed that he wouldn’t be pushed around. He gave Dicks a torrid time as we ran out winners.

Next up was Wimbledon, Vinny Jones and the rest. They might have had an intimidating reputation as the Crazy Gang but we thrashed them 3–1. So recently written off as kids, now we were proving ourselves men. I walked off with the knowledge that we had nothing to be scared of.

We made it three wins in six days with a massive victory at Blackburn, the reigning champions. Becks scored in front of our travelling fans, and as they went crazy we jumped all over Becks like we’d just won the league. The relief was overpowering. The manager had put his trust in us. Perhaps now the rest of the country would give us some slack.

We kept up the momentum: 4–1 away at Chelsea then eight goals against Southampton and Coventry City in back-to-back matches. But standards only needed to drop a fraction and the manager would be straight on to us.

That November, I experienced his anger on full blast for the first time. I’d just come back from international duty when we drew 1–1 away at Nottingham Forest. Not a great result, but I didn’t think I’d done too much wrong, until I walked into the dressing room.

‘What’s happened to you, Neville?’ he shouted. ‘The only reason I’m picking you is because you’re playing for England.’

I went home feeling distraught.

More than Butty or Scholesy, who had thicker skins, I would turn an incident like that over and over in my mind. After your hundredth bollocking you become a bit more immune to it, but at that age I would take it to heart. In fact I would hate it. I wouldn’t sleep. It was like the end of the world. Was he just bringing me back down to earth now that I was an established international? Or did he really think I was too big for my boots? I fretted, but that’s my personality.

If you told Scholesy he was playing in an FA Cup final, he’d shrug his shoulders and saunter off. Butty would say, ‘Why wouldn’t I be playing?’ Becks would be straight on the phone. I’d immediately start thinking of my opponent and how I was going to combat him.

But we never let our momentum slip, and by the spring of 1996 we were chasing the Double. Newcastle had been the early pace-setters, impressing everyone with their cavalier football under Kevin Keegan and storming twelve points clear. But we’d welcomed Eric back from his ban in October, straight into a massive game against Liverpool, and he’d scored the equalizer from the penalty spot. What a man.

And now Newcastle were in reverse. Crucially, we beat them up at St James’s Park in March, despite a personal nightmare. I was at centre-back with Steve Bruce against Faustino Asprilla and Les Ferdinand. We got battered – at least I did. I kicked fresh air one time in the first half as Asprilla tormented me. At half-time the manager was on turbo-charge. ‘Asprilla is beating you on the ground, he’s beating you in the air. What’s going on? Play like that second half and you’ve cost us the title.’

Out we came for the second half, and this time we had the slope. It’s a big old slope at Newcastle, the biggest in the league. In the first half it felt like we were stuck at the bottom of a hill being pounded, but now we were up at the top and, while it might sound odd, I felt taller.

That second half was an occasion when I felt the Manchester United spirit course through the team. It relies on excellence from individuals – from Schmeichel and Bruce, who were immense that evening, and from Eric, who popped up to score the winner – but there is also something collective. It’s unspoken but unmistakeable: let’s get this match won. It’s our time.

We weren’t playing well but we seized the moment and the whole world knew then that Newcastle were never going to win the league. They should have been 3–0 up and cruising but they lacked the ability to get the job done. We had it in us to fight, to dig in and survive. Do that and, more often than not, you get your rewards. And of course Eric delivered for us, after a great cross from Phil, just as he did so many times. As wins go, it was huge, season-defining.

Newcastle were the type of team that gave you a chance, and that’s what the manager kept saying to us even when they were streets ahead. It might have been very different if we’d been chasing a battle-hardened team like the 1998 Arsenal side or Mourinho’s Chelsea. Once Newcastle started slipping, even the young players among us sensed the opportunity. Pavel Srnicek was inconsistent in goal, the full-backs Barton and Beresford were a weakness, and they were soft in the centre. Keep up the pressure and we knew we stood a good chance.

With four games to go we were in the driving seat when we travelled to the Dell to face Southampton. The first half was disastrous – 3–0 down! The Dell could be a tricky place to visit, but this was terrible.

‘Get that kit off, you’re getting changed,’ the manager said in the dressing room at half-time.

I can’t say I liked our grey shirts – United colours are red, white and black, and I’ve never thought we should play in anything else – but it hadn’t occurred to me that our strip might be the problem. I just thought we were playing really badly.

I didn’t know it at the time, but the manager had been talking to Gail Stephenson, an eye and vision expert at Liverpool University. She would later work with all of us on our peripheral vision. She gave me eye exercises to do before a game and I’d work on them just like stretching my calves or hamstrings. Attention to detail.

She’d warned the boss that grey shirts would be hard to spot against a crowd, and perhaps she had a point, given that we wore that kit five times and lost four of the games and drew the other. So off they came – good riddance – and we did pull one goal back through Giggsy in our blue and white change strip. But it didn’t stop everyone having a good laugh at our expense.

Fortunately Newcastle’s jitters were worse, as the whole country saw when Keegan lost the plot live on Sky with his ‘I’d love it’ rant. He was jabbing at the camera with his fingers. Watching at home, I couldn’t believe my eyes.

The manager always says, ‘Never become emotional.’ He wants hardened winners, and I was surrounded by players who knew how to get us over the finishing line. After thrashing Nottingham Forest 5–0 we needed just one more win to clinch the title. I ended up on the bench at Middlesbrough as we won 3–0.

We had done it with kids, though there is no doubting who made the greatest contribution. Eric was immense. As young players we’d looked to him for leadership and he’d been incredible as a match-winner. Winning titles is all about teamwork, but there are a couple from my time – certainly that year, and also 2006/07 with Cristiano Ronaldo – when you are so indebted to one player that you feel like giving him your medal. That was Eric’s championship.

He was in his pomp, but we also had a fantastic, well-balanced team. Some of the media were urging the manager to push Becks into central midfield because of his way of spraying around passes, but that would have made him too static. Using him on the right made the most of his energy and stamina. And the relentless accuracy of his crosses was unbelievable. We already had fantastic options in central midfield with Keane, Scholesy and Butty, and with Giggs and Becks on opposite flanks we had a dribbler and a crosser. There were not two harder-working, more productive wingers in the world.

We were already starting to develop the ability to wear out opponents. If we didn’t succeed in blitzing them early on, we’d keep moving the ball around midfield, making our opponents run and run without the ball. We’d keep at them, knowing that we had the penetration from Giggsy and the unfailing accuracy of Becks to make a killer blow when their legs had gone in the last fifteen minutes.

We had won the league, and we had the FA Cup final to come. Except, just like for the title-decider, I wouldn’t be starting. By now I was a regular for my country but I couldn’t even get a place in my club team. And it was my brother keeping me out.

It wasn’t the first time it had happened. When Phil made his debut at City the previous year I’d been told I wasn’t playing the day before. Tracey was at home, and she’d asked me who was in the team the next day.

‘Phil is, I’m not,’ I said.

‘What, he’s playing ahead of you?’ Like a sensitive sister, she burst out laughing.

I got over it quickly – what choice do you have? – and Phil was brilliant in that game, as he was at full-back for the next couple of years, when I often played in the middle. It crossed my mind that he’d be the one who’d keep me out long-term, but it only ever acted as a little spur to drive me on. We were only ever supportive to each other.