Ferguson, Alex - Alex Ferguson My Autobiography

‘You booted me there,’ I stammered.

‘I tackled you,’ said Dave. ‘If I boot you, you’ll know all about it.’

I was terrified of him after that. And I wasn’t afraid of anyone. He had this incredible aura about him. Fabulous player. I have the picture in my office of him grabbing Billy Bremner. I took a risk one day and asked him, cheekily, ‘Did you actually win that fight?’ I was there at Hampden Park when they picked the best Scottish team of all time and Dave’s name was absent. Everyone was embarrassed.

I could criticise my team publicly, but I could never castigate an individual after the game to the media. The supporters were entitled to know when I was unhappy with a performance. But not an individual. It all went back to Jock Stein; I would question him all the time about everything. At Celtic he was always so humble. It almost became annoying. When I was quizzing him about Jimmy Johnstone or Bobby Murdoch, I’d expect him to take credit for his team selection or tactics, but Jock would just say, ‘Oh, wee Jimmy was in such great form today.’ He would never praise himself. I wanted him to announce, just once: ‘Well, I decided to play 4–3–3 today and it worked.’ But he was just too humble to do it.

Jock missed a Celtic trip to America after a car crash and Sean Fallon had sent three players home for misbehaving. ‘No, I wouldn’t have done that, and I told Sean so,’ Jock told me when I pressed him to tell me how he would have dealt with it. ‘When you do that you make a lot of enemies,’ he said.

‘But the supporters would understand,’ I argued.

‘Forget the supporters,’ Jock said. ‘Those players have mothers. Do you think any mother thinks their boy is bad? Their wives, their brothers, their father, their pals: you alienate them.’ He added, ‘Resolve the dispute in the office.’

Sometimes ice works as well as fire. When Nani was sent off in a game at Villa Park in 2010, I didn’t say a word to him. I let him suffer. He kept looking at me for a crumb of comfort. I know he didn’t try to do what he did. Asked about it on TV, I called it ‘naive’. I said he wasn’t a malicious player but that it was a two-footed tackle and he had to go. Straightforward. There was no lasting damage. I merely said he had made a mistake in a tackle, as we all have, because it’s an emotional game.

People assumed I was always waging psychological war against Arsène Wenger, always trying to cause detonations in his brain. I don’t think I set out to provoke him. But sometimes I did use mind games in the sense that I would plant small inferences, knowing that the press would see them as psychological forays.

I remember Brian Little, who was then managing Aston Villa, calling me about a remark I had made before we played them.

‘What did you mean by that?’ he asked.

‘Nothing,’ I said. I was baffled. ‘I thought you were up to your mind games again,’ Brian said. When he put the phone down, apparently, Brian couldn’t stop thinking: ‘What’s he up to? What was he trying to say?’

Though it served me well to be unnerving rival teams, quite often I unsettled opponents without even meaning to, or realising that I had.

nineteen

BARCELONA were the best team ever to line up against my Manchester United sides. Easily the best. They brought the right mentality to the contest. We had midfield players in our country – Patrick Vieira, Roy Keane, Bryan Robson – who were strong men, warriors; winners. At Barcelona they had these wonderful mites, 5 feet 6 inches tall, with the courage of lions, to take the ball all the time and never allow themselves to be bullied. The accomplishments of Lionel Messi, Xavi and Andrés Iniesta were amazing to me.

The Barcelona side that beat us at Wembley in the 2011 Champions League final were superior to the team that conquered us in Rome two years earlier. The 2011 bunch were at the height of their powers and brought tremendous maturity to the job. In both instances I had to wrestle with the knowledge that we were a really good team but had encountered one that had handled those two finals better than us.

I wish we could have played the Rome final again the next day. The very next day. There was a wonderful atmosphere in Rome’s Stadio Olimpico, on a beautiful night, and it was my first defeat in a European final, in five outings. To collect a runners-up medal is a painful act when you know you could have performed much better.

Bravery was a prerequisite for confronting those Barcelona sides. They were the team of their generation, just as Real Madrid were the team of theirs in the 1950s and 1960s, and AC Milan were in the early 1990s. The group of world-beaters who formed around Messi were formidable. I felt no envy towards these great sides. Regrets, yes, when we lost to them, but jealousy, no.

In each of those two European Cup finals, we might have been closer to Spain’s finest by playing more defensively, but by then I had reached the stage with Manchester United where it was no good us trying to win that way. I used those tactics to beat Barcelona in the 2008 semi-final: defended really deep; put myself through torture, put the fans through hell. I wanted a more positive outlook against them subsequently, and we were beaten partly because of that change in emphasis. If we had retreated to our box and kept the defending tight, we might have achieved the results we craved. I’m not blaming myself; I just wish our positive approach could have produced better outcomes.

Beating us in Rome accelerated Barcelona’s development into the dominant team of their era. It drove them on. A single victory can have that catalytic effect. It was their second Champions League win in four seasons and Pep Guardiola’s team were the first Spanish side to win the League, Copa del Rey and Champions League in the same campaign. We were the reigning European champions but were unable to become the first in the history of the modern competition to defend that title.

Yet we shouldn’t have lost that game in the Eternal City. There was a way to play against Barcelona, as we proved the year before. There is a way to stop them, even Messi. What we did, 12 months previously in the away leg, was to deploy Tévez off the front and Ronaldo at centre-forward, so we could have two areas of attack. We had the penetration of Ronaldo and Tévez to help us get hold of the ball.

We still found it hard, of course, because Barcelona monopolised possession for such long periods and in those circumstances your own players tend to lose interest. They start watching the game: they are drawn into watching the ball weave its patterns.

Our idea was that when we had any semblance of possession, Ronaldo would go looking for space and Tévez would come short to get on the ball. But they were busy spectating. I made that point to them at half-time. ‘You’re watching the game,’ I said. ‘We’re not counter-attacking at all.’ Our method was not that of Inter Milan; they defended deep and played on the counter-attack throughout. We were in attack mode in the second half.

A major inhibiting factor in Rome, I will now say, was the choice of hotel. It was a shambles. For meals we were in a room with no light; the food was late, it was cold. I took a chef there and they dismissed him, ignored him. On the morning of the game, two or three of our team were feeling a bit seedy, particularly Giggs. A few were feeling under the weather and one or two played that way. The role Giggs was assigned came with a high workload that was incompatible with the slight bug in his system. It was too big a task for him to operate on top of Sergio Busquets, Barcelona’s defensive midfielder, and then advance as a striker and come back in to cover again.