The Second Half (4 page)

We only drew one game in the first half of the season, but we drew a lot more in the second half – with Newcastle, Leeds, Fulham, Arsenal and Chelsea. Draws in the Premiership aren’t the end of the world but too many of them, for a team like Manchester United, can have a negative impact. There are good draws – away to Chelsea, away to Arsenal – and bad draws – at home to Newcastle and away to Fulham. But too many of either won’t win you titles. We beat Bolton and Southampton, and our away win against Everton was brilliant. Louis Saha scored two for us, and so did Ruud; one of the goals was his hundredth for United. We were 3–0 up at half-time, then they came back to 3–3. Ruud’s second goal, a header, came very near the end. But then we went and lost to Wolves and Middlesbrough.

Scholesy was scoring regularly for us. He was a top, top player. But I still don’t fall for the boy-next-door image, or that he’s dead humble; he has more of an edge to him. Everyone thinks he lives
in a council flat. The Class of ’92 – all good players, but their role at the club has become exaggerated. ‘Class of ’92’ seems to have grown its own legs; it has become a brand. It’s as if they were a team away from the team, and they’re not shy of plugging into it. But we all had the same aims; we all had the hunger.

We knew we were going through a difficult spell – not for any big reason, like Rio’s ban or Beckham’s departure, or the manager suing the Irish shareholders about who owned the race horse, Rock of Gibraltar. But these things, in combination, weren’t helping – more negative energy around the place.

The dip isn’t exactly normal, but it happens to any club. It happened at Barcelona recently and, after Real Madrid beat them in the Champions League last season, suddenly people were questioning Bayern Munich – Guardiola had got it all wrong! It’s very hard to stay at the top. Players leaving, players settling in, or not settling in. The difference, when it comes to Manchester United, is that it will get a lot of attention and it will be exaggerated. We had to learn to deal with that; it was part of the package of being a United player. There really is an extra burden in playing for Manchester United. There really is – that isn’t arrogance.

We were beaten at home by Liverpool – always a tough game. We lost to City, away, 4–1. This wasn’t the City of today. They didn’t have the same money back then, or the players. I wasn’t playing in that game; I never lost to Manchester City.

A few new players arrived during the January transfer window. Louis Saha was a good player, and he’d always played particularly well against United when he was at Fulham. So the manager would have seen him at his best. He was a nice lad, but he had a lot of niggling injuries. I think there might have been a question about his willingness to play through the pain barrier. He kept the medical staff busy; they were never going to be out of work.

I never minded losing matches, as long as we had a fuckin’
go. I also had the intelligence to understand that we were going through change. It was always going to be tough going. It wasn’t Norwich who were pipping us. It was Arsenal – and Chelsea were on the verge, finishing second and third, even before the money and Mourinho arrived.

We weren’t sitting back, going, ‘What’s happening to us?’ We had to step up again. There was frustration; we shared that with the fans. But we knew we weren’t a million miles away. We had Ronaldo. The next year, we’d get Rooney. They were outstanding. You’d look at them, and go, ‘We’re fine.’

Footballers are intelligent. There were no rumblings in the dressing room; there was no ‘The empire’s crumbling.’ The players knew: we had new lads settling in, Ronaldo was only seventeen. ‘Give it time, there’ll be no problem.’

Arsenal, then Chelsea, were the top dogs now. But they were up there to be shot at – like us.

In the Champions League we’d coasted through the group stage. We played Rangers, and it was brilliant. It was the first time I’d played at Ibrox. I’d been there before as a fan – a Celtic fan. We trained on the pitch at Ibrox the night before the game. It’s usually a low-key event; you do a light bit of work. But as we got off the bus for training, I got a nice little welcome – ‘You Fenian bastard.’ I’d have expected it on the night of the game, but not the night before. I don’t think it was the doorman who said it, but someone in that general area.

We won, 1–0. Phil Neville scored. That’s what was memorable about the game, not that I was called a Fenian bastard but that Phil scored. He didn’t score many. We hammered Rangers at Old Trafford. Diego Forlán had a great game that night.

We topped our group with fifteen points, and drew Porto in the first knock-out round. I was sent off in the first game, at
Porto. We were 1–0 up; Quinton Fortune followed up after their keeper, Baía, had fumbled a Scholesy free-kick. Then we went 2–1 down. Benni McCarthy scored two great, almost freakish, goals that night, including an unbelievable header; I think he was at the edge of the box. To go from 1–0 up away from home – job done – to 2–1 down; I just got frustrated. We were losing – that was it. I stood on the goalkeeper, Baía. He came out and I carried on. I didn’t stamp on him, but I stood on his back; I used his back as leverage. He rolled around like he’d been shot. All I can say is, we were losing 2–1, and it frustrated me. I can see now that, in the Champions League, away, it’s a decent score. But I had this idea that we should have been winning every match.

I was embarrassed, and upset, later in the dressing room. The manager didn’t really shout at me that night. He just went, ‘Fuckin’ hell, Roy.’ I don’t remember the manager or any of the players having a go at me after I’d been sent off. They didn’t have to; I’d be beating myself up. I knew I’d let people down; I’d let my team down. Excuses were no good. But it was just as well that no one did say anything to me, because I’d have gone for them if they had. I’d have accepted an attack from the manager, but not the players. I knew I’d let them down.

I had to watch the second leg up in the stand, in the directors’ box. It was torture. Scholesy had a legitimate goal disallowed; he was ruled offside – dodgy linesman, the whole lot. We would have been 2–0 up. In the last minute, Phil gave away a free-kick, Tim Howard made a mistake, Mourinho was skipping down the sideline – we were out. I hated being a spectator; it was horrible. The result might have been different if I’d been playing. Every player should think that. You have to feel you can make a difference.

Porto went on to win the Champions League that year, against Monaco. Monaco had knocked Chelsea out in the semi-final. But
Monaco were very average; Chelsea should have battered them. They blew it.

Those two games gave us our first sighting of Mourinho. I didn’t think he was out of order running down the sideline. It was Porto; to knock Manchester United out was a big night for him. I think he knew it was a defining moment in his career. But I’m not sure that I’d have liked playing for him. He plays
too
many games with the media. I understand the need for games. But there comes a point when you think, ‘Don’t play mind games today.’ And poking the Barcelona coach in the eye – I wouldn’t have done that. If I was still a player today, I’d like to think that I could work with Pep Guardiola. I like his style, and his presence, and the way he conducts himself.

We had a tough run to the FA Cup final. Everyone likes a cushy home draw but the tough games never bothered me. There’d be an edge to them, and if we were beaten it couldn’t be written off as a ‘slip-up’. We had to get past four Premiership teams, Villa, Manchester City, Fulham, and then – in the semi-final – Arsenal. There was a great atmosphere at that semi-final at Villa Park because, really, that game
was
the FA Cup final. We went into the game thinking of it as the final, and I think Arsenal did the same. The Cup final was played at Villa Park that day. We beat them, 1–0.

There are certain games you go into, when you know that if you’re at your best, you’ll win. It’s a great way to approach a Cup final; it’s a great feeling to have. We could be at our best against Arsenal and Chelsea, and still lose. But, unless we did something silly, we were going to beat Millwall.

The preparation for the game was the worst I’d ever had. I wasn’t feeling well. We’d gone down to Cardiff two nights before the final. Cup finals were being played in the Millennium Stadium
there while Wembley was being redeveloped. Everyone enjoyed playing in the Millennium; it was a better stadium than the old Wembley.

We ate at a fish restaurant on Thursday night. I was a bit of a health freak, and I had some scallops. I’m not sure now why I’d have been eating scallops, because I wasn’t a big lover of fish. ‘Well, it looks healthy – and fishy – and I’m near the sea’, so I had them. I’m blaming the scallops, but I don’t think I was well anyway. I was afraid I’d miss the game, so I kept it to myself. I wouldn’t have jeopardised the team, but I knew that if I was in any way fit, with my experience I could stroll through the game.

I didn’t eat much on Friday, and I ate nothing on the day of the game. But I remember thinking, ‘It’s Millwall; if I’m 10 per cent right, I should be able to get through it.’

But I felt awful.

About ten minutes before kick-off, after the warm-up – still feeling weak – I threw my guts up in the dressing-room toilet. I felt great after that. I drank a load of energy drink – it would have been Lucozade or Red Bull – and got through the game quite easily. We dominated possession, so I didn’t have to use too much energy.

One of Ferguson’s great strengths was that he always had a feel for the group when it came to team talks; he knew what would be needed. He’d spoken to us all week, building Millwall up. That was common sense. But in the hotel on the morning of the final, he spoke about the United players – us – where we were from, the different nationalities; he made different points about each of us. I remember thinking, ‘Brilliant.’ It was just what we needed, a feeling of pride – we were all together. There was no real logic to it, but it felt right. I’ve given team talks myself since, and I’ve often thought, ‘I don’t know where that came from’, but it felt right. And I thought, that morning in Cardiff,
that there was that pride. We were all playing in the Cup final. ‘I’m from Mayfield, and I’m playing with Ruud Van Nistelrooy and all these other lads – Ronaldo, from Portugal. It’s amazing that we’re all together.’ It wasn’t about Millwall, and it almost had nothing to do with the Cup final. It was about us as a team. Ferguson always got it spot-on. We didn’t need a tactical talk that day – ‘Watch their full-back, watch their centre-half, watch Dennis Wise, he’ll be grabbing your balls or pinching you’ – none of that nonsense. Our attitude was – in a nice way, ‘Fuck Millwall, we’re Man United, we’ll do what’s right for us, we’re all in this together, we’re all from different countries – it’s brilliant, our families are here, we’re going to win this game.’

It was the only time I’ve played in a Cup final that I knew we were going to win. It was confidence, not arrogance. We had better players,
and
our attitude was right. All week, the press had been full of FA Cup shocks – Southampton against United in 1976, Sunderland beating Leeds in ’73 – but I knew it wouldn’t happen to us. Our group was too strong.

We won 3–0.

We wore replicas of Jimmy Davis’s top – DAVIS and his squad number, ‘36’ – when we were going up to collect the trophy and our medals. I’d suggested it. Jimmy was a good young player; he was out on loan, at Watford. He drove into the back of a parked-up truck, at about five in the morning. The team went to the funeral; it had been very, very sad.

So we finished the season with the FA Cup. Arsenal won the Premiership – and they haven’t won it since. They started to lose some of their strong characters, and quite a few of them were irreplaceable. Character is just as important as skill.

THREE

The Highbury tunnel was a strange one, like a little alleyway. Very tight. It was hard to avoid contact with people, even if you were trying to.

The rivalry between ourselves and Arsenal brought energy, and passion. It was brilliant. I hated them. There was an element of jealousy there, too, because I knew they were a bloody good team. But, ultimately, they made me a better player. I had to be at my best. Petit and Vieira in the middle of the park – I couldn’t have an off day against them. When we lost games to Arsenal I was the first man to shake their hands.

Chelsea were bringing a new challenge. But Arsenal – it was electric. And the crowd; their old ground, Highbury, was an old-fashioned stadium. People said that it was a tight pitch but apparently it was the same size as most other pitches. But we seemed to have less time on the ball and their fans were almost literally on top of us. It made for a great atmosphere.

We’ve not seen the like since – that bitter rivalry. There isn’t as much physical contact in the game now. Clubs are buying a different kind of player – technically gifted, but not fighters. But maybe it was just the timing. It wasn’t just myself and Patrick; there were so many rivalries all over the pitch. I see players in the tunnel today, hugging one another before a game. I don’t think
any of the United lads would have disagreed with me; they hated Arsenal. And the Arsenal lads hated United.

Which of us was the better team? You couldn’t call it. We were like two heavyweights battering each other. Patrick was the new kid. He’s five or six years younger than me – not that he looks it. He was a physical player. He was an important player for them, and I was important to United. There were always going to be fireworks. The way we both played, it was never going to be friendly. That would have been impossible. It wasn’t as if we were both right-backs, and we’d never come into contact with each other. We were in the centre of the park and we were hitting each other at pace. That was going to lead to confrontation. It could be pointed out that I had a short temper but the way we played – it had nothing to do with temper. We were both trying to control the pitch, and the game. We were leaders, and if a leader is given to heated confrontation, other players will respond. It’s normal. Patrick is six foot four – a big six foot four. He’s a big guy. But I always tried to look at his height as a disadvantage, for him. When it came to getting little breaking balls, I was sharp; I could read the game a little bit better than him. My anticipation and touch were a bit better, I think. But, in a run for the ball, he was quicker than me. He should have had the advantage on me for headers, but I had a good spring on me. I’d had my running battles with Arsenal before Vieira arrived, right back to my days at Forest. I’d have had run-ins with Ray Parlour and Martin Keown. There was Paul Davis, John Jensen, David Rocastle. None of them were choirboys.

We lost our first game of the new season, 1–0, to Chelsea, at Stamford Bridge. You always want to get a few wins under your belt, to build a bit of momentum early doors. But now, straightaway, we were playing catch-up. I played centre-half that day, which
also indicates a bad start to the season. If it had been February or March, fair enough; the squad would have been stretched. But playing out of position on the first day of the season – it wasn’t a good sign. It said something about a lack of strength in depth.

It was Mourinho’s first game in English football. I remember the goal, and the importance of it. A win against us – Mourinho was already the Special One. It gave them that bit of early momentum, and confidence. Remember: they’d finished second the previous season, before Mourinho arrived. For the goal, I think I could have done better. When Gudjohnsen went to finish it, could I have taken his head off? Maybe.

Chelsea were stronger that day, but we were unlucky. The game reflected the season ahead. We were nearly there; we weren’t bad. But we were always behind. Chelsea had spent a fortune. They had Carvalho and Drogba, and Makelele, and we’d slipped behind them. But we always put up a fight. They only beat us 1–0, but that can tell a lot. They were solid; they were going to be hard to break down. But there was also the feeling that Mourinho wouldn’t be staying around for long. I didn’t think he’d be another Ferguson or Wenger; he wasn’t going to be building a dynasty.

Chelsea were very strong, but I also knew that Rooney and Ronaldo would be getting even better over the next year or two. There was no sense of panic. I always thought we’d bounce back; we’d get one or two more players in. And young players had been coming up through the academy – Darren Fletcher, John O’Shea, Wes Brown.

We were in a transitional period. As a senior player, I was aware of that. It wasn’t that the manager was saying anything like that to us – or to
me
; he wasn’t. But I’d been at United for more than a decade, and I realised that things were in transition. ‘Let’s hang on in there, and see what happens.’ But the changes couldn’t
take too long; there was always that demand to win trophies. We weren’t in the dressing room, going, ‘Don’t worry, lads, we’re in transition; let’s lose to Fulham.’ There was always an urgency. Fans don’t want to wait till next year. And we were still a good team.

Fans always get a lift when a big signing comes, and so do players. When Wayne Rooney walks into the dressing room, it lifts everybody. He arrived for the start of the ’04–’05 season. He was a top, top player – immediately. I knew that from the first training sessions. And we’d played against him; his ability was easy to spot. I probably didn’t warm to him as much as I had to Ronaldo. Wayne was a bit more streetwise; he was a Scouser – ‘All right, lads.’ He was straight in with the crack. Ronaldo was a bit more innocent. He acted like a seventeen-year-old, while Wayne seemed older. The only time I had a disagreement with Wayne, it had nothing to do with a pass he should have given me, or a tactical switch.

We were in a hotel, the Friday night before a game – I forget where. The team would always sit down and have a meal together, at about seven in the evening. There was a big TV in the room. I was into rugby league, and there was a big game on. I went to the toilet, came back and someone had changed the channel to something else – something stupid; I can’t remember what it was. A few of the players were sitting there, giggling away.

I said, ‘Where’s the rugby league?’

I knew Wayne was up to something. I could tell by his face.

I said, ‘Where’s the remote control?’

He said, ‘I don’t know.’

I said, ‘You fuckin’ do.’

I didn’t exactly storm out, but I couldn’t be bothered trying
to get the remote control back, so I decided I’d watch the rest of the match up in my room.

I came down the next morning for the pre-match meal and, obviously, I’m very good at letting things go – and Wayne was brave enough to come up to me.

‘Did you ever find the remote control, Roy?’

I think I told him to go and fuck himself.

It was the only disagreement I ever had with him. I think he later claimed in one of his books – he has a deal to write ten – that I sent a security man to his room to get the remote control, but that’s bullshit.

Alan Smith came in from Leeds, and started really well. I got on well with Smudge. One thing that struck me about him was that he never drank. That made him stand out, a bit. He’d still have a late night with us, and a crack and a laugh. He’d stay to the bitter end. I’d stopped drinking by this time, so we’d often end up chatting together. We were the only two left capable of holding a conversation.

He moved from being a striker to playing in midfield. I think he was struggling to get a starting position as a striker. The manager might have been looking at him as an eventual replacement of me, but I never felt my place was under threat from him. I remember playing against him in a few practice games, and thinking, ‘Yeah, he has a chance.’ But he never quite kicked on. It wasn’t that he didn’t reach his potential; he just didn’t get the breaks. Or the breaks he got – injuries – were the ones you’d never want.

Gabriel Heinze was another good guy. He was a nasty fucker – nasty in training. I picked up an injury one day. A lot of it was my own fault. It was a Friday. We were playing Spurs at home the next day, and we’d always have light training the day before a home game. But it got a bit nasty and it ended up with myself
and Gabby having a few tackles on each other. He kneed me on the side of my leg and, being the hero that I am, I kept my mouth shut. I didn’t want to go in for treatment, but I was in agony.

I left the house the next day, limping.

I said to my wife, ‘Well, I won’t be able to play. I’ll just go in and tell them.’

I got to Old Trafford and limped – literally – to the dressing room. I got a few painkillers, and played. My wife said it was the funniest thing, hearing my name being announced on the radio, after she’d seen me limping out of the house that morning.

But I liked Heinze. He picked up a bad injury too, later – his cruciate. A lot of the lads who came into the club at that time – Smudge, Gabby, Louis Saha – they were all very unlucky with injuries.

The dressing room was changing. Younger players create energy. They can be raw; they’re not fearful. An older player losing in a semi-final is devastated; a younger player thinks he’ll be getting to finals for the next thirty or forty years. They bring that arrogance into the dressing room. I became jealous of that as I got older. The longer you’ve been around, the less chance there is of winning something, the less chance that your contract will be renewed, the more chance there is of being injured. The young lads don’t have those hang-ups yet.

More players arrived. Gerard Piqué was a good lad and a good player. But he wasn’t getting a run of games and he wanted to go back to Barcelona. He’s done all right there! I don’t think anyone could have predicted just how much he’d achieve. This theory that he isn’t a good defender – he’s one of the best. He knows how to defend.

Giuseppe Rossi was a really good lad. But he had a difficult time at United. He was an attacking player, and had difficulty getting into the starting eleven. Giuseppe is Italian-American and
one of the first times he trained with the first team I gave him a bollocking – I think because he didn’t pass the ball to me when I was in a better position. And he looked at me – he said nothing. But I knew what he was thinking: ‘Why don’t you fuck off?’

I turned away, and I thought, ‘I like that.’

If he’d said anything, I’d have run at him. But he looked right through me and the message was clear on his face. I nearly went over and shook his hand. I liked him from day one.

I tried to sign him when I was managing Sunderland, and not succeeding is one of my big regrets. I was doing my Pro Licence when we eventually got permission from United to speak to Giuseppe. I had a lecture that evening and I asked for permission to go to Altrincham, in Manchester; I’d made arrangements to meet Giuseppe. I met him at an Italian restaurant. He turned up with about eight agents. Three of them were Italian. His dad turned up, too. It was like a scene from
Goodfellas
– and I mean that in a nice way.

I was at the head of the table, trying to persuade Giuseppe to sign for us.

They were going, ‘Sell us Sunderland.’

And I gave him a line – it was either going to be very cheesy or he’d love it. We’d just been promoted. We’d agreed to pay eight or eight and a half million for him, which was a lot for a lad who hadn’t done too much yet.

I said, ‘Look, Giuseppe. I’ve got a good orchestra up at Sunderland. But I need a conductor. And you’re the man.’

They were all whispering, talking among themselves.

I was thinking, ‘It’s either gone down really well, or he’s not coming.’

We finished the meeting. I was really delighted with it.

He goes, ‘I’ve got to look at my other options.’

A few days later, he signed for Villarreal.

He contacted me and said, ‘Roy, thanks for everything.’

Villarreal or Sunderland? I understood his decision. Villarreal were making noises now, and, as Diego Forlán had told me before, it was twenty minutes from the beach.

We drew three of our first five games, and they weren’t good draws – Blackburn, Everton, Bolton. We beat Liverpool, and Tottenham; then two more draws, against Middlesbrough and Birmingham. The signs weren’t great. It wasn’t League-winning form. You can always have a sluggish start, but we weren’t used to draws. A draw against Chelsea would have been okay, but there were too many. It’s all about winning.

We beat Arsenal at home, 2–0, and ended their unbeaten run of forty-nine games. I wasn’t playing.

That summer I’d gone to a detox clinic in Milan, with Ryan Giggs and a couple of his mates. I think David Bellion might have been with us, too. It was recommended to us by some of the French players. The regime was strict; you starved yourself for three or four days and they educated you about diet. I was going through my health freakish phase at the time. Giggsy had been there before, and he’d warned me that we wouldn’t eat. I didn’t believe him; I thought we’d have to eat something. But I’d paid out quite a lot of money so I could fuckin’ starve for four days. I never ate – nothing. The first night, I wanted to leave. But I stayed. I think it was the second or third night when they gave us some carrot juice. The dietician decided that I was eating too much red meat, and I needed to cut back; I needed to eat more fruit and vegetables.

I came home, and went on the new diet. I wouldn’t be mixing carbohydrates and protein. Typical me, the man of extremes, I went too far. I stopped eating red meat. I was almost divorced, because I wouldn’t eat what everyone else in the house was
eating. I’d only eat the healthy stuff, and I stopped eating treats. My wife would be cooking for five kids and I’d be going, ‘I need to have fish – and salad.’ As I’ve said, I’m not a lover of fish so I was trying to eat food I didn’t particularly like. There was even one time my wife gave me a little trifle and I asked her to take the cream off the top. My body fat went down to 3 or 4 per cent; I went too skinny.