Red: My Autobiography
About the Book
‘Gary Neville is a Red...’ The chant rang round Old Trafford for the best part of two decades, and if any player can be said to epitomize Manchester United, it is Gary Neville. A fan of United since he was a boy, who made the grade through sheer determination and hard work and won the honour of captaining the side. A fighter, proud of his roots, with a never-say-die attitude that helped make United the top team in the land. The best right-back of his generation, for both club and country.
He also riled his fair share of people, of course, and in
Red: My Autobiography
, Gary Neville pulls no punches in his account of life with Manchester United and England. Since growing up at the club with the likes of Beckham, Giggs and Scholes, plus his own brother Phil, Gary has always had a view on how the game should be played – about loyalty, football agents, the FA. And in typically forthright style, he has plenty of tales about the cast of characters that forged United’s phenomenal and continued success: Keane, Cantona, Rooney, Ronaldo, and of course Sir Alex Ferguson.
Red
is a unique account of a career at the very top of the game. For twenty years, Gary Neville has worn his heart on his sleeve. This is his story.
Contents
RED
My Autobiography
GARY NEVILLE
To my girls: Emma, Molly, Sophie – all my love. xxxxxxxx
Mum and Dad – none of this would have happened without you. You have given me everything you could and more than I could ever have asked. All my love. x
Tracey and Philip – the best sister and brother. All my love. x
Nan/Bill/Nan/Grandad – thank you. I love you all so much. x
Manchester United: the Boss, the Staff, the Players, the Fans. Thank you for all you have done for me. To be around people who demand the best from you, that you can trust, that look after you, that fight with you and love their own, has been inspiring and the experience of a lifetime. I will miss being with you every day. I love you all!
Gary
The lights went out. Suddenly the Old Trafford dressing room was plunged into darkness. A television flickered into life. And there was my career being played out in front of me.
Leading out the team, lifting trophies, celebrating with Wazza, Scholesy, Becks, even scoring a few goals (they had to do some digging through the archives for those) – and finally a handshake from the boss with the words ‘Thank you, son’, up on the screen.
I’d had no idea the film was coming but I couldn’t have devised a better way to finish than being gathered in that dressing room with the boss, the present-day United lads and all the old gang including Becks, Phil and Butty, all back for my testimonial.
You play football because you love the game, but in many ways it’s the dressing room which gives you the most cherished memories. That’s where you share the banter, you come together with your mates, you crack jokes, and celebrate titles. It’s the private chamber where you learn what it is to be a team.
I was determined not to become emotional on my testimonial night. I’ve never been comfortable with too much fuss. I’d just wanted to get it over with. But as the film played, I could feel myself welling up. I’d lived my dream.
They say some sportsmen find retirement hard to take. For them it’s like falling off a cliff. They become depressed and struggle to find purpose in their life. But retirement held no fears for me. In that moment, as I watched that film, I just felt incredibly lucky.
I played for United all my life – not just a one-club man but at the greatest club on the planet. Something grabs you when you are a child and gives you a passion. Mine was always United.
There’s a banner I always looked out for at games – it must have been there for fifteen years – which reads ‘United, Kids, Wife’. In that order. I was thinking of making that the title of this book, and my wife wouldn’t have been surprised. The club has shaped my life. It’s been the one constant, along with my family.
I played all those years with my brother, sharing so many happy times. I was part of the greatest youth team there may ever be, making true, loyal, lifelong friends of Becks, Butty, Scholesy and Giggsy. I’d seen all our teenage hopes and dreams miraculously come true with the Treble.
Since boyhood I’d been taught by the greatest manager of them all. I’d seen him restore United from a club with a famous past into English football’s most revered and celebrated sporting institution, not just winning trophies but playing brilliant attacking football. I’d shared a dressing room with Robson, Cantona, Keane, Ronaldo and other living legends.
I played through the most successful period in the club’s history. At the end of it all, the club won a record nineteenth title. Who could have believed that was possible when I made my debut in 1992 and the club was on only seven championships? Passing Liverpool was a special moment in history.
It was an amazing ride to get there, with plenty of fantastic moments but some hard times too when the boss, the club, the players were doubted. There were bust-ups and moments of despair. There were times when our characters were tested.
Through it all, the many, many highs and the occasional lows, I’ve felt privileged to be wearing the shirt. You can’t have a bad day playing for United. That’s what I’ve always told the young players coming through. You may feel like you’re having a crap time but when you look down and see that United badge on your chest it’s always a great day. And I wore that shirt for the best part of twenty years.
Boy from the K-Stand
‘Gary Neville is a Red, he hates Scousers.’
RIGHT FROM THE start, I loved United and I loved an argument. So it was always going to be a volatile mix when I went to a school full of Liverpool fans.
I grew up in Bury, just up the road from Manchester. But looking at all the Liverpool FC football shirts, my school might as well have been yards from Anfield.
This was the eighties. Liverpool were the glamorous, successful team of the moment so pretty much all the kids at school supported them, like kids do. There we were, less than ten miles from Old Trafford, but it could have been the heart of Merseyside. I wasn’t the only United fan in the playground, but it felt that way to me.
I don’t know how you react to being outnumbered, but it brought out the fighter in me. My dad’s side of the family have a stubborn, argumentative streak, and school is where I first discovered that I’m a Neville to my core. If I have an abiding memory of my school days, it is squabbling with all those Liverpool fans. I must have spent more time bickering with them than focused on my studies. We’d argue about who had the best players, the best ground, the best kit. It’s an argument that’s never stopped. I don’t suppose it ever will.
In those days Liverpool were my tormentors. At school I’d have their success shoved down my throat day after day. That’s how the feuding started.
They were winning everything at the time, but the more crowing I heard about Liverpool’s triumphs, the more I’d defend my club. I’d stubbornly argue for United all day long. Anyone who thinks I’ve been a one-eyed defender of United in recent years should have heard me in the playground at Chantlers Primary.
United were the most magical thing in my life. As a kid, I lived for watching games. Going to Old Trafford was the highlight of my week. The club was in the blood, thanks to my dad.
He’s been a devoted Red all his life. He went to the 1958 FA Cup final as a nine-year-old, when United lost bravely to Bolton Wanderers just a few months after the tragedy of the Munich air crash. He saw the glory years under Sir Matt Busby, with Best, Law and Charlton. He followed loyally through the lean years of the seventies; he was watching when United were relegated in 1974. Win or lose, following United was his passion. Once he’d started earning his own money, he hardly missed a match.
From my earliest days, I was desperate to join him. I nagged him to take me. I begged, I pleaded. Finally, he agreed, on one condition: I could join him and his mates at the game as long as I wasn’t a pain or a distraction.
I can’t remember my first journey down from our house in Bury to Old Trafford. My dad reckons I was four years old, which would put it in 1979. I don’t recall that first game but I can still feel the excitement, the anticipation, the goosebumps of those early trips.
As soon as we crossed Barton Bridge, over the Manchester Ship Canal, my heart would skip quicker. It was a sign that we were close to the ground. Soon I’d see those towering stands and we’d be parked up. Always early, we’d get to the stadium by noon and have something to eat in Marina’s Grill. It’s still there at the top of Sir Matt Busby Way, just up the road from the stadium. Pie and chips, the same every time, and then we’d be at the front of the queue at one o’clock to go into the old K-Stand.
My dad would meet his mates, but that was fine with me. I was happy in my own company. He’d have a pint at the bottom and I’d go up and sit in my seat, taking in the sights inside the stadium. I never got bored of it, sitting on my own in that spot. Old Trafford would be empty but I’d look around, mesmerised by the place. I’d take in the noise, the sights, the smells. They have stayed with me all my life.
When the players came out to warm up I would be transfixed. I can still see Arnold Muhren practising those swerving shots. The earliest memory of my life is big, battling Joe Jordan jumping for a header. I was at Old Trafford the day Bryan Robson signed for United out on the pitch, an English record at £1.5 million. I was only six but the image is fixed in my head. To think that I would share a pitch with my hero thirteen years later, in his last league match.
Robson was my idol, though I was never one for posters on the bedroom wall. I’ve never asked for an autograph in my life and I’ve never really understood why kids do. I owned a United shirt but I never wore it to Old Trafford. The thrill for me was not in the personalities. Even if I’d had a camera-phone in those days I’d never have wanted to grab a cheesy picture with a player. My love was for the game. Nothing could beat the atmosphere of a Saturday afternoon watching United.
Right from the start I loved wholehearted players, which is why Robson was instantly my favourite. He epitomised everything I thought a United player should be. He flogged himself to the end of every game and gave blood, sweat and tears. He was a true leader. When he burst into the box, it was like his life depended on it. You could see it in his face and his running style. Everything was a fight and a battle. He made a massive impression on me.
Later I would love Mark Hughes, too, and Norman Whiteside. They were the three players I looked up to the most. They had plenty of talent, but what I really loved was how they gave their all. I’ve always admired grafters.
I loved the players who seemed to care about United as much as I did, but devotion to the cause wasn’t going to win us titles. We had some good players, like Arthur Albiston and Mick Duxbury, but nothing like the depth of Liverpool, however much I tried to pretend otherwise. United won a couple of FA Cups during my school years – against Brighton in 1983, and Everton in 1985 – but Liverpool were winning championships and European Cups. They were dominant.
Looking back now, I have to respect what Liverpool achieved. I wasn’t blind to the qualities of their team even if I hated to admit it. You’d have to be stupid not to acknowledge the brilliance of Kenny Dalglish. Which fan wouldn’t covet Graeme Souness, Peter Beardsley and John Aldridge? I had a secret admiration for Steve Nicol. John Barnes was vastly talented, and I hated him for it.
Now I am able to appreciate Liverpool as another true working city of the north. I can recognise the loyalty of their supporters and admire how Liverpool, like Manchester, has punched above its weight when it comes to music and football. But back then, I loathed Liverpool and I loathed their success.
United were my team and I’d stand up for them in the face of logic. At school, I’d brag about how we had Robson, the England captain and the best player in the country. I’d shout about Old Trafford being bigger than Anfield. And the reply would come back like a slap in the face: ‘Yeah, but Liverpool won the league and you finished thirty-one points behind.’
I’d cling to the great heritage of Busby, Best, Law and Charlton that I’d learnt from my dad and tell myself that United would be back on top soon enough. But even I was struggling to believe it when we finished thirteenth in the league behind Coventry City and QPR.
We were spending fortunes and winning nothing. We’d buy Garry Birtles or Peter Davenport and there would be a big fanfare but we’d soon be let down again. We’d threaten to challenge but it would peter out into nothing. But still I wouldn’t be shouted down.
I must have sounded like City fans have done all these years, bleating away with a massive chip on their shoulder. City fans would blather on about the derby being such a massive game, and how they were the true fans of Manchester, but United–City was never the crunch match for me. That was always Liverpool, and it always will be thanks to this childhood rivalry.
Being a football supporter has never just been about the team you love. It’s also about the teams you love to hate. English football is brilliant for being so tribal and there’ll always be an edge between United and Liverpool.
As a kid, I had to suffer at their hands again and again. But that’s why every victory later in life tasted so sweet. That’s why I charged up and down the pitch celebrating every win over Liverpool. It’s why I kissed the United badge in front of them, like any true fan.
My passion would eventually cost me £5,000, when the FA fined me for celebrating a winning goal at Old Trafford. I thought it was a ridiculous punishment. As I said at the time, do they want to turn us all into robots? How many times do we hear that players are too distant from the fans and don’t care about the clubs they represent? And then they punish someone for being real. Pathetic.
I was giving some stick back to Liverpool fans, just as I’ve taken plenty. I’ve never complained about all the abuse I’ve had from Liverpool supporters – and there’s been enough, stretching right back to those school days.
For years I’ve had to listen to the songs. I’ve had Liverpool fans try to turn my car over on Salford Keys on the way back from a match. They tried to force open the doors, and when they couldn’t get in, they started to rock me over. Luckily the traffic started moving so I could make my escape before they rocked me off my wheels.
One night, on the eve of another Liverpool game at Old Trafford, the police told me I had to move out of my house because they had intelligence that a gang of lads from Merseyside were on the way to give me a sleepless night. I had to pack my bags and move to a hotel.
I’ve always known this stick is the price for nailing my colours to the mast like I’ve done ever since I was a kid. But what’s football about if it’s not about taking sides, my club against yours, whether that’s on the pitch, on the terraces, in the bar or in the school playground?
United till I die. And to hell with the rest.
