Red: My Autobiography (8 page)

Teddy was the significant signing of the summer, but Phil and I were also ready to update our contracts on the back of our success. Wealth has been a happy by-product of my career, but the one thing I always craved was security. So when the club intimated that they would offer us seven-year contracts we couldn’t scribble our names quick enough, even though others counselled against it. The negotiations lasted about fifteen minutes.

My dad was on a European trip, and he bumped into Terry Venables. He’d read about the new long-term deals and, in the age of Bosman, of free agency and huge signing-on fees, asked why we’d signed away our futures for as long as seven years. ‘Because they wouldn’t give us ten,’ my dad replied, and he wasn’t being sarcastic.

Losing Eric would hinder any team, and then two months into the 1997/98 season we lost our new captain, Keano, to a serious knee injury. We had a terrible time with injuries that season. Another player we lost for a long period was Denis Irwin, after a scandalous tackle by Paul Bosvelt in a Champions League game at Feyenoord. It was a horrible night, with Feyenoord trying to kick lumps out of us, one of those games when you end up going in for every tackle with your own studs up out of self-protection. Julio Cruz, their Argentine striker, spat straight in my face and offered to meet me in the tunnel. When I walked off he wasn’t anywhere to be seen.

A young squad was exposed. We had an average age of twenty-three in some matches, and at one stage our oldest outfield player was Andy Cole at twenty-six. We were depleted, but nothing should detract from the Arsenal team that won the championship that year, the best domestic opponents I faced. The best of the bunch, better than Chelsea under Mourinho and Arsenal’s Invincibles.

Arsène Wenger had been appointed the previous season. We hadn’t known much about him then, but we’d witnessed the coming together of a formidable opponent. That Arsenal team had so many gifts. They were experienced and strong, both mentally and physically. They were tough. They didn’t have the touch of arrogance that would come in the Henry years when their attitude was ‘you can’t touch us, we’re French and we’re brilliant’.

From back to front, it was hard to detect a weakness. Modern football is a squad game but you know a team is really strong when you can rattle off their first XI without pausing: Seaman, Dixon, Winterburn, Adams, Keown, Vieira, Petit, Parlour, Overmars, Anelka and Bergkamp. If they were fit, they played.

I’ve rarely come across a physically stronger team – perhaps only Juventus. Arsenal had a top goalkeeper, a fantastic back four, a central midfield pair that could pass, move and never be intimidated, and a hard-working right-midfield player in Parlour who could tuck in complemented by an out-and-out flyer in Overmars on the other flank.

Of all my regular left-wing opponents, Overmars must go down as the toughest I faced.

Ginola was another tricky one, not least because of his physical stature. For a winger he was a big man. But he was never going to run in behind you. He was a lazy winger. He wanted the ball to his feet so he could turn and run. If he did that, if he got his tail up in the first twenty minutes, he could make life a nightmare. That happened one time at White Hart Lane and I was sent off by half-time. But if you nailed him with a few early tackles, if you snapped at him like a terrier, he’d think, ‘I’m not having much joy here, I’ll go drift inside or see what it’s like on the other wing.’

Overmars, and Arsenal, would keep at you. The Dutchman’s scorching pace gave any defender a problem. Petit, with that wand of a left foot, would constantly flick the ball over my head for Overmars to run on to. Get tight and he’d beat you in a sprint. Drop off and he had room to build up a head of steam.

And then there was Bergkamp, one of the great number 10s, who would play in the hole and feed the ball through to Anelka, a finisher who had an eye for goal and searing pace.

In terms of fitting the pieces together for 4–4–2, you could not have hand-picked a team with better balance.

Mourinho’s Chelsea were an unstoppable force for a couple of seasons. And I know the Arsenal Invincibles of 2003/04 can claim their own unique place in the record books, and they were mesmerising to watch. In Henry they had a forward so elusive that he was almost unplayable at his peak. But, if it’s not perverse to say this of a team that went a whole season unbeaten, you always felt you had a chance against that later Arsenal side because you could get about them, bully them. I couldn’t say that about Wenger’s first champions, and I don’t think it’s a coincidence that we drew twice against the Invincibles but lost twice to Arsenal in 1997/98. They were the best domestic team we came up against in my time at United.

We were top of the league when they came to Old Trafford in March but it was a sign of our injury problems that I was at centre-half with young John Curtis at right-back. Anelka flicked the ball over the top and Overmars used his speed to spring through and slide the ball through Schmeichel’s legs. When big Peter pulled his hamstring going up for a corner it seemed to sum up our problems. Arsenal had won at Old Trafford for the first time in eight seasons.

By the end of the season we weren’t far off Arsenal – only a point as it turned out, which wasn’t bad considering our injuries – but we couldn’t complain when we finished empty-handed. Arsenal were truly impressive.

Glenn

IT’S BEEN SAID before because it’s true: if only Glenn Hoddle had possessed the man-management skills to go with his undoubted football intelligence. But then you could sum up my entire international career with those two sad words, ‘if only’.

The fact is that Glenn possessed a great football brain, and still does – just listen to him as a pundit. He’s a guy who can spot a player and read the nuances of a game. He was a very good coach who wanted England to play the right way, with intelligence, valuing possession.

When it came to strategy, he was excellent at laying out what he wanted, in a very detailed way. Perhaps he was a bit fixated with 3–5–2. Terry had always been flexible; Glenn wanted to groom us in one system. But, fair enough, Glenn knew what he wanted and why he thought it would be successful.

The trouble was, Glenn never had Terry’s ease around the players. Terry had a natural authority but, perhaps because he was younger and less experienced, Glenn felt a need to exert control. I detected this change in tone right from the first squad meeting.

As usual we were staying at the Burnham Beeches hotel in Buckinghamshire and I went to book a car to go down to the shops to buy some magazines. An FA official told me it wasn’t allowed under the new management. Then I tried to order a sandwich in my room. Again, forbidden. Glenn wanted to know exactly where we were, what we ate, and precisely when we went to bed. This was a culture shock. These may seem petty matters, but under Terry and our boss at United we’d always been trusted to be adults and to do the right things.

I didn’t have any preconceptions when Glenn started. He’d been a talented player – maybe not the type I really loved, but you had to appreciate his skills. He used to show them off on the training pitch, too. I always got the impression Glenn was disappointed that we didn’t have the flair and skill of European players. If you miscontrolled a ball, or a pass wasn’t true, you could often hear a tut. There was one occasion when Becks was asked to go through a free-kick routine and didn’t take it quite right. ‘I’m not asking too much of you, am I?’ Glenn said.

Still, we’d negotiated some testing and unglamorous trips to reach the 1998 World Cup finals. We’d endured a tour of Eastern Europe, with matches against Moldova, Poland and Georgia. The Moldova trip in the autumn of 1996 proved memorable for Becks, but not for anything on the pitch. At that time with England we shared rooms, me with Becks. We were lounging on our beds watching MTV when he first noticed Victoria.

The Spice Girls had come on the telly. ‘Say You’ll Be There’ I think it was. Victoria was in that tight shiny catsuit and Becks just said, almost matter of fact, ‘She’s the one for me. I’ve got to go out with her.’ And not long after he did. I think it took him about three weeks.

You could never fault Becks for his single-mindedness. If he wanted something, he’d go out and get it. He’s always been that way, focused and determined, whether it’s his football or, in this case, a girl he liked.

I would share a room with Becks but we were incompatible. I’d be in bed at ten, he’d be up until one a.m. I’d be up at six in the morning, he’d be up at eight.

It was when he started going out with Victoria that the publicity around Becks exploded, though it had been brewing for a while. There’d been the goal from the halfway line at Wimbledon, which showed his star quality. And just before that he’d signed with the agent Tony Stephens. Stephens only had a few big-hitting clients and he’d sorted some major commercial deals for Shearer and Platt. It was obvious that Becks would be appearing on adverts before long with his looks and his talent.

It just seemed logical: Becks was always going to be a star. That’s very different to me, in the same way that he’d always wanted to play abroad, even as a kid, and it never really appealed to me. I never wanted to leave Bury.

Soon Becks was the face of adidas, though he could thank me for his first Predator boots. I was given a pair, one of the very first prototypes. All that technology to bend the ball was a bit wasted on me, so I handed them over to Becks, and I could never get them back. Becks would be out there every day practising his passing, his set-pieces, perfecting his spin on the ball. He was dedicated to his craft, and those boots gave him even more whip.

During World Cup qualification I was in and out of the team as Hoddle tried out different defensive line-ups. I could handle that, though I was disappointed to be left out of the final, crucial qualifier in October 1997, when we needed a draw in Rome to avoid the perils of the play-offs. The manager went with Gareth Southgate, telling me that he wanted more strength in the air.

We made it, thanks to the goalless draw in Rome which some write up as one of the great performances by England in the last couple of decades, which only goes to show how little we have to shout about. We were chuffed to have qualified but it wasn’t as if we’d gone to Italy and played them off the park. We’d battled and defended well – Incey looked like he’d been through a war zone, ending up with a bandage round his head – but like the Greece qualifier a few years later when Becks got us off the hook with his free-kick, this wasn’t a performance to get excited about if we were serious about being World Cup contenders.

I was never a massive shirt-swapper but there were a few players I held in awe, and Paolo Maldini was definitely one of them. Eric Harrison used to show us videos of the great Milan team he was a part of, the way the defence used to play high and catch opponents offside. I’d watch that Channel 4 show
Football Italia
, and I also loved Franco Baresi. He was the man. Everything about him was aggressive, on the front foot. He was a proper leader. He was hard, and nothing seemed to get past him.

That match in Rome was the first time I’d come across Maldini so I thought, ‘Sod it, I’m going to get his shirt.’ I went to the Italy changing room in the Olympic Stadium, humble and nervous. I knocked on the door not knowing what to expect, but Maldini couldn’t have been more charming. He called me in to where he was sitting at the back of the changing room. With a few words of congratulations and good luck for the World Cup, he signed his shirt and gave it to me. A legend, and a nice bloke with it.

My experience up to that point had been that if you’ve lost a game, screw the opposition. But since then, whatever people say about me being obsessed with United and blind to anyone else’s qualities, I don’t believe I have been ungracious in defeat to opposing teams. Maldini showed me how to rise above disappointment.

I think of our defeat to Porto in the Champions League when a little-known bloke called José Mourinho knocked us out. I knew it was a huge night for Porto, a massive achievement, so I walked into their dressing room, congratulated the players and manager and shook them all by the hand. I think the boss did the same just afterwards.

Even against Liverpool I will shake hands when we’ve lost. I always try to keep my dignity however gutted I am. I wouldn’t go searching for the opposition after every league game, but definitely after the decisive knock-outs. That’s usually the case at United with the players and the manager. People might see the boss as someone who takes defeat badly but he knows how to congratulate the opposition.

If not among the favourites heading into the World Cup, we were regarded as dark horses – and rightly so. We had most of the players who had gone so close at Euro 96 plus Becks and Scholesy, who were now two of the biggest talents in England. And we had Michael Owen, the new whippet-thin, and whippet-fast, striking star at Liverpool. But still there were gripes between certain players and the manager as the World Cup drew near.

Teddy landed himself in a bit of tabloid bother just before the tournament. He nipped off to Portugal for a couple of days and someone took a snap of him with a fag in one hand and a bird on the other. These things never look clever but they are meaningless in the grand scheme of things; a good manager would have read the riot act in private and stuck by Teddy in public. That was always our manager’s way at United: kill the story while dealing with the player. But Glenn made Teddy read out a public statement. It was like a full apology to the nation, and totally over the top.

I wasn’t too thrilled with the manager myself when we played our last warm-up game against Belgium out in Casablanca. Admittedly we’d been very poor in the first half but it still came as a shock when he said, ‘Gary and Phil, you’re coming off.’ The two of us were sat in the changing room without a word from any of the coaches. I’m not saying we deserved words of comfort, but a sentence of explanation would have helped. Communication was lacking.

We flew back to La Manga for final preparations. After some long, hard days, the manager allowed us a rare night out. We assumed we could let our hair down and go to the bar but we ended up locked in a private room by ourselves with a pianist playing old Sinatra songs. This was no one’s idea of a relaxing evening.

As with any gang of lads, we wanted some fun, so as soon as Glenn had left Gazza grabbed the microphone and belted out a couple of favourites. Martin Keown, who is more fun at a party than you might imagine, sang the worst ‘Danny Boy’ you’ve ever heard. We were starting to relax, have a laugh. Gazza brought me, Scholesy, Phil and Becks a pink cocktail in a martini glass with salt around the top. Coming from Bury, the only thing I put salt on is chips.

This was more like it; nothing harmless, just the lads letting their hair down. But it didn’t last. At about ten p.m. Alan Shearer rang Glenn to see if we could go to the public bar and join the other drinkers in the hotel. ‘No’ was the firm answer. Soon after that the manager and the coaches came down and told Michael Owen and Rio Ferdinand, who’d been playing cards, to go straight to bed. An hour or so later, the rest of us were told it was time to go upstairs.

So much for party night, yet it was written up in the tabloids like we’d had a massive bender. The pianist sold his story of our ‘wild night’. The FA had forgotten to get him to sign a confidentiality clause, which summed up the whole evening.

For most of us, La Manga was the place for final warm-weather preparations. For an unlucky handful it was where they would find out that they weren’t going to France.

We knew the moment was coming; it loomed large at the end of the week, spreading anxiety among the squad. There’s no easy way to tell a player they won’t be going to a World Cup but Glenn appeared to have picked a particularly agonising method by making every player turn up for a five-minute appointment in his room. The meetings overran and at one stage there were half a dozen lads sitting outside, too nervous to speak. It was like waiting for the gallows.

Luckily for me, I was one of the first up. I went along feeling confident for myself and Phil. My brother wasn’t first choice in the team, but John Gorman, Glenn’s assistant, had given him the nod a few days earlier that he’d be in. There was little reason to doubt it.

‘This is one of the easy ones,’ Glenn said as I walked in. ‘You’ve done well.’ But as he explained how we were going to play at the tournament, with a back three and wing-backs, I became so worried for Phil I couldn’t concentrate on anything the manager was saying. I could sense it was going to be bad news for my brother. I knew he’d be distraught.

When I left I saw Phil waiting outside, behind Ian Walker in the queue. I told him I was in, and then said I’d see him in a bit. I couldn’t tell him my fears, but I probably didn’t disguise them too well either.

Phil later said he could see it in my eyes, and I’m not surprised – I was stunned. I waited a bit and then walked down to Phil’s room where the bad news was confirmed. Phil was sitting on his bed in tears. He was inconsolable.

As we hugged, I heard shouting down the corridor. I walked outside and one of the lads said that Gazza had been left out. He’d taken it badly, smashing a lamp in Glenn’s room. I didn’t blame him for blowing his top. The whole experience felt brutal.

That episode remains my worst moment in football, no question about it. I felt terrible, not just for Phil and Gazza but for Butty and Dion Dublin, who were also axed. There’s no easy way to leave out a player, but this felt particularly distressing. They were given less than an hour to pack their bags and clear out.

I was so upset that I moved into Scholesy’s room for the night. I’d been sharing with Phil, and Scholesy had been with Butty so I moved down the corridor. We sat up till the early hours talking over the decisions and the way it had all been handled.

I’d have taken Gazza and Phil. Glenn had left Andy Hinchliffe behind too. But no Phil as well meant no cover for Le Saux. It was a strange move, one that would be exposed during the tournament. Rio Ferdinand had been picked but, for all his promise at nineteen, he was never a left wing-back. Rio wouldn’t play at all in the tournament, and Glenn ended up bringing on Southgate for Le Saux against Argentina.

With Gazza, I always thought his talent was enough to change a game for us, even if it was just coming on as a sub. Glenn evidently thought he was going to be more trouble than he was worth and that he’d become a problem, particularly if he was left out of the team.

Everyone knew that Gazza was liable to have a few drinks, and he had indulged in La Manga. He’d led the party, or at least tried to until Glenn called time. But even though I’m completely the opposite in terms of character to Gazza, I would have tolerated his failings. I was never appalled by him. I’d witnessed players in the early days at United out on major drinking sessions and I wasn’t going to judge them because I knew they’d still perform. And that’s how I felt with Gazza. He could take the ball in any situation, even in the tightest of spaces. England had few players with that ability. It was a risk worth taking.

Butty was also on the plane home. Like Gazza and Phil he was given forty-five minutes to pack his bags and jump in the car taking them to the airport. Sitting in the hotel, I felt as upset for Phil as I’d ever done for myself. It wasn’t just being left out, it was the way it had happened: the raised hopes, the colossal disappointment, the heavy-handed way of giving out the bad news.