Will Tidey - Life with Sir Alex: A Fans Story of Fergusons 25 Years at Manchester United

A Fans Story of Fergusons 25 Years at Manchester United

WILL TIDEY

Published by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

4951 Bedford Square

London WC1B 3DP

www.bloomsbury.com

First edition 2011

Copyright 2011 Will Tidey

Print ISBN: 9781408149515
eBook ISBN: 9781408164921

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means graphic, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or information storage and retrieval systems without the prior permission in writing of Publishing Plc.

Will Tidey has asserted his right under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Acknowledgements
Cover photograph Getty Images

Cover design by James Watson

Commissioned by Charlotte Atyeo

Edited by Sarah Cole

Picture credits: All photographs Getty Images with the exception of the following: Picture section page 12 (top) Press Association

For Kendall and the boys

And the old man, obviously

In the very top tier of the cavernous Camp Nou stadium sit a 47-year-old man and his 20-year-old son. The scoreboard reads Manchester United 0-1 Bayern Munich. The clock shows 90 minutes. Gloom hangs heavy in the balmy Barcelona air.

What seems like miles beneath them a bleached-blond midfielder in a bright red shirt scurries across to the corner flag. In comes the corner. Out goes the clearance. In comes a scuffed shot. Silence and the loudest noise youve ever heard both at the same time. Arms flailing; fists pumping; bodies crashing against each other in waves of euphoria.

Down below the bleached-blond one is taking another corner. In it comes. Near-post flick. A leg stuck out. Delirium. The men in red are still standing up. They wont sit down again. A man theyve never met hugs the son, and then the father. Arms everywhere. Bodies everywhere. Noise everywhere. The father looks at his son. Just as well we didnt leave, he says. Wouldnt want to have missed that, would we?

And there it is. The story Ill tell at my dads funeral. The story Ill tell anybody whos listening. Its not about a football match; its about a shared emotional experience that touched on hope, despair and elation. Its about two men with a childlike love of the football team they grew up with. Its about what it means to be a lifelong football fan.

Or maybe thats just a load of sentimental rubbish. Of course its about a football match one that ended in the most dramatic way imaginable and sealed United their first European Cup in 31 years, and the Treble with it. One that will be talked about, and I quote Clive Tyldesley, forever and a day. And one, most importantly, that signified the arrival to greatness of Uniteds manager Sir Alex Ferguson.

The man who walked into Old Trafford from Aberdeen in November 1986 with little fanfare had transformed United from a lumbering, booze-addled relic to the greatest football team in Europe. Hed brought back the glory days of George Best, Bobby Charlton and Denis Law, and installed a new professionalism at Old Trafford that would see them surpassed. And fortunately for me, hed done it all on my watch.

If the football team you support is a matter of luck and timing, then there are few luckier than the Manchester United fans who were born into my generation. I was eight when Ferguson got the job. In the 25 years since United have won twelve league titles, five FA Cups, four League Cups, a European Cup-Winners Cup and two European Cups a quite remarkable record of success. Little wonder they call us glory hunters.

United fans my age or younger have known only Ferguson. There are blurry memories of the perma-tanned Ron Atkinson for the oldest of us, but they drift in and out. Ferguson was the headmaster during our school years, our lecturer at university and now hes our boss. Hes the father figure to our football fandom. And hes never, ever, let us down.

This is the story of what its meant to be a Manchester United supporter in the Ferguson era, told by a football fan first and journalist second. Its about the teams I grew up with, the players Ive worshipped and the games that live on in my mind. Its about the effect United have had on every stage of my life, from the tears of a wide-eyed six-year-old to the groans of a 30-something with two kids and a mortgage.

I arrived at the United altar around the same time Ferguson arrived at Old Trafford. I was there when they ended their wait for a league title; I was there for Cantonas first goal; I saw the Fergie Fledglings in full fight. And I was there in Barcelona in 1999. Ive been there all along.

Im one of millions. And Im beyond fortunate to have been given the chance to write about it.

It was the afternoon of Saturday 18 May 1985. The strutting guitar riff of Dire Straits Money for Nothing was blasting from my parents stack stereo system and there was an excitement in the air that felt like Christmas. It was FA Cup Final day, and for a six-year-old Manchester United fan it was the culmination of a new obsession. Music down, television volume up, it was finally time for the main event.

Standing before us, in bright red shirts and tight white shorts, were my original cast of heroes. Their leader was Bryan Robson, a swashbuckling midfielder who channelled the devil-may-care bravado of Han Solo. Robson could do it all, wash it down with ten pints, then do it again the very next day. He was the epitome of rugged, manly cool, and the best footballer in the country. His poster was already on my wall, and his No. 7 already on my back.

My next favourite was Jesper Olsen, a waifish Danish winger who flounced around like the lead singer in an indie band. I loved his left-footedness and the fact he wore his socks around his ankles a fashion statement Ive mimicked on the sports field ever since. They said he was more style than substance, and maybe they were right, but he was a maverick in the United mould and his legend lives on. Besides, the beautiful game, like life itself, needs its airy-fairy bit-part players just as much as its courageous do-or-die central defenders.

Then there was Uniteds goalkeeper Gary Bailey, whose shock of blond hair gave him a passing resemblance to another prominent figure in my childhood, Luke Skywalker. That was reason enough to follow his progress and give serious consideration to whether he and Robson, given a Millennium Falcon, could take down the Empire (Liverpool). Robbo would never have left Bailey to destroy the Death Star on his own, thats for sure. And he could have drunk Lando Calrissian under the table.

The two other hero crushes at the dawn of my United obsession were Mark Hughes and Norman Whiteside. Hughes had legs like torsos and they propelled him around the pitch and into the air like rocket launchers. They also came in handy when he was executing spectacular side-on volleys, which invariably fizzed into the roof of the net whenever United were in trouble. He was a scorer of great goals but not a great goal scorer, so went the oft-repeated tagline. Considering the vast majority of us arent either of those things, Id take that as a legacy.

As for Whiteside, he was but 20 years old and had already made a name for himself through youthful exuberance (Big Norm, as we later found out, specialised in exuberance). Aged 17 years and 41 days he broke Peles record as the youngest player to play in a World Cup, when he turned out for Northern Ireland at the 1982 finals in Spain. The next season he became the youngest man to score in both an FA Cup Final and a League Cup final. That glorious day in 1985 hed further his growing reputation with the most iconic contribution of his career.