Page 33 - Alex Ferguson: My Autobiography

He could have the worst game possible and still not believe that he had under-performed in any way.
He would dismiss you, tell you you were wrong. He was incredibly protective of himself. Whether
that was developed by the people around him, I don’t know. But he would never concede he’d had a
bad game, and never accept he’d made a mistake.

You had to admire that. In a way it was a great quality. No matter how many mistakes he would
make (in my eyes, not his), he would always want the ball. His confidence never suffered. Otherwise,
dips of that kind are innate to all footballers, and plenty of managers. Public scrutiny penetrates the
body armour, whether from the public, press or fans.
The nadir was reached in November, with the last derby game at Maine Road: a 3–1 victory for
City, memorable for a mistake by Gary Neville, who dawdled with the ball and was dispossessed by
Shaun Goater for City’s second goal. Afterwards I questioned the spirit of my players, a nuclear

option I seldom employed. The dressing room is a horrible place to be when you lose a derby. Before
the game, Keith Pinner, my old friend and a diehard City fan, had said: ‘As it’s the last derby game at
Maine Road, will you come up for a drink afterwards?’
Amused by the audacity of this request, I said: ‘If we win, aye.’
So after we’d lost 3–1, I was getting on the bus when my phone went. Pinner on the line.
‘Where are you?’ he said. ‘Are you not coming up?’

‘Go away,’ I replied, or words to that effect. ‘I never want to see you in my life.’
‘Bad loser, are you?’ laughed Pinner. Up I went for a drink.
At the end of that season Gary Neville observed: ‘That was a big crossroads for us. I thought the
fans would turn on us that day.’
Sometimes a manager has to be honest with the supporters, over and beyond the players. They are
not stupid. As long as you don’t criticise individual players in public, admonishing the team is fine,
not a problem. We can all share in the blame: the manager, his staff, the players. Expressed properly,

criticism can be an acceptance of collective responsibility.
Under the pressure of bad results, we changed the way we played. We moved the ball forward
more and quicker rather than concentrating on possession ratios. With Roy Keane present, keeping the
ball was never a problem. I said so from the minute he came to the club: ‘He never gives the ball
away, this guy,’ I told the staff and players. Ball retention is a religion at Man United. But possession
without penetration is a waste of time. We were starting to lack that real penetration. With a player

like Van Nistelrooy in our forward line we needed to supply him quickly. Early passes, in from wide,
or between defenders. That’s where the change had to come.
We tried Diego Forlán off the front, but we had been playing a lot with Verón, Scholes and Keane
in midfield. Verón was free and Scholesy could go into the box. Beckham wide right, Giggs wide left.
We had fantastic talents there. Our goal-scoring weapons were the right ones. Van Nistelrooy was
relentless in his goal-scoring. Beckham would always get you around ten; Scholes, above that.
Phil Neville was excelling in central midfield as well. Phil was a dream. He and Nicky Butt were

perfect allies for me. All they wanted was to play for Man United. They never wanted to leave. The
time to let that type of player go is when you see that you’re hurting them more than helping them by
using them as substitutes or understudies.
Those players end up trapped between extreme loyalty and a kind of sadness at not being involved
more in first-team games. That’s hard for any man. Phil played a great role where we needed
stabilisation. He had great discipline. He was one of those players to whom you could say: ‘Phil, I

want you to run up that hill, then come back and cut down that tree.’
And he would say, ‘Right, boss, where’s the chainsaw?’