Page 35 - Alex Ferguson: My Autobiography

it couldn’t heal the wound. The boot I kicked in anger just happened to fly straight at David
Beckham’s eyebrow.
After losing the Carling Cup final to Liverpool, we ran into another major rival from that period.
By the end of my time as manager, Leeds United were nowhere to be seen on the list of threats, but in

the spring of 2003 they were a menace, although we won that match 2–1. I should say a few words
about our rivalry with Leeds, which was disturbingly intense.
When I first arrived in Manchester I knew about the derby games with City and the clashes with
United’s Merseyside rivals, Everton and Liverpool. I knew nothing of the animosity between United
and Leeds. In the old first division, Archie Knox and I went to see Crystal Palace beat Leeds.
It was 0–0 at half-time. The second half was all Leeds. With 20 minutes to go, Leeds had a penalty
turned down and the crowd were going crackers. A Leeds fan began shouting at me: ‘You, you Manc

bastard.’
‘What’s that all about, Archie?’ I said.
‘No idea,’ Archie replied.
So I looked for a steward. The directors’ box at Leeds is small and the fans are all around you.
Palace went to the other end and scored. That’s when the crowd really lost it. Archie wanted us to
leave but I insisted we stay. Palace scored again, and that’s when our new friend hit me in the back

with a Bovril cup. The abuse was astonishing. ‘Let’s get out of here,’ I said to Archie.
The next day I was speaking to our kit man at the time, Norman Davies. He said: ‘I told you about
Leeds. It’s pure hatred.’
‘Where does that come from?’
‘The sixties,’ Norman said.
Leeds used to have a commissionaire called Jack who would come on the bus as we arrived at
Elland Road and announce, like the town crier, ‘On behalf of the directors, players and supporters of

Leeds United, welcome to Elland Road,’ and I would mutter: ‘That’ll be right.’
Some of the fans would have their kids on their shoulders, radiating the most incredible hatred. In
the semi-final of the League Cup at Leeds in 1991, they did give us a bit of a battering in the second
half, but Lee Sharpe had broken away, at 0–0, with two minutes to go, to score. It looked 10 yards
offside. I was on the pitch, Eric Harrison was in the dug-out. A lot of people think Eric looks like me.
One Leeds supporter certainly did, because he whacked Eric. Absolutely panned him. The guy thought

he was hitting me. On came the fans. Pandemonium. And yet there was something about the hostile
atmosphere at Elland Road that I quite liked.
In the Peter Ridsdale years, when Leeds were ‘living the dream’, as the chairman later put it, I
sensed the club was built on sand. When I heard what kind of wages they were paying, my alarm bells
rang. When we sold them Lee Sharpe, I believe they doubled Lee’s wages, on a 35,000 crowd.
But they constructed a useful team. Alan Smith, Harry Kewell, David Batty. Back in 1992, they
won the League with one of the most average teams ever to win the title, but they were as committed

as it’s possible to be. And they were superbly managed by Howard Wilkinson. A decade later, we
would hear about the boy from Derby joining them, Seth Johnson, and him discussing with his agent
what they were going to ask for. The story goes that the sum they came up with was £25,000. Leeds’
offer was apparently £35,000 a week, climbing to £40–45,000.
Clubs don’t learn these lessons. The emotions of the game trap you.
I remember a local Manchester businessman coming to me and saying: ‘I’m thinking of buying

Birmingham City, what do you think?’
I said, ‘If you’ve got a hundred million pounds to risk, go ahead.’