Page 38 - Alex Ferguson: My Autobiography

The confrontation between us that caused so much excitement around the game was an FA Cup
fifth-round tie against Arsenal at Old Trafford in February 2003, which we lost 2–0.
David’s offence in that particular game was that he neglected to track back for the second Arsenal
goal, scored by Sylvain Wiltord. He merely jogged. The boy just kept on running away from him. At

the end I got on to him. As usual, with David at that time, he was dismissive of my criticism. It’s
possible that he was starting to think he no longer needed to track back and chase, which were the
very qualities that had made him what he was.
He was around 12 feet from me. Between us on the floor lay a row of boots. David swore. I moved
towards him, and as I approached I kicked a boot. It hit him right above the eye. Of course he rose to
have a go at me and the players stopped him. ‘Sit down,’ I said. ‘You’ve let your team down. You can
argue as much as you like.’

I called him in the next day to go through the video and he still would not accept his mistake. As he
sat listening to me, he didn’t say a word. Not a word.
‘Do you understand what we’re talking about, why we got on to you?’ I asked.
He didn’t even answer me.
The next day the story was in the press. In public an Alice band highlighted the damage inflicted by
the boot. It was in those days that I told the board David had to go. My message would have been

familiar to board members who knew me. The minute a Manchester United player thought he was
bigger than the manager, he had to go. I used to say, ‘The moment the manager loses his authority, you
don’t have a club. The players will be running it, and then you’re in trouble.’
David thought he was bigger than Alex Ferguson. There is no doubt about that in my mind. It
doesn’t matter whether it’s Alex Ferguson or Pete the Plumber. The name of the manager is irrelevant.
The authority is what counts. You cannot have a player taking over the dressing room. Many tried.
The focus of authority at Manchester United is the manager’s office. That was the death knell for him.

Then, of course, after finishing top of our Champions League group, we were drawn against Real
Madrid. In Spain, for the first leg, David seemed especially keen to shake hands with Roberto Carlos,
the Madrid left-back. The following Saturday, after our 3–1 defeat at the Bernabéu, he withdrew from
the game against Newcastle, saying he wasn’t fit. I played Solskjaer, who was magnificent in a 6–2
win, and he stayed in the side.
David’s form, quite simply, wasn’t good enough for me to pull Solskjaer out of a winning team for

the Old Trafford leg against Real. During a round of head tennis before the return game, I pulled
David aside and told him, ‘Look, I’m going to start with Ole.’ He huffed and walked away.
There was a terrific hullaboo that night, with David coming on as sub for Verón in the 63rd minute
and giving what looked like a farewell to the Old Trafford crowd. He scored from a free kick and
struck the winner in the 85th minute. We won 4–3, but Ronaldo’s wonderful hat-trick and the defeat in
Spain sent us out of the competition.
David was looking for the sympathy vote from the fans. But there is no doubt there had been a

direct attack on me. The move to Real Madrid was clearly accelerating. From what we could gather,
there had been dialogue between his agent and Real Madrid. The first contact we had was probably in
the middle of May, after our season had ended. Our chief executive, Peter Kenyon, called to say:
‘Real Madrid have been on the phone.’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘we expected that.’ We were looking for £25 million. I went to France on holiday
and Peter called my mobile, while I was in a restaurant, having dinner with Jim Sheridan, the film

director, who had an apartment over the place where we were eating. I needed a private phone.
‘Come up to my apartment, use mine,’ said Jim. So that’s how it was done. ‘He doesn’t go unless