Page 98 - Alex Ferguson: My Autobiography

Ryan could definitely be a manager because he’s so wise and players invariably respect him. His
relative quietness would not be a barrier. There are plenty of non-vocal managers. But your character
must be strong. To deal with a club like Manchester United, your personality has to be bigger than
those of the players. Or, you have to believe it is, to control the whole picture. You have big players,

wealthy players, world-famous players, and you have to rule over them, stay on top of them. There is
only one boss of Manchester United, and that’s the manager. Ryan would need to cultivate that side of
himself. But so did I, from 32 years of age.
At school we would be asked: ‘What do you want to be when you grow up?’ I would say: ‘A
footballer.’ ‘Fireman’ was a more popular answer. To say ‘footballer’ implied no urge to be known
across the world, merely to earn a living by playing the game. Giggs would have been that type.
You can be destined by your nature to chase a certain ending, and David Beckham always had that

air of knowing where he was going. He was comfortable with that lifestyle and keen to attain that
status. None of the others would have even dreamed about worldwide recognition. It was not part of
them. Imagine Gary Neville with fashion photographers: ‘Can you bloody hurry up?’
They were all lucky to have the protection of really good families. The Nevilles are really solid
people. The same was true for all of them. It was a blessing, for them and for us. They know the value
of a good upbringing: keeping your feet on the ground; manners; respect for older generations. If I had

called someone from an older generation by their first name, my dad would have clipped me on the
ear. ‘Mister, to you,’ he would have said.
All that has disappeared now. All my players would call me ‘gaffer’ or ‘boss’. Lee Sharpe came in
one day and asked, ‘How you doing, Alex?’ I said: ‘Were you at school with me?’
Even better, a young Irish boy, Paddy Lee, saw me moving up the stairs of The Cliff, as he was
coming down, with Bryan Robson behind me, and said, ‘All right, Alex?’
I said: ‘Were you at school with me?’

‘No,’ he said, perturbed.
‘Well don’t call me Alex!’
I get the giggles now recalling these moments. Behind the fierce response I would be laughing
inside. Wee Paddy Lee was terrific at animal impressions. Every Christmas he would do ducks,
cows, birds, lions, tigers – everything. Even ostriches. The players would be rolling about. Paddy
went to Middlesbrough for a year but didn’t quite make it.

Wee George Switzer was another. Typical Salford boy. In the training ground canteen he was
brilliant at barking things out and disguising where it had come from, so the victim would scan the
room trying to spot the perpetrator.
‘Hi boss!’ Or ‘Archie!’ to Archie Knox. For a long time it was impossible to nail the culprit. There
were no clues in the sea of faces at mealtimes.
But one day I caught him. ‘All right, son?’ I said. ‘You do that again and you’ll run round the pitch
till you’re dizzy.’

‘Sorry, boss,’ Switz stuttered.
Despite the image of me as someone who wanted obedience at all times, I loved people with a bit
of devil in them. It was refreshing. You need self-confidence, a bit of nerve. If you’re surrounded by
people who are scared to express themselves in life, they will be equally frightened when it really
matters, on the pitch, in games. Those lads from the 1992 class were never scared of anything. They
were mighty allies.