You could finish up in the Manchester Royal Infirmary. I hope no one will disagree when I say: nobody was short-changed. It was never dull. HE That optimism served me well through 39 years in football management. Over that time, from East Stirlingshire for four brief months in , to Manchester United in , I saw beyond adversity to the success on the other side.
The act of controlling vast change year after year was sustained by a belief that we would prevail over any challenger. Origins should never be a barrier to success. A modest start in life can be a help more than a hindrance. On the contrary, often it was part of the reason they excelled. I have a letter on file from a chap who said that in —60 he worked in the dry docks in Govan and used to visit a particular pub. The only thing he knew about this boy was that he played for St Johnstone.
I was not auditioning for a role in politics. I remember ranting on like an idiot after being asked to justify my request for money. Everyone would have been nicely lubricated and in the mood to hear the young fundraiser explain the cause he was advancing. Pubs were a large part of my early experiences. My earliest business idea was to use my modest income to enter the licensed trade, as security for the future.
My first establishment was at the junction of Govan Road and Paisley Road West and was populated by dockers.
Pubs taught me about people, their dreams and frustrations, in a way that complemented my efforts to understand the football trade, though I was not to know that at the time. Scotland match at Wembley. I would double whatever was in the kitty and off they would go to London for four or five days. Or, that was the theory. I would join them on the day of the game itself. My best mate, Billy, would head off to Wembley on the Thursday and come back seven days later. Inevitably, this unscheduled extension of the trip would cause ructions with his family.
One Thursday, after a Saturday game at Wembley, I was at home when the phone rang. I pleaded ignorance. Maybe 40 of our customers would make the trip to the Twin Towers and I had no way of knowing why Billy was absent without leave.
But for the working men of my generation, a big football match was a sacred pilgrimage, and they loved the camaraderie as much as the game. For the walk. The pub is soon full of Orangemen in full voice and the police are walking by, not saying a word. Between 7 a. Double vodkas, the lot. My dad sat shaking his head. Scrubbed the place, we did.
But there was four grand in the till. Running pubs was hard work. By I was ready to escape the onerous responsibilities that came with running two watering holes.
Managing Aberdeen left no time for wrestling with drinkers or staying on top of the books. But what good stories those years left in my memory. You could write a book just about those. They would come in on Saturday morning — the dockers — with their wives, having been paid on the Friday night and deposited the money with me behind the bar in the night safe.
On a Friday night you felt like a millionaire. In the early days Cathy would count it on the carpet. On the Saturday morning the money would be away again when these men came to collect it. The record of these transactions was called the tick book. She had a tongue like a docker. That tick book, I want to see it. The taxman wouldnae let you do that.
The taxman examines it every week. The storm had passed. These are lasting memories of a young life spent around people of great character and resilience. Tough people, too. Sometimes I would come home with a split head or black eyes. That was pub life. When it became too exuberant or fights broke out, it was necessary to jump in to restore order. You would try to separate the protagonists but often take one on the chin. Yet I look back and think what a great life it was.
The characters; the comedy. I always remember a man called Jimmy Westwater coming in, unable to breathe. Grey, he was. Jimmy had wrapped himself in Shantung silk to creep out of the docks without being caught. A whole bale of Shantung silk. Another Jimmy, who I employed, and who kept the place immaculate, turned up one night in a bow tie. You must be joking.
In that part of Glasgow, everyone kept pigeons. An Irish lad called Martin Corrigan prided himself on his ability to meet any domestic need.
Crockery, a canteen of cutlery, a fridge — anything you like. When I brought purchases home, Cathy would go crackers. One day I swaggered in with a new suede jacket that really looked the part. So I hang it up. You know how a man gives the two sleeves a tug to get it to sit just right?
There I stood with a sleeveless jacket. On a wall in my snooker room hangs a picture of Bill, my best mate. He was some lad, Billy. But Billy was gone about 15 minutes. Where the hell was he? Anna came back two hours later to find smoke spewing from the kitchen. They were moths to his light. Everyone called him McKechnie. His two boys, Stephen and Darren, are a credit to him and Anna, and are still very close with my sons. Billy is no longer with us. But I still remember him for all the fun we shared.
I have a hardcore of friends from that time. Duncan was a plumber who worked for ICI at Grangemouth and retired very early. He has a nice wee place in Clearwater, Florida, and they like to travel. Tommy, who had some heart trouble, was an engin-eer, as was Jim.
A fourth one, Angus Shaw, is looking after his ill wife. His wife and daughter run a wholesale business. When I left Harmony Row as a lad, it created a big division between me and the Govan boys. They thought I was wrong to leave the team and go to Drumchapel Amateurs. Mick McGowan, who ran Harmony Row, never spoke to me again. He was intransigent.
He was an incredible enthusiast for Harmony Row and just blanked me when I left. But the Govan boys and I would still go dancing up to the age of 19 or We all started with girlfriends around that time. Then came the separation between us, the drift. I married Cathy and moved up to Simshill. They all married too. The friendships seemed to fall apart. Contact was intermittent. In management you have little time for anything beyond the demands of the job.
But our bonds were not completely severed. About two months before I left Aberdeen in , Duncan phoned and said it was his 25th wedding anniversary in October. Would Cathy and I like to come? I told him we would love to. It was a turning point in my life. All the lads were there and it brought us back together. Our families were established; we were mature men. When you get to that age, around 19 to 20, there is a gentle parting of the ways, but they all kept together.
It was only me who had a different type of life. It was not avoidance in any way. It was just the way my life unfolded. I was running two pubs and was manager of St Mirren. Then came the Aberdeen job in Those friendships sustained me at Manchester United. They were all good singers. By the time my turn came, the wine would have infused me with an exaggerated sense of my own crooning abilities.
It would be neck and neck between me and Frank Sinatra. Two words in, I would open my eyes to find the room empty. They are good solid people. Most have been married over 40 years. God, they give me stick. They pummel me. They get away with it because they are so like me; they are the same stock.
They grew up with me. But they were also supportive. When they came down we tended to win. The thing I learned about Scotland is that the further north you go, the quieter people are. They take longer to forge friendships, but when they do those ties run deep. As I became more entrenched in the job at United, my social life diminished. I stopped going out on a Saturday night. The football was exhausting for me. Getting away from the ground after a 3 p.
That was the price of success: 76, people all going home at the same time. The urge to go out weakened. When we did summon up the energy, we had good nights out. In my early years in Manchester I grew friendly with Mel Machin, who was manager of City, and who was fired not long after they beat us 5—1. I would have been sacked a long time ago had that logic applied at United. John Lyall, the manager of West Ham, was a rock to me in those days.
I would phone John often and he would send me reports on players to supplement my own. I could trust him and confided in him a lot.
I call those the best friendships. Bobby Robson was manager of England, so that was a different relationship at first, but we too became close.
Lennie Lawrence was another friend from that time, and still is. Eric Cantona made his debut in that game. I should have given you an England cap and I want to apologise for that. So much of what I knew at the end of my career I learned in those early days, sometimes without realising the lessons were sinking in. I learned about human nature long before I headed south to United. Davie Campbell was a player I had at St Mirren.
I was into him at half-time when the door opened to reveal his father. We were at Cowdenbeath one day with East Stirling and made the mistake of not checking the weather. The pitch was brick hard.
So we went into Cowdenbeath to buy 12 pairs of baseball boots. We had no rubber soles in those days. We were down three-nothing at half-time. In the second half I feel a tap on my shoulder from Billy Renton, a former team-mate of mine.
These were the passions swirling all around me. A story comes back to me of Jock Stein and his battles with Jimmy Johnstone, the brilliant player and legendary carouser. One afternoon, Jock took Jimmy off in a game as punishment for Jimmy not wanting to play in a European away game.
Jimmy runs up the tunnel and big Jock gets after him. Jimmy locks himself in the dressing room. Outside, on the pitch, the game is still going on. Football management is a never-ending sequence of challenges. So much of it is a study in the frailty of human beings. There was an occasion when a number of Scotland players, after a night of liquid entertainment, decided to jump in rowing boats. This ended with Jimmy Johnstone, wee Jinky, having the oars taken off him and the tide taking him out, while he was singing away.
When the information got back to Celtic Park, Jock Stein was informed that Jinky had been rescued by the coastguard from a rowing boat in the Firth of Clyde. In our time together with Scotland, I recall us beating England 1—0 at Wembley in May and then flying out to Reykjavik to face Iceland, where we were feeling pretty pleased with ourselves. On the night of our arrival, the staff sat down to a banquet of prawns, salmon and caviar. Big Jock never drank, but I leaned on him to take one glass of white in celebration of our victory over the English.
In the game against Iceland, we scraped a 1—0 win. The performance was a disaster. Having a quick temper helped, because if I lost my rag my personality came through.
Ryan Giggs has a temper, but a slow one. Mine was a useful tool. I just weighed right in. It helped me to assert my authority. It told the players and staff I was not to be messed about. There are always people who want to take you on, defy you. When I started, even in my first days at East Stirling, I had a defining confrontation with the centre-forward, who was the son-in-law of one of the directors, Bob Shaw. I was informed by one of my players, Jim Meakin, that his whole family went away for a weekend in September.
It was a tradition. He must have thought I was stupid. Bob Shaw, the director, was deeply unhappy with me. This went on for weeks and weeks. The chairman was saying. First day, a photograph in the Paisley Express. In the print I noticed the captain making a gesture behind my back. That was a childish schoolboy trick. You have to go. At Aberdeen I had to deal with all sorts of transgressions. I caught plenty out. Afterwards you kill yourself laughing at their reactions.
For three hours? And ended up pissed? One Sunday in we took 15, fans to a cup game at Fir Park but lost 2—1. Motherwell kicked us off the park and I was reported to the SFA for saying the referee had not been strong enough. That Sunday night my home phone rang. His mother answered. Is there anything I can help you with? When Ferguson joined Manchester United in November , he came with a great track record from his time in charge of Aberdeen.
But reestablishing the Reds as the most successful club in the land was an enormous task. Famously, he knew he had to knock Liverpool off their perch.
At the dawn of the Premier League era, in , United had gone 26 years without being champions, but that season Ferguson finally led the club to title success and in he finally achieved the record-breaking 19th title. In an era when most managers are lucky if they last two years, Sir Alex's achievement of lasting 25 years at the very top is truly astonishing. This book is the club's fitting tribute to his career.
A biography of the football manager Alex Ferguson, concentrating on the six years he has spent in charge of Manchester United. This book records his progress. This is the One is a fascinating insight into the mindset and winning temperament of the recently retired Sir Alex Ferguson, the most success manager in English football.
During the season, Taylor saw Ferguson at one of the lowest ebbs of his quarter of a century in charge, with a failing team, explosive fallouts with Roy Keane and Ruud van Nistelrooy, a disenchanted fan-base and speculation that he might be forced out of the job. This Is The One is the close-up, warts-and-all account of what happened during those two helterskelter seasons — the excruciating lows and the exhilarating highs.
It is also a fascinating exploration of the many different facets of Ferguson himself, from his infamous 'hairdryer' treatment to the softer, more humane side of the most successful manager in the business. There are few people who know the real Alex Ferguson.
From the winningest soccer coach ever, best known for 27 triumphant years with Manchester United, comes the book that decodes the key tools he used to deliver sustained success on and off the field. I would recommend this book to anyone, especially those currently in leadership positions. There are few people who know the real Alex Ferguson. Many stories are being told for the very first time, some of the classics are being rekindled to produce a.
Bloody hell. This is the One is a fascinating insight into the mindset and winning temperament of the recently retired Sir Alex Ferguson, the most success manager in English football. A stirring writer yet gentle and courteous man, Meeky had been covering United for 28 years before Sir Alex Ferguson arrived, and spent the next Loading Unsubscribe from Football? Alex Ferguson up close: sometimes difficult, always great This article is more than 2 years old Sir Alex rewarded those covering his thrilling Manchester United teams with the best of times.
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Thank you for your patience. The Club. Two veteran sports writers and editors take readers inside the history of the most-watched sports league on earth -- England's Premier League.
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