few months at the club, I realise that when the atmosphere around Carrington is good – when we’re winning – I can go into The Manager’s office whenever I want, just for a chat. To be honest, I like going in there. It’s a big room, bigger than some dressing rooms I’ve been in. A huge window overlooks the training pitches so he can see just about everything that’s going on.
‘Wayne, the door is always open if you need to speak to me,’ he says.
When I go in there for the first time, shortly after my debut, we talk about the game, our upcoming opponents, how I should play to exploit their weaknesses. We talk about the title race and the league’s best players: Chelsea are strong he reckons, Arsenal and Liverpool, too. He tells me how he sees our team shaping up, how me and Ronaldo are going to do. We talk about horses, he tells me about his wine collection – apparently he has a big cellar at home. He doesn’t mention retirement, even though he’s at an age when most people would be happy to put their feet up, but that’s the measure of the man, I suppose.
I feel I can have a laugh with him as we’re playing well. I even make out that I already know the team for our next match, days before he’s announced it.
‘Who’s playing up front with me, boss? Am I playing up top on my own?’
He laughs. ‘Oh, so you think you’re playing, do you? Who else is in the team then?’
I rattle off a few names.
‘Yeah, well, you’re not too far off.’
As the season progresses, I discover that the only time I don’t like going in there is when I’ve been called up to see him. That usually means he’s unhappy with something I’m doing, or not doing, and it always happens when training has finished for the day. There’s a telephone in the players’ changing room. When it starts to ring, the lads know what’s coming next: a summons from The Manager. Someone’s going to get it.
‘Can you send Wayne to my office, please?’
When it’s me, the lads make funny noises, like I’m going to be in loads of trouble. Some of them make a sharp intake of breath, or whistle, just to wind me up.
Like the time in January 2005 when we’re preparing to play Liverpool. He makes the phone call. When I go into his office and sit on the big settee, he tells me I’m not playing well enough. He tells me I haven’t been thinking properly on the pitch.
‘You’ve got to start concentrating more, Wayne,’ he says. ‘I want you to keep things simple. You’re going out wide too much and I want you to stay up in the penalty area.’
I argue. I think it’s an unfair assumption of my game, but I accept his advice and get on with it. At Anfield I stay in the box as much as I can, I don’t drift wide. Then I answer him in the best way possible: I score the winning goal. Maybe that was his plan all along. Maybe he wanted to wind me up.
After a defeat, The Manager’s mood can be quite dark; he doesn’t talk to the players or joke around for a couple of weeks. He speaks to us as a group in team talks, but that’s as far as it goes. If anyone passes him at the training ground, he doesn’t say a word to them. I learn pretty quickly that it’s best to stay out of his way after a bad result. In my first few months at the club, when I see him eating in the canteen after a defeat, I steer clear. I get my food, keep my head down and walk to my table as quickly as I can.
*****
There’s one thought I can’t shake: the first time I was introduced to The Manager properly was when I signed for United at Old Trafford in the summer of 2004. I’d spoken to him once or twice when Everton played United – a quick hello in the tunnel, but that was it. The day I joined the club, I met him at Carrington and I was dead excited.
He drove me to Old Trafford and told me how I was going to fit into the team and how he wanted me to play. He told me about my new teammates: winger Ryan Giggs, England internationals Rio Ferdinand, Paul Scholes and Gary Neville; my new strike partner, Ruud van Nistelrooy – a goal machine.
I talked about the times I’d played at Old Trafford for Everton, how I’d been blown away by the atmosphere there. I’d even said to my dad afterwards, ‘I want to play for them one day.’
It was surreal. I’d been watching him on the telly for years with players like Eric Cantona and David Beckham, but I never imagined that it would happen to me. Later, when word got around back home about my day, a mate sent a text over.
‘BLOODY HELL!!!’ he said. ‘CAN’T BELIEVE U’VE GOT FERGIE CHAUFFEURING U AROUND.’
The Manager seemed like a really good bloke, but the next day I experienced his legendary influence first hand. It was a nice afternoon, so I drove over to Crocky to see the family. On the way, I spotted Mum and Dad in the car park of the local pub and I pulled over to say hello. We decided to go in for a drink, a diet pop for me. I was only there for 10 or 15 minutes before I went home, but a day later, The Manager called me into his office. My first summons.
‘Wayne, what were you doing in that pub in Croxteth yesterday?’ he said.
I couldn’t believe it. I’d not been in there long, but long enough for someone to make a phone call and grass me up. To this day I still don’t know who did it. I left the meeting knowing one thing, though: The Manager has eyes and ears everywhere.
Within weeks I know plenty more stuff. He has an amazing knowledge of the game. When we play teams, he knows everything about the opposition, and I mean everything. If a player has a weakness on his right foot, he knows about it. If one full-back is soft in the air, he’ll have identified him as a potential area of attack. He also knows the strengths of every single player in the other team’s squad. Before games we’re briefed on who does what and where. He also warns us of the players we should be extra wary of.
His eye for detail is greater than anyone else’s I’ve ever worked with, but that’s one of the reasons why I signed for him. That and the fact that he’s won everything in the game:
The Premier League.
The FA Cup.
The League Cup.
The Community Shield.
The Champions League.
The UEFA Cup Winners’ Cup.
The UEFA Super Cup.
The World Club Championship.
The Intercontinental Cup.
You can’t argue with a trophy cabinet like that.
*****
I start my first league game for United against Boro’ in October and we begin the game badly. By now I’ve learned that The Manager expects one thing from us when we play: to win.
After half an hour, we’re a goal down and unable to get a foothold in the game. I’m not playing well and he’s shouting at me from the dugout. I pretend not to hear him. I don’t turn around, I don’t want to make eye contact. I know he’s shouting, but I can’t really make out what he’s saying because the crowd’s so loud. I definitely don’t want to get up close enough to hear him because I know it’ll be scary.
He looks terrifying on the touchline.
We eventually draw 1–1 against Boro’ but The Manager isn’t happy. It’s a game we should have won and in my first few months at United I learn quickly that we have to attack until the end of a game, no matter what the score is. That’s The Manager’s football philosophy. He tells us that he wants the players to get behind the ball when we’re defending and move with speed when we’re attacking. He wants us to draw the opposition in, to lull them into a false sense of security. ‘That’s when they’ll start stringing passes together, growing in confidence,’ he tells us. ‘But it’s a trap.’
That’s when we’re supposed to win the ball back and punish the other lot with some quick passes through midfield. ‘The opposition won’t stand a chance,’ he says.