My Manchester United Years: The Autobiography

could do the public relations.’ I told him I couldn’t see myself in that role. I was a football man, and if I had value to the club I felt it was in putting my playing experience at the disposal of the board of directors. As a manager at Preston, and in all my years as a player at United, I had learned that the men who really knew how to run a club, who understood all aspects of the challenge, were almost invariably those who had grown up within the professional football ranks. The supreme example for me was, of course, Sir Matt Busby. They are the ones who have learned in all their years in the game something that quite often escapes the most successful businessmen. It is quite fundamental: football will never be quite like any other business. This was something that was not often reflected in the boardrooms of the game, I told Louis Edwards – and when I think about it today, it seems remarkable that of all my contemporaries I can think of only two who graduated to the place where the big decisions are made: Dennis Tueart, a Manchester City director, and Martin Peters who had a spell on the Tottenham board.

As it happened, my return came four years after Louis had died and been succeeded by his son Martin. In 1984 United were probably more buoyant than they had been at any time since the Old Man had surrendered the reins. Unlike his quiet predecessor, Dave Sexton, Ron Atkinson did not appear so susceptible to the expectations that had besieged all of Matt Busby’s successors. Sexton was a deeply impressive football man. He had the respect of his players and there was no doubt he knew more about coaching a team than I ever would, but even from a distance you could see that the need to win trophies facing every United manager was a particularly heavy burden for him. Dave Sexton was an introvert. Ron Atkinson was not. He was happy with the nickname Big Ron, and as confident with the media as Big Mal Allison had been while transforming our rivals City back in the mid-sixties.

Ron was flamboyantly self-confident, believed in having players of quality, was plainly happy with a squad which included Bryan Robson, Norman Whiteside, Paul McGrath and Gordon Strachan – and there were times when the performance of his team was so good, and so in keeping with United’s tradition, that on several occasions I said during board meetings, ‘I think we should put our appreciation of the team’s performance into the minutes.’ Later Ron said we did not get along, but I was never conscious of any antipathy, and certainly I was never aware of any particular friction between us when he appeared in the boardroom.

I liked the adventure of his football and there was plenty of evidence that United were moving back into the elite of the game. He won his second FA Cup in my first year on the board, and if the club ached for its first title win in nearly two decades it wasn’t as though the goal now seemed so remote.

However, one hard truth of football is that potential, even when it is backed by sometimes spectacular promise, has a limited shelf-life. There is also the argument, much favoured by my brother Jack, that however good a manager, his best effect is limited to just a few years; after that his style can become a little too familiar. The fear is that players start to say, ‘Oh, we’ve heard all that before.’

I don’t know if this was the reason, but in 1986 – five years after his appointment – it seemed that Big Ron had hit a wall. In 1985, he appeared to be flying, winning the cup again after the triumph of 1983 and then launching a brilliant campaign in the new season. Ten successive league wins swept us to the top of the table. However, the spring was filled with disappointment and we finished fourth. Then the new season brought no encouragement, a string of poor results leaving us fourth from the bottom.

Some time before the plunge I had had a discouraging experience, seeing something that made me worry about the future of the club. It came when I went to a reserve match at Sheffield United. It’s not always easy judging players in reserve football, but the overall effect was depressing. As we drove back over the Pennines, I thought to myself, ‘Well, I can’t see any of these lads ever being in the first team.’ That had sounded a warning; then, when the results went wrong again, it was something I went back to in my mind. Where were the young lions who were going to give us new life, new impetus?

There was talk of a drink culture building among lads like Paul McGrath and Norman Whiteside. In the boardroom the talk, predictably maybe when you consider the extent of the slide away from so much promise, was of a new manager. Some of it concerned Terry Venables, who was coming under pressure at Barcelona after the brilliant feat of leading his club to a title triumph over Real Madrid. I respected Terry, of course. He had an impressive record as a coach and a manager, a big aura, and after his time at Barca there was no question about him being intimidated by the challenge at Old Trafford. However, once the decision to part with Ron Atkinson was made, I was quite open – and emphatic – about who the new manager should be. ‘It has to be Alex Ferguson,’ I declared.

That summer I had been doing work for the BBC at the World Cup in Mexico. Alex was the caretaker manager of Scotland after the sudden death of Jock Stein at Ninian Park in Cardiff during a qualifying game. At the Scotland–Uruguay match he was on the touchline before the game, saw me and came