Why did his talent work so well at Old Trafford after the nomad years in France and at Sheffield Wednesday and Leeds? I saw it as another triumph for the judgement of the manager. In my opinion he read the player’s nature perfectly. Cantona was a natural born rebel, resentful of authority and uniforms, eager to assert his independence and his free will. In the past, I suspected, too many managers had tried to impose themselves on this free spirit, pushed him into corners where he became sullen and resentful. Ferguson’s approach was quite different. If Cantona wanted to fly off to Paris for a few days, he was usually granted his wish. ‘Be back on Tuesday,’ the manager said, ‘and be ready to train and to play.’ You could see Cantona grow almost day by day in his new environment.
Of course there was a fine line between the good and the bad of Cantona, always the fear that he might blow like a volcano. He did this while I was on a tour of Africa. An enterprising Daily Mirror reporter tracked me down on the phone and told me about Cantona’s ‘amazing eruption’ at Selhurst Park, how he had turned into the crowd and attacked a Palace supporter after being sent off. I told the reporter that I could only imagine there must have been a high degree of provocation; but a professional player couldn’t do that and not expect the severe punishment – at least a six-month ban – that would quickly come his way.
There was one other shadow over Eric Cantona. He never produced the best of himself in European or international football for France. In England, however, it was as though he was a great dramatic actor operating on a stage that he found so much to his liking. Alex Ferguson’s role in this turbulent life was that of a knowing theatre director. He knew what he could get out of his star performer – and what he couldn’t. He said he would take the best of the Frenchman, not the worst; he would only confront and chivvy him whenever it was absolutely essential. He would not be a figure of authority, but a friend and an admirer always ready to celebrate a special, though at times difficult, talent. It was the inspired – and practical – decision that did so much to shape an era.
In the course of these next few pages I intend to do something that is often asked of me privately, and is always a source of some agonised decision-making, partly because of the choices required, partly because in measuring the talent of footballers there are so many different factors to weigh, so many fears that in honouring one player you are doing less than justice to another. I am going to pick the best Manchester United team from all my years as a player and a director (excluding the great players of the 1948 team because although I did play with some of them towards the end of their careers, when their brilliance was shining most brightly on the pitch they were never more than fabled names on our radio back in Ashington).
There is one place that is automatic. It is the one that belongs to Schmeichel.
Schmeichel gave Manchester United the greatest gift at any goalkeeper’s disposal. He sent waves of confidence through the team. He even became an arm of the attack, moving the ball to Ryan Giggs or Andrei Kanchelskis in one easy, powerful motion that turned defence into assault so quickly. Twice, against Queens Park Rangers, goals flowed directly from the work of the goalkeeper. In the Champions League final in Barcelona, he unsettled Bayern’s defence with a charge down the field before David Beckham sent in the corner that led to Teddy Sheringham’s equaliser. No one suggested Schmeichel should do that. It sprang from his refusal to countenance the idea of defeat.
He also, as Cantona did in his prime, embraced the meaning of the club and is still frequently to be seen around Old Trafford, revelling in the aura of the place. He gave an early indication of his commitment while helping Denmark to the European Championship title in Sweden in 1992. Before the game against England, he was asked if he was aware Gary Lineker was close to scoring a record number of goals for his country. ‘Yes, I am,’ he said, ‘but it’s not going to happen against me. That record belongs to Bobby Charlton and my club.’
I hadn’t seen him before he arrived at United, but the first time I watched him I realised immediately that he was a sensational goalkeeper. He had everything: command, reflexes, judgement, nerve and powerful accurate kicking. And then there was that final classic quality of a great keeper: if he ever made a mistake, he simply didn’t recognise it – someone else got the bollocking. He could not accept the concept of being flawed in the slightest way. None of his team-mates complained. They knew the supreme value of a goalkeeper everyone can trust.
All this means that Peter Schmeichel has no rival as the foundation of my best Manchester United team chosen from the mid-fifties until today. The rest of it, playing 4–4–2, is: Gary Neville, Pallister, Stiles, Irwin; Cantona, Robson, Keane, Edwards; Law, Best.
I never saw the great Johnny Carey play for the
