Ronaldo – Phenomenon
IT’S A VERY subjective judgement to name the best player of my time at United. I’d not hesitate to declare that Scholesy is as good as any, but how do you weigh up his class against the longevity of Ryan Giggs and the desire of Roy Keane? The brilliance of Peter Schmeichel and the charisma of Eric Cantona? I’ve been lucky enough to play with quite a few true greats of the game. But if it’s sheer match-winning quality we are talking about, Cristiano Ronaldo shades it.
He’s a great lad, Cristiano. Some see him as a prima donna. And it’s true, you’ve never seen a guy spend so long in front of the mirror. He’d never arrive, or leave, without making sure he looked immaculate in his tight-fitting Dolce & Gabbana T-shirt. If he wasn’t a footballer, he’d definitely have been a model. If you preen yourself like he does, you’d better be good. And he is a phenomenon.
In the dressing room, he’d have all the players transfixed with his skills. He’d spend twenty minutes most days taking the piss with his tricks. He’d do stuff so good I couldn’t even work out how he did it – like pretending to kick a ball in your face and, as you dived for cover, dragging it back on to his foot so you looked an idiot. He could disco-dance and juggle a ball at the same time. He loved the ball, he loved the game. He’d have fitted right into our old youth team because he relished hard work and practice. And you don’t become a great player like Cristiano without a serious work ethic.
Take free-kicks. He didn’t have a dead-ball technique when he first came to United but he developed that incredible dipping shot off the laces of his boot, toes pointing downward, through hours and hours of hard work and perseverance on the training ground.
And he was brave. He always wanted the ball, even when he was being booted up the arse by a defender.
The only thing that annoyed me about Cristiano was that I must have done a thousand decoy runs and he never passed it to me once. I joked to him once that he would finish me off, taking years off my career by letting me run miles and miles dragging full-backs out of position. But how could I complain when I saw everything that he achieved?
His talent was never in doubt, but it was after the 2006 World Cup and that wink – perhaps even because of the wink – that he really began to play his best. He’d go on to enjoy more prolific campaigns, but I look back on 2006/07 as his most effective. It was when we truly saw the blossoming of his genius.
Maybe what happened at the World Cup focused his mind, although I didn’t have a problem with him, and nor did Wayne. After our defeat to Portugal and Wazza’s red card, I’d gone into their dressing room to wish Cristiano all the best in the tournament. Why not? What had he done wrong? He’d winked. So what? He was trying to win the World Cup.
There were no problems around the United camp, just media hype and stick from fans around the country, but Ronaldo responded in the best way possible. Before the World Cup he’d had excess in his game: too many touches, too much fannying about on the ball, not enough telling delivery. But then a penny dropped. All of a sudden his selection of pass, his decision-making when it came to beating the man or laying it off, became so much more ruthless and consistent. He was maturing mentally and physically. He’d filled out into a muscular lad, with a prize-fighter’s build, and that helped him grow into a roving menace.
He was no longer just a winger but a phenomenal centre-forward who could batter centre-halves in the air. In fact, it is a Ronaldo header which I regard as the greatest goal I’ve ever seen in a United shirt. You might be surprised at the choice.
It was in a Champions League game in Roma’s Olympic Stadium in April 2008. The move was sharp, with some slick passing and a great turn by Rooney, but it was the finish that was just sensational. Scholesy hung a cross in the air and, to be honest, it didn’t seem to be aimed at anyone in particular. But then Cristiano came charging into the box like a runaway train. He leapt like Michael Jordan and headed it like Joe Jordan. He was a long way out, near the penalty spot, but it flew in like a bullet. Cristiano had turned himself from a prancing winger into probably the greatest attacking force in world football. Lionel Messi has his incredible gifts, but Cristiano could be devastating on the ground and in the air.
The most significant improvement was that he’d become more team-orientated – perhaps because he realised how much United wanted him when he was being vilified elsewhere. Just as Old Trafford loved Becks even more after his dismissal at the 1998 World Cup and all the abuse he took around the country, the fans took Ronaldo to heart when they heard him get so much stick. They saw how he responded and they embraced him as United fans only do with very special players.
He deserved to have a team built around him even though he wouldn’t set about his defensive duties as diligently as Rooney. He wasn’t interested in sprinting back, like Wazza will do, even in the ninetieth minute. At United, attackers have always been expected to put in a shift tracking back. But sometimes, very rarely, you come across a player who deserves to be indulged. Releasing Ronaldo from defensive duties was more than compensated for by the energy he saved for his most effective work at the other end.
Previously we’d get frustrated as a team when he swapped wings without plan or consultation, but we learnt to use his versatility as a strength. He had become the main man.
Winning the league in 2007, after three seasons without the trophy, was massive. As rewarding as any of the championships I won. It was a huge achievement for the club after all the doubts of the previous few years. And, personally, the first six months of that season was probably my best form, aside from the Treble season.
The team was brilliantly balanced. Nemanja Vidic joined us and formed a brilliant partnership with Rio. Patrice Evra came from France – another shrewd move by the boss. We had top new signings, we had experienced players with plenty to prove after three seasons without winning the Premiership, and Rooney and Ronaldo hitting their peak. After all the turmoil of the last few years without a title, after all the questioning of the boss and the players, we were embarking on a fantastic new era – the most successful in the club’s history.
We got off to a flyer by thrashing Fulham 5–1 in the opening game, and for the first time in a couple of seasons we immediately put Chelsea under pressure. I’d surprised a few people by saying I was delighted when they signed Michael Ballack and Andrei Shevchenko – the rumblings that those players had been foisted on Mourinho were music to my ears. Anything to disrupt Chelsea’s machine.
By the time we hit Christmas we’d lost only two league matches – a big improvement on previous campaigns. Things were on the up, and Chelsea weren’t the same team. Our only problem came off the pitch when, in good spirits, we turned up for our annual Christmas piss-up in the Great John Street Hotel. By the end of the night, Jonny Evans, our young Irish defender, had been arrested.
The way it was written up you’d think the whole party was some kind of wild orgy. I can confirm it was one hell of a bash, but Christmas do’s always are at United. I pride myself on my professionalism, but I’m also pretty proud of our parties.
Footballers’ Christmas parties have become a symbol of all that’s wrong in the game – the drink, the lairyness, overpaid players acting like big-time Charlies. But I’ve always believed they are an important part of the team experience.
In the early days we used to go to the Grapes in Manchester, the pub owned by Vera Duckworth. We’d get my guitar teacher along and have a singsong all afternoon. That was the highlight for me, the afternoon in the pub with a guitar and a pianist singing cover versions, before the drink set in and we started egging each other on with United chants.
All good, harmless fun, even if some of the foreign lads used to think it wasn’t quite their cup of tea, or pint of lager. They might go to the casino for the afternoon before meeting us later. But I wouldn’t have missed those nights for the world.
In recent years we’d gone a bit more upmarket, to the Great John Street Hotel. I’d organised it, thinking the place would get us further away from the prying lenses of the paparazzi. Yes, there were lots of girls but there were also a lot of single, eligible blokes. It certainly wasn’t the sleaze pit some papers made it out to be, and it was a total stitch-up for poor Jonny. We knew right from the start that he’d done nothing wrong. The allegations were unfounded. But by then the story was all over the papers.
In the manager’s mind, the damage was done. He called the whole squad in and started screaming and shouting that he was going to fine every single player, first team and reserves, a week’s wages. I recognised that the club had been embarrassed by the bad publicity but, being the union rep, I tried in vain to argue that it was unfair to punish everyone. I had organised the party and felt I should take the rap, and I knew Jonny had been stitched up.
I tried to argue my case with the boss on a couple of occasions after this, but he remained firm on this one. As far as he was concerned, there would be no more Christmases.
It wasn’t my only bust-up with the boss that season. The first knock-out round in the Champions League took us to Lille, and there was some tension between the manager and his opposite number, Claude Puel. It was an edgy match which boiled over when Giggsy scored with a quick free-kick while Lille were still assembling their wall. It was entirely legal, a sharp piece of thinking, but the French were furious. After protesting in vain to the referee, they started walking off. I couldn’t believe it.
‘Come on, get on with the fucking game,’ I said to their captain, following him towards the side of the pitch.
The next thing I knew the manager was charging down the touchline shouting at me. ‘Neville, what are you doing? Get back on!’ He had really snapped.
As far as I was concerned I’d been doing the sensible thing, trying to get everyone to get on with a game we were now leading. But he was furious.
So I snapped back – ‘Fuck off’ – and walked away.
Now, I’ve said ‘fuck off’ a million times to a lot of different people, but this was a first. I’d never said it to the manager before. I knew as the game resumed and we played on that I wasn’t going to get away with it.
We won the match, and the boss was waiting for me afterwards. He was apoplectic, just as I’d expected.
Back at the club, Giggsy tried to get me to apologise. I hadn’t yet had an opportunity when I got a call to go and see the boss in his office. I guessed it was for another bollocking. I wasn’t wrong. He blitzed me, fined me a week’s wages, then sent me out of his office.
We were playing at Fulham at the weekend and I had to laugh when he took me all the way down to London and didn’t play me. He didn’t even put me on the bench. I knew exactly why – to teach me a lesson – but the thing about the manager is that he’ll always give you an explanation for leaving you out. It’s one of his great traits. You hear stories about some clubs where the teamsheet goes up an hour before a game and that’s the first a player knows about being dropped. If you started the previous game and he’s about to drop you, the boss will always call you into his office and tell you why, without fail. He’s a brilliant communicator like that. You might not like the explanation, but at least you’ve been told, to your face.
‘I need some height so I’m going with Wes in the team and O’Shea on the bench,’ he said to me that day. ‘I need the tall lads against Fulham.’
I just started laughing. ‘Boss, you played me at centre-half against Wimbledon’s Crazy Gang when I was twenty-one. I’ve marked Duncan Ferguson in an FA Cup Final.’
‘No, Gary. They’re dangerous from set-pieces, Fulham.’
Imagine how chuffed I was when we got down there and they had Alexei Smertin on the left flank, all four foot six inches of him, or whatever he is.
‘I could have played you after all,’ the manager said in the dressing room, looking at their teamsheet. He was laughing.
Three days later he took me down to Reading and left me in the stands again. The seventeenth man. ‘What have you brought me for?’ I said. ‘I could have trained back at the club.’
The trip was a total waste of time, but the boss had asserted his authority. I wouldn’t be swearing at him again. He’d slapped me down hard, as he was never slow to do with anyone who stepped out of line, particularly those of us who’d come through the youth ranks.
It always felt like he was harsher with us than with the players he signed because we were the kids he’d brought through. Perhaps he took it more personally if we did something rebellious. I didn’t feel that I had done much wrong in Lille but I knew it wasn’t worth pursuing with the manager – not unless I wanted to spend even longer out of the team.
Even through my frustration I realised the importance of the win the lads claimed at Fulham in my absence. A 2–1 win at Craven Cottage at the end of February is not the sort of match many people will remember as pivotal. But it was. We were in danger of throwing away a couple of crucial points when Ronaldo popped up with a brilliant solo goal with seconds left on the clock. Great players make decisive interventions at critical times. And this was one of many times that season when Ronaldo made the difference.
The manager recalled me a week later for the trip to Anfield. It was another huge win, one of those matches that clinches titles. We survived endless pressure from Liverpool before John O’Shea popped up with a late winner, not just over our old enemy but right in front of the Kop. As I told him afterwards, ‘You just lived my dream.’
We were buoyant, champions-elect, mostly thanks to Ronaldo. I never saw George Best play, but I said at the time I’d be amazed if he was as good as Cristiano. And the way he carried us in 2006/07 marks it out as his best season. I felt I owed him my championship medal in a way that had only really happened before with Schmeichel and Cantona in 1995/96.
It was a great feeling winning the title for the first time since 2002/03, claiming it back after all the doubts. Only eighteen months earlier everyone had been wondering if it was all over in terms of United domination. There had been calls for the manager to quit. There were times when, even inside the dressing room, we wondered whether long-term decline had set in. Chelsea had spent all that money, they’d looked so dominant, so we had a massive celebration now that we were back on top. To win the championship that year was unbelievable, up there with my first in 1996 and the Treble in 1999 as the best of my career.