The Promised Land E-Book

Daniel Harris

• Herausgeber: Arena Sport
• Kategorie: Lebensstil
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013

Seitenzahl: 564

Beschreibung

In 1998-99, Manchester United won the Premier League, the FA Cup and Champions League – the only English team ever to accomplish such a feat. Whether that makes it the finest of all time is open to debate, but what is not is the status of the season: it featured astounding football, exceptional competition, staggering determination, ceaseless tension, astonishing plot twists, and a cast of fascinating, iconic characters. The Promised Land relives these breathless moments on a month-by-month basis, taking you into the dressing room, onto the pitch and into the minds of those involved, to explain why it all worked and how it all happened – with the perspective afforded by twenty years' distance.

Leseprobe

THE PROMISED LAND

Daniel Harris is a writer and a journalist, in shorter form and about sport, mainly for The Guardian. At the 2012 British Sports Book Awards, he was shortlisted for best new writer for his book On The Road, a journey through a season, which follows United away from home during 2009–10.

He can be found on Twitter @DanielHarris.

THE PROMISED LAND

Manchester United’s Historic Treble

Daniel Harris

First published in Great Britain in 2013 by Arena Sport,

an imprint of Birlinn Ltd.

Birlinn Ltd

West Newington House

10 Newington Road

Edinburgh

EH9 1QS

www.arenasportbooks.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-90971-505-9

eBook ISBN: 978-0-85790-640-3

Copyright © Daniel Harris, 2013

The right of Daniel Harris to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form, or by any means electronic, mechanical or photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the express written permission of the publisher.

British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

A catalogue record for this book is available on request from the British Library.

Typeset by FMG using Atomik ePublisher from Easypress

Printed and bound by Clays Ltd, St Ives plc

CONTENTS

Title Page

Copyright

Acknowledgements

August

September

October

November

December

January

February

March

April

May

Epilogue

Bibliography

Picture Section

Acknowledgements

Thanks to Belinda for everything, thanks to Mum and Dad, thanks to Rob for plenty, thanks to Jeremy who I should have thanked last time, thanks to Paul, thanks to Stan, thanks to Pete and Neville at Arena Sport; and thanks for reading.

There’s something very weird about peeling yourself off a pile-on and realising that, at 20 years old and from that second onwards, things can only get worse. But if it’s a pile-on beneath the Nou Camp seats, at 22.33:31 on 26 May 1999, then it’s an incontrovertible fact; there resides the intersection of ecstasy and despair. Nothing and no one can ever trump that moment.

And yet, to call the moment a moment is to bypass the absurdities that preceded it – nine whole months’ worth of unprecedented, inexplicable, compelling Manchester United moments.

Here’s the greatest season in the history of football.

AUGUST

A happy, smart Arsène Wenger; imagine! But that was the sight in the Wembley tunnel as United and Arsenal lined up before the 1998 Charity Shield, Wenger positively gushing equilibrium and resplendent in blazer with embroidered cannon, rather than the cartoon car badge that superseded it. And the players looked bang-on too, both jerseys genuine classics: United’s the brightest possible red, magnifying the round, hard head of an incredibly taut Roy Keane, bristling with unresolved violence; Arsenal in smart yellow and blue, matching Tony Adams highlights. And all of them, with the exception of Martin Keown, were in black boots, and generally without haircuts and tattoos.

With the enmity between the managers at its delightful, sustained peak, there was not the merest hint of a handshake, Alex Ferguson forcing as relaxed a look as possible for a man exothermic with residual rage. Their rivalry and enmity had been building since Wenger’s arrival, just after the start of the 1996–97 season, but at that point, though top of the league, Arsenal weren’t considered a threat. Nor were they the following year, until suddenly snatching the title with a murderously poetic, post-January charge that surprised everyone, Fergie in particular, to cement the rivalry that dominated a generation.

The day was properly hot, kick-off brought forward to give United more time to prepare for their Champions League qualifier against LKS Lodz in midweek. As the players emerged, in the commentary box Martin Tyler and Trevor Francis noted their domestic backgrounds; only eight foreigners amongst the 22 starters, 11 of them English. Shortly afterwards began the compulsory discussion of David Beckham and his World Cup slip, Keane laughing as he “introduced” him to the various “dignitaries”, while Richard Keys felt authorised to “wish him well on behalf of English football”.

With Gary Pallister back at Middlesbrough, Jaap Stam made his debut alongside Ronny Johnsen, and also gone, at very long last, were Karel Poborsky and Brian McClair. In midfield, Nicky Butt partnered Keane, with Paul Scholes pushed further forward to support lone striker Andy Cole – who had played for Arsenal in the 1991 fixture. This was an area in which United were hoping to strengthen, but earlier in the week, Patrick Kluivert – wanted because it was felt that the squad had become too lightweight – had not only rejected a move to the club, but volunteered to sign for Arsenal, who had no interest. He would eventually leave Milan for Barcelona.

Amongst those on the bench was Teddy Sheringham, punished for a first season of missed penalties and misplaced conceit. He’d also managed to fall out with the well-liked Cole, accusing him of playing for personal glory rather than the team, hypocrisy significantly more spectacular than anything he’d accomplished on the pitch. None of this was much appreciated.

“Knowing United are to play Tottenham in the first game of the season, he goes and gives interviews to anyone who’ll listen,” had thundered Red Issue the previous spring, “slagging off his former club ensuring that a majority rather than a minority will be awaiting his imminent return. A severe shortage of class that one might expect of someone who has spent such a long time in North London but not of Manchester United players. Hopelessly unaware of the enigma that he was effectively replacing, a person who was never one for flaunting his good fortune and always conducted himself with utmost style, our Teddy proceeded to ponce about Deansgate as though he owned the place impressing no one, especially not those who actually recognised him.”

But Gary Neville saw things differently. Though few among the support had ever coveted him, he recalled Sheringham as “obviously always interested in moving here”, asking about United at England gatherings, and also that “Teddy was one of the toughest players I’d ever played against.” Accordingly, he blamed injuries and surrounding incompetence for the state of his first season, but by any standard, it was a risible failure.

While United made do, Arsenal fielded their settled first XI, though a substitutes’ bench comprising Bould, Vivas, Wreh, Grimandi and Boa Morte appeared an oversight even then. But the nature and manner of their double win and Wenger’s role in it, had already worked the shamanic magic that would last a generation, the Arseweb site noting in its season preview that “a sizeable proportion of fans retain an almost blind faith in the Frenchman’s ability to bring on the younger players”.

Almost straight from the kick-off, a bristling Nicolas Anelka worried Stam down the inside-right channel, a threat he just about handled, but with the minimum of fun. Then, before two minutes had elapsed, Keane announced his return from injury by charging in late on Marc Overmars, downed again seconds later by Gary Neville, who was subsequently booked. Keane registered his protest with characteristic chopping arm, the signifier of middling fury, and to illustrate it further, allocated a whack to Patrick Vieira shortly afterwards.

But otherwise United started the livelier, the sumptuously curled Ryan Giggs the main prompt and the darting interplay between Scholes and Cole looking promising. Surprisingly, it took a full ten minutes for the Arsenal end to get after Sheringham with a taunt of “Oh Teddy, Teddy, went to Man United and he won fuck-all.”

While the baiting continued, Anelka eased away in pursuit of another long ball, without contravening the purity of the Wenger philosophy – in those days about beauty not intricacy. Johnsen, like Stam, was able to keep up, and when he won possession United broke, Emmanuel Petit motoring into a brilliant, saving challenge on Butt just inside the left corner of the box after good work from Giggs.

Oddly, given the relationship between the teams and early aggression, it took until the 22nd minute for the next bad tackle to arrive, Keown’s red boots sending Scholes flying. Not before he’d turned a pass around the corner for Cole, but a trigger-happy Graham Poll had already stopped play.

Next, Overmars isolated Stam on the left-wing, who stood up as long as possible before diving in when it appeared his man had vanished, winning the ball cleanly with a perfectly-timed challenge. And though it took him a while to settle at Old Trafford, the man Dick Advocaat declared to be “the defender of the future” showed plenty by way of explanation, even in the early weeks; obviously shy of his best, he still clearly knew his business.

The longer the half wore on, the longer it became evident that United were playing more on the fly than off the cuff, while Arsenal, a settled, confident side, knew exactly what they were doing, far more threatening despite enjoying less possession. Or in other words, they were a team, not just a collection of like-minded individuals.

But United still hinted menace. After Denis Irwin was booked for a late slide on Dennis Bergkamp, Giggs appeared on the right, weaving away to find Scholes who was wrongly given offside. But the pass, one that eliminated Keown and Lee Dixon, was another sign of the late-developer’s brain that became his principal asset in middle age. The potential to turn a weakness into a strength, a rarity in any context, had first suggested itself against Middlesbrough in October 1995 when he moved into midfield after Keane was sent off, and then again against Porto in March 1997, but was still at least half a decade from maturity.

During the teams’ previous meeting, Gary Neville had managed to hide at centre-back whilst Overmars deconstructed John Curtis, but now, back on the right, he escaped for only 27 minutes. Eventually, Overmars sought him out, enticing him in before skipping and turning away, and though Keane was on hand to limit the embarrassment, that would not be the end of it. “I can’t wait for this to fucking end,” he told Beckham sometime between roastings.

Quiet hitherto, Bergkamp then announced himself, creating a yard of space and firing a low shot that forced Schmeichel into the game’s first serious save, low to his right, before, a minute later, Arsenal went ahead. Pausing from filling and emptying his cheeks, Nigel Winterburn hit a crossfield pass for Ray Parlour, who turned inside and found Vieira. Given time and space, he lifted a ball over the top and deep into the United box on its right-hand side, to where Bergkamp and Anelka were gathered, the former back-heeling into the stride of the latter from close to the by-line, Stam caught behind him and rendered useless. But Johnsen, left standing initially, recovered well before slipping into a clearance that clipped the persevering Anelka – how curious those words now seem – and the ball rolled towards Overmars on the other side of the box. Retreating a little, he sprung into a thumping shot that scorched high past Schmeichel to his left.

At the break, Bergkamp was replaced by Christopher Wreh, the previous season’s fiddler of crucial goals. News of the change was communicated by way of manual board, with no adverse consequences.

The second half started fairly slowly, Giggs sent infield before Solskjær came on for Butt and he returned to the left. Then, Overmars, his mere presence reducing Gary Neville to a quivering, convulsing melt, picked up possession well inside his own half and zoomed 40 yards along the left touchline, Neville backing off yet still unable to keep up, slipping as he dipped inside onto his right foot. Sliding the ball square in the same step, the benefit of a feetballer as opposed to just a footballer, Overmars also lost Stam, over to assist, and found Anelka who, on the turn, immediately transferred to Wreh, suddenly through on goal. Though Schmeichel got down to his first effort, he had no chance with the second. 2–0, and the difference was clear: Arsenal knew what they were doing and had improved simply by virtue of knowing that they knew it; even when being out passed, they could rely on their defence to keep the opposition out and their attackers to produce the relevant moments that got the job done.

United still struggled along, the closest they came to a goal being Johnsen’s near-post header from Beckham’s corner that almost went in off Keown. Otherwise, Arsenal enjoyed their superiority, knocking the ball around as their support crowed “same old Arsenal, taking the piss”, 112 years of history subsumed in six months.

Then with 19 minutes still to play, worse got worser. Vieira found Parlour in the centre-circle, who, with the outside of that magic wand of a right foot, put Anelka in a race with Stam. Doing well to keep up, Stam couldn’t get close enough to block the shot, and with Schmeichel wandering too far off his line and too far from his near post, the ball was soon over one and inside the other.

“The force is still with Arsenal,” declared Martin Tyler at full-time, and he was right. Fergie, meanwhile, was just making stuff up. “It’s almost a new team and I have to shape it,” he explained. But it was not remotely new, and it wasn’t much of a team either.

Nor were things right in the dressing room, with Keane and Schmeichel in conflict. Antipathy between the two, already decent, progressed when Cantona left, Keane inheriting the captaincy and winning an eventuating scuffle. Then, when he injured his knee, Schmeichel took over and was disinclined to relinquish the role on his return, retaining it for the pre-season tour. “I wasn’t too pleased,” Keane later wrote, and even less so when nothing changed prior to the Charity Shield. “No welcome back, Roy, here’s the armband. No fucking chance with Peter. In the end the gaffer had to order him to stand down. He sulked. Arsenal got two soft goals… Afterwards the gaffer called a meeting and told Peter to grow up.”

A thoughtful birthday present for Keane, perhaps, but otherwise, things did not look at all good.

*

That same Monday, MUTV began transmitting, in its early years not quite the defiling marriage of anodyne and doctrinaire that we see today. Which isn’t to say that there wasn’t suspicion – of course there was, United were involved, and particularly so because the club had recently admitted participating in talks about the formation of a European Super League.

In the meantime, they made do with the Champions League, and the following Wednesday, United had a qualifier with LKS Lodz. “I had thought about turning down the invitation,” Fergie later wrote, “because I had always felt that the competition should be for what it said – champions! But it was only a fleeting thought which lasted a millisecond. Europe figures so high in the priorities of both the club and the fans that we simply had to take part, however ironic from my point of view.”

Qualifier or not, the funny little pyjama polo shirt kit got an outing, as did yet another new pitch. The first of its kind in the northern hemisphere, its supposedly springier grass replaced the previous season’s mess that was, of course, responsible for the capitulation necessitating the game in the first place.

Lodz had interest in nothing beyond hiding-aversion; though the match to which United had sent a scout was postponed, there was little about them worth knowing. The club had been recently been taken over by a local millionaire, who, as a young man, was refused a place on the board of local rivals Widzew – whom he’d supported – on account of insufficient richness. So, after making his money, he purchased their rivals instead, implementing a policy of recruiting players from Brazil and Nigeria.

As against Arsenal, Scholes and Cole started up front, and Giggs was United’s brightest attacker. He missed the first opportunity of the game with a low shot directed too close to the keeper after excellent link-up play between Cole and Butt, but after a quarter of an hour, put United ahead with a lovely goal. Phil Neville hit a long diagonal ball towards target man Scholes, who headed down for Giggs to skip inside and skim around the nearest defender, sending him sprawling, before a skilful piece of right foot avoidance saw him finish with the little toe of his left.

Very little happened during the remainder of the first half, the Lodz back four aimlessly rolling the ball to and fro like Liverpool in their glory days. Stam had an effort cleared off the line following a post-corner ricochet, there was the now-curious sight of a midfielder breaking into the opposition box, and Beckham unveiled a new free-kick, sending an effort around the outside of the wall to clip the outside of the near post.

Soon after half-time, Cole missed a pair of handy chances, first rolling his man beautifully only to see his shot saved by the keeper’s feet, then failing to connect with Giggs’ whipped low cross. Though the manner of his movement gave him the appearance of looking sharp, so too did his work subsequent to it, though the balance of the team, especially against inferior opposition, wasn’t quite right.

Then, with ten minutes remaining, United constructed another excellent goal. Irwin, on the left touchline, snapped a ball infield for Giggs, who, facing him and 30 yards from goal, back-flicked a turn that lost his man, and with a second touch created the angle for a stabbed return pass. Irwin, now almost at the byline, allowed it to run slightly past his left foot in order to send over a cross that Cole nodded home, arching his back hard to impart requisite power. There hadn’t been much else, but here was a second moment of crafted quality.

*

Everyone loves a good redemption tale, but few ever unfolded with as much swagger as that one about David Beckham, sent-off sillily in the summer. Of course, it was entirely his fault that England lost to Argentina, his split-second reaction far more blameworthy than, for example:

• Glenn Hoddle’s egotism in omitting him from the first two group games, partially responsible for a second-round tie with Argentina;

• Glenn Hoddle’s cowardice in omitting Michael Owen from the first two group games, partially responsible for a second-round tie with Argentina;

• Glenn Hoddle not bringing Eileen Drewery to France sooner, an error he acknowledged as his gravest in the pages of his World Cup diary;

• Alan Shearer’s idiocy in elbowing the Argentina goalkeeper Carlos Roa, forcing the referee to disallow Sol Campbell’s golden goal; and

• Captain Tony Adams’ cowardice in shirking penalty duty.

For example.

But instead, and in the absence of a dead benefit thief, the country focused on Beckham, this time with phony fury rather than phony sorrow. “Still bitter? Take your fury out on our Beckham dartboard” implored the Mirror, while another headline read “Hate Mob Targets Beckham Family”, and a hoarding outside Mansfield Road Baptist Church proclaimed that “God Forgives Even David Beckham”.

Roy Keane took a more measured view. “He was playing a game of football,” he wrote in his autobiography. “He flicked a petulant foot at Diego Simeone, who was intent on kicking the shit out of him. The press got on his case, priming the pump that spews out the vile chants Becks had to listen to up and down the country all season. Stuff about his wife and son that is sick. Who’s letting the country down?”

If nothing else, though, the country concentrating its deliciously impotent rage on him – and by extension United, the culmination of several years of deliciously impotent animosity – was a highlight of one of the “long summers, those” described by Ryan Giggs as following all trophyless seasons.

“It winds you up,” he would reflect more than a decade later. “You go away on holiday, you’re lying on the beach trying to enjoy yourself with the kids, and you do, but then you have a quiet moment, it comes back to you what happened and… I’ll say it: You’re pissed off. You’re on holiday and you’re just pissed off.”

At the time, it was the avoidance of this feeling that motivated him, what he termed “fear of failure”. In his dotage, he’s either found or learnt a more positive outlook, one more in tune with that of a supporter – “just craving that feeling of winning the title” – but back then, the horror of defeat easily outranked the pleasure of success.

*

On the morning of United’s first league game at home to Leicester, Aston Villa conceded that Dwight Yorke was likely to leave the club, despite their rejection of a faxed offer from United earlier in the week which declared itelf the last. This was not cheering; everyone knew he wasn’t of the required class, same as that posing spoofer Sheringham, and just another example of managerial idiocy.

Leicester had won at Old Trafford the previous season, United’s distress componded by the almost unbearable ignominy of being labelled “arrogant” by Tony Cottee. Often, teams who’ve played competitively before the league season starts find themselves at a competitive advantage, but not here; Leicester were good and United were miserable, deservedly falling behind after seven minutes when Muzzy Izzet bustled past Gary Neville to pull Johnsen out of the middle and finding Emile Heskey, who scored.

The only real highlight was the support offered Beckham at every wasted corner, which would later manifest in one of the better but less heralded songs of the period: “David Beckham went to France as a national hero, got sent off he came home, reputation zero. England fans, they’re all twats, they get so excited, stick your England up your arse coz we are Man United.”

“They put us through the mill and we got very nervous,” said Fergie afterwards, accusing his players of “lethargy” and “bad defending”, thoughts communicated in less measured fashion during the interview. “I met Alex at pre-season and everything was relaxed,” recalled Stam, “but when the season started if you did something wrong he came in at half-time and was very angry. He was expressing himself in his way and I was a bit surprised because he was a different man.”

Bother with a thigh muscle meant that Stam remained in the dressing room, replaced by Berg, as United continued to huff and puff. But the stodge was no particular surprise; in 17 league games since the turn of the year, they’d managed only 24 goals, five of those once the title had departed. Then, on 76 minutes, they fell further behind, and to Cottee, too, also scorer of the winning goal for West Ham in a game more than 12 years earlier which crystallised an entire decade: United play well, Robson scores, Robson dislocates shoulder, United lose.

In response, Sheringham was sent on for Gary Neville, with Beckham moving to wing-back. Almost immediately, the two of them combined for a goal, Sheringham coiling under and into Beckham’s long-range drive towards the near post and heading an undeserved livener in at the far with his first touch. Then, in the third minute of injury time, Izzet fouled Scholes ten yards outside the box, just left of centre. Everyone knew what was coming, everyone assumed that it wasn’t coming, and then it came, Beckham arcing an improbable parabola into the closer bottom corner with impeccable geometry. Disorder did thus ensue, the unrelenting pace of the season set. Life: what happens to you while United are busy making other plans.

Of course, Fergie was still unhappy, not with his role in the impoverished performance, but that of the referee, complaining that United were due eight and a half minutes’ injury time – “my watch is never wrong,” he insisted. This carping was not universally enjoyed. “It’s become a joke, an embarrassment,” wrote Mr Spleen in Red Issue. “Mad old Fergie muttering on the touchline, staring manically at his watch.”

The long summers, those, looked like extending well into autumn, winter, spring and summer.

*

The following Tuesday, Old Trafford staged the obscenely overdue testimonial for the Munich families, a game which also saw the return of Eric Cantona. Sporting a dignified paunch, he scored a typically outlandish goal, though the circus behaviour of Pascal Olmeta, the goalkeeper he brought with him, attracted almost as much attention.

Then, on the Thursday of that week and after very much tedium, Dwight Yorke arrived at Old Trafford for a fee of £12.6million, forced to go crying to Doug Ellis to secure the move. Very few people were impressed – Brian Kidd particularly not, likewise Arsène Wenger. “He is a very good player,” he said, “but we would not pay that kind of price for anybody.” Two years later, he spent even more on Sylvain Wiltord, in a largely unchanged market.

United had first tried for Yorke in 1995 only for him to sign a new contract with Villa. But by the autumn of 1997, he was resolved to leave, and had been promised by Brian Little that he could do so in the summer, only for Little to resign in February. The following month, he was alerted to United’s interest, but John Gregory did not consider himself bound by his predecessor’s agreement, and publicly accused Yorke of not trying in their season’s opening game. In the end, he had little choice but to go along with the sale.

“Dwight openly stated to me a couple of weeks ago that he wanted to play for Manchester United and that he didn’t want to play for Aston Villa,” Gregory told the press. “If I’d have had a gun at the time I think I’d have shot him.”

Were he to say that nowadays, he’d no doubt find himself accused of encouraging gun crime, and even then, it didn’t go down well with Fergie, who lectured his attitude and patronised his youth. To his credit, Gregory paid not the slightest.

Yorke then turned up to the introductory press conference in blazer, tight white t-shirt and belt with silver buckle; he was going to have to go some way to prove himself. And prove himself he did, soon replacing the outfit with the suave cool of suit teamed with baseball hat, earning himself the title of Britain’s Best Dressed Man in the process.

“There was something about Yorke that always worried me when we played him,” Ferguson explained later in the season, “and there’s not many I can say that about in English football. I used to say to Pallister, watch him, watch he doesn’t get in behind you, watch he doesn’t turn you. I tried for him two years ago and he signed a new contract, which was a big disappointment. So I wasn’t going to lose him this time.”

But there remained scepticism that his contribution to the combinations would amount to little more than a nickname to fit snugly alongside Coley, Teddy and Olly.

The following morning was Yorke’s first training session, and of course he came in grinning. And, of course, Keane stuck one on him immediately. “As soon as I got out on the training pitch, he put in one of those tackles of his to test me,” he recalled. “I think it was his way of saying, ‘Let’s see if you really want that money, and to play for United.’”

And that wasn’t the end of it. Shortly afterwards, arrived a typical short pass drilled into his shins, Keane scoffing, “Welcome to United. Cantona used to kill them,” when it bounced off. But the grinning continued unabated, and in time the two would become friends, their polarised personalities characterising the team.

Like Stam, Yorke was given no guarantee of a starting slot, told he was just one of four strikers, but that he should “express himself”, do what he’d done for Villa, and everything else would follow. The other three, though, felt differently: Sheringham had already lost his place, and both Cole and Ole Gunnar Solskjær expected Yorke to be first pick, so were focused on proving themselves his best partner.

But in the days leading up to his debut at West Ham, the fuss was instead about Beckham, the home crowd easily the most gutted, disgusted and disgraced by his role in England’s World Cup exit. Then, on the morning of the game, the Daily Mail broke the story that Ole Gunnar Solskjær would not only be joining Spurs, but “after dramatic chairman-to-chairman negotiations”, no less. Ennio Morricone was set to score the film adaptation.

The principal concern of all right-minded individuals was, of course, for the children, following the Mail’s shocking but lyrical revelations at the effrontery of a football club not informing them of its plans.

“Ole Gunnar Solskjær yesterday signed for Tottenham from Manchester United in a £5.5million deal which once again exposed the ruthless side of soccer,” it sniffed. “Despite the bare-faced denials perpetrated by both Spurs and United, as the camouflage was pulled across the transfer in what appeared to be a deliberate attempt to mislead,” it hyperventilated, “the deal had, in fact, been set up since Thursday. Is it any wonder, when clubs of the stature of Tottenham and United are so economical with the truth,” it snivelled, “that the image of the game is smeared in duplicity?”

Smearing himself in something else was a spokesman for the Tottenham Action Group. “We cannot get too excited about signing a player who has become little more than a reserve fixture at Old Trafford,” he knowingly insighted.

Before the United coach left the hotel to drive to Upton Park, the police advised Beckham not to sit next to the window, and when the team arrived, the car park was full of West Ham families, foaming their indignation. But inside the ground the atmosphere was muted, and not even the menace of Michael Jackson’s favourite song could rouse any genuine hostility, the United end chanting “Argentina, Argentina!” in provocation as much as retaliation.

As far as United’s team went, Berg replaced the injured Stam and Butt came in for Scholes with Cole given the first opportunity to partner Yorke, who was aiming to score past his old friend, Shaka Hislop. He would be protected by, amongst others, was Rio Ferdinand, but West Ham were without their new signing, Ian Wright, suffering from a dead leg.

The home team enjoyed the better of the opening stages, but then, after three minutes, the game’s principal moment of controversy. Giggs swayed down the wing and crossed to the back post, where Cole was waiting to tap home – but somehow Neil Ruddock elevated both self and arm to paw the ball away, somehow escaping the concession of a penalty. He did, though, manage to refrain from deliberately inflicting serious injury.

West Ham’s best opportunity of the half fell to Hartson, denied a goal from two yards by Keane’s horizontal block, the attentions of Berg enough to deny him in the aftermath. Berg then prevented a certain goal after Schmeichel parried Frank Lampard’s drive from distance, an extended foot forcing Eyal Berkovic to direct his shot over the bar, before Cole drew a smart save from Hislop.

United improved in the second half but created little, a Cole–Yorke link-up resulting in a blocked shot and a Butt effort whooshing over the top. For the second game in a row, Gary Neville found no life in his legs, forced to concede that he was wrong after ridiculing a warning that he was given before the World Cup. So he was replaced by his brother and sent on holiday to Malta for two weeks after a couple of days’ treatment. Otherwise, Schmeichel did well to deny Sinclair following the kind of classy through-pass eventually to be coached out of Ferdinand, and Hartson headed narrowly over but that was about it.

In the circumstances, a draw was not a terrible result, with no team but that was about it in the league winning both opening games. And Yorke, though he’d not played well, now knew something of the challenges he would face. “I was up against players I’d been playing against for years without a problem,” he observed. “Suddenly I found these same guys trying extra hard. The difference astounded me.”

*

United then flew off to Poland, for the return against Lodz. With Yorke ineligible, Sheringham was allowed to start up front, and Phil Neville also came in. On a pitch resembling an old couch, in a ground that was half closed and almost completely uncovered, nothing much happened apart from a lot of rain, a banner proclaiming Lodz’s Crazy Cannibals turning out to be an idle boast.

Niznik shot narrowly wide after 20 seconds while United’s best chance came just before half-time with Johnsen and Beckham ganging up on Zuberek to set Giggs away. Speeding along paying not the remotest heed to a ball skipping unevenly under his feet, he waited for Beckham to draw alongside before playing him in. But, forced a little wider than was optimal, Wyparlo pushed the eventuating shot over the bar.

Shortly after the hour, Kos saw his free-kick deflected just past the post, and then Butt blootered narrowly over the crossbar, but otherwise, that was about it for a sordid mess of a match. The introduction of Solskjær, who had rejected the move to Spurs on managerial advice, livened things slightly, and he came close in the closing stages, but his effort was saved. United were through, Fergie blaming the lacklustre performances until now on the lack of a sensible pre-season in the aftermath of the World Cup.

There was a two-week break before the next fix of United, during which Chelsea beat Real Madrid to win the Super Cup and England lost to Sweden in a European Championship qualifier. Elsewhere, poor Kenny Dalglish was sacked by Newcastle after a run of 11 wins in 40 games, and then, on the Friday, came the draw for the group stages of the European Cup. The competition wasn’t quite the protection racket that it would become, and accordingly, United could not be allocated a group more favourable than, say, the team who beat them to the title. But Fergie was typically steadfast, warning that “Manchester United not being a seed will make it more difficult for two other teams.”

In the event, they were billeted in the obligatory Group of Death with Bayern Munich, Brondby, and Barcelona – “The team which have most luck,” predicted Bayern’s manager, Ottmar Hitzfeld, “they will be first in the group.”

*

At United for barely ten days, Dwight Yorke found himself in hot steam when the Sun ran a story detailing an evening he’d spent with four girls, an unnamed man, and Mark Bosnich, the three men dressed up in dresses and Bosnich lashed with belts. Yorke, it transpired, had secretly rigged up a video camera before throwing away the recording, which was then “found by a Sun reader, who took it home believing it to be a blank tape.”

No one ever got to know what Fergie made of it all, but John Gregory was amused. “We have been having some contract talks as you know,” he said of Bosnich, “and I told him this morning that I’d like to tie him up for five years.” Then, when signing Paul Merson – who turned up in beige double-breasted blazer done up to the sternum – he was asked about his various addictions. “He said that he’s been having one or two problems… but we got one or two players that like dressing up in women’s clothing, and having their backsides spanked now and again… I think he’ll fit in quite well.”

Yorke would later serve as Bosnich’s best man, organising his stag for the night before the wedding and presiding over the groom’s arrest. He was married only after posting bail and two days after signing for United.

SEPTEMBER

September did not start well. First, on the second of the month came the death from cancer of Jackie Blanchflower. Converted by Matt Busby from forward into centre-half, he was seriously enough injured at Munich to be read the last rites, and forced to retire from football when he recovered, August’s testimonial coming far too late to help him.

Like most players at the time, Blanchflower lived in a club-owned house. “It was made pretty clear we had to leave,” his wife Jean recalled. “United were very cold, very harsh, after the crash.” And within a year he was signing on, unwilling to load pies onto lorries for Louis Edwards and spending the next period of his life working in a variety of jobs. He then studied finance to become an accountant before enjoying success as an after-dinner speaker.

Next, the following week, the potentially devastating news that BSkyB had agreed a deal to buy United. Only a few months earlier, the words ‘football club’ had been expunged from the club crest, a symbolic moment in its bastardisation into a brand, and here was one of many practical manifestations of the same. “They wanna win the league, we wanna win the league, they wanna win the Cup, we wanna win the Cup, they wanna have the most talented players and the best manager, and so do we. They wanna compete at the highest level, and so do we,” went Mark Booth’s revolting press conference rhetoric.

And of course, Martin Edwards, supported the wheeze – but definitely not because he stood to make lots of money from the sale, as he had when imperilling the club with the original flotation, and as he’d hoped to but hadn’t when imperilling the club by trying to sell it, first to Robert Maxwell and then to Michael Knighton.

As fan groups mobilised to prevent yet another desecration of their heritage, so too did politicians concerned by the obvious conflict of interest inherent in a major broadcaster owning a major club. Consequently, Peter Mandelson, the Secretary of State for Trade and Industry, gave an assurance that any takeover would be investigated carefully by the Office of Fair Trading.

The next day, the sop: the club announced plans to expand Old Trafford, by way of a second tier built on top of the stands at either end. Increasing capacity from 55,300 to 67,400, it would replace Celtic Park as Britain’s biggest football stadium.

So it was that the home game with Charlton was not quite the main event it was expected to be, even less so for Andy Cole. Unable to contain himself after learning he’d be a sub, he stormed in to see the manager. “I have yet to be convinced there is a partnership to work on with you and Dwight,” Ferguson told him. “I can’t see you two doing it, so I have got to look at my options.”

The two teams hadn’t met in the league since May 1990, as Charlton were relegated shortly afterwards. But in the four seasons that they had played in the same division, United had contrived to lose to them at Old Trafford in August 1986 – Charlton’s only win in their first eight games – and then in both April and November of 1989.

Buoyed by an incredible win in the play-off final, 7–6 on penalties after a 4–4 draw, Charlton had started the season well. They’d drawn their first game away to Newcastle, thrashed Southampton 5–0 at home, and then drawn 0–0 at Highbury – a game in which Emmanuel Petit received the first of three red cards he would collect during the season, Arsenal finishing with a grand total of ten.

Like United’s two previous league opponents, Charlton started well, their neat passing game keeping things fairly quiet, and then, on 32 minutes, they went ahead. Redfearn knocked a free-kick into Mendonca, backing into Stam, and his attempt to lay the ball back was inadvertently directed by Phil Neville into the path of Mark Kinsella, 25 yards from goal, almost dead centre. His shot went straight down the middle and would’ve been easy for Schmeichel to collect, until it took a deflection and deviated just enough to leave him with no option other than to fall backwards.

But they held the advantage for only six minutes. Johnsen sent the ball right to Neville, who loped over halfway and squared to Scholes. Quickly assessing his options, he rattled a pass low and hard at the unmarked Solskjær, dropping off, who turned and attempted to play in Yorke ahead of him, a deflection off Eddie Youds knocking the ball straight back into his path. Where others might have shot immediately, Solskjær dipped inside Redfearn, and from just inside the D, flayed high past Saša Ilić with the aid of a slight deflection.

Scholes then almost put United in front with a trademark vaporiser from 25 yards, before, in the first minute of injury time, United won a free-kick on the right, close to the corner of the box. Taking great care, Beckham pulled back on his delivery, stubbing a lightly curled cross to Yorke, alone in the six-yard box. He headed easily into the far corner to complete a combination that would become a feature of the season, before running into the crowd to seriously threaten its safety by way of celebration.

And three minutes after the break, Yorke, his collar up in homage to Cantona, scored again. Moving towards his own goal, Blomqvist – out with a foot injury until this point, clearly not match fit and enduring a dodgy debut – knocked a pass back to Irwin who in turn sent the ball forward to Yorke. Floating inside, he opened his body and laid off to Scholes, who measured a crossfield, inside-out pass to precisely where Beckham wanted it. This time, his cross was low and to the near post, evading Solskjær but continuing into the path of Yorke, who quickly adjusted his feet to score with ease.

Just when the various vesteds would have been praising the calming effect of football taught by Matt Busby, onto the pitch came a streaker, “Takeover my arse” scrawled on his back. Just a gesture, but a pointed one, and it took a phalanx of stewards to crowd his sidestep.

There was still almost half an hour remaining when United scored a fourth, Keane curving a pass into Solskjær, perhaps ten yards outside the box, who took a touch before finding Yorke, just square of him. Also taking a touch, Yorke then zipped the ball wide to Berg, on for the injured Irwin, and he produced a cross every bit as good as Beckham’s, the forehead of a diving Solskjær wrong-footing the keeper and sending it into the bottom corner at the near post. He and Yorke had stood out in training as the best early combination, and now they had proved their compatibility in a game.

“This is a new dimension, this is the future,” proclaimed Yorke afterwards, without clarifying quite what that meant. He did, though, admit that for the only time in his life, he’d felt nervous, unable to sleep the previous night. It did not show.

Elsewhere that evening, Chelsea and Arsenal played out a goalless draw at Stamford Bridge, and again Arsenal had a man sent off, this time Lee Dixon. They were fifth in the table with six points, four behind joint leaders Aston Villa and Liverpool. United were ninth, on five, but had played a game fewer.

Momentum suddenly acquired, the next game could not come quickly enough – at home to Coventry at the weekend. They too had won only once so far, but against Chelsea, and were far from useless, the same side that had beaten United and finished 11th the previous season.

After heavy rain and hail in the morning, it was back to being sunny again by the time the ground filled up, and there was additional cheer to be found in the team news; though Denis Irwin was absent, Giggs and Gary Neville returned to the starting line-up.

In order that the players be inspired to represent the famous Man United with dignity and pride, before the game they received a visit from Martin Edwards and Peter Kenyon, to advise them that the takeover would probably not go through until the new year, pending the approval of the Monopolies and Mergers Commission. There was nothing to worry about, they were assured, and they shouldn’t bother reading the papers, because everything therein was rubbish – like those reports about selling condemned meat to schools, for example, or unsolicited toilet-sniffing. But really, there was no need; Fergie said nothing, and the players weren’t sufficiently interested even to discuss it amongst themselves.

Though United controlled Coventry from the start, they didn’t take the lead until the 21st minute, Solskjær roving down the left side of the box and retreating, before spreading wide to Giggs. His cross on the run was too high for Yorke at the front post, and for Beckham at the back, the goalkeeper coming between them and missing it too, finishing up in a heap on the byline after falling while back-pedalling. In the meantime, Scholes arrived at the loose ball and drilled it across the face of goal to Yorke, who mishit into the net from exceedingly close range, the chain of events deemed worthy of a name-pointing celebration – a narcissism yet to proliferate, but an inevitable consequence of adding them to the backs of shirts.

United’s passing was just too much for Coventry, Beckham causing particular problems, and provoking David Burrows into a foul that earned him a yellow card and abuse beyond that which he was already receiving. But the lead remained at one, before, two minutes into the second half, United won a corner on the right. Somehow managing to retain his composure amidst the shock of Giggs swinging it directly onto his head, Johnsen glanced against Marc Edworthy, the rebound arriving directly at the feet of Yorke, by the penalty spot. Falling into a low, strong shot, he was surprised to see Gary Breen waiting by the post to clear – but only into the path of the advancing Scholes, who hammered at goal from outside the box, Johnsen sliding out a leg to divert the ball past Magnus Hedman.

The remainder of the game passed quietly, United taking it easy before their midweek encounter with Barcelona. Afterwards, Fergie was pleased enough, but Coventry manager Gordon Strachan was not. “We didn’t relish the challenge until it went to 2–0. We were like somebody going to the dentist’s, taking the painkillers and waiting until it was all over.”

Also that afternoon, Arsenal required a last-minute equaliser to sneak away from Leicester with a draw, their fourth in a row. The goal was the first that they had managed in the period, its scorer, the notorious Stephen Hughes, celebrating by cupping his ears after not being singled out for abuse by the notorious Filbert Street crowd.

The following night, United supporters held a meeting at the Bridgewater Hall, to discuss how Murdoch could be defeated. “It’s no good talking about wait and see, it’s now we’ve got to stop it,” said Jim White, then of the Guardian. And unlike the later battle against the Glazer family, which ultimately required mass action, here the intense commitment of a dedicated few could just work.

*

United’s decision to enter the 1957 European Cup against the order of the authorities was a seminal moment in English football, advancing the game as much as any on-pitch endeavour. But when L’Equipe’s Gabriel Hanot conceived the competition, he had not the remotest inkling of what it would become. “Even Hanot himself on occasion regretted letting loose what he felt was rapidly growing into a Frankenstein monster,” wrote Geoffrey Green in There’s Only One United. In 1978.

Hanot’s particular concern was the level to which teams and supporters would stoop in order to win, though it’s unlikely he would have felt much more comfortable with the financial machinations that he did not foresee. But in 1998, these were to the benefit of the actual sport, the golden goose of club football at its most delectably plump, a season prior to its depressing descent into forcefed, overfed obesity. Each matchday was an event and each one meant something, because the organisers still understood that this was still the point.

United’s priorities were different too, the aim to confront the finest teams around and see what happened, not to win at all costs. The obsession was growing – in the mid-90s, league titles were as much about earning another go at Europe as anything else – but a group including Barcelona and Bayern Munich, with only one team guaranteed to progress, was accepted and attacked with alacrity.

But it was with reference to the takeover that Clive Tyldesley opened commentary of the first game. “Some will try to persuade us that there are weightier issues for football fans to consider at the moment,” he trilled, “but when all the shares and all the diaries have been bought and sold, it’s who wins matches like these that really matters.”

Almost aggravatingly, the two teams then did everything possible to prove him right, chasing the rainbows from ITV’s opening montage and crystallising the inherent problem that is destroying elite sport: it’s so good that people will tolerate almost anything in order to enjoy it.

Though they boasted some outstanding players in Rivaldo, Figo and Enrique, Barcelona – we were not yet on nickname terms – had started the season poorly. Mallorca had beaten them in both legs of the Spanish Super Cup and they could only draw at Racing Santander in their first league game, before scraping by Extremadura at the Nou Camp.

Because Barcelona’s home and away jerseys both clashed with red, United played in white rather than in the special kit – yet managed to start well nonetheless. In the very first minute, Neville put Beckham in behind Sergi, and the ground responded raucously.

But Barcelona were unconcerned, twice hustling Scholes into conceding possession, before Zenden almost played in Rivaldo, already sharking the width of the pitch. United responded straight away, Beckham zoning a crossfield pass for Giggs who pulled a shot against the bar.

Encouraged, the speed of United’s passing, thought and movement increased, crafting a racing amphetamine of a goal. Irwin zipped a low, hard ball into Solskjær, who moved it onto Yorke, who sent it wide to Beckham. Incapable of beating his man, he drew his man, then beat – nay pasted – him on the outside, contorted his body implausibly, and, as he fell, calculated an ideal cross for Giggs, who hovered for no short time to ease a difficult header past Ruud Hesp.

As soon as Barcelona kicked off, United jumped them again, the zeal and zest of their play underpinned by a work ethic so extreme as to be almost undignified. “You have to choose between a gradual build-up to try and cope with their attacking play, or going for it,” Fergie explained. “We are no good at stifling teams anyway.”

So after 25 minutes, it was no shock when they scored again. Solskjær’s chasing presented possession to Beckham, and incapable of crossing with his left foot, he stepped inside and picked out Yorke with a perfect left-footed cross, juddered at goal by way of overhead kick. Pushed out by Hesp, the rebound cannoned off Enrique, unable to get out of the way, and fell for Scholes, who couldn’t miss. Barcelona were getting beaten up and beaten down.

“There was a bit of personal relief involved”, Scholes later wrote, “because I had missed a sitter against Barcelona four years earlier.” That he was referring to a chip from the edge of the box is a testament to his absurd standards.

As chants of “Kluivert, Kluivert what’s the score?” and “You should’ve signed for a big club” chortled around the ground, Barcelona improved, and United were lucky to escape just after the half-hour when Rivaldo saw his shot deflected past Schmeichel, the officials incorrectly deeming Sonny Anderson offside.

But despite the warning, Fergie sent United out to play exactly the same way after the break; “I think we can score more goals”, he told Gary Newbon in the tunnel. Likewise, his last order to the players was to “keep playing the ball forward, don’t sit back”.

Louis van Gaal, on the other hand, altered various aspects, the most significant pushing Figo infield and Luis Enrique further forward. Whether he was clever for making them or thick for needing to, and whether United retreated or were forced to, within minutes the deficit was only one. Figo found Rivaldo on the burst and consecutive ricochets diverted a pass meant for Enrique into the path of Anderson, who shot high past Schmeichel, cueing the eerie silence of an away European goal. On the bench, fury.

So the decision to replace Solskjær with Butt was curious in context, and suddenly spooked, United withdrew, leaving Yorke isolated up front and Giggs wandering around the middle of the pitch instead of supplying the width that had been so effective in the first half. Soon after, Rivaldo nutmegged Keane – a stunt it’s doubtful John O’Shea ever attempted – and racing into the box to collect Enrique’s return, managed to convince the referee that he’d been fouled by Stam, launching into a dive and roll when already tackled fairly to his knees. Up stepped Giovanni to dispatch the penalty beyond Schmeichel, who became angry enough to boot the ball into Figo when he dashed after it to hasten the restart.

But from the kick-off United jazzed back into action and Cocu was forced to foul Yorke just outside the box. And again, everyone knew what was coming, everyone thought it wasn’t coming, and then it came, Beckham astonishing a free-kick just inside the post. And whatever else was said about him, no one could deny that he celebrated his goals thoroughly and in the proper manner, with none of the affectation of Giggs’ “celebration that’s not a celebration”, the reverse of their media images. He was happy and he knew it.

Almost immediately, Barcelona brought on some “Xavier Hernandez Cruz” kid for his European debut, and almost immediately after that, Anderson bobbed Enrique’s cross onto the bar. Then, Schmeichel saved from Rivaldo, but Butt, who’d narrowly avoided a red card in the Lodz home game, handled Anderson’s follow-up on the line to make sure this time – “a bad decision”, hallucinated Fergie afterwards – and Enrique knocked in the penalty, this time Schmeichel booting the post.

As Barcelona pushed for the win, Stam imposed his first performance of particular quality; bought as part of an attacking strategy for his ability to defend one-on-one, he proved himself equally adept in a rearguard action. And had Yorke not been on his heels when Beckham arced over his final cross, United might just have snatched a win, but the result was a fair one.

“The perfect football match,” reflected Fergie later. “Both teams trying to win with scant regard for the consequences. That’s how football should be played and in a sense this match was a throwback to the days before detailed organisation of teams.”

But the approach, though quintessentially United, was a departure from the previous season, “with two sitting in midfield at all times, not over-committing and leaving us open to the counter-attack”; the lessons taught by previous away nonsense had been absorbed, for a year at least. In the following morning’s Times, Kevin McCarra wrote that they “were forced to clutch the draw as if it were a gleaming prize”, but that wasn’t right: the draw was incidental, the gleaming prize the night itself.

*

The following Sunday, United were at Highbury, and again, the teams gathered in the tunnel sporting classy, understated jerseys – though Arsenal’s home version did have a slightly peculiar sheen. Meanwhile, grinning away with even greater fervour than usual was Dwight Yorke – or Mr Duracell, as he was known to a lady interviewed in one of the morning papers.

Arsenal were without the suspended Emmanuel Petit – he was replaced by Stephen Hughes – but otherwise, all was as usual. Though playing fairly well, they had only seven points from five games, enough only for tenth place, while Dennis Bergkamp and Nicolas Anelka had yet to score. Should they lose, they’d be four points behind United having played a game more.

United’s line-up was peculiar. Johnsen was still out injured, his Ice Man nickname derived not from his unflappable style, but the cold compress to which he was always attached – so Henning Berg continued in his place. In midfield, Nicky Butt’s solidity was considered more important than Paul Scholes’ creativity, while on his left was originally to be found Ryan Giggs, with Ole Solskjær partnering Yorke, but a late change of mind led to Giggs playing upfront, with Blomqvist on the wing. And at the side was poor Cole, in collar, tie and scowl.

The alteration was presumably prompted by the unique dimensions of the Highbury pitch; during the Charity Shield, Martin Tyler mentioned that it was too narrow for Arsenal, such that moving European games to Wembley was “an all-round good decision”. But the reality was different – Arsenal knew better than anyone how to find and create space on it, particularly against opponents lethargic after emerging from a dressing room in which the radiators were somehow, irreversibly and mysteriously, fixed at the highest setting.

“Manchester United left empty-handed last season, it must still stick in their throats that they let slip that 12 point lead to Arsenal,” said Martin Tyler at kick-off, the start of another afternoon of measured partiality. And immediately, Arsenal worked the angles, Vieira, Dixon, Bergkamp and Parlour showing precisely how to get things done – quick, precise passing and movement – before Dixon let fly with a shot that was blocked to safety.

Then, after Beckham sent a free-kick too close to Seaman, Irwin misjudged a bounce that allowed Parlour to attack the space behind him and find Anelka. Choosing neither to go on nor shoot, he played in Bergkamp, having failed to notice that he was several yards offside.

United crafted little in response, and Arsenal attacked again. Feeding Overmars for the first time, Butt immediately sprinted across to help the back-pedalling Neville, but just teasing, the ball went back inside, Bergkamp’s eventual and errant flick too strong for Parlour.

Keown then did well to head Beckham’s cross away from Yorke, the only challenging presence in the middle, before Vieira pounced onto a weak but not weary one from Giggs and gangled off down the wing. Allowing Giggs to catch up, he then accelerated away to lose him and picked out Bergkamp on the edge of the box, his shot blocked by Irwin. Dixon connected well with the follow-up, but put his effort straight at Schmeichel.

United then threatened a break, Giggs picking up possession after a Vieira error and pacing into space, but Vieira was quickly back behind the ball to smother with his shins when taken on. Immediately, Arsenal countered, foiled in the first instance, before Irwin lobbed a pass to Blomqvist, and while he waited for it to come down, Dixon charged in to assume ownership, finding Parlour who rushed by Irwin. Stam kicked away the cross and the resultant throw went back to Dixon who knocked off to Vieira, Blomqvist darting over to foul him anyway. This gave Arsenal a free-kick on the right touchline, perhaps 25 yards from goal and ideal for Hughes’ swinging left foot. He whipped a cross into the middle of the box for Adams, up early and leaning over the top of Stam, Schmeichel belatedly jumping towards a ball he could never hope to make. Accordingly, all it needed to beat him was a flick from Adams to score, off parading himself in the corner while the arguments began.

United did improve marginally after that, connecting a pass or two but without the merest menace. Arsenal, on the other hand, continued to press with imagination and verve, Overmars leading a shimmering break and Bergkamp only just miscueing a volley on the turn after Anelka’s scoop over the top.