LITMIR.BIZ

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Harrison as a youth team coach? I couldn’t get enough of it all. While we were trainees, Gary and I would go back to the Cliff in the evenings twice a week, when Eric was working with the schoolboys on the big indoor pitch, and join in the sessions just to get extra training under our belts. Phil Neville was in that age group – two years younger than me and Gary – and so was Dave Gardner. I don’t know how you find your very best friends. Maybe they just find you. Dave and I just hit it off and we’ve been close ever since: I was best man at his wedding in the summer of 2003. He stayed on as an apprentice until he was eighteen, by which time I was playing regularly in the first team. Dave turned professional with Manchester City and he still plays non-League with Altrincham. Nowadays, for him, football’s about staying fit and keeping his eye in: he’s a full-time director of a sports management company.

      During those first years at United, Eric used to make sure we went to every first-team game at Old Trafford. Not just to watch the game, but to watch individual players. I’d think back to Dad taking me to Cup Finals when I was a boy.

      ‘Never mind the game, David. Just watch Bryan Robson. Watch what he does.’

      Now Eric was telling us the same thing: ‘Watch the man playing in your position. One day, you’re going to take his place.’

      To hear something like that gave us so much confidence; not that we realised at the time how soon the manager was going to make us all part of his first-team plans.

      Going to those games at Old Trafford was a chance, as well, for Eric to insist on the importance of having standards. He always made sure that we turned up in a blazer, with a collar and tie. It reminded me of Stuart Underwood wanting the Ridgeway players to be well turned out when we arrived for big games. I still think those things make a difference. Some teams might be seen arriving at a ground or walking through an airport in their tracksuits. The fact that a Manchester United team will always be wearing club blazers is part of having a professional attitude. That smartness said something about our respect for ourselves and for the club.

      Our training sessions weren’t all about technique and tactics and learning new tricks. If Eric spotted a weakness in your game, you could be sure he’d do his best to confront it. I don’t know if ‘Headers’ was designed just to make me suffer, but some mornings it felt like it. As a forward player, you need to be strong enough to hold your own physically against bigger and tougher defenders. Heading and tackling weren’t exactly my strong points, especially as I was smaller than most of the other lads. ‘Headers’ was Eric’s way of toughening up young players like me. There were two teams: midfielders and forwards lined up against defenders. The ball was chipped up and you could only score with your head. That would have been fine, except it was an invitation to the likes of Gary Neville and Chris Casper to come crashing into you from behind in order to stop you. Gary was the worst. You’d end up bruised all over, wondering what you’d done to annoy him. I dreaded those sessions then but, four years later, by the time I was lining up in the Premiership against the likes of Stuart Pearce and Julian Dicks, I was grateful that the first serious knocks I’d taken had been off my own team-mates.

      It wasn’t just when we were doing that particular routine that Gary and Chris Casper did their best to give me grief. Busy they were, the pair of them. Cas was very big and strong for his age. His dad, Frank, had been a player with Burnley when they were a top side in the sixties, and Chris had obviously picked up habits from him. He had this very grown up, professional attitude. And, when we were playing together, he talked non-stop through every single game. Sometimes Cas played at the back; he ended up playing centre-back as a professional. Other times he’d get a game in central midfield, which meant I’d be playing alongside him. He’d be geeing me up, telling me who to pass to. And not just me: he’d be telling anyone within earshot. He even used to talk to himself. After ninety minutes, I’d have a splitting headache and what made it worse was that Dad thought it was good to be like that.

      ‘You should be like Cas, you know. You should be talking like him. More than him, even.’

      I’d be thinking: I prefer silence. As I’ve got more experienced – and especially since I’ve been a captain – I’ve come to understand how important it is to communicate on the pitch. Obviously you have to let a team-mate know if someone’s coming to close him down but, if someone can’t see a pass for himself then, by the time you’ve told him, the moment’s probably gone anyway. If you’re playing for Man United or for England, do you need your mate telling you, minute by minute, if he thinks you’re playing well? Of course you have to talk. Half the time, though, I thought Cas was talking just for the sake of it. It was like lining up alongside a commentator.

      He used to get on my nerves when we played together, but Cas and I were good mates too. He was one of a small group of us who went away on holiday together. My mum and dad were the first people to meet Joe Glanville: they’d always run into him at games. Joe was Maltese, and United mad. They got to know each other and, the next thing I knew, my parents were telling me we were going on holiday to Malta. Everything was being taken care of that end and we just had to get ourselves to the airport at the right time, with our bags packed.

      We had a lovely time that summer. While we were out there, there was a United supporters’ club function which Steve Bruce and Lee Sharpe were helping with. Joe and his friends put us up in a nice hotel. We’d wake up in the morning and someone would be there to take us wherever we wanted to go: down to the beach, into the village, or round the island. It was a great set-up and the Maltese loved their football. The next summer I went back with Cas, Gary and Ben Thornley. It was a lads’ holiday; or, at least, as laddish as it was ever going to get with us – a couple of beers and a little holiday romance but nothing you’d need to keep a secret from your mum.

      We’d told Joe beforehand not to book us a smart hotel or anything, although when we got to our apartment block we wished we hadn’t mentioned anything. The place was terrible. There was no air-conditioning and Malta, in the summer, is stifling hot. Gary and Ben grabbed the one room that had a fan in it and Cas and I just sweated away, all day and all night. Those were really good times, though. I loved it so much I went back the next six summers on the trot. Gary even got himself his own place over there.

      The four of us used to knock about in Manchester, too, along with Dave Gardner, who was younger than us but always knew the best places to go. Our regular night out together was on a Wednesday, usually to a place called Johnsons, which was in the centre of town but slightly tucked away. We were sensible lads – Ben, I suppose, was the most outgoing – and we knew when to stop; when to go home and when to get out of a place if it seemed dodgy. We also had Gary with us, who’s one of the most paranoid people ever. He’d drive us mad sometimes. We’d all walk into a place, then turn round and see Gary, standing there bolt upright.

      ‘No, lads. I’m not comfortable here. We’ve got to get out. Come on, we’ve got to get out.’

      All it would take would be one funny look from someone. In a way it was good, because it meant we never had a whiff of trouble. Later, we’d all end up at Ben’s to stay the night. He was still living with his parents and his room was right up at the top of the house: a big room but absolutely freezing. Ben, of course, would be tucked up cosy in his bed. Me, Gary and Cas would be lying on the floor, shivering. I miss those nights out: I couldn’t do anything like that now, after all.

      Like all young players, we had our jobs to do around the training ground. I remember Cas and I being put on the first-team dressing room, which meant we had to scrub the baths and showers and clean the changing room itself. I got in there first and got the easy half of it: got my shorts on and just sploshed around till the baths and showers were hosed down. Cas was too slow off the mark and got left with the mud and rubbish in the changing rooms. We had a bit of a row about that one, and almost ‘got the ring out’, which was when we’d wrap towels around our hands and have mock boxing matches to sort out an argument. To make it even worse for him, we changed over around Christmas. That meant I was on the changing rooms, looking busy cleaning boots, and ready to pick up the bonuses from the senior players at just the right time. Cas couldn’t believe I’d got away with it.

      It’s one of the sad things about a life in football. You get really close to people and then,

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