doubt about who I was going to sign schoolboy forms with before I
turned thirteen. But I’d been really happy training at Spurs and got on
well with their Youth Development Officer, John Moncur. It was also
important that White Hart Lane was fifteen minutes down the road from
home. Much as Dad might have dreamed about me playing for United,
he put that to one side when we sat down to talk. It wasn’t: this is what
you should do. But: what do you want to do? We decided we should
at least find out what Spurs had to say.
Maybe I knew all along that it had to be United. The meeting between
me, my dad and Terry Venables, who’d come back from Spain and was
then managing Spurs, left me feeling like I had more questions than
answers. John Moncur took us along to Terry’s office. I can picture the
scene now: Terry had dropped something on the floor, either some
crisps or peanuts, and was bent down in his chair, scrabbling on the
carpet, trying to pick them up. He looked up at us:
‘So, John, what have you got to tell me about this young lad?’
Never mind not remembering me from Barcelona: that must have
seemed like ages ago. I got the impression that, although I’d been
training at Spurs for a couple of years, the manager didn’t really have
any idea who I was. I couldn’t help thinking about the times I’d been
up to Manchester. Alex Ferguson knew all about me. He knew all about
every single boy. He knew their parents, he knew their brothers and
sisters. That seemed important to me, important for my future. It always
felt like you were part of a family at United.
Spurs made us a really generous offer, which amounted to a six-year
deal: two years as a schoolboy followed by two years as a Youth Training
Scheme trainee and then two years as a professional. A thought flashed
through my mind. By the time I’m eighteen, I could be driving a Porsche.
‘So, David, would you like to sign for Tottenham?’ Terry said
eventually.
Dad looked at me. He’d never been one to make my decisions for
me. I took a breath:
‘I’d like to think about it, Mr Venables.’
In my head, though, I was shouting out: United! It’s got to be United!
Of course, Mum and Dad and I talked about what we’d heard. I think
Mum would have liked me to join Tottenham, because of Grandad and
because it would have meant me being able to stay at home, but she
kept that to herself. Neither she nor Dad were going to put pressure
on me one way or the other. We all knew that, if I ended up signing
for Spurs, things would be fine. I’d be happy and well looked after
at White Hart Lane. We had an appointment at Old Trafford to get to
first, though.
I drove up with Mum and Dad and we had this conversation on the
way up. We knew what Tottenham had offered, and Dad and I agreed
that the actual amount of money involved wasn’t the important thing.
This wasn’t some kind of auction. All I needed was a sense of security.
I wanted to know I’d get a chance to prove myself. If United offered
the same six-year commitment that Tottenham had, then my mind
would
be made up: the wages wouldn’t come into it. If not, we’d drive back
to London and I’d sign a contract with Spurs.
It was May 2 1988, my thirteenth birthday. United were at home to
Wimbledon and Alex Ferguson was waiting for us:
‘Hello, David.’
This bloke knew me. I knew him. And I trusted him. So did my mum
and dad. I’d had a special blazer bought for the occasion and United
gave me a red club tie that I wore for the rest of the day. We went
away to have lunch in the grill room where the first team had their
pre-match meal: there was even a birthday cake. Not that I felt much
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like eating. At half past five, after the game, we went up to Mr Ferguson’s
office. He was there with Les Kershaw, who was in charge of Youth
Development at the club. Malcolm Fidgeon was there too. It was all
pretty simple. United wanted me to sign and the boss set out the offer:
‘We’d like to give you two, two and two.’
I looked over to Dad, who was in another world. He’d been looking
forward to this moment even longer than I had. I could see that he
hadn’t taken in what Alex had just said. I knew, though, I’d just heard
what I’d been wanting to hear: two, two and two, equalling the six years
I’d been offered at White Hart Lane. I didn’t need to wait for the details.
‘I want to sign.’
And out came that pen. How long had it taken? A minute? It didn’t
matter. I’d been ready, waiting to say those words, for the best part of
ten years.
Home from Home 3
‘You may have signed for Man United,
but you haven’t done anything yet.’
‘You know I’m Man United, but I don’t want that to put pressure on
you. If you decide to sign for somebody else, I won’t be upset.’
Dad had always made that clear to me. Of course, I’d always known
he was lying about the last bit. So the day I signed at Old Trafford was
as fantastic for him as it was for me. By the time we left Mr Ferguson’s
office, Mum was in tears. She was happy for me but she knew it meant
that, sooner rather than later, I was going to be leaving home. She’d
put so much love and so many hours into a kid who was mad about
soccer; and the moment we’d arrived at our destination was also the
moment she was going to have to get used to the idea of her boy
heading north to start a career.
She did a fair bit of crying in the months between me signing up and
starting my YTS at United. But I knew, deep down, she was as proud
of me as my dad was. Not letting my parents down meant everything
to me. They never made me feel like I owed them for the support they’d
given me, but I felt I had to do all I could to make sure they didn’t end
up disappointed. Think about it: if I let them down, it would mean I’d
let myself down as well. It’s never been a case of me having to live up
to their expectations. It’s just that I’ve taken my parents’ expectations
of me and made them the starting point for what I expect of myself.
Even now, when my own family and career mean I don’t see as much
of them, I think I still judge myself by the standards I learned from Mum
and Dad.
What could have been more exciting than that day? Everybody shaking
hands, me in my blazer and club tie, a United player; or, at least, a
lad from Chingford who’d just taken the first step towards becoming a
United player. Out in the corridor, Dad and I met up with the United
captain, Bryan Robson. We’d spent hours in front of the television
watching videos of this man, our absolute all-time hero. Dad had tried
to hammer his qualities into me: courage, commitment, energy, vision
and the ability to inspire players around him.
I’d met Bryan before, but this was the boss introducing me to him
as United’s latest signing:
‘Congratulations, David. You’ll find out for yourself but, I’d say, you
couldn’t be joining a better club.’
I don’t remember us driving back to London at all. At least Dad
didn’t forget we were on a busy highway. I couldn’t have thought about
anything else that evening, and I didn’t want to. I’d just lived through
the happiest day of my life.
Although I’d done the adding up in my head and got the answer I
wanted, that first contract at Old Trafford wasn’t actually for six years
but for four. It was against regulations, anyway, for a boy signing
schoolboy forms to have full professional terms set out there and then:
I was only thirteen, after all, and so much could change before I turned
eighteen. The rules were there to protect youngsters from getting
trapped somewhere they didn’t want to be; not that there was
any chance of that happening to me. United told me that, if everything
went well, I could expect to sign as a professional in four and a half
years’ time.
In a really important way, I think that bit of uncertainty was best for
me and for all the other lads who joined the club at the same time. I
knew I was wanted. But I also knew that I had to prove myself over the
next four years. If I’d known all along that achieving the ambition of
becoming a professional player at United was already settled – down
on a piece of paper in black and white – who knows if it wouldn’t
have taken the edge off my determination to seize the chance I’d
been given? I think that extra hunger has had a lot to do with my
success and the team’s success in the years since. The day I signed
didn’t feel like the day I’d made it. The hard work was just starting. I
wanted a challenge and Manchester United was the biggest challenge
there was.
I knew I was in good hands. Even before I signed at United I had the
feeling I was joining a family. It’s about there being really good people
everywhere at the club. I don’t just mean the ones everybody would
know about like the manager or the players, but people like Kath Phipps,
who still works on Reception at Old Trafford. I can still remember, when
I was just a boy, every time I went up to a United game she’d be there.
She’d lean across her desk and give me a little kiss and the program
she’d saved for me. Later on, Kath used to help me with answering
my mail. She’s part of United and she was with me right through my
career there.
Whenever I came up to Manchester to train or to be at a game, I’d
be looked after by Joe and Connie Brown, who had an office at the
ground. They would take me – and Mum and Dad, if they were with
me – around Old Trafford, take us for a meal, show us down to the
dressing rooms and introduce us to the players and staff. Joe and
Connie made me feel really welcome. Joe was Youth Development
Officer at United. He was responsible for young players’ expenses and
travel arrangements but that job stretched to him and Connie taking
care of just about everything when youngsters from outside Manchester
and their families spent time at the club.
Then, when it came to the soccer, there was Nobby Stiles. I worked
