By Dave Bowler

It’s little wonder that St Mirren wanted to abandon their old home for pastures new. For if you venture to Paisley and walk down Love Street, preferably on a quiet evening, you find yourself enfolded in a strange, ghostly atmosphere, an air of what might have been. And if you listen particularly keenly, you might detect an ethereal thump, thump, thump permeating the space. That’s the sound of generations of St Mirren supporters banging their heads against a wall in frustration at the decision to dismiss their manager, Alex Ferguson, back in 1978.

Various reasons have been proffered for that decision, but from a St Mirren perspective, could there have ever been a worse day’s work than to lose the services of the man who has been the pre-eminent football manager in the British Isles over the course of the subsequent 30 years?

He’d already tasted a degree of success with the Buddies but once Ferguson walked into Pittodrie to replace Billy McNeill, things quickly moved onto a different level. There was already plenty of potential on the books but Ferguson was a shrewd operator in the transfer market and with a tweak here and there, after a barren first season, Aberdeen began to move through the gears and by the end of the 1979/80 season, they were crowned as champions of Scotland, ending 15 years of Glaswegian dominance and heralding the opening of a brand new era in the Scottish game, an era where the west of Scotland would be required to play second fiddle.

Although Ferguson has never been afraid to adapt, to update, to take on new ideas, fundamentally, he has changed little since those early days at Pittodrie, when he made it perfectly clear just who was in charge. Players respected him or they were out the door and amid that respect, there was a certain fear of the boss as well, knowing that if they stepped out of line, the hair dryer was always ready to be plugged in.

Those are traits that Ferguson shares with other working class heroes, great football men who stepped out of the hard working life to crate extraordinary football teams and to take themselves out of a life of grinding hard work. Nobody is suggesting that there aren’t many sacrifice to be made in being a successful football manager, that the pressures aren’t intense, the hours long and the disappointments many and crushing. But for those who grew up in a mining village like Bill Shankly, or for those who got their hands dirty in the shipyards like Ferguson, they understand the privilege it is to work in he football industry instead of having to do a proper job, for lousy pay in horrible conditions.

That is the background that has fuelled Ferguson, understanding how lucky he is and understanding how important football is to the people he left behind in the shipyards. The people who populate the stands at our football grounds work hard all week, in jobs they might not like, for people they probably dislike and end up with not a lot of spare money by Saturday afternoon. So if they chose to spend it in coming through the turnstiles, then Ferguson has always wanted to ensure they get value for money. Woe betide any player who fails to put in the proper level of industry to reward the people who have put their faith and their money behind them. A poor performance is one thing, but a lazy display is something that Ferguson never tolerated.

The levels of fitness, of determination and, of course, quality, that the Dons put out on the fields of Scotland week after week, and then on into Europe, ensured that Aberdeen’s is a name that will ring out across Europe for decades to come. The success of Ferguson and his team ensures that whenever they do venture beyond these shores, the name of the club rings out and commands respect. Two stars on the shirt counts for something, especially in Scotland.

As a proper football man, Ferguson understands the nuances of the game, the value of tradition, the importance of symbolism, of reputation. He understood the Scottish game for example, knew that however good he or his team was, history would demand the Old Firm rise again and blow Aberdeen out of the water by virtue of their spending, as Rangers did. So when the offer of managing Manchester United came along, it was an offer he simply could not refuse.

United gave him the broad canvas that he needed, the scope, the scale that great managers require if they are to build anything of lasting value, just as Busby had before him, as Stein did, as Shankly did, as Chapman did. At Old Trafford, the Busby babes, Munich, Sir Matt and the Holy Trinity cast a long, long shadow. To those that followed in the wake, it was a shadow that cast them in darkness, a weight around the neck, a promise on which they could not deliver.

But to Alex Ferguson, history was an inspiration. At Pittodrie, he’d had to create history from nowhere. For all that the club had enjoyed 75 proud years before his arrival, it’s the Ferguson years that really built the club’s legend, its folklore. At Old Trafford, the raw materials were already there, at least in terms of the club’s place in the world. But players were underachieving, there was much talk of a drinking culture at the club, fitness levels were a long, long way from the kind of perpetual motion that had fuelled Aberdeen’s silverware collecting juggernaut.

Ferguson wasted little time in stamping his authority on Manchester United just as he had at Aberdeen. Certain players were deemed surplus to requirements and removed, not least as a warning those that remained behind. Those that did stay quickly had to shape up and fall into line with the manager’s unceasing demand for utter professionalism and total dedication to the cause. Anything less than that was letting Manchester United down and Ferguson was quick to remind anyone and everyone just how fortunate they were to be linked with the biggest football club in the world.

Pride in your shirt, in your club, in your team mates, in yourself has always been the cornerstone of the Fergie philosophy and slowly, that pride wormed its way into every corner of the United training ground, every corner of the dressing room, every corner of the pitch. Gradually, United inched towards becoming a major force, but it was a long, hard road and there were whispers that the manager might not be up to it, that change was required. Any such ideas were cast away, at least temporarily, when United beat Crystal Palace to win the FA Cup in 1990 and then, far more significantly, went on to emulate Aberdeen’s European Cup Winners’ Cup triumph a year later, defeating Barcelona in he final. Psychologically, that result was as important as any that Ferguson achieved in those early years at United, for it underlined that his side could go head to head with any club in the world and come out on top.

Setting goals is a key feature of management as well and off the back of that win, Fergie told the world that United would win a first League title since 1967 in the following year. The proclamation certainly gave his players belief, but in the final run in, they were found wanting and Leeds United pipped them to the title. To some, this was the final, overwhelming proof that Manchester United were never going to make the breakthrough, that they were indeed cursed never to win the title gain – pretty much the way they feel at Anfield about now. The fact that they had let the title slip through their fingers could easily have shattered confidence about the club had the manager shown any sign of weakness – fortunately for United, that’s not exactly one of Ferguson’s defining characteristics. Certainly they made a sluggish start to the following campaign, and they were mired in mid-table by November of the next campaign before Ferguson produced a day’s work that even by his standards was pretty exceptional.

Back in the day at Pittodrie, he was frequently quoted as saying that he never expected to do another deal as good as the one that brought Mark McGhee to Aberdeen. But back then, he had no idea that one day, he would commit the kind of theft that forced Ronnie Biggs to flee the country and go and live in Brazil. Presumably acting in the dead of night, wearing a mask, a stripy jumper and carrying a bag marked “swag” over his shoulder, he stole into Elland Road and made off with Leeds’ greatest asset, Eric Cantona, leaving a little bit of loose change to cover any damages caused during the break in.

The purchase of Cantona was truly visionary, in every sense. Ferguson clearly recognised that here was a player that could add that little bit of devilment, that spark that transforms good sides into special ones while for the Frenchman, this was finally the grand stage on which he could unleash his Shakespearean gifts, that facility for comedy, for tragedy, for drama.

Over the five years that Cantona was the number seven at Old Trafford, Manchester United set about crushing all-comers in England. Alex Ferguson saw the window of opportunity that had opened for him and his club in the Premiership age, particularly as both Liverpool and Arsenal were slipping away from their own high standards of the past, and he ruthlessly exploited that golden chance for all that it was worth. Bizarrely, Blackburn were the only other club to win the title in those first five Premiership seasons, and then only because everybody was kung fu fighting at Selhurst Park.

Time moves so fast these days that the events of a decade ago seem almost prehistoric, but it would be foolish to underestimate just how influential those years are, even today. Those were the years when the Manchester United that we know today was built. Bigger than anything even Sir Matt Busby might have envisaged, bigger than any club in English football history. United’s grasp on the young, on the casual fan, on supporters hundreds – even thousands – of miles away from Old Trafford might not bet everyone’s taste, but for the Red Devils, those were the foundations on which they have continued to build.

Had Ferguson and his team not dominated, and dominated in such glorious, attacking style in that period, had he not built a trophy eating monster, had he not made them even more of a worldwide phenomenon, perhaps not even they could have withstood the way that Roman Abramovich’s arrival at Chelsea distorted the sporting landscape by sheer weight of roubles. And had United not been able to fight back, had Chelsea enjoyed a serene procession to four straight titles, where might the EPL be now?

For Ferguson though, simply winning in England was not why he went to Manchester United, for his ambitions and his hunger have always driven him to want success on the biggest stage, in Europe, and to emulate Stein and Busby by lifting the European Cup. Frustrated by the “foreigners” rule that often forced him to leave out the likes of Cantona, Kanchelskis or Schmeichel in his early seasons, that was one of the prime motivators behind the emergence of Fergie’s Fledglings, a youthful side of home grown talent who burst in to the team. That and the fact that they were a clutch of superb players, schooled in Fergie’s image, exhibiting his own rock hard attitude, professionalism and will to win.

How many more dedicated players have there been in recent times than Ryan Giggs? Apart from Gary Neville. And Paul Scholes. And David Beckham. United seemingly had a monopoly on them and that was largely down to Ferguson’s radical influence which extended from top to bottom at United. His handling of Giggs in particular was a masterclass of keep an incredible young talent on the straight and narrow in a celebrity obsessed culture, keeping him out of the limelight and allowing him the space and scope to allow his talents to fully develop to the point where he has now surpassed Sir Bobby Charlton’s appearance record.

Every element of Manchester United bears the imprint of Sir Alex Ferguson upon it, none more so than the winning of the European Cup, and with it an extraordinary treble, in 1999. Apart from Turkey ‘08, can you think of any other side that could have come from a goal down to the disciplined might of Bayern Munich as the game entered injury time and not just forced an equaliser but actually won the game? But that was quintessential Ferguson, going to the last minute, going forward, scoring goals, cheating the inevitable. He’d have probably preferred a nice, serene 2-0 but if he was ever going to get his hands on that cup and go down in legend – and the honours list – as a consequence, that was the proper way. Him and his players against the world, and coming out on top.

That’s long been another classic Fergie tactic, creating a siege mentality, railing against injustices, real or perhaps, at times, imaginary, to bond his players ever tighter, giving them not just an appetite for points, but a cause to fight for, a common enemy. Over the years, that enemy has been the media more often than not, but also Arsene Wenger, Mourinho, the Premier League and, more recently, the noisy neighbours, Man City. And in time, Sir Alex has come out on top of them all, including beating Chelsea in a Champions League final in that symbolic victory in the rain of Moscow as United claimed a third European Cup in that most dramatic if penalty shoot outs.

In the aftermath of that triumph, Ferguson was interviewed, albeit briefly. But without prompting, in the course of a couple of sentences he summed up just why it is that he has endured at the top of the game for so many years. “I feel proud, very, very proud. Sometimes you have to pinch yourself, but we won’t get carried away with it. Tomorrow I’ll be thinking of next season. It drains away quickly for me. The euphoria evaporates almost immediately. The moment of that final penalty save from Edwin van der Sar, that was my moment, my euphoria and excitement, then you just carry on.”

Plenty of football revolves around “the banter”. Liverpool Everton, Spurs Arsenal, United City, Albion Wolves, it’s all about a bit of one upmanship and what, we are forced these days, to refer to as bragging rights. 

In the midlands at the moment, there is plenty of opportunity to invoke said rights if you are an Albion fan given the cataclysmic demise of Wolverhampton Wanderers, a story that has unravelled since the day, just 15 months ago, that the Throstles went to Molineux and came away with a 5-1 win that could have been ten.

In the wake of that, Wolves have gone into what amounts to a nervous breakdown. There are those who now argue that Mick McCarthy should never have been sacked in the wake of that defeat but anybody who was at Molineux on that day, who encountered the febrile atmosphere, the witch hunt there was for McCarthy that day, will know only too well that the idea that he could be leading the team in Wolverhampton a fortnight later is the stuff of fantasy. After a result, and a performance of that nature, he had to go.

Wolves’ problem was that they seemed to have no succession plan in place which appears laughable now given that it was obvious to anyone that McCarthy’s time was running out. Loyalty is a highly laudable thing, and there was great support for McCarthy within the corridors of power at Wolves, but in truth, his time had come months before. Having survived by the skin of their teeth the previous season, that was the time to remove McCarthy, a manager highly adept at getting teams promoted but largely unable to take them onto another level beyond that. Having earned them a third straight Premiership season, if Wolves had truly wanted to progress, the time to move him on was the summer of 2011. They did not and from there, all bets were off.

Just as extraordinary was the decision to build a new stand. Presumably, Wolves felt they were now settled and established in the top flight and in need of more seats, a conclusion that makes the decision to persevere with McCarthy all the stranger. As past experience shows – especially from the original redevelopment of Molineux – you cannot improve your stadium without first improving your team. Wolves failed to heed the lessons of history and are paying the price as a result.

All of the 2011/12 campaign was a long fight against relegation, as it was always destined to be under McCarthy. Only too late did they jettison him, under duress, and then they compounded the error in finding a successor. A deal was done with Steve Bruce, only for the board to lose their nerve once the message boards suggested the fans didn’t want him, thinking they could get a “bigger name”. Compare and contrast, as they used to say on exam papers, the differing fortunes of Wolves and Bruce last weekend.

They then dithered about before announcing that their number one choice had been Terry Connor all along. Firstly, he clearly wasn’t, which meant that from day one, he was undermined. Secondly, he was McCarthy’s assistant. Clearly they had concluded that the McCarthy era had run its course and, if so, clearly his staff were also a part of the problem. It wasn’t as if McCarthy had gone on to bigger and better things and they were looking for continuity in his wake. They were needing a fresh start, so why not have one?

Once Connor had completed McCarthy’s work and taken Wolves down with a whimper, the club finally decided on a change of course and to bring that freshness, appointed Stale Solbakken. The Norwegian was charged with bringing a more progressive style to a team schooled in the more rudimentary approach of McCarthy and after promising early signs when a push for the top six looked possible, things took a turn for the worse. Defeat at Luton in the FA Cup was the last straw and in January, after just seven months at the helm, he was removed, that experiment seemingly over.

In came Dean Saunders, rippling with Doncaster pedigree, his way with a one liner supposedly just the charm that was needed to lift the pessimistic gloom that hung like a pall over Molineux. That went well didn’t it? And now, Saunders is in the dole queue with his P45 in his hand and Wolves look to find a manager to take them out of League One. All over the Black Country, barely suppressed laughter can be heard tumbling from blue and white mouths.

But football lives on fine margins. That day at Molineux, 12th February 2012. Going into the game, Albion had taken four points from six games and had 26 points from 24 games. Wolves had just won at QPR, had 21 points from 24 games and were out of the bottom three. Albion murdered Wolves through the first half, but a last ditch Fletcher goal saw the sides in at 1-1. Albion’s domination continued in the second period, but the game remained tight. At 2-1 to the visitors, Foster produced a phenomenal save then, from a corner, Wolves looked to have equalised, only for Mulumbu to rise and head the ball off the line. From there, Wolves collapsed, lost 5-1 and nervous collapse followed.

Just imagine Mulumbu was two inches shorter. The ball goes in, it’s 2-2, Albion deflated, Wolves suddenly ascendant. They win the game, get a rush of confidence from it and string some points together. Albion, on the other hand, are crushed and go into decline, ending in relegation. Roy Hodgson not only doesn’t get the England job, but he leaves at season’s end with his contract at an end, leaving Albion to find a new boss to try and restore them to the Premier League. Meanwhile, a feelgood factor surrounds Molineux, season ticket sales go through the roof, the new stand is full, McCarthy leaves, they appoint a progressive manager like Steve Clarke, and suddenly they are pushing for Europe. Seems ludicrous now, but the skin on Mulumbu’s head – there’s a name for a fanzine if ever there was one – might just have been the difference between one future and another.

Back to the present, and just hold on a minute. Decline – like success – very rarely lasts forever. Let us take a look, for example, at the 1997/98 campaign, and focus up on the bottom tier. The five clubs that propped up the Football League were Swansea City, Cardiff City, Hull City, Brighton & Hove Albion and Doncaster Rovers. Manchester City and Stoke City had just been relegated to Division Two. They’ve all had quite decent seasons as it turns out.

And Wolves will rise again. Why? Because the club is too big not to, because, above all, it has history. That history pulled them out of the mire through the ‘80s and ‘90s when it was going catastrophically wrong and it will do so again. The financiers will tell you that you can’t find history on the balance sheet. Maybe not, but you can find it in the P&L account. When we all come back in August, look at the number of season tickets Wolves sell and the size of their crowd and those at Stevenage. Wolves’ numbers will be three or four times greater than theirs and why? Because of Billy Wright, Stan Cullis, John Richards, Derek Dougan, because they built the club, because supporters hope their like will come again. In the end, history will create a future for Wolves. And you can take that to the bank.