Red All Over: A Tribute To Gary Neville

Saturday 15^th June, 1996. Something magical has permeated the English air and it isn't the dazzling sunshine. Seven days previously England had kicked off the European Championships, the first major international tournament on British soil since 1996 and all that. As “thirty years of hurt” became the self-fulfilling mantra of the summer, Terry Venables' England re-emerged from the Wembley tunnel halfway through their group stage program with only a single goal and a solitary point in the bag. Having been held by the Swiss, El Tel's men found themselves goalless at half time against Scotland, who, I'd been informed as a twelve year-old, we didn't like all that much.

The second half began with a tactical reshuffle, as Jamie Redknapp (mercifully minus the cream suit) replaced Stuart Pearce. As the clocked ticked and tension soared Steve McManaman gangled forward from midfield, a marauding fullback to his right, the prematurely barren pate of Alan Shearer waiting in the centre, glistening in the summer hue. McManaman elected to push the ball wide to the right-hand edge of the Scottish box. If you ever need to explain the phrase “put it on a plate” to an extraterrestrial daytripper, you’d do well to reach for your pencil case, sharpen a nice 2B and sketch the seconds that followed McManaman’s pass. With barely a break of his stride, the young right-back received the ball and, with a brief look up and a jab of the leg, rendered the rest history.

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He may have belonged to an England era that ultimately sorely disappointed, but Gary Neville was integral to one Golden Generation that more than lived up to its promise. Barely a month had passed between that cross and Manchester United lifting their second league and cup double in three seasons, this one the first to star the kids who were so memorably told they’d never do it (and by a Scotsman too. What are they like!). Replacing Paul Parker – a double-winner himself and an unsung hero of Italia '90 – would never be an easy task, but Neville eased into the role with an on and off-field maturity that belied his fledgling years. That maturity, with no shortage of drive, ability and sheer bloody-mindedness to boot, took him to the World Cup and hung a European Cup medal around his neck, and yet while the names of David Beckham, Paul Scholes and (perhaps to a lesser extent) Phil Neville and Nicky Butt will go down in United folklore, it was Neville the elder who over time pushed himself into a higher pantheon altogether.

Old Trafford hasn't exactly had to scratch around for great armband-wearers: post-war heroes such as Foulkes, Charlton and Law through to later day leaders like Robson, Bruce and Keane, to a man gave vision and heart to the cause. That Neville found himself promoted to club captain in 2005, after 500 appearances and countless trophies, speaks volumes upon volumes for the esteem in which he was held by those not just in the game, but in the club he lived and breathed. In an age of empty, lip-to-badge gestures of loyalty, Neville stands out as a member of perhaps the last generation of one-club men. Such a heritage has no doubt been aided by his unglamorous image but you can rest assured that he was never short of suitors. And yet it's near impossible to imagine the man himself contemplated for even a solitary second pulling on another team's jersey. In his eyes it would have been an act of betrayal not only to the club but to himself. It would never have been right; it just wouldn't have done at all.

But the phrase “model professional” would, to an extent, be misleading. Neville was forthright and vociferous, politically-minded and outspoken where other leading lights simply stood faceless and mute. If he didn’t outwardly court controversy, he certainly refused to shy away when it reared its ugly head. In 2003 he publicly criticised the FA following a failed strike action by England players after team-mate Rio Ferdinand was handed an eight month ban for missing a drug test, ruling him out of Euro 2004. The fact that subsequent misdemeanours of both the celebratory and single-fingered variety occurred in the presence of Liverpool and Manchester City respectively goes a long way to highlighting the passion with which he fought for United. He was, in so many senses, the embodiment of the fan-as-player/player-as-fan dream. It was this unswerving passion, his alignment with the die-hard, which delivered him both scorn and devotion in equal measure. What better personification of football tribalism could there be?

Of course, like any defender exposed to near twenty years of highest level action, Neville experienced his fair share of unsightly moments. The ones that instantly spring to mind include a bona fide shoeing from a Romario and Edmundo-inspired Vasco De Gama side during the 2000 World Club Championship and of course the “Paul Robinson incident” against Croatia in 2006, when a poorly angled backpass, coupled with a hideous piece of turf-related misfortune, resulted in an improbable and ultimately match-killing own goal. Robinson bore the public brunt but in truth it was Neville’s ball which should have been played wide of the goal. You know that inside it killed him, but to the outside world he continued to fight, and within three months a seventh Premier League medal was added to the collection. A year later he watched from the Moscow sidelines as United lifted the European Cup/Champion’s League for the third time, his mentor’s legacy as a managerial great cast in stone.

In total Neville collected nineteen winner's medals with United, including six as captain, to go with 85 caps for his country. Yet for all the honours and the prestige, perhaps the true measuring stick of a player’s greatness is the size of the hole left gaping in the team he leaves behind. Just as Sir Alex took six long years to successfully replace Peter Schmeichel, so the task of locating a suitable successor to Neville, as he faded badly through injury, has already born almost equal frustration. Wes Brown, John O'Shea, Rafael Da Silva – good players all, the latter with his best years ahead of him, but the instability of the position places a noticeable question-mark alongside the emphatic full-stoppers of United's current backline.   

Having notched up 602 appearances for Ferguson's side (a tally most United supporters will only ever experience in those peaceful hours before waking), had a David Bowie hit adapted in his honour and attempted to build his own eco-friendly version of Teletubbyland, the question now is simply 'what next?'. Judging from the way he voiced his opinions and displayed his values throughout his playing days, a position of, if not authority, then of genuine influence, in the English game would be fitting. One wonders whether working alongside Ferguson for the beefy part of two decades has turned his head towards management or simply scared him off it for life, and frankly the Sky Sports studio would be wasted on him.

But that's for another day. Right now is the moment to appreciate the most decorated and consistent English right-back of his generation, and arguably anybody else's too. Ok, so he grew a dodgy moustache. Hand on heart, who hasn’t?

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That glorious, ill-fated summer remains for many of us the emotional peak of our football supporting lives. The man providing the cross that balmy Wembley afternoon retired from professional football on Wednesday, reminding us all how quickly a decade and a half can pass by. Gary Neville was a divisive character for sure, and yet for all the memorable moments, both sublime and heartbreaking, that tournament lavished us with, it amazes me to this day that one floated ball sits so prominently in the nation’s collective footballing memory.

For all the terrace negativity aimed his way, for every facial hair-related jibe and partisan howl, each slice of abuse tended to arrive, whether spoken or merely ruefully pondered, with a side order of “yeah, but how about that cross against Scotland?”.

~ Matt