Born to Manage: The Autobiography

1

PLANNING FOR THE PERFECT DAY

IT IS POSSIBLE THAT one match out of thousands can provide you with everything you believe in as a manager. You anticipate such a game, work for it and hope the expectation is fulfilled. For me, that match came on the particularly humid evening of 18 June 1996 when my England team surprised, subdued and overwhelmed the Netherlands at Wembley in the final group game of the European Championships. It was perfection: my most thrilling experience in football – more special than winning the Spanish title with Barcelona, or the FA Cup at Spurs, or the excitement of winning promotion.

As someone who prefers to look forward, not back, I have never spoken in depth and in public about an occasion, and the build-up to it, that meant so much to me as a manager. While there is always merit in quiet reflection, in this instance I am happy to relive what we achieved in that game. I feel privileged to have played my part in a match that actually galvanised the country. It gave me an enormous feeling of pride that the huge commitment of our staff and every member of the squad had received its justifiable reward.

It did not just happen. That performance was the culmination of two and a half years of preparation. In that time, I had convinced all the staff and players – not without being questioned – that we had the ability and character to change the style in which we played at international level. It was intended as a long-term strategy to take us on to the World Cup finals in France two years later, but sadly I would not be in position to see it through.

Going into that game, I was confident we would win and so emerge as group champions; I knew that it could even be achieved with a bit of swagger. For too long, too many had believed we had neither the skill nor the nous to beat the best in world football, in this case the stylish, elegant Dutch. We decisively proved that to be wrong, and I was jubilant, while the crowd at Wembley was in raptures at what they had seen.

I relished the chaotic scenes immediately after the match. I remember the looks of delight – I don’t think relief came into it – on the faces of Don Howe, Bryan Robson, Mike Kelly, Ted Buxton, Dave Butler and our other physio Alan Smith, the backroom team who had worked with me for such an occasion. The whole bench was thrilled, shaking hands and embracing in the relative privacy of the tunnel. Dave Sexton, who was also part of the set-up, would have felt the same charge of excitement up in the stands. It wasn’t as though we had won the World Cup, but we all recognised it was a breakthrough and a significant marker for the future. That was the moment I knew we would be ready for the World Cup in two years’ time.

We had not just beaten one of the most sophisticated systems in world football, we had taken the Dutch apart. We did so by making them play the way we wanted them to play, not the way that suited de Boer, van der Sar, Bergkamp, Blind and Seedorf. The analysis of how we had done it could wait. For now, I just wanted to soak up the atmosphere; Wembley was rocking, celebrating like I’d never seen or heard it before. This was a moment to enjoy.

It had been 14 years and five attempts since we had last beaten the Dutch, and I was still struggling to take it all in when I had to head off to the first of the many press conferences I had to attend. As a manager – whatever the result – you try to be in full control, cool and ready for whatever is thrown at you. It is easy to be carried along with everybody else in a tidal wave of euphoria or depression, but I couldn’t think like that. When I asked myself: ‘What have we done?’ I realised that there was so much more to do, starting by beating Spain in the quarter-finals. It was a fabulous performance against world-class opposition, but real glory comes from winning trophies.

What struck me about that press conference was the happiness we had produced. Too often England had had to suffer the serious disappointment of unexpected defeat when the stakes were high. Not tonight. As I walked to the banqueting hall where the team was waiting, I heard my fellow countrymen say it was the best performance ever. I enjoyed the exaggeration. Could it be the best ever? Or the best since England won the World Cup in 1966? Or our performances in the 1970 World Cup finals in Mexico, and the truly memorable defeat against Brazil?

When I got there, I was met by groups of England players, each surrounded by their wives and children and friends. There was a lot of back-slapping and high-fiving going on as everyone soaked in an atmosphere they were unused to, and surely wanted more of. My dad Fred was there, on the fringes of the hospitality area. What could he say? His presence was enough. My daughters Tracey and Nancy and grandson Sam were also there to greet me. My wife Yvette was at home, as she never attends matches, and has never felt the need to be part of the big-match bonhomie. Thinking of the passion generated that night, even now I find it to be highly emotional.

I was absorbed by what I had to do as I floated among the high and mighty, accepting handshake after handshake. Ah, the goodwill when you win! The players had been told this was a moment to have a beer, relax and enjoy their success, but tomorrow they knew we would talk, train and prepare for Spain in the quarter-finals. They had performed to the letter of their instructions, but we had to win three more matches against Europe’s strongest countries before we could deliver to our supporters what they really wanted: the trophy.

On my way through the throng, I had heard someone say that Sir Stanley Matthews, one of English football’s great figures, was purring at what he had seen. He was one of my boyhood heroes – in truth, he was everybody’s hero and I had been thrilled to play against him at the beginning of my career. To those of us who grew up in the post-war era, we would read about players like him and occasionally be able to watch them live when they played in London, or just maybe see them on television. Now, if he was an admirer of the team’s performance, it would be special.

I met Ted Buxton and we found a quiet spot where he told me the full story. Sir Stanley – who some months before had mistaken Ted for me – had stopped him as he walked along the side of the banqueting hall.

‘He was very emotional,’ Ted explained. ‘He grabbed me and asked: Where’s Terry? I told him you were in a press conference. So he continued: I can’t stay, I have a car waiting for me, but tell Terry that was the best England performance I have seen in years.’

Then, Ted added, Sir Stanley said the words that really got to me: ‘I would have loved to have played in that team.’

My day was complete!

But I have jumped ahead of myself. First of all, I had to get the job as England’s national coach, and that was out of my control. When the job became available, as a result of our depressing failure to qualify for the 1994 World Cup finals in the United States, I was embroiled in a legal action against Alan Sugar, having been sacked from Tottenham. Because of that, I did not think I had a chance to succeed Graham Taylor after he resigned on 23 November 1993. Certainly, there were some within the FA and elsewhere who were determined to dismiss me as someone with the wrong image for the job. Initially, FA chairman Sir Bert Millichip appeared to be one of them, which was not a good start, so I virtually gave up any chance of being invited for talks, let alone getting the job.

As a result of the fall-out from my departure from Spurs, there had been some horrendous newspaper headlines about me and my business affairs. Not only that, there had been TV documentaries made about me, and MP Kate Hoey had stated in Parliament that I was unfit for the job. The accusations hit me like a sledgehammer, and the often shocking criticism had an effect on my family, though they hid their concerns well. The general view was that I was burdened with too much ‘baggage’ from the court cases and the adverse publicity I had been receiving even to be considered for such a prestigious role as England’s national coach.

My name had been linked with the position in the past. When Bobby Robson took over from Ron Greenwood after the 1982 World Cup, my name was floated, though I was never on the shortlist. When Bob stood down in 1990, I was mentioned by some in the press as a contender, but wasn’t even interviewed by the FA. It was a fuzzy time for me, and a storm was gathering at Spurs, which clearly counted against me. If my situation had been deemed too complicated in 1990, it had hardly got any easier in the interim.

Immediately Graham resigned, the press was full of stories about who would be offered the job. My name was mentioned, but I remained pessimistic. I felt I had no chance at all, despite the fact my CV was good. I hoped it was more than that, and they might think it was bloody impressive: there were the successful years as Crystal Palace coach and at Queens Park Rangers, then I’d gone abroad to Barcelona and a La Liga title and the European Cup final. On my return to England with Spurs, we had won the FA Cup, taken the side to third in the league and played football the way it should be played.

The FA set up a sub-committee to find the new manager. On it were FA chairman Sir Bert Millichip, Noel White (chairman of the International Committee and a Liverpool director), Ian Stott of Oldham Athletic and FA chief executive Graham Kelly. I believe that Rick Parry, chief executive of the Premier League, was also consulted because of my dispute with Alan Sugar. Jimmy Armfield, the former England defender and manager of considerable experience, was appointed by Graham Kelly to take soundings as widely as possible from those in the game as to who they believed would be Taylor’s most suitable successor.

Jimmy met managers, players, directors, supporters, and talked to everybody possible. He took his role very seriously, as he should have, and as you would expect of him. I knew him and we had meetings to discuss the position. Eventually, he reported to the FA that I had widespread support throughout the country. It would be untrue to say that the support was unanimous, but I heard of only one manager who spoke out against me, but that was largely because he believed the whole process was some sort of southern stitch-up.

Jimmy is not the type of person to fudge anything, and he took his time to reach his conclusions. I knew he would be cautious. I remember when he was managing Leeds United and he wanted to buy Peter Taylor from me at Crystal Palace. He offered less than the £200,000 I wanted, then asked me if I genuinely thought Peter was worth that (a lot of money then, to be fair). I asked him what he thought my reply would be. He thought so long and hard about meeting our valuation that we ended up selling Peter to Spurs for £200,000. He may be pedantic, but he had everyone’s trust in this task, mine included. Believe me, if his research showed I would not have the support of the game, then that is what he would have reported.

I was in the race – as a front runner – and so I was invited for talks. Some questioned whether I might simply walk away from the whole process, but there was no way I was going to turn down the opportunity to manage my country. Especially now that I knew I had plenty of support, not just from outside the FA but also from within. I understood that Graham Kelly was a powerful voice in my defence at the FA’s Lancaster Gate headquarters.

The first round of these interviews with the sub-committee was held in the Football League offices on the Old Marylebone Road, London. Unfortunately, the FA and I were well acquainted. Earlier that year, in March, the FA had demanded that Nicky Barmby should be made available for a youth tournament in Australia. I wanted him fit and well for an FA Cup quarter-final against Manchester City. Graham Kelly told me if we did not release him, Spurs would be sued. It was a very tetchy argument, as I remember it. I was left with no option; and Nick was immediately cleared to travel in the FA youth party.

Fortunately, there was no obvious hangover from that clash. I was relaxed, though I remember thinking Noel White looked tense. As chairman of the International Committee, he was never specific about what they would want from me if I was appointed. To me it was self-evident, but it would have been interesting to have White confirm it. The main concern was to develop a successful England team, particularly as we were hosting the Euro 96 finals in just two and a half years.

The interview was probing without being an inquisition. They wanted to know if there were any skeletons in the cupboard waiting to be discovered. Not as far as I was aware, I explained. I outlined some ideas I had about the structure of the game in England, talking about the need, as I saw it, for the two sections in the English game, the professional and the part-time, to be more closely aligned. They did not create any barrier between me and them by saying I would be unable to play certain players or that they expected certain players to be included. Despite a coolness from White, it was all very civilised, and I was told the decision would be relayed to me in good time.

It was during this initial interview that I noticed a mellowing in the attitude of Sir Bert towards me. His initially doubtful stance changed as time progressed and he was soon robustly championing my cause. I never could say that about White or Ian Stott. White appeared opposed to me from the very beginning, echoing the opinion of then Manchester City chairman Peter Swales. They were friends and had been business partners in a substantial electrical business in the North West. Swales considered me a close friend of Malcolm Allison, whom he detested when Mal was at City, so I was tarnished by association. Swales even phoned Graham to say I was not the sort for the job. But that did not stop him twice inviting me to join Manchester City as manager. Can you wonder at my confusion and why I still felt my chances of getting the job were slim.

Even on this very tense and important occasion, we soon discovered that there were far more important things going on elsewhere. During the interview, Graham Kelly went to look out of the office window and was horrified to see a woman threatening to commit suicide by throwing herself off the building directly in front of him. We watched the deeply upsetting scene as the police and the emergency services arrived. Thankfully, she was talked down from what, according to the concierge in our building, was a regular occurrence.

Just before I left I was told how high profile a job it was – as if I didn’t know. Then they came to discuss the salary. I knew from the managerial grapevine that Graham Taylor had been on about £145,000 a year, so I wondered what I might be offered. I was told the figure would be £160,000.

‘You might be surprised at that,’ one voice, I think Stott, said. ‘But that is what it is.’

‘Well,’ I said. ‘I have a surprise for you – I’ll take it.’

Graham laughed. He has a fine sense of humour, and I liked that in him. White and Stott looked taken aback, and more than a little surprised. I was then asked: ‘Are you happy with that?’

‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘Very happy, thank you.’

That was not what they were expecting. The salary was way below the rate the national coach of a country the size of England should have been offered. It was set low, I am sure, to put me off and leave them to negotiate with Gerry Francis and Glenn Hoddle – the two men reported to be my competitors – although it was becoming more and more obvious to me that I was on a shortlist of one. (For the record, Glenn succeeded me less than three years later, on just under £350,000.) What they had not considered was my determination to take the job without argument.

As I left the meeting, Jimmy Armfield took me to one side and told me on no account could I speak about this publicly and to remember the meeting was a secret. I picked up an Evening Standard on the way home and as I remember it the headline read: ‘VENABLES IN SECRET MEETING WITH FA’. Some secret!

Having had my interview, I waited. And waited. A cartoon by Jak summed up the public impatience at what had turned into a saga. He showed me with a long white beard and long white hair, sitting outside an interview room in one of the FA’s corridors of power, being approached by a female member of the FA staff exclaiming that I would not have to wait for much longer and the delay was caused by the committee reminiscing.

While the FA took their time, I was contacted by Alan Evans of the Welsh FA, who offered me the chance to manage Wales. I had spent a lot of time in that fine country. My mother was staunchly Welsh and she would have been delighted if I had said yes to Alan. It would also have suited those members of the FA who didn’t want me to take charge, but I was English, I had played for my country and I would manage them if I had a chance. I just had to sit tight in the hope the rest of the committee could be persuaded by Sir Bert and Graham to do what they didn’t want to do: appoint me.

Surprisingly at that time, there was also interest from Nigeria which was looking for a national coach. It was an interesting proposition put to me by John Fashanu, the former Wimbledon striker and man of many clubs including Norwich (where he began his career with his late brother Justin), Millwall, Crystal Palace and Aston Villa. Both offers would have been financially better than the one England had put on the table. The difference was my desire to manage England, despite knowing I was unlikely ever to have my immediate boss’s unstinting support. I felt that White could not have been more opposed to me had he been under orders. Because of all the bad publicity I had been receiving, he and Stott seemed to take it as read that I was all about money. The programmes and newspaper articles had damaged my reputation badly. They may like to know that I went into the FA interview prepared to do the job for nothing if there had been an argument about salary. They could ask me to prove that, and I could not other than through family and friends, but it’s true.

The reality is that I have never been more money-conscious than you would consider normal. I was a friendly negotiator with England because I wanted the job; it would be the high point of my career; my ambition realised. I didn’t bargain or go for the sort of massive money my successors were offered, climaxing with the over-the-top £6 million a year paid to Fabio Capello. When I took the job as national coach of Australia after finishing with England, I agreed a salary of A$200,000, even less than my FA pay. I accepted the appointment Down Under because, like the England role, I wanted it. I also felt there was no way at that time that I would be able to take a club job as manager in the Premiership, or anywhere else, despite offers of one sort or another, so soon after managing my country. It would be very difficult to step down a grade. So I decided to stick with international football for as long as possible, and that is why I headed for the southern hemisphere, though I would eventually return to the domestic scene to help out Bryan Robson at Middlesbrough.

Meanwhile, the wait dragged on. How long does it take to make a decision? Just when it looked like D-Day, another complication would cloud the water. It was all so frustrating, but worth the wait if the job was to be mine.

The call from Graham finally came through on 25 January 1994. One or two on the committee had actually proposed I be offered a six-month probationary contract. I didn’t consider that as anything other than the insult it was. My title would be national coach not manager, but that suited me as it is what I was. I accepted immediately and we met with our lawyers to settle the contract at London’s Royal Lancaster Hotel. My first official press conference as England national coach took place on 28 January, and I went into it with the extra confidence of knowing that Sir Bert and Graham were giving me their full support.

There is a difference between nationalism and patriotism. Patriotism is about the way you are brought up. It came not just from my family, and what they felt about our country and how they instilled those feelings in me, but also from the community I grew up in. Strangely, for all that has been said about my time as England manager, and my career leading up to it, I cannot remember once being asked a question about what it was that brought about the deep emotion to support my country at all costs. Maybe my outward appearance did not attract that sort of question, but that loyalty was inbred: loyalty to family, friends and neighbours, to our area of East London, and to be passionately, emotionally, overwhelmingly loyal to England.

We didn’t think twice about it. I was brought up in the post-war era to honour and respect those around us. The raw suffering of the Second World War was borne by the survivors in memory of those who did not make it through. We were that ‘one nation’ they have been striving for ever since, brought closer by the austerity of the times. When you understand that background, you will understand my feelings when I accepted the offer to manage England, having won honours as a player at every England level from schoolboy all the way through to senior, including amateur. I had also coached the England Under-21s when David Sexton was in charge, and now I was the national coach. That was the sort of ‘baggage’ I was very happy to carry around.

I knew exactly what I wanted to do, and how I wanted to do it. I had quietly prepared for the job before I was appointed. I was not being over-confident, far from it, as the wait seemed eternal. There were good days and bad ones, days when I felt confident I would be offered the job and others when I was less so. At least by working on an imaginary squad, I felt I was moving in the right direction. I began by sorting out the players I saw as certainties; men such as Tony Adams, David Platt, Alan Shearer, Teddy Sheringham and Gazza were at the forefront of my thinking. In all, I listed a squad of 45, but I would have to find out more about the character of some of them before seeing if they were right, and that would come only from working with them.

Having selected a first squad on paper, I needed time to consider all the angles that I expected to confront, like answering the press, who I felt sure would not just be asking me about team issues. I would need to find out the working style of the people at the FA. It would be different, but I was confident it would work. I wanted to know as much as I could and be as well prepared for the job when I walked in to the FA office for the first time as national coach. I also knew how I wanted the team to play.

Ever since my youth team days, when we would go to the Netherlands and win 5-0 or even 10-0, I have had a strong interest in Dutch football. The games might have been walkovers, but I admired the determination of their little clubs to formulate a coaching strategy and stick with it, no matter how long it was going to take. Over the years, they emerged as the developers of what is recognised as ‘Total Football’, a label coined by the media not the coach, Rinus Michels. The tactic had grown from all those defeats. They developed a game based on attack, where defenders could be comfortable in attack and forwards could defend. It was almost as if their clubs would throw team shirts on the floor and ask the players to pick any number. They played without restrictions.

Since the emergence of Ajax under Rinus Michels in the 1960s, I have been strongly influenced by their extraordinary success at both club and international level. They were adventurous and inventive; they worked to be the opposite of obvious. They worked together to improve their game, and in the process made it great. I loved that, and decided it would be my way, or rather the best way, if we had the opportunity to express it. With exceptions, we English were terrible plodders. Even after we were brought to our senses, when the Hungarians made us look like pre-historic dinosaurs in football terms during the 1950s, we had been slow to react to new ideas, taking the best from what you admire, tweaking it, and seeing if it can work for you.

There are many qualities universally admired in our game: our never-say-die attitude is envied; we have managed to produce great and hugely successful club sides at European level – the most eminent being Liverpool, Manchester United and Nottingham Forest, all three with a high percentage of talent developed in these islands. We should also remember the success of Aston Villa. Sadly, only United (thanks to the persuasive power of Sir Alex Ferguson) and my former club Chelsea have maintained a strong European challenge into the new millennium, though both Liverpool and Arsenal have had their moments. But when it comes to the World Cup and the European Championships, we have failed lamentably to make any telling impact since winning the big prize in 1966. And remember, after 1970 it was 1982 before we next took part in the finals. That was a disgrace for a country of our size and footballing tradition, especially when Scotland, with far fewer resources than ourselves, qualified for five consecutive finals between 1974 and 1990.

Ron Greenwood’s squad made a decent fist of the 1982 campaign in Spain, reaching the second round. Bobby Robson’s England World Cup squad of 1990 was the most successful since Sir Alf Ramsey’s teams. His team reached the semi-finals, only to lose its nerve in a catastrophic penalty shoot-out against Germany, when Stuart Pearce and Chris Waddle both missed from the spot. Two years earlier, we had been thrashed in the European Championships finals, losing all three group matches against the Republic of Ireland, Holland and Russia. The failure traumatised Bob to such an extent he isolated himself, to the concern of many, in a Munich hotel with no wish to show himself or speak to anyone. It took him time to recover from what he saw as a humiliation. He had already learned how to suffer. In the Mexico 1986 finals, it was Maradona’s Hand of God goal and the overall power and skill of the Argentines that eliminated us in the quarter-finals. And to think those were the highlights!

I thought there had to be a reason for our lack of success and, once we worked out what it was, then we could begin to find an answer. I fervently believed I knew what it was. One of the main deficiencies in the English game was our players’ failure to understand what was expected of them and what their role was in the team. This was not a case of a lack of individual ability, though that could be a factor, nor their fitness nor character. The Dutch, the Italians, the Germans, the Brazilians, the Argentines all know what they are, what they represent, what is expected of them. It appeared to me that we did not, certainly not in recent decades. That was what I planned to change. I wanted each player to have a specific role and to know exactly what it was in a system that was distinctly not what the world recognised as England’s. Basically, we would surprise the opposition. We would be a team always in attack mode, but strong and ready to defend. Bravery would also be a constant theme of mine.

As an admirer of what was being taught and developed in Holland, even before my first sightings of Johan Cruyff and coach Michels’s Ajax, there is no doubt the Dutch way influenced my thinking and how I would concentrate my work as a coach. I had used it successfully, with adjustments, at Crystal Palace, Queens Park Rangers, Barcelona and Spurs. Now I wanted to do the same with England, though I knew I would have to persuade the coaching staff and my players that it would work for us.

I tried to explain some of my vision for the team at my first press conference, and was surprised by the interpretation by one newspaper of what I had said. The headline claimed my plan was to have England playing like Brazil, even though I never mentioned that as a possibility. It turned out that the reporter’s editor had not felt my description was clear enough and insisted that the comparison should be with Brazil. Had I been asked the question, I might have given the idea a little backing. Who wouldn’t love to play like Brazil? It served only to remind me of the cavalier attitude among a few, who think they can make it up as they go along. In fairness, it takes a strong-willed reporter to tell his sports editor that he is wrong, and they should stick to what was actually said.

My first task was to recruit my backroom staff. I had a ‘plan B’ prepared, in case it was impossible to appoint those who were at the very top of the list, but I got all those I approached. I wanted football men of the right stuff, not men who would agree with every word I said, but people who would argue like hell if they thought I was wrong. They had to be the type who would put me under pressure when I proposed my Dutch plan. I said to them when we met that they had to tell me what they felt was right and what was wrong. I believe you have to keep stretching yourself, and if you stand still you cannot possibly go forward. You must always ask questions and, as Malcolm Allison used to say to me, we have to listen to other opinions and ideas, because if you work only with your own, then that is what you end up with: your knowledge and yours alone.

I took my lesson from Ron Greenwood when he was appointed England manager in 1977, after England had failed to qualify for a second successive World Cup. It was the make-up of his backroom staff that was so important, as he brought in people who would challenge him. And I am not saying that because he brought me into the set-up to listen and learn – and, with respect, ask questions. I worked with him at the European Championships in Italy in 1980 and then the World Cup finals in Spain two years later.

He named Bill Taylor, a Scot, as his coach, along with Don Howe and Bobby Robson. Dave Sexton would look after the Under-21s, with me and then Howard Wilkinson to help him. But it was Ron’s appointment of Brian Clough and Peter Taylor as England’s youth team coaches that attracted the headlines and created so much excitement and anticipation. It frightened the hell out of the FA, as Brian was seen as a divisive figure, but can you imagine young kids having such a pair to learn from? That was smart thinking by Ron, even if he and Clough eventually fell out. He wasn’t afraid to appoint people who would challenge him.

Some managers and coaches are scared to bring in people they fear might try to grab their job. If that is how they think, maybe it will happen because they are not good enough. What you do not need is inferior quality. It has been a persistent problem for the Football Association. If they had been clever, they could have given Brian Clough the job as national manager, because the country wanted him and he achieved so much in the role at club level, but they have this ridiculously cautious attitude. I suspect if they thought someone swore too much or didn’t dress or speak properly, they would rather appoint a lesser person than go for the best man. And we wonder why we are always asking: ‘Why doesn’t the England team improve?’ It didn’t matter how Brian Clough came across to the international committee, it only mattered that he could produce results for England. If he did that, he could behave as he damn well liked. The FA should understand they are employing someone because he possesses the qualities that will allow England’s national team to improve, nothing else.

Because of all that, Don Howe’s status as an outstanding coach, plus his vast experience gained over many years at the top, made him a premier choice, which was essential if I was to get the best out of my squad. Meanwhile, I wanted Dave Sexton to look after the Under-21s. When I said I was keen to appoint Dave, I was asked by a committee man if I knew Dave was 64. ‘I want him as a coach,’ I replied. ‘Not a player.’

These two would be a vital part of my think tank. Don knew the game better than anybody at club level, having been coach of the Arsenal Double team of 1971. He also had vast knowledge of the international scene, having worked with both Ron and Bobby Robson. Dave was always a pleasure to be with, an astute and inspirational coach. I had known him since my early years at Chelsea, and had learned so much from him then and when we worked together during Ron’s tenure. He had a way with him that could be beguiling, unless you riled him. His input was going to be invaluable, and he would develop the players I saw as essential for the next stage, the World Cup finals of 1998 in France.

I wanted to bring in Bryan Robson – a wonderful player at the highest level with England and Manchester United – to liaise between the squad and us. He was younger and closer in age to the players. The FA was also very keen for someone to be groomed as a future England manager. I had discussed it with Sir Bert and Graham, and that was the extra value of having Bryan on the staff. All the major countries, without exception, had a plan of succession, apart from the FA. Unfortunately, it was not followed through with Bryan after I left.

Mike Kelly was appointed technical goalkeeping coach. He was also an acknowledged motivator – a great man to have as part of the inner circle. Dave Butler was on the team as physiotherapist. I had worked with Dave over the years and knew his capabilities. Ted Buxton would scout for me, always happy to move at short notice when required. Ted, and I make no excuses for this, was my extra pair of eyes and ears. It took a month or two of extra negotiation to clear his appointment, because of opposition from the committee, but I got him in the end. They would all have their say, and nothing would be held back. Having these men around me – people who could be propagandists for the new way – was crucial. With them in place, I was surprised how confident I was. I didn’t feel the pressure that I had expected might dog me at the outset.

With my back-up team in place, I knew what the press expected from me: they wanted England not only to win, but to win with style. I shared that feeling as I believe how you win is the whole point of the operation; it is a beautiful game and I wanted my teams to recognise that.

Dealing with the media is always a tricky part of any England manager’s job. With a few exceptions, I didn’t see the press as a problem on purely football matters. All England managers, from Sir Alf right the way through to Roy Hodgson today, get bowled a few googlies from time to time, and you must be able to deal with them, but most of the time they’re asking about the team: how would they play? How did they play? Who played well? Which players are under pressure? Are you going to qualify for the finals? Those sorts of questions go with the job. The press should never be considered a major problem.

When I outlined to my coaching team how I wanted England to play, there was some opposition from Don Howe and the rest, but they took on board what I wanted. Don was concerned that we had too little time to make such a big change in the way we played. I always knew this would be the biggest worry for Don, which was fine. It wasn’t that he and the others were against the Dutch system, or a fusion of the best of English traditions with a strong Dutch influence: attack first, be ready to defend. But they worried a new system of play would not be understood by the players in time for Euro 96. I agreed it was not like a club set-up, where you train every day and have freedom to explain what you want, but I believed we could do it.

I did not feel I was being overly optimistic. We were taking over a squad that had failed to qualify for the World Cup 1994 finals, so I knew I would be making changes to the line-up. It would take time to work out the right 22 players we would need for the finals, irrespective of what had happened to Graham Taylor. I understood just how traumatic it would have been to him and his assistant Lawrie McMenemy to have missed out on qualification, but I wanted to do things in a different way.

Graham chose to play a long-ball or direct system – call it what you wish – which I have never really liked. It had not worked for England, because they failed to qualify, but it was his prerogative to try that approach. Bad luck and misfortune tripped them at crucial times, as in the decisive qualifying group match against the Netherlands. A poor referee or poor decisions can be as fatal as the wrong system of play. Maybe Graham was not totally true to a set-up that earned him so much success with his club sides, particularly at Watford and Aston Villa; only he knows.

However, I saw how the country reacted with deep disappointment to yet another failure at the highest level of our game. It was my aim to ensure that did not happen again. As hosts of Euro 96, we did not have the problem of qualifying, but it was still important that we built up a winning habit. It allowed me to be single-minded about my selections and the way we would play.

The debate over whether or not we had the time to make it work perfectly was exactly why I had chosen this group of coaches. They pointed out that Ajax was a unique club, and by 1994 they had been teaching their special way of playing for decades. Time, or lack of it, did not stop them integrating signed players such as Kanu, Finidi George and Jari Litmanen. We looked at every angle of the game. It wasn’t just a question of how the team would be set out, but how they would use possession to their advantage. It is not all about systems but about common sense. For instance, I had noticed that our teams tended to tire in the final ten minutes, but if they kept the ball and passed it, they would conserve their energy right through to the end, while the opposition would tire having to chase around to try to recover possession.

The players had to be on my side, and I worked from the principle of picking those I saw as best for the job, which isn’t the same thing as saying they were simply the best players. There were some, as already mentioned, that I wanted to build my team around, while others were left out. For example, although Gary Lineker was a top goalscorer, he had retired from international football and his career was winding down, so there was no way I was going to bring him back and anyway he would not be around for Euro 96. Others, such as Carlton Palmer and Des Walker, did not fit in with my plans. In truth, the choice of players is totally subjective and only matters when you lose matches and the critics use a non-selection as the stick to beat you with.

It was essential the players agreed that what I had in mind was workable. I could not force something on them that they felt was