http://deportes.elpais.com/deportes/2013/10/26/actualidad/1382785261_663918.html Alex Ferguson, “pigmeo moral” “La hipocresía es el homenaje que el vicio rinde a la virtud”. -François de La Rochefoucauld, escritor francés del siglo XVII Todos los artículos de Carlin Ferguson, a Beckham: "Siéntate, le has fallado al equipo" JOHN CARLIN 26 OCT 2013 - 13:01 CET40 Archivado en: Opinión John Carlin Deportes Alex Ferguson, con su libro. / ANDREW YATES (AFP) Recomendar en Facebook101 Twittear120 Enviar a LinkedIn0 Enviar a TuentiEnviar a MenéameEnviar a Eskup Enviar Imprimir Guardar Afortunadamente no es necesario comprar la última autobiografía de Alex Ferguson, la que salió esta semana, para confirmar de una vez y por todas que, por más triunfos que haya obtenido como entrenador del Manchester United, no es una buena persona. Los océanos de tinta que sus memorias han generado en la prensa británica nos han ahorrado el dinero. Ferguson es un caballero por título honorífico (Sir Alex Ferguson) pero no por categoría humana. Si tuviera clase no hubiera menospreciado en su libro a antiguas figuras del United como David Beckham, Roy Keane y Ruud van Nistelrooy, jugadores que en su día lo dieron todo por el club y sin cuyas aportaciones la lista de trofeos que el escocés ha acumulado sería apreciablemente más corta. Si tuviera integridad moral no hubiera contado los pormenores de rifirrafes que tuvo con ellos en el vestuario, en los que él siempre se presenta como poseedor de la virtud y la verdad, ni hubiera acusado a algunos de falta de compromiso profesional o a otros, sin ironía alguna, de deslealtad. Especialmente innecesario, feo y -además– desacertado es lo que dice sobre Beckham. ¿El pecado capital del jugador? “David pensó que era más grande que Alex Ferguson”, escribe Alex Ferguson. Bueno, tenemos noticias para usted, Sir Alex. David no se equivocó. Era y es más grande que su exentrenador. Más generoso, más decente, más respetuoso, más leal, más famoso, más rico, más guapo y más futbolista que el que hace medio siglo ejerció de delantero centro para tres o cuatro clubes de la Liga escocesa. David pensó que era más grande que Alex Ferguson”, escribe Alex Ferguson. Bueno, tenemos noticias para usted, Sir Alex. David no se equivocó Sin embargo Ferguson insiste, para colmo, en que si Beckham no se hubiera creído más grande que él, hubiera sido mejor jugador. Afirma incluso que hubiera llegado a ser un top dog, un perro alfa, uno de los grandes, grandes. Lo cual, como cualquier analista serio del fútbol sabe, es una gran tontería. Beckham fue lo que fue. Un jugador de limitados recursos, el más apreciado de los cuales fue saber poner la pelota donde él quería, y de una encomiable entrega física tanto en el campo de juego como en los entrenamientos. Jugar con Zidane y Ronaldo, como él mismo humildemente confesó, era jugar con sus ídolos, futbolistas a cuya condición de top dog él sabía que jamás llegaría. Pero según Ferguson “todo cambió”, se entregó al glamour y descuidó el fútbol cuando se enamoró de la cantante Victoria Beckham en 1998. ¡Mentira! La victoria más épica del United en la era Ferguson fue la derrota del Bayern Múnich, con dos goles en tiempo adicional, en la final de la Champions de 1999 en el Camp Nou. Ambos goles llegaron de tiros de esquina lanzados por Beckham, correctamente identificado por Ferguson después como el mejor jugador de su equipo a lo largo de los 93 minutos del partido. ¿Por qué, entonces, la traición a Beckham, que siempre ha sido cortés y respetuoso en público con Ferguson, y también a Keane, y a Van Nistelrooy y a otros? Obvio. Porque su editorial se lo pidió. Porque si se hubiera limitado a escribir un libro en el que el rencor y la polémica gratuita estaban ausentes hubiera generado menos titulares en la prensa. Ergo, hubiera vendido menos libros. Sin embargo, podría haber logrado el mismo objetivo disparando contra otros objetivos. Como se ha comentado en Inglaterra, podría habernos contado del pleito legal que tuvo con el mayor accionista del United sobre la propiedad de un caballo de carreras (llamado Rock of Gibraltar) que ambos compartían, pleito que condujo a la salida del United del accionista y a la venta del club a unos especuladores estadounidenses infinitamente menos leales al club o al fútbol que Beckham, Keane o Van Nistelrooy. Pero sobre estos temas, ni pío en el libro. La inevitable pregunta entonces es, ¿para qué necesita el multimillonario Ferguson los ingresos adicionales de un best-seller? ¿Será porque se ha vuelto loco por el dinero? Y si no, si el propósito fue contar su verdad, ¿por qué no lo hizo? La respuesta quizá no la teníamos tan clara antes de que publicara el libro, pero ahora sí. Como comentó un columnista el viernes en The Times de Londres, Ferguson se delata en su autobiografía como “un pigmeo moral”. Y además, con sus críticas fáciles a ex jugadores y su temor a enfrentarse a los que han pretendido saquear al club de su vida, como un cobarde.

Stepping over a pool of vomit in Frenchman’s Lane, Vinny Fitzpatrick pulled his hoodie over his baldy bonce, dug his flabby paws deep inside his jean pockets, and sniffed the mild morning air. He had allowed himself the entire Sunday morning for a ramble. After all, he was not obliged to be anywhere, for anyone. In a city of more than a million souls he was a man without ties, without responsibilities, and almost without hope. At Butt Bridge, he took a right hammer, and shuffled off unhurriedly in the direction of Heuston Station, for he was no Rob Heffernan. From Kingsbridge, he might wander into the Park, or wait for Ryan’s to open, depending on his mood, which had been mostly dark since Angie’s damning verdict on their marriage a week earlier. If seven days was regarded as a long time in politics, it had been an age for Vinny, who was still scrambling for a foothold of reason after taking a week’s holidays from Dublin Bus to gather himself. Initially, he thought Angie’s anger would subside and peace talks would open with a text, followed by a pot of tea and a chocolate éclair or two in Bunter’s Café. But his wife, a bit like Maggie Thatcher, was not for turning, as the post to Causeway Avenue had confirmed. In neat handwriting, Angie had laid down her terms. Vinny was to be allowed access to the twins on Saturdays between 2.0pm and 6.0pm – smack, bang in the middle of the racing, he noted – and he could drop in on Wednesdays between 6.30 and 8.30 to “give them a bath and put them to bed.” Any other arrangement outside of these hours “would not be permitted,” warned Angie. That missive had arrived on Thursday morning and it was a straw which broke Vinny’s hairy back, particularly when Ollie, his gay tenant, put a hand tenderly on his shoulder and asked if there was anything he could do “to ease his pain.” Vinny had enough of Ollie’s openly oily ways; he also felt hemmed in by the four walls of his old family home. He couldn’t bear to look at the photos of his late parents anymore without feeling how he’d let them down. “Not so much top of the world Ma, as bottom of the barrel,” he said to himself. Shielding tears, Vinny had shoved a few clothes and toiletries into his battered Gola holdall. First, he thought about heading for the Rosslare Ferry – Vinny had a long-standing invitation to visit his cousin, Billy, in Swansea – but within a few hours, that plan had been scrapped as Vinny was holed up in Cleary’s pub in Amiens Street. It explained his slightly dishevelled appearance in Isaacs Hostel nearby later that evening where he’d negotiated a private room for €200 cash, up front, for a week. The first night, he hadn’t slept. He’d just lain there, looking at the ceiling, thinking of decisions and revisions which in a minute might reverse. Bohemians lose Friday had been a ’mare. He punted blindly at Cheltenham, blowing over a ton in Paddy Power in Talbot Street in jig time, before tootling up to Dalymount Park for a pick-me-up, only to see his beloved Bohemians lose to Bray Wanderers, of all teams. With one round of games to go, the club of Turly O’Connor, Billy Young, Jackie Jameson and Roddy Collins were in danger of being relegated for the first time in their illustrious history. How had the club’s guardians allowed this dreadful possibility come to pass? On Saturday, Vinny had been unable to leave his room, bar a five-minute stumble to the chemist for Nurofen Extra. His head pounded relentlessly, his back and neck were ramrod stiff, and several times he felt like he was going to throw up. The next morning, as the first fingers of pink tickled the Dublin horizon, Vinny knew he couldn’t carry on anymore. He had to stand up and fight his fears; come to terms with where he was and somehow plot a route back to the shore of sanity. The morning walk helped his mood. As he passed by each bridge, O’Connell, the footbridges of the Ha’penny and Millenium, then Grattan and O’Donovan Rossa at the Four Courts, Vinny felt he was clearing mental hurdles. He was 55, in fairish nick, if a little overweight, and could reasonably expect another score or so, on life’s mortal coil. He was a father, a grandfather, and a trustworthy husband. He had a good job, which he loved, and a cluster of great mates. (Someone once said that lucky’s the man who could count true friends on the fingers of one hand. Well, Vinny could.) Opposite the entrance to the Zoo, Vinny heard shrieks and yells from the playing pitches to his left. Stopping, he spied a game of camogie between a team of teenagers in blue and white stripes against a team in white and red. He moseyed over for a butcher’s hook. The team in stripes were clearly bigger, and better hurlers too, but the opposition had greater support, with one elderly female fan, sitting in a portable chair on pitch-side, the most vocal of the lot. As the whistle blew for half-time, Vinny saw the gung-ho grannie, 80 if she was a day, get to her feet, reach for a hurl and start pucking a sliothar about with one of the parents. As her yelps of joy carried across the Park plains, Vinny felt something stir within. Clearly, this was someone with a zest for life, someone who would rather be out in the air, than sitting at home coralled in by four walls and Father Time. Why couldn’t he be like that? Striding out towards the Castleknock Gates, Vinny felt the grey clouds of melancholy disperse from within. He knew he had much to live for, much to look forward to, and whatever tumbleweeds blew his way he would sidestep them, and move on. He pulled down his hoodie for he could see clearly now. It was time to reclaim his life and, with luck in running, win back his wife. It was time to build a few of his own bridges.

1973

Team: 1. Billy Morgan (Nemo Rangers), 2. Frank Cogan (Nemo Rangers), 3. Humphrey Kelleher (Millstreet) RIP, 4. Brian Murphy (Nemo Rangers), 5. Kevin Jer O'Sullivan (Adrigole), 6. John Coleman (Millstreet), 7. Con Hartnett (Millstreet), 8. Denis Long (Millstreet), 9. Denis Coughlan (St. Nick's), 10. Ned Kirby (Grange), 11. Declan Barron (Bantry Blues), 12. Dave McCarthy (Clonakilty), 13. Jimmy Barry-Murphy (St. Finbarr's), 14. Ray Cummins (St. Michael's), 15. Jimmy Barrett (Nemo Rangers)

Noelie

I’ve had a fair innings, says retiring Cork ace O’Leary Thursday, October 17, 2013 Long-serving Cork footballer Noel O’Leary has retired from intercounty football. By Michael Moynihan The Cill na Martra clubman won a minor All-Ireland title in 2000 and a senior Celtic Cross 10 years later. “I have no complaints,” said the wing-back yesterday. “I’ve had a fair innings with Cork. I’m there 14 years, believe it or not. “I came in first when there were still league games played before Christmas. I was brought in for a game against Limerick (in 2000), I remember. “It went pretty okay that day. I got a goal, which didn’t reflect the way things panned out afterwards, to be honest.” Unsurprisingly, O’Leary pointed to the Cork win over Down in the All-Ireland senior final three years ago as the high point of his career. “The senior All-Ireland was the highlight, obviously, though winning the minor was great crack as well. Having played for so long, and to come so close a couple of times before that, it was great to win it. “But there were other highlights, too. It might sound like a cliche, but making the friends I did with Cork, and with other counties, that was great. Seeing the world with the team was a great privilege too — I certainly saw places I’d never have seen otherwise.” O’Leary was a firm favourite with the Rebel faithful over the years, something he was always thankful for. “I’d have appreciated the support down the years. That never went unnoticed by me — or by the other players. People’s loyalty and support for you in good times and bad is not something you’d ever forget. “I want to thank my club, Cill na Martra, and my family for all their support, and I can’t leave out my fiancée Eimear. We’re getting married in December so we’ve something to look forward to.” Part of the reason O’Leary was such a favourite with the Cork support was his long-running battle with Kerry star Paul Galvin, with the two players getting involved in several skirmishes over the years. “He texted me after we won the All-Ireland, in fairness,” said O’Leary. “Look, we had a few clashes over the years but I think in reality a lot of those were blown slightly out of proportion by the media. “I’d have nothing but respect for Paul as a player and I’d hope he’d feel the same way about myself. “Yes, we had our battles in various games, those are memories I won’t forget, but I wouldn’t have a bad word said against Paul. “I’d appreciate everything he did and achieved as a player, and hopefully down the road we could meet up and have a few drinks and a chat.” And a chat about fashion, given Galvin’s well-known interest in cutting-edge clothing? “You never know, but he’d have a fair job on his hands sorting out my fashion sense.” With Cork Rebel Week in full flow, it’s appropriate that one of Leeside’s most popular heroes bows out with a nod to those he represented. “Wearing the senior jersey for Cork was the ultimate for me, something I dreamed of as a child and which came true for me as an adult. I’ll always appreciate the honour of representing the people of Cork.” © Irish Examiner Ltd. All rights reserved

Haven 2013

Castlehaven and Passage are small communities which take on city clubs with infinitely greater resources and try to make up the disparity through heart and soul and belief’ EAMONN SWEENEY – 20 OCTOBER 2013 As last Sunday's Cork senior football final entered the final quarter and the cries of 'Haaaven', 'Haaaven', accompanied by some lusty thumping of the back wall of the Blackrock Terrace rang round Páirc Uí Chaoimh, it was clear this was one of those unmistakable moments when a team has bent the game in its direction and victory is within its power. ALSO IN THIS SECTION 'Go home and wash yourself' - Sean Og O hAilpin reveals struggle against racism Murphy leads Ireland to first blood in muted encounter Colm O'Rourke: National games worthy of special place on curriculum €10 Mortgage Protection Mortgage Protection from €10 month. Compare 7 Companies. Instant Quote. InsuranceJunction.ie/instant-quote Stop Snoring, Now € 49 100% Guaranteed. Free Shipping! Recommended by Doctors. No fitting. SnoreMenders.co.uk/StopSnoring Ads by Google Castlehaven had just moved three points clear of a Nemo Rangers team that had threatened to blow them away in the first half, full-forward Brian Hurley was proving unmarkable, Seán Dineen was utterly dominating midfield and the West Cork team were driving for home. You might have thought, given Castlehaven's status as reigning champions, that there was something inevitable about that moment. But it wasn't like that at all. New beginnings After the 2012 season which ended in December with Munster final defeat by Dr Crokes of Killarney, Castlehaven had to come to terms with the kind of losses rural clubs expect in the current economic climate. By the start of 2013, Alan Cahalane, Mark Cahalane and Timmy O'Donovan had emigrated, David Burns retired and manager James McCarthy, considered to be the craftiest club boss in Cork, announced he was stepping down. James Mc seemed to a certain extent irreplaceable. At the AGM the club plumped for Finbarr Santry, the kind of invaluable official who's taken a turn at more or less every job going but an unknown quantity as manager. The fodder crisis This spring saw the nation's farmers in terrible difficulties. The dire weather meant that feed stockpiles were used up and the grass-growing season was severely shortened, a combination of circumstances which left farmers struggling to keep their cattle alive. Seán Dineen is a young farmer. He's also the best club midfielder in Cork. If it wasn't for the farming, he'd be an inter-county player and a good one. But the man works the kind of long and tiring hours which just don't fit in with inter-county commitments. And this year's added set of problems made it difficult to give the commitment at club level. He couldn't make league matches and the club wondered when they'd get him back for the championship. Because of the fodder crisis. This is the kind of thing Arsene Wenger and Pep Guardiola seldom have to worry about. Brian Three years ago, Brian Hurley was the best minor forward in Ireland. This year he was the best forward in the All-Ireland under 21 championship, scoring a goal of the most sublime quality in the final Cork lost to Galway. When I take my three daughters to Haven matches, I tell them to keep a close eye on Brian because he'll do things worth watching. On St Patrick's Day, we saw him score 14 points in an under 21 game. Everyone agreed it was something special, the kind of thing even Brian wouldn't do again in a hurry. He got 14 points again the week after. Everyone agreed it was the kind of score you'd hardly get in a senior match. Foreboding Nemo Rangers were firm favourites to win back the county title. They would also be Haven's first-round opponents. And going into that game on a week night in Bandon, Finbarr Santry found himself planning not just without Seán Dineen and the four guys who'd left the panel but without another five injured players. Castlehaven seemed set for defeat that night. Instead they drew 0-16 to 1-13 after extra-time. The replay went to extra-time too and Haven won by 4-10 to 1-12. Brian Hurley scored 2-7 and, like Achilles emerging from his tent to scatter the Trojans, Seán Dineen came on to start his season. The crisis was over. Damien, David and The Bricker Damien Cahalane knew he'd be going in for a hip operation once the team were knocked out. Until then he was going to play through the pain barrier. The semi-final opposition were Carbery, a divisional team some of whose constituent parts are bigger clubs in their own right than Castlehaven. Damien gritted his teeth, man-marked a succession of forwards who've played for Cork at different levels and got up the field for three points from wing-back. Haven trailed by one with a minute left and won by one. Without Damien and without his pain they were goners that day. These are the extremes that players who will never see a bob out of the game go to. Nothing is bigger than a GAA heart. Hearts like Damien's or like that of Liam 'The Bricker' Collins who played his first county final back in 1997 along with Damien's father Niall or that of David Limerick, who has come back from variouis injuries which cost him an inter-county career but couldn't stop him doing it for the club. Men who've paid a cost in pain but judged it worthwhile. Men who restore the proper and proud meaning to the word 'manly.' Connection The day before the final I bring my eight-year-old daughter Lara to the pitch for under 10 training. And it strikes me that connection is what makes the GAA special. Because Lara is playing on the same pitch where the senior players do their thing. OK, this happens in other clubs in other sports. But she and the other kids are also playing on the same pitch where Damien Cahalane's father Niall, his uncle John Cleary, Mike Maguire and Larry Tompkins trained when they won their All-Ireland medals in front of a packed Croke Park. And that is something different about the GAA, that link between the highest heights of the game and the humblest underage training session. Your kid may support Manchester United but he or she is unlikely to be kicking the ball around Old Trafford at the weekend. Who are Nemo Rangers? They are seven All-Ireland titles, 15 Munster titles and 18 Cork titles, all record-breaking totals. Eighteen wins out of 20 county finals, some of them massacres. The time to catch them is in an early round at a country venue because when they play games in Páirc Uí Chaoimh they are supreme. The idea that a team could beat them twice in the one championship seems far-fetched. And in the first half of the county final they are at their most Nemoesque, moving the ball at pace with the likes of James Masters and Paul Kerrigan kicking spectacular points and producing the kind of onslaught which threatens to destroy Castlehaven as it has destroyed so many teams before. Hanging in there But Haven are not destroyed. Instead they seem to draw strength from the challenge Nemo have presented, the challenge to play Gaelic football in its purest form. Roland Whelton, Steven Hurley and Shane Nolan each kick perhaps the best points of their careers, all of them outrageous angled efforts from distance. And even when an Alan Cronin goal puts Nemo four points ahead, Haven rally straight from the kick-out and hit three points on the trot to trail 1-9 to 0-11 at half-time. Twenty scores in 30 minutes of football, wouldn't it be great if it was like this all the time? Dineen and Hurley Inc Only one Haven player didn't play well in that first half. Seán Dineen gave the ball away for the goal and couldn't seem to get his hands on the ball. But from the beginning of the second half he took hold of the game at midfield, fetching high ball, winning breaking ball, driving forward with the kind of power which perhaps only comes from those hard and long hours in the fields. And he provides the ammunition for Brian Hurley to run at Nemo and hoist a couple of the most unlikely points over the bar, struck on the run under pressure with defenders hanging off him and homing in over the black spot like guided missiles. Those chants of 'Haaaven' 'Haaaven' begin and continue when the final whistle goes and the game ends 0-16 to 1-11 to Haven. Brian Hurley has 12 of those 16, five of them from play. You'll be seeing more of him. Foundations Why do I think Castlehaven are so important and worth writing about at such length? It's not simply because they're the club of my children, it's because they stand for something good and important in both Irish sport and society. So much of the time journalists have to write about controversy and complaint and cynicism and incompetence. Think of Budget day. But a club like Castlehaven, or like Passage whose first ever Waterford senior hurling title last Sunday must have been every bit as emotional an occasion, is based on values of hard work and pride and love. It's love above all which drives people on to build clubs which can produce days like this for their parishes. Castlehaven and Passage are based around fishing villages, small communities which take on city clubs with infinitely greater resources and try to make up the disparity through heart and soul and belief. They, and the people from the clubs who'll do themselves proud in another set of county finals today, don't regard the huge amount of voluntary work they do as a sacrifice. They think of it as a privilege. We travelled down on Sunday night and saw the bonfires and then the surreal spectacle of copious tables of fine whiskey and schnapps laid out by the side of the road by West Cork Distillers, co-founded by a former fisherman named Denis McCarthy whose son David won a West Cork minor title with the club just the week before. And as we piled out to sup it in the rain and sing, I thought of how much unseen work is needed to keep the Haven show on the road. Who are Castlehaven? The TV viewers saw Brian Hurley on Sunday but didn't see Brendan Deasy doing the stats, Martin O'Mahony and Dan O'Sullivan carrying the water, Niall and Dinny Cahalane advising Finbarr Santry, their brother-in-law, the quiet man who was the right choice in the end. They didn't see everyone who drove those players to games when they were kids, who put out the cones at training, who fetch the balls from the bushes behind the goals at the pitch and go out in the rain to sell draw tickets on wintry nights, or Jerome Geaney writing his county final song and Brendan O'Neill and Paddy Mullins singing it, or Fidelma Hurley, mother of midfielder Dermot and a woman who has fought serious illness this year with as much bravery as any player ever needs to summon up on the pitch, or Tom, the man from Cape Clear Island who has travelled in and out across that rough stretch of water for decades by boat for games and spent last week tending his cattle in a new Castlehaven jersey. Or Eilish Collins, a terrific young woman who played the organ in the local church and died in May after battling cancer and who the captain Seánie Cahalane mentioned in his speech because she supported the team and he knows how the club is about what happens off the pitch as well as on it. And all of it going back to the 1970s when the seven Collins brothers drove the club from Junior B to a senior county final in less than a decade and taught the parish that anything is possible if you dream big enough. Any club can learn from that. Any person too. Sophie Three days after the final, Seán Dineen became a father for the first time when his partner Gina gave birth to little Sophie who had wisely decided against making an appearance during the county final. And there was a beautiful picture on Facebook of the big hands which have driven cattle and carried bags of feed and caught such an amount of ball at midfield cradling his baby girl. Life goes on in Castlehaven. And so does football. It's hard to tell them apart sometimes.

Manchester United legend Sir Alex Ferguson gives blueprint for success

The former manager at Old Trafford reveals his secret in a series of interviews with a Harvard Business School professor

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• theguardian.com, Tuesday 10 September 2013 22.36 BST

Former Manchester United manager Sir Alex Ferguson went into detail about the key elements of his job to a Harvard professor. Photograph: Lindsey Parnaby/EPA

Sir Alex Ferguson has unveiled his managerial blueprint – while admitting the conditions that allowed him to be so successful at Manchester Unitedare unlikely ever to be replicated.

Over a series of interviews with the Harvard Business School professor Anita Elberse in 2012, Ferguson went into detail about what he believed to be the eight key elements of his job.

In doing so, Ferguson said he did not believe a manager would be given four years to achieve success, as he was at United, and that the manager should always remain in control of the dressing room, a situation that does not apply at all clubs.

He also outlined his natural instinct for taking risks, which led to so many dramatic late victories and, in direct contrast to his successor David Moyes, said he felt observing training sessions, rather than running them, was essential to his own managerial ability.

This is an edited version of his theories, which appear in full in the October edition of the Harvard Business Review.

1 Start with the foundation

"From the moment I got to Manchester United, I thought of only one thing: building a football club. I wanted to build right from the bottom. The first thought of 99% of newly appointed managers is to make sure they win – to survive. They bring experienced players in. At some clubs, you need only to lose three games in a row and you're fired. In today's football world, with a new breed of directors and owners, I am not sure any club would have the patience to wait for a manager to build a team over a four-year period. Winning a game is only a short-term gain – you can lose the next game. Building a club brings stability and consistency."

2 Dare to rebuild your team

"We identified three levels of players: 30 and older, 23 to 30, and the younger ones. The idea was that the younger players were developing and would meet the standards the older ones had set. I believe that the cycle of a successful team lasts maybe four years and then some change is needed. So we tried to visualise the team three or four years ahead and make decisions accordingly. Because I was at United for such a long time, I could afford to plan ahead. I was very fortunate in that respect. The hardest thing is to let go of a player who has been a great guy – but all the evidence is on the field."

3 Set high standards – and hold everyone to them

"Everything we did was about maintaining the standards we had set as a football club – this applied to all my team building, my team preparation, motivational talks and tactical talks. I had to lift players' expectations. They should never give in. I said to them all the time: 'If you give in once, you'll give in twice'. I used to be the first to arrive in the morning. In my later years, a lot of my staff members would already be there when I got in at 7am.

"I expected even more from the star players. Superstars with egos are not the problem some people may think. They need to be winners because that massages their egos, so they will do what it takes to win. I used to see Ronaldo, Beckham, Giggs, Scholes practising for hours. They realised that being a Manchester United player is not an easy job."

4 Never, ever cede control

"If the day came that the manager of Manchester United was controlled by the players – if the players decided how the training should be, what days they should have off, what the discipline should be and what the tactics should be – then Manchester United would not be the Manchester United we know. I wasn't going to allow anyone to be stronger than I was. Your personality has to be bigger than theirs. There are occasions when you have to ask yourself whether certain players are affecting the dressing-room atmosphere, the performance of the team and your control of the players and staff. If they are, you have to cut the cord. There is absolutely no other way. It doesn't matter if the person is the best player in the world. Some English clubs have changed managers so many times that it creates power for the players in the dressing room. That is very dangerous. If the coach has no control, he will not last."

5 Match the message to the moment

"No one likes to be criticised. Most respond to encouragement. For any human being – there is nothing better than hearing 'Well done'. Those are the two best words ever invented. At the same time you need to point out mistakes when players don't meet expectations. That is when reprimands are important. I would do it right after the game. I wouldn't wait until Monday and then it was finished. My pre-game talks were about our expectations, the players' belief in themselves and their trust in one another. In half-time talks, you have maybe eight minutes to deliver your message, so it is vital to use the time well. Everything is easier when you are winning. When you are losing, you have to make an impact. Fear has to come into it. But you can be too hard; if players are fearful all the time, they won't perform well. You play different roles at different times. Sometimes you have to be a doctor, or a teacher, or a father."

6 Prepare to win

"Winning is in my nature. There is no other option for me. Even if five of the most important players were injured, I expected to win. I am a risk taker and you can see that in how we played in the late stages of matches. If we were still down with 15 minutes to go, I was ready to take more risks. I was perfectly happy to lose 3-1 if it meant we'd given ourselves a good chance to draw or win. So in those last 15 minutes, we'd go for it. We'd put in an extra attacking player and worry less about defence. We knew that if we ended up winning 3-2, it would be a fantastic feeling. And if we lost 3-1, we'd been losing anyway. All my teams had perseverance – they never gave in. It's a fantastic characteristic to have."

7 Rely on the power of observation

"Observation is the final part of my management structure. One afternoon at Aberdeen I had a conversation with my assistant manager and another coach who pointed out I could benefit from not always having to lead the training. At first I said no but deep down I knew he was right. So I delegated training. It was the best thing I ever did. It didn't take away my control. My presence and ability to supervise were always there and what you can pick up by watching is incredibly valuable. Seeing a change in a player's habits or a sudden dip in his enthusiasm allowed me to go further with him. Sometimes I could even tell that a player was injured when he thought he was fine."

8 Never stop adapting

"When I started, there were no agents and although games were televised, the media did not elevate players to the level of film stars and constantly look for new stories about them. Stadiums have improved, pitches are in perfect condition now and sports science has a strong influence on how we prepare for the season. Owners from Russia, the Middle East and other regions have poured a lot of money into the game and are putting pressure on managers. And players have led more sheltered lives, so they are much more fragile than players were 25 years ago."

The day Harry Redknapp brought a fan on to play for West Ham

http://www.theguardian.com/football/blog/2013/sep/05/harry-redknapp-played-fan-west-ham

The day Harry Redknapp brought a fan on to play for West Ham

According to one of football's most endearing fairytales, Harry Redknapp once pulled an abusive fan from the crowd and put him on the field for West Ham. This allegedly happened in 1994, but no video and scant evidence of the incident exist. Jeff Maysh chased this mystery for over a decade before finally catching up with the fan in question

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Harry Redknapp chats to Steve Davies in the crowd at Oxford in 1994, before sending him on as a substitute. Photograph: Steve Bacon

• Originally published in Howler Magazine

Ever since he was five years old, Steve Davies dreamed of playing forWest Ham United. He grew up in the rain-thrashed English working-class town of Rushden, where by birthright he should have supported Rushden Town, or Northampton, or even Coventry City. But after watching West Ham triumph over Fulham in the 1975 FA Cup final, he became a long-distance fan, pledging his allegiance to the claret and blue of the Hammers.

"The other kids at school said I should support a local team. But I just knew I was West Ham. I can't explain it really," says Steve as I hand him a pint of beer and we begin the interview. "I wore the shirt with pride and would travel to see the games as often as I could." (A 182-mile round trip.) Young Steve devoured football magazines and decorated his bedroom walls with photographs of West Ham players.

West Ham's Trevor Brooking. Photograph: Allsport

"Trevor Brooking was my hero. I had hundreds of photos of Brooking," says Steve of the West Ham legend who played 528 times for the Hammers and scored 88 goals, including a boy's day-dream of a diving header to steal the FA Cup from Arsenal in 1980. Four months after that, a teenage Steve Davies sneaked on to a train to London to watch Brooking and West Ham United play Watford at Upton Park and was thrilled when the ball flew toward him as he stood in the North Bank. "Amazingly, I caught it," he recalls. "Next thing, Trevor Brooking runs over and signals for me to throw it back."

But Steve couldn't let go. As Trevor came ever closer, he clutched the ball. "I remember being that close to my hero. 'Come and get it!' I said." To Steve's delight, he did. Steve gave back the ball and play resumed. "It was a memory that stayed with me for ages," says Steve. "It was all terraces back then, and when a player would take a corner, I could lean over and almost touch him. Almost." West Ham won 3–2, Brooking scored, and Steve had a story to tell his dad after making the long journey back to Rushden.

Steve's father, a Welshman named Geoff Davies, was a broad-shouldered Sunday-league defender, and when young Steve came of age, he too began playing in the waterlogged Sunday leagues of the Midlands. "Dad played well into his forties," says Steve proudly. Steve turned out for Fishermead, a strong pub team in Milton Keynes. "Every lad dreamed of playing for their favorite team, and every time I ran on to the pitch I wished I was playing for West Ham United." His boyhood idols were all strong defenders like his old man. "As a teenager, I pretended I was Billy Bonds when I played. I used to admire good defenders, like Ray Stewart. He was Scottish, and the best penalty taker – top corner every time – you wouldn't pick one out. I also tried to model myself on Kenny Sansom, but I was never really good enough, if I'm honest."

Like almost all young men who dream of becoming professional sportsmen, Steve's limitations were slowly revealed to him on those frosty fields, and he became distracted by other things, notably West Ham United. "I started going to West Ham proper when I was 15, hence the accent," he says, explaining why he speaks like an East End barrow boy. "I was down there every week, even going to away games. They were great days." But Britain was suffering civil unrest, and the fall of its unions, violent miners' strikes, and mass unemployment made the 1980s a decade of strife that created a microcosm of the football terraces: young men were angry, just because, and hooliganism was born.

When Persil printed vouchers on the sides of their soapboxes for discounted train tickets, it made travelling support feasible for an entire generation of youngsters. "Mum bought the Persil, I cut the coupons out, and I was off," he says, and the 80s whizzed past in a blur of industrial chimneys and foreboding clouds out of train windows.

Steve had crossed into an exciting new world that smelled of detergent, warm lager, and railway carriages, and he grew from boy to man standing on the terraces in faraway towns. "I'd get stuck in places like Sheffield and couldn't get home, sleeping in empty stations. Fucking hell! But it was brilliant, and West Ham had great away support. We became notorious for it."

As he drifted into his twenties, Steve's desire to play professional football all but evaporated. "I still played on Sundays sometimes when I wasn't away with West Ham, more so I could have a drink dinner-time," he says. "You know, turn up, have a pint — that sort of thing." His preferred habitat shifted from the chilly fields of Sunday-league football to the smoke-filled pubs of East London. Inside the Black Lion or the Boleyn Tavern, you could find Steve on any given Saturday, pint aloft, singing that popular waltz from 1918, famously adopted by West Ham fans:

I'm forever blowing bubbles 
Pretty bubbles in the air 
They fly so high 
Nearly reach the sky 
Then like my dreams 
They fade and die.

'Football was changing, wasn't it?'

West Ham United finished Division One runners-up in 1992–93, securing promotion to the top-flight. It was only the second year since the First Division had been remodelled into the fancy Premier League with its loads of cash and players in shampoo commercials. English teams were beginning to attract foreign players with exotic names who performed colourful Italian hand gestures at referees. West Ham signed a Portuguese striker and male model, prompting then–assistant managerHarry Redknapp to quip, "Dani is so good-looking I don't know whether to play him or fuck him."

Steve now rarely daydreamed about playing for West Ham. In 1990, he had his first child, Chloe, and in 1993, a boy named Samuel Brooking, named after his West Ham hero, Trevor. To support his new family he became a same-day courier, driving night and day, delivering packages for companies. Finally, he could put to good use the knowledge of British geography he had acquired following the Irons cross-country.

"I remember one package in particular I picked up at a graphic designer's place in Milton Keynes. I had to take it to Cambridge to be proofed, then they sent me to Bristol. Got to Bristol at half eleven at night, and they says to me, 'You gots to take this to Manchester … and it's got to be there for nine am.' I couldn't believe it. Turns out I was delivering the architectural plans for Manchester City's ground, for their new Kippax stand."

After the Hillsborough disaster in 1989 that killed 96 fans, many English stadiums were rebuilt, giving the league a facelift. "This was the 90s," recalls Steve. "Everyone was getting new stadiums and all sorts. Football was changing, wasn't it?"

With promotion came a claret-and-blue executive team bus with tinted windows and mini-fridges that would deliver West Ham to play the giants of English football: Manchester United, Arsenal, and Liverpool. In their first season in the Premiership, West Ham finished 13th.

'Chunk called me up one day and said, "We got a pre-season game over at Oxford – fancy it?'

Steve's best friend was Chunk, and Chunk was also a die-hard West Ham fan. Chunk's real name was Steve, but the nickname was endearing. "He's not fat or nothing," explains Steve Davies. "He's he's just too big to run."

Steve and Chunk would travel home and away to watch their team, often driving the length of the country. Chunk was from nearby Hemel Hempstead and drove a gold Vauxhall Cavalier Sri, the type of car favoured by substitute teachers and people with gambling debts.

"He's a true mate," says Steve. "My first wife was called Kelly, and Chunk's missus was also called Kelly, and they got pregnant at exactly the same time." The Steves and their Kellys once drove 230 miles to Torquay to watch West Ham play when the Kellys were five months pregnant. "Every five miles we had to stop for them to be sick at the side of the road," Steve says. "We nearly missed the kick-off.

"Chunk called me up one day and said, 'We got a pre-season game over at Oxford – fancy it?'" remembers Steve, who never said no to West Ham. "We liked to get a couple of games in early. We get withdrawal symptoms when the season finishes in May. I very rarely missed a game, and I fancied a little away trip to Oxford anyways." Steve's mate Bazza was also in Chunk's Cavalier as it idled outside Steve's house.

A view of the Oxford City FC gates inside Court Place Farm Stadium. Photograph: Richard Heathcote/The FA via Getty Images

Court Place Farm sits amid the bleak fields of Oxfordshire, a patchwork quilt of icy horticultural land wrapped in the concrete ribbons of motorway that stretch 60 miles east to London and 148 miles west to Wales. There lies the picture-postcard city of Oxford, famous for its historic university and church steeples that inspired a mid-18th-century poet to christen it the "city of dreaming spires."

Oxford City Football Club plays in the shadow of local rival Oxford United, who are two leagues above them, and both teams are still worlds away from the neon-coloured cleats and mega-screen televisions of the Premier League. The school-teacher who serves scalding-hot tea at half-time for Oxford argues that this is "real football," played by real men who don't use conditioner and work second jobs. Along the edge of the muddy field, the pitch is outlined with daisies. And while it may not host the pyrotechnics and prima donnas of the Premier League, Oxford City has enjoyed some of football's most remarkable dramas.

In his book, Soccer's Strangest Matches, Andrew Ward chronicled "The Endless Cup Tie" of November 1971, in which Oxford City and Alvechurch played a qualifying-round FA Cup tie over six games and 660 minutes before Alvechurch player Bobby Hope's 588th-minute headed goal finally divided the teams, and champagne flowed … in both dressing rooms. "It became an endurance test," wrote Ward. "Alvechurch midfielder Derek Davies, a car-worker on nights, had to be rested from the fourth game … and a few minutes after the fifth game, an elderly Alvechurch supporter collapsed and tragically died."

Framed memorabilia of Oxford City's record FA Cup tie against Alvechurch. Photograph: Richard Heathcote - The Fa/The FA via Getty Images

Yet on this summer night in 1994, an even stranger fixture was about to occur. Russell Smith, sports editor at the Oxford Mail, recalls that the town was excited for the return of Joey Beauchamp, the young Oxford United winger who had just transferred to West Ham for a fee of £1.2m, a lad surely destined for stardom with the Irons. Beauchamp's new team-mates consisted of tough international players like Ludek Miklosko, Alvin Martin, American defender Steve Potts, and a crew of everyman sloggers keen to hack those snazzy foreigners in the Premiership for fun.

'That's why the top clubs were all after me'

It is 1 March 2013. the 17.17 race at Monmore Green. Ballymac Clara explodes out of trap six like a dog possessed. By the first turn she is already placed second as the rest of the pack instinctively chases the electric hare zipping around the track. Bred from a champion stud, Ballymac is a young white bitch with distinctive black markings, and she thunders around the outside, ears pinned back, eyes bulging. This is her first major race, and expectations are high. On the final bend, she is ahead and romps home by an astonishing six and a quarter lengths, running 480 feet in just under 29 seconds.

"Get in!" Joey Beauchamp, 42, entreats a television in a deserted Oxford betting shop as the handsome dog crosses the finish line. "It was only a small bet, but she won easy," he says with delight. "I had 40 quid on her." Beauchamp is no longer the lithe 23-year-old in the photographs he proudly keeps on his BlackBerry. There, on the tiny screen, he wears the claret and blue of West Ham and is volleying a ball goal-bound. The photograph is from the Oxford City match of 27 July 1994.

"Darren Anderton went to Tottenham for a million pounds the same time as I went to West Ham," Beauchamp says as he steps out into the street, clutching his winnings. "We were similar players. There was no real left-footed wingers in England before Beckham; I was at the top of my game. That's why the top clubs were all after me." His breath, visible in the cold air, disappears high into the night sky. "We honestly thought we had a serious talent on our hands in Joey," recalls Mark Edwards, chief sports reporter at The Oxford Times. "The Oxford manager at the time said, 'Joey could play for England.' At the top of his game, no player could live with him on the left wing, he was that fast."

Joey Beauchamp, playing for West Ham in another 1994 pre-season friendly, this time against St Albans. Photograph: Bob Thomas/Getty Images

Joey Beauchamp, the million-pound boy wonder, made his West Ham debut in front of a crowd of local admirers, friends, and family at Oxford City's ground. "But unfortunately," he says, "everyone remembers the game for a completely different reason …"

'I asked him, what size boots are you, son?'

Chunk, Bazza, Steve, and Steve's wife were sitting by a fence with the travelling West Ham fans when Redknapp emerged from the dressing room and greeted them. "Harry being Harry, he talks to people," says Steve. "He said hello and all that. A few fans exchanged pleasantries. But there's no airs and graces with Harry."

The first half kicked off like almost every other of the hundreds of West Ham games Steve had watched in his life, over the thousands of miles he'd travelled as a disciple of West Ham United. "Lee Chapman was up front for us, on the edge of the area, and he went up against a little guy from Oxford," recalls Steve. "Lee towered over him, but came down on his arse!" Steve was enraged. "Come on, you donkey, Chapman, you're useless!" he shouted at the striker. "Get up!"

"If you're watching your team and someone does something really daft, you won't leave them alone for a couple of minutes," explains Steve. "I think Chapman lost the ball again, he got tackled and got a cut on his shin. He went down, and I was shouting, 'Come on! Get up, you donkey!'" Chapman was being hit hard by Oxford's defenders. "He kept getting whacked, and I gave him crap for that," Steve says.

Then-West Ham United forward Lee Chapman. Photograph: Ben Radford/Getty Images

Harry Redknapp delights in telling this particular yarn. Last time he told the story it was on TV show A League of Their Own, at Christmas last year. "There's a guy next to the dug-out," Harry told the host, "and he's got West Ham tattooed all over his arms and neck, he's got the earrings … After two minutes, he started on me." Today, speaking to me in his third one-on-one interview since taking over as QPR boss, he slips into storytelling mode.

"'We ain't got that Lee Chapman up front do we – I ain't coming every week if he's playing,'" says Harry, doing his impression of Steve. "Half-time I made five substitutions, and we only had the bare 11 out – I was running out of players. Then we got another injury, so I said to this guy in the crowd, 'Oi, can you play as good as you talk?'"

The rest of the tale is hallowed football folklore. "I slung a leg over the barrier and Harry walked me down the tunnel," says Steve. "What's your name, son?" Harry asked, sizing up this apparent hooligan. "I couldn't believe it. Inside the dressing room, the players were sat down resting at half-time." West Ham were two-nil up, but the team was carrying injuries. "Then Harry and says, 'Lee you're off; Steve you're on.'"

Chapman, shirtless, just nodded. "I asked him, what size boots are you, son?" Redknapp recalls. The kit manager brought Steve a uniform.

"Alvin Martin was sat next to me, and as we stood up, he smacked me on the back of the head, like a little livener. We come on up the tunnel and I still thought Harry was having a laugh with me. I didn't think I was actually gonna get on, or I thought I might get a minute or two as a joke." The crowd broke into applause as the teams appeared once again.

The second half kicked off with a shrill whistle. "I didn't come out of Oxford's half," laughs Steve. "I was playing up front with Trevor Morley, goal-hanging! It was fucking quick football. This was a step up from Sunday league, to say the least. Oxford play Saturday football – I played Sunday football, pub football.

"I got a few touches, including a pass from Alvin Martin; I remember he called out my name in his Scouse accent. I was blown away. 'Stevie!' he shouted, and he sent the ball pinging to my feet. It had such pace on it, nearly knocked me over."

Steve says he was out of his depth, trying to keep up with international players and fighting the urge to steal a glance over to the stands where his wife, Bazza, and Chunk were watching in disbelief. "I didn't get any shots on target because I was never alone. This wasn't like park football. Defenders didn't leave you alone."

Redknapp issues instructions to Davies. Photograph: Steve Bacon

When the stadium announcer saw Steve take to the field, he sent an assistant down to get the name of this new signing so he could announce it to the crowd. "I asked the guy, you been watching the World Cup?" Redknapp tells me. "The great Bulgarian Tittyshev?"

"It didn't feel natural at all – that's what people always ask," says Steve. "I was just trying to stay calm. After the first five minutes, my legs were shaking; I was playing for West Ham! After that it was just 'get on with the game' kind of thing. I was running on adrenaline, and I was more worried about fucking up. I played a safe game, made a couple of passes hooking up with the centre-half, Martin" – who, Steve says, was "solid as a rock" — "and Beauchamp. He was hot property at the time." In fact, Beauchamp scored a cracking goal in the 65th minute, a top-corner screamer, which was ruled offside.

"Suddenly, we were on the attack," recalls Steve. "The ball went out wide – I'm sure it was Matty Holmes on the wing – and we pushed forward. I had two defenders in front of me and I was just sprinting forward, I think." He didn't purposely split the defenders, but neither was marking him tightly, and Steve flew forward, fast out of the traps. He picked up the ball from Holmes, and a clumsy first touch took him and the ball into the penalty area. Suddenly, thousands of eyes fell upon him as he escaped the pack. He was, for a moment, an image from a poster on the wall of his childhood bedroom.

The legend of Steve Davies, the courier from Milton Keynes

In the history of professional football, no fan had ever come from the stands and played for their team. That's not to say fans have never influenced a sporting result. Jeffrey Maier was a 12-year-old American baseball fan who became famous when he deflected a batted ball in play into the Yankee Stadium stands during Game 1 of the 1996 American League Championship Series, between New York and the Orioles.There's footage of Fernanda Maia, a quick-thinking Brazilian ball-girl, setting up a goal with a deft pass to a Botafogo player in the Campeonato Carioca final between Botafogo and Vasco da Gama. The closest story to that of Steve Davies's is that of music fan Scot Halpin, who became a rock 'n' roll legend when he attended The Who's sold-out show at San Francisco's Cow Palace in November 1973. The 19-year-old rock fan, then living in Monterey, California, bought a pair of scalped tickets for the show. When drummer Keith Moon collapsed for a second time due to drink and drugs, Halpin was invited to the stage and filled in for an entire set, drumming with his heroes.

But what happened that night at Court Place Farm in the 71st minute was even more remarkable. It made a legend of Steve Davies, the courier from Milton Keynes.

Sadly, Steve's magical moment occurred before camera phones and YouTube. Almost every West Ham fan can tell you his story, yet there exists little evidence of what exactly happened: in the dusty archives of the Oxford Mail, the brown envelope that should hold the match reports from 1994 is empty.

I first tried to find the truth 10 years ago. I wrote letters to some 200 people named Steven Davies in East London and placed an ad in a West Ham fanzine that read: "Are you Harry's fan?" No one replied.

Eventually, I found documentation of the game in London, hidden in the bowels of the British Library on microfilm that one must request access to a week in advance. There, you can trawl through ancient issues of British tabloid newspapers. Turn a lever and English news of the 1990s plays out like a primitive phenakistoscope of tabloid scandal and kiss-and-tells. Thatcher grimaces; topless models, with hair in perms and lips painted red, flash their wares. I also contacted Steve Bacon, West Ham's loyal photographer, who had to hunt through years of negatives to find Steve's moment.

Steve Davies during the second half. Photograph: Steve Bacon

Steve Davies finally came forward when a house fire destroyed his precious memorabilia in 2011. Searching an Oxford City online forum for evidence of that day, he found my appeal, from many years before, for him to speak about the game. Three months later, in freezing March, I flew from Los Angeles, where I live and work, to Oxford.

On an icy field, Steve nervously re-creates what happened. He takes me to the corner of the field where he watched the first half of the game, and where Harry called him out. Steve was the loudest voice in the crowd, the only supporter passionate enough to be noticed in the stands at a pre-season game. And then he talks me through what happened in the 71st minute.

Half an hour previously, he had been sucking on a cigarette in the away supporters' end, swigging from a bottle, and considering a third beer. Now he's taken the pass in stride and is in front of goal; City's veteran keeper Colin Fleet is bearing down on him, palms out, head down. The summer sun has dropped low beneath the bare trees on the horizon, painting the entire scene gold and casting long shadows.

"I just hit it," he says with a shrug. "I hit it like nothing else. Know what I mean? I belted it." The ball whistled low, past the outstretched hand of the Oxford goalkeeper, and ran into the bottom corner of the goal. Steve says he wheeled away in celebration, arms extended, head bent with disbelief. On the side of the field, Redknapp turned around and looked briefly to the heavens.

"It was like time stopped still – it was the greatest moment of my life," says Steve. Somewhere in the crowd, Bazza and Chunk were losing their minds. Steve Davies had scored on his West Ham debut.

"After that, I was exhausted. I was on 30 cigarettes a day back then," Steve admits. "I wouldn't condone it. I had a couple of cigs and a couple of beers in the first half, didn't I?" He admits his goal was not spectacular: "I'm not gonna butter myself up, but they all count." And when the full-time whistle blew, West Ham had won 4–0. Steve walked down the tunnel with the rest of his team-mates, jubilant.

Then, as suddenly as it began, the dream was over. The kit manager wouldn't let Steve keep his No3 shirt – they'd need it against Newcastle the next week in the Premier League. And 25 minutes later, Steve was back in the Cavalier with Chunk, Bazza, and his missus, stuck in traffic on the road back to reality.

An allegory for hope

In the Magdalen Arms, Oxford, the waiter drops two plates of battered haddock in front of me and Steve. "What's this?" Steve says, prodding the massive fish. "A whale?" It's nearly 20 years since that game, and the former West Ham striker still has his head shaved. He has been divorced and remarried. His new wife, Tammy, says that to strangers, Steve can look "psychotic," which his friends find funny. He has a dry wit and disarming sense of humour. After modestly recounting his brief but spectacular playing career, he asks me: "After all this time, why did you keep chasing this story?" He lights a cigarette. I explain that his story is an allegory for hope.

That game against Oxford City happened to be the last time Beauchamp ever played for West Ham. Citing "homesickness," he left the club after just 56 days. The Hammers had paid more than £1m, and in one of his only appearances, he had been outplayed by a £300-a-week courier from the crowd. Beauchamp was transferred to Oxford United's rivals, Swindon, infuriating his home team's fans, before he was transferred back to Oxford. He would play 238 more games for his local team before his career fizzled out.

Joey Beauchamp, back playing with Oxford United in 1998. Photograph: Clive Mason/Allsport

In 2010, he told the Oxford Mailthat he had never wanted to join West Ham in the first place: "Oxford United told me that if I didn't join West Ham, then Oxford would be over; they had no money. What was I supposed to do? I could never have lived with myself if I refused to join West Ham and then Oxford did go under."

Was the real reason Joey Beauchamp ended up playing for his hated rival, Swindon, a secret plot to save the club he dreamed of playing for as a child? If it was, the fans haven't yet realised it: "I still get abused by Oxford fans to this day about playing for Swindon," he told the Oxford Mail soon after being arrested for drunk driving. But Beauchamp fought back and this year took his first real job after attending a seminar for unemployed former soccer players: he works in a betting shop. "I'm playing football tomorrow, actually," he tells me. "I'm turning out for a local pub team called Northway. I've got 36 goals this season. I'm their top scorer!"

What happened next

The week after Harry Redknapp took the audacious step of putting a West Ham fan on the field, the club promoted him from assistant manager to manager. It is not known if the two events were related. By 1999, he had pushed West Ham to their second-highest finish: fifth place in the Premiership, qualifying to play in Europe. Spells at Southampton and Portsmouth followed, and he took the latter to their first FA Cup final in 69 years in May 2008. Portsmouth won 1-0. He led Tottenham Hotspur to the Champions League, becoming Premier League Manager of the Year. Last season, he was manager of the doomed Queen's Park Rangers, whom he could not save from relegation.

Harry Redknapp managing West Ham in 1999. Photograph: Phil Cole/Allsport

Speaking from his Range Rover, at the end of a stressful season, Redknapp is driving toward his vacation spot on the English coast. "I was hoping he could play good," he tells me. "I wasn't trying to make him look silly. I thought I'd make his day. I could see he loved West Ham. He'll never forget it as long as he lives. He came on, ran around, loved it, scored a goal. He played for West Ham!"

After his West Ham debut, Steve Davies returned to his normal life, but with a new outlook. Back in the smoke-filled pubs for the West Ham games, he was now Steve Davies, the fan who came from the crowd to score for West Ham. In the Boleyn pub, he would joke about his "long and distinguished career". But at work, something had changed. He plucked up the courage to strike out on his own, launching a courier company.

"I kept the business small," he says. "I done all right out of it, I suppose. I had three drivers, all earning decent money." He still follows West Ham United, home and away.

As we finish our fish supper, Steve presses a final cigarette into the ashtray and tells me he has a confession to make. He runs a hand over his shaved head, visibly embarrassed, and says, "My goal was disallowed." He smiles roguishly. "I was two yards offside. I ran up to the ref and told him, 'You bastard, you spoiled my dream!'"