At around this time in 2006, soon after Chelsea beat Manchester United at Stamford Bridge to secure a second successive league title, Sir Alex Ferguson’s phone rang. It was some bloke called Aidy Boothroyd, at the time just some gobby, upstart young coach who had somehow landed his Watford team in the Championship playoffs. “I phoned him up, asked for some advice and he gave me some pearls,” Boothroyd said later. “He lent me a couple of books and he’s always been at the end of the phone if I ever need any help. I think he does that for everybody.”
I remember being surprised by this at the time. Ferguson was 64, had already retired once, had won eight English league titles, was at the time the subject of savage and, it soon transpired, wildly misplaced criticism due to his side’s poor performance (they still finished second), and was just gearing up to win the league again in each of the next three years and five of the next seven. He had, in short, plenty on his plate already without being pestered for tips by fanboys. And yet there he was, lending books to Aidy Boothroyd. “He will always pick up the phone or phone you back if he can’t get to you the first time,” Boothroyd said the following year. “I’ve never known him not to call back.”
