Read Online #2Sides: My Autobiography by Rio Ferdinand - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Rio Ferdinand
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One thing the case did clarify was who we could rely on. At the height of the nastiness, people were criticising us, saying, ‘it’s only a comment, let it go.’ I’d say: ‘You let it go! I can’t let it go because it’s too important to let go.’
When my Mum fell ill I was in Manchester most of the time. I couldn’t even sit with her at the hospital for long, just days here and there, sometimes only a few hours. And my Dad … well, the entire time I know he wanted to explode. He had to watch his son almost wasting away and being vilified in the media and he couldn’t defend him.
In the middle of all this, Sir Alex Ferguson was brilliant. He sent Mum flowers and spoke to her on the phone. That’s the touch he’s got. No one else in the game that I’ve met has it. He’d ring her regularly, just to say, ‘Are you OK?’ It was his personal touch, from the heart. And my Mum would call me and tell me about it, and be so moved. It really gave her a boost. Fergie probably didn’t even know how much that meant.
Mum and Dad showed solidarity together going to court with Anton every day. And Jamie Moralee, who’s Anton’s agent as well as mine, went to court every day. That was impressive: a white guy going in, day in day out, on a race case on behalf of a black guy. That’s putting yourself in the firing line. Jamie has a family: what if some racist pig comes and knocks on his door? That’s the type of shit you’ve got to acknowledge. That took guts and Jamie has guts.
I wish I could say the same for some of the people we expected more from. At the time of the trial, rather late in the day, KickIt Out came to Mum and said, ‘What can we do? We’re here to provide support.’
‘Support? Great,’ said my Mum. ‘You can walk into that court room with us.’
And they said ‘Oh, we’ll send someone as an observer.’
‘No that’s not what we need,’ said my Mum. ‘Don’t send some suit no one knows and no one sees. Send your people in T-shirts to walk in with us. Stand with us so people know this a racism case and you’re here on our side.’
‘Oh no, we can’t do that,’ came the reply. They refused.
So Mum said: ‘In that case, get out of my house, and don’t fucking come near us again.’ In the event, they did send a guy called Danny Lynch to the trial – in a suit – and no-one in the press reported his presence. I think Mum was right.
With Kick It Out I felt it was pure lip service. They were useless. So were other organisations. Outside the court, I saw Clark Carlisle of the PFA doing interviews. I said: ‘Come in the courtroom.’
‘Oh I can’t be seen to be going in there.’
‘What do you mean? You should be going in there supporting John
and
my brother.’ I didn’t say ‘come and support my brother.’ I said this a racism case so come in and support three of your players who are members, who put money into your organisation every year.
‘Oh, we can’t … We can’t get involved like that.’ Why not? You’re standing out here doing interviews for your documentary! What the fuck’s that about? When shit gets real, what happens? Where are you? Where are these people?
Months later, a year after the original incident, 3 months after the court case, after all the horrible things we’d had to go through, Kick it Out organised their T-shirt weekend. They wantedeveryone to wear a T-shirt saying ‘One Game, One Community.’ As if everything was fine now. Problem solved. They asked me if I was going to wear the T-shirt. ‘Are you crazy? Not a chance!’ If they weren’t willing to go into the court room with us, then I wasn’t willing to go through the charade of wearing their T-shirt. I know it was tit-for-tat but if I’d worn that T-shirt, my Dad wouldn’t have spoken to me. Mum probably would have spoken to me, but she would have been deeply disappointed. And I’d disappointed my Mum and Dad too many times in my life to do it this time.
Then it
One thing the case did clarify was who we could rely on. At the height of the nastiness, people were criticising us, saying, ‘it’s only a comment, let it go.’ I’d say: ‘You let it go! I can’t let it go because it’s too important to let go.’
When my Mum fell ill I was in Manchester most of the time. I couldn’t even sit with her at the hospital for long, just days here and there, sometimes only a few hours. And my Dad … well, the entire time I know he wanted to explode. He had to watch his son almost wasting away and being vilified in the media and he couldn’t defend him.
In the middle of all this, Sir Alex Ferguson was brilliant. He sent Mum flowers and spoke to her on the phone. That’s the touch he’s got. No one else in the game that I’ve met has it. He’d ring her regularly, just to say, ‘Are you OK?’ It was his personal touch, from the heart. And my Mum would call me and tell me about it, and be so moved. It really gave her a boost. Fergie probably didn’t even know how much that meant.
Mum and Dad showed solidarity together going to court with Anton every day. And Jamie Moralee, who’s Anton’s agent as well as mine, went to court every day. That was impressive: a white guy going in, day in day out, on a race case on behalf of a black guy. That’s putting yourself in the firing line. Jamie has a family: what if some racist pig comes and knocks on his door? That’s the type of shit you’ve got to acknowledge. That took guts and Jamie has guts.
I wish I could say the same for some of the people we expected more from. At the time of the trial, rather late in the day, KickIt Out came to Mum and said, ‘What can we do? We’re here to provide support.’
‘Support? Great,’ said my Mum. ‘You can walk into that court room with us.’
And they said ‘Oh, we’ll send someone as an observer.’
‘No that’s not what we need,’ said my Mum. ‘Don’t send some suit no one knows and no one sees. Send your people in T-shirts to walk in with us. Stand with us so people know this a racism case and you’re here on our side.’
‘Oh no, we can’t do that,’ came the reply. They refused.
So Mum said: ‘In that case, get out of my house, and don’t fucking come near us again.’ In the event, they did send a guy called Danny Lynch to the trial – in a suit – and no-one in the press reported his presence. I think Mum was right.
With Kick It Out I felt it was pure lip service. They were useless. So were other organisations. Outside the court, I saw Clark Carlisle of the PFA doing interviews. I said: ‘Come in the courtroom.’
‘Oh I can’t be seen to be going in there.’
‘What do you mean? You should be going in there supporting John
and
my brother.’ I didn’t say ‘come and support my brother.’ I said this a racism case so come in and support three of your players who are members, who put money into your organisation every year.
‘Oh, we can’t … We can’t get involved like that.’ Why not? You’re standing out here doing interviews for your documentary! What the fuck’s that about? When shit gets real, what happens? Where are you? Where are these people?
Months later, a year after the original incident, 3 months after the court case, after all the horrible things we’d had to go through, Kick it Out organised their T-shirt weekend. They wantedeveryone to wear a T-shirt saying ‘One Game, One Community.’ As if everything was fine now. Problem solved. They asked me if I was going to wear the T-shirt. ‘Are you crazy? Not a chance!’ If they weren’t willing to go into the court room with us, then I wasn’t willing to go through the charade of wearing their T-shirt. I know it was tit-for-tat but if I’d worn that T-shirt, my Dad wouldn’t have spoken to me. Mum probably would have spoken to me, but she would have been deeply disappointed. And I’d disappointed my Mum and Dad too many times in my life to do it this time.
Then it
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