He is a very popular manager among managers. Barry may not have been at the helm of a Premiership club but that, in itself, is surprising in many ways because he has achieved success in one way or another at each of the many he has managed both in non-league football and in the lower divisions of the Football League.
A staunch member of the League Managers’ Association, he shows as much enthusiasm for its affairs as he does in his day-to-day club involvement. We operate in an industry which all too often does not meet its obligations when there is a parting of the ways between clubs and managers, and there is a real need for voices as powerful as Barry’s to be heard if an equilibrium is to be achieved. Some managers are fortunate enough to walk straight into another job once they have been shown the door, but there are many others who do not enjoy the same fortune for one reason or another. They need protection, with due and full severance pay a priority, and Barry, who knows a thing or two about such matters, works tirelessly towards these goals.
Thoughts for the welfare of others are typical of the man and his self-deprecation is very endearing. Having walked into Old Trafford as a young boy to become one of the original Busby Babes, he says that the only reason Barry Fry did not make it as a player was Barry Fry. He is perhaps being a little hard on himself with this observation. The fact is that the crop of youngsters with whom he was competing for places at the time was exceptional, as has regularly been the case at Manchester United, and it is no disgrace that he failed to break through into the big time.
There is no disputing that he was a smashing little player – you don’t get schoolboy international caps and headhunted by Manchester United if you are no good – but Barry didn’t get the breaks. Simple as that.
An incongruity in football is the number of great players who do not aspire to be, nor become, top managers and a corresponding number of distinctly average players who achieve tremendous managerial success. In my own case I was never anything more than a run-of-the-mill player and the same could be said of the likes of Bill Shankly and Bob Paisley, but playing is one thing and managing entirely another. Barry is in the category of people who have done better as the man in charge than he did as the one taking the orders and his feats in winning championships and cup competitions are not to be underestimated. In any walk of life you have to be special to achieve success and there is no doubt that Barry Fry is a very special man.
He takes us here on a roller-coaster ride which reflects his colourful life. Hold on to your hats and enjoy the journey. Then, when you think about Barry Fry in the future, I defy you to do so without a smile on your face.
Raindrops trickled down the window of the prefabricated building that was my office on the winter’s day that a familiar red Lamborghini drew to a halt in the parking bay outside. The magnificent machine was just one of the success symbols flaunted by the highly charismatic Keith Cheeseman, who had recently assumed control of the Southern League club Dunstable Town. This was my first managerial position in football and I felt privileged to be the individual charged with the task of transforming the fortunes of a club which, for eight successive seasons, had finished stone cold bottom of the league. I was in a fairly strong position in that things could hardly have got worse. Or so it seemed.
I was just a few months into the job and the chairman’s arrival on this dank Tuesday was the signal that this was to be no ordinary day. Up until now he had never been near the ground in midweek unless we had a game. And even then he did not come to all the games because he got bored with them.
My first thought as he got out of the car was ‘What the hell is he doing here?’
As he came into my office I offered him a warm greeting.
‘Hello mate, what brings you here?’
He replied that he had come to meet somebody and seemed disappointed when I said that nobody had arrived.
I offered him a cup of tea, which he rejected, and he waved aside my invitation to sit down. He was on edge and started to prowl the room. Even though he was always naturally on the go, there was something different about his demeanour.
After a while a Jaguar pulled up alongside the Lamborghini, giving this dilapidated little outreach in Bedfordshire the incongruous appearance of a classic car showroom. We watched as the driver emerged and walked to my office. His polite knock on the door was answered by Cheeseman.
‘Ah, I’ve been waiting for you.’
‘I’m Keith Cheeseman. Please come in.’
And with that greeting the chairman slammed the door shut. In a lightning-fast move he had his visitor pinned back against the door with his forearm tight against his throat. He hastily frisked this hapless man and, as I recoiled in horror, Cheeseman tried to make light of the situation.
‘Just checking that you aren’t bugged or carrying a gun,’ he laughed.
Now I’m just a silly football manager and I feared something approaching a siege might be developing, but Cheeseman just said: ‘Barry, I’ve got to speak privately to this man. Have you got the keys to the boardroom?’
Confirming that they were in my car, I went to get them as they made their way to the boardroom at the other side of the ground. I caught up with them and as they stood on the halfway line they surveyed an advertising hoarding belonging to a particular finance company.
I was never introduced to the visitor, who boomed at the chairman: ‘You can take that board down straight away. That goes for starters.’
Cheeseman put his arm round him and smiled.
‘My boy, that’s just cost you three quarters of a million. I’d leave it there if I were you.’
And with that I let them into the boardroom where, I presumed, they concluded whatever business they were up to. None of what had happened and been said made any sense to me but I was left with the distinct impression that something was amiss.
A few days later I was given a much bigger indication of the type of man I was working for. We had a home game on the Tuesday night and in the afternoon I took a call from Cheeseman in which he said that he would not be going to the match. I said that was fair enough, but there was more. He said that after the game he wanted me to do him a favour and go to meet him.
‘I’m only in the country for five minutes,’ he said ‘but I want to see you before I go. I’ll ring you when the match is over and let you know the location.’
I didn’t raise an eyebrow because it was not unusual for him to be abroad on business. I often went to his office in Luton before one of these trips for him to hand over some cash or to sign some cheques.
When his telephone call came there was something quite sinister about it.
‘Right,’ he said, ‘I want you to leave and bring with you a case that somebody has dropped at the ground during the game. When you get to the roundabout at Houghton Regis go round it two or three times and make absolutely sure that you are not being followed. Then shoot off all the way down the A5, get on the M1 at the end and come off at Scratchwood Services. I will meet you there.’
‘Keith, what the hell …’
‘I’ll explain it all when you get here,’ he interjected. ‘Just make sure you have got the bag.’
I asked the secretary, Harold Stew, whether someone had dropped off a bag from the chairman’s office and he confirmed that it was in one of the other offices. So I picked up this big bag, a briefcase, and