Paul Kimmage in the Sunday Times:
Rio: "I never once didn't accept responsibility for that drug test. I've always accepted full responsibility — I should have gone to the test, but I genuinely forgot. My excuse was a simple excuse, and people are still picking on it and saying, ‘That's bollocks', but I'm sorry, that's the truth, that's what happened. I forgot." I interrupt. "But you were reminded twice before you forgot, Rio. That's the part that people couldn't believe." "Yes, but if you speak to the player- liaison man at Man United about how many times he has had to ring people who drive off after he has reminded them about interviews — it happens all the time. Now obviously mine was a drugs test and more serious, so I should have remembered, but sometimes you walk out without your car keys and you don't know why."
"You're not going to forget it if you're told you have a drug test now," I suggest. "Well, you can't forget now," he says, "because they almost handcuff you. You are not allowed to move anywhere without them, which is the good that has come out of it."
"So you see the bigger picture?"
"Yeah, I always accepted that I had to be punished; I always accepted that ‘I forgot' wasn't a good enough excuse, but it was the way in which I was punished. There was a precedent set before my case with the Negouai case, the Manchester City player who was fined £2,000 — and the money was irrelevant — but didn't get a ban. There were players who tested positive (Jaap Stam and Edgar Davids) who got five-month bans! Why was I treated so severely?" "It's obvious that it still really cuts you up," I tell him. "Yeah, it was eight months of my football career, man. I mean, I know I'm in some part to blame, but I could have won another league, I could have won an FA Cup, I could have won loads of other things."
It is often said that before sitting in judgment, we should walk a mile in the shoes of the accused. It's a thought that recurs frequently when retracing the path of Ferdinand's life from a council estate in Peckham, south London, to the glitz and wealth since attained. Some of the detours he finds along the way aren't particularly endearing, others leave you wanting to applaud. Once or twice we are forced to answer a question: "What if I was in the same position? What if it was me?"
"What about your relationship with the fans?" I ask. "You state in the book, ‘We have become remote figures to the fans. Punters find it difficult to relate to our lifestyles'. But surely you've contributed to that by detaching yourselves?" "How do you mean?" "Well, the media was always the bridge between the fans and the players, but I can't remember the last Premiership player I interviewed, it has been so long."
"Yeah, but there are so many different facets to it now," he says, "and so many people being stitched-up and burnt. The sports journalists say, ‘Oh, we're not part of ‘that bit of the paper', but it's their paper, so you think: ‘F*** you'."
"That's the attitude?" "That's what I think. That's what most players think: ‘You stitched me up, so why should I talk to your paper?' And it's the fans that suffer in the end."
"Okay, and I understand that logic, but doesn't that hurt you as well?"
"Yes, that's true. I mean, I came down (from Manchester) on the train last night and people are surprised to see you. ‘What are you doing here? Where's your security?' They have this image that it's all showbiz. I didn't get into football for celebrity. I got into football because I love football, not because I wanted to be on the red carpet or to be in the gossip columns. I want to be remembered for playing football. I want to be in the papers for playing football, or for something constructive to do with charity, but not the other stuff."