The Second Half Read online

  I felt a bit bad going to Old Trafford with Celtic. I was thinking, ‘I’ve only been with them two minutes.’

  An important part of the testimonial is the presents, for both teams. The Celtic lads were at me – I’d better buy them something good. If the player who’s having the testimonial doesn’t give the teams decent presents he’ll be criticised – privately – for the rest of his life. So, at the end of the season I was wondering about my career and my future, but the pressure I was really feeling was coming from the Celtic lads, and having to choose a present for them. I ended up buying fifty Omega watches, twenty-five for each dressing room. They were good watches, so I reckoned they wouldn’t be slagging me off.

  Celtic love going down to United; they like playing against English opposition. A testimonial is a friendly game; it’s a celebration, but they still want to win. And the Celtic fans love it, too.

  The atmosphere was brilliant that night, very special. I had my family with me. It was nice to be back.

  It had been arranged that I’d play a half for each team. I played for Celtic in the first half. I went into the Celtic players at halftime and I told them, ‘Lads, I’m going to play with them in the second half.’

  There was plenty of banter with the Celtic players. I always enjoyed the crack in the Celtic dressing room. Stiliyan Petrov is a good lad; Neil Lennon and John Hartson – all decent lads. And Dion Dublin. Myself and Dion went out for a few meals together, and I generally ended up paying for them. The testimonial just about covered my food bill.

  So I went back into the United dressing room. The kit man, Albert, was there – ‘All right, Roy?’ – and plenty of banter from the lads. I put the United kit on. I felt ten feet tall. It was like I was putting an old jumper on. ‘This is my kit.’ I didn’t want the feeling; I was fighting it. But I couldn’t help myself. I remember thinking, ‘We’d fuckin’ better win.’ I was with United.

  We won 1–0; Ronaldo scored, and I thought, ‘Now I’ve got to go back into the Celtic dressing room and take more stick from them.’

  But it was so frustrating.

  I kept wondering, ‘Why did it all go pear-shaped?’

  That self-destruct button.

  Anger has always been part of my personality. I don’t see it as a bad thing or a bad word. My reputation has always been, ‘Oh, he’s angry, he’s always grumpy’, and I probably played up to it when I was a player. But a lot of my sending-offs wouldn’t have been because of anger; they were caused by frustration. There’s a big difference. I don’t ever remember getting sent off when we were 3–0 up.

  When I have been angry that’s been me defending myself. I think the man upstairs has designed me in a certain way, and this provides me with a form of energy, a form of self-defence. I drop my guard sometimes, but when I do, and become more laid-back, it can backfire on me. I see my anger as a useful tool. Me expressing my anger – not every two minutes – I’m releasing something. I can control it better now than in the past.

  It’s a family trait. Without a doubt, I get it from my dad. You can see it – a lack of patience, low tolerance levels. It’s probably one of my many contradictions: I don’t get as angry as people might think. But it helps me. As soon as I walk into a room, I know people are apprehensive; I know they are. They are expecting some sort of skinhead thug. So I’ve a good way of disappointing them. I think I treat people pretty well. I’ve got friends I’ve known for thirty years. If I was some impatient thug, I think they’d keep their distance from me.

  I’ve looked at my anger for what it is. It’s just anger; I won’t beat myself up about it. Anger is an energy and when you lose a lot of energy it’s just like after a football match: you’re drained. There’s a massive drop. Someone once said to me – an ex-player, and it’s going back to my drinking days – he said that going out with me was like going out with a time-bomb. The reputation probably keeps people away from me, and that often suits me – although I’m not saying that’s a good thing.

  So anger is a useful trait. But when I’m backed into a corner, when I get into situations, professional or personal, I know, deep down, that when I lose my rag, and I might be in the right – it doesn’t matter – I know I’m going to be the loser. I will lose out. Saipan and the World Cup – ultimately I lost. Or when I left United, when I could have stayed a bit longer if it had been handled differently. I was the one who lost; I know that. That’s the madness of me. When I’m going off on one, even when I might be right, there’s a voice in my head going, ‘You’ll pay for this.’

  That’s the self-destruct button. I don’t know if it’s low selfesteem. Things might be going really well, and I don’t trust it: ‘It’s not going to last’, or, ‘Why am I getting this? Why are things going well? I’ll fuck things up a little bit, then feel a bit better, myself.’ I might be buying a car: ‘Who do you think you are, buying a new car?’ And I’ll fuck it up. I’ll drag things down around me, and then I’ll get started again. When I get back up to the top, I look and see that there were things that I wasn’t happy with, and I could have managed differently.

  That self-destruct button is definitely there. And I suffer for it. With my drinking, I used to go missing for a few days. I think it was my way of switching off, never mind the consequences. It was my time. It was self-destructive, I can see that, but I’m still drawn to it. Not the drink – but the bit of madness, the irresponsibility. I can be sitting at home, the most contented man on the planet. An hour later, I go, ‘Jesus – it’s hard work, this.’ When I go back to Cork, I can fall back into that old routine: ‘I’m going to go off on one here.’ It doesn’t worry me. I kind of go in, have a look around, go, ‘Nah’, and come back out of it. But sometimes I don’t know what’s best for myself and that’s why I’ve got great faith; the man upstairs looks after me. I just have to trust Him a bit more. I’ve learnt to say ‘Sorry’ pretty quickly, if I think I’ve been out of order. Or, sometimes I can just say ‘Sorry’, to move on.

  Maybe ‘self-destruct’ is too strong a phrase. Maybe I play games with myself. I have great stability in my life. But, then, that worries me. I like my home comforts, but then I want to be this hell-raiser – but I want my porridge in the morning. I want my wife and kids around me. I’ve dipped into the madness, and I don’t like it that much. I like walking my dogs in the morning. Maybe I’m like every man on the planet – I don’t know; I want a bit more than what’s on offer. My mid-life crisis has been going on for years.

  I’d never really let myself self-destruct. I want to have my pride, and I like nice things in my life. I don’t want to be another fallen ex-star. I’m quite good at living in the day. Really, what is cool for me is sleeping well at night and having people around who I love.

  There’s a difference between anger and rage. With anger – when I’ve been angry – somebody with me, or even myself, can pull it back. There’s a comeback – I’d be able to pull myself back in, if I was angry. But with rage, I’ve gone beyond all that; it’s beyond anger. It’s rare – even more so, now that I’m not playing football. And I’m not sure that I ever felt pure rage on the football pitch. All the times I was sent off – it was frustration, or a controlled anger. There’s no control with rage. It’s not good – especially the aftermath. You’re coming down, and it’s a long way to go. The come-down can be shocking in terms of feeling down, or embarrassed by my behaviour, even if I feel that I wasn’t in the wrong. I haven’t felt real rage in a long time, thank God.

  *

  I was in Barbados with my family when I decided to leave Celtic. This was a few weeks after the end of the season. I just thought, ‘I can’t go back’ – because of my hip. I’d seen the specialist Richard Villar at the end of the season, for an update. And he said, ‘Basically, Roy, the more you play, you’ll do more damage to the hip.’

  He followed up the meeting with a letter:

  In essence, your right hip is, clinically, a little worse than it was when we first met. The MRI scan, now it has
been reported, demonstrates some slight damage within the labrum (cartilage of the hip) but also some early degeneration within the articular cartilage (gristle) of the hip. In essence, this implies early osteoarthritis of the joint.

  Under normal circumstances, a joint such as yours would not be something I would expect to interfere with life too greatly. Clearly, however, when you are stressing your right hip enormously, changes such as I have outlined above do become significant. In terms of a feature of the hip such as this, it is obviously very difficult to be sure. Nevertheless, it is likely that the rate of deterioration of your joint will be in proportion to the amount of strain which is placed through it. At the same time, one should be aware that degenerate joints do not always need to be totally rested. In fact, a certain degree of movement is a very good thing for them.

  I realise that you have an enormously difficult decision to make and I do not envy you or the situation at all. However, I do hope that our discussion in clinic, combined with the letter I have written, helps you towards reaching a satisfactory conclusion and, as I am sure you know, I am always here to support you should you need further advice.

  I was embarrassed about the decision to retire. Really, I’d only just arrived at Celtic. Even when I was at United I’d be embarrassed going to work and saying, ‘I’m injured.’ The shame of it.

  The hard part was making the decision – just that; coming to the conclusion. I’d had a chat about it with my wife, with the kids playing around. It wasn’t a committee meeting. I didn’t talk to anyone else. I’d made my mind up.

  I rang Gordon Strachan and said, ‘Gordon – it’s about coming back. My hip’s playing up and— D’you know, I think I’m going to have to call it a day.’

  And Gordon went, ‘All right, yeah – okay. Yeah – it’s for the best.’

  And I was saying to myself, ‘Try and persuade me, for fuck’s sake. At least pretend.’

  I was relieved.

  It’s about making the decision. I can procrastinate about lots of things but, once I make the decision, it’s made. Let’s get on with it.

  I think I’d been frightened of accepting that I was going to retire. And it might have been why I didn’t like Barbados. After I made the decision, and after I spoke to Gordon, there was still fear, but a nicer fear. Even excitement. What was going to happen?

  Now life starts.

  SIX

  He had the penthouse in Sydney Harbour, and the Lamborghini, all the women. A hard life. But I knew he loved football. He loved the game and he liked a challenge.

  I said, ‘D’you fancy coming back to Sunderland?’

  Measuring yourself after football – it’s difficult. You lose your identity. You lose what you stand for. For years you strive to be a footballer. Then you have it. You’re like an actor, every Saturday. Then it’s gone.

  You feel like you’re starting out again. It shouldn’t be a surprise because, when you start out in your career, you know it’s going to finish at thirty-four or thirty-five. You know it is. But I’m not sure that your emotions know it. Your head tells you lies, and there’s a fear of accepting, ‘This is it.’

  Then there’s that big question – ‘What do I do?’ I had a few bob in the bank, but I had a nice way of living. And it wasn’t cheap. Football had been brilliant to me, mind-boggling, but all those bills were still coming in. I wanted to go on nice holidays; there was my family to look after.

  There was that excitement – ‘What’s next?’ But I also knew that whatever I did it would never be as good as playing football. Never.

  When I was a footballer I was doing exactly what I wanted to do. But that stopped. I was a footballer and then I was an ex-footballer, whatever the ‘ex’ covers. What I stood for at United – the winning, playing with injuries, the red cards: I’d loved all that. I remember thinking, ‘I shouldn’t be loving it this much.’

  But I was doing what I loved doing. It was everything. People might say that it was a job, and I do understand what a football club means to supporters, people who travel up and down the country, who pay big money and are often frustrated. I used to be like that at United; I often shared their frustration. I was almost going, ‘Fuckin’ hell, I can’t believe this. I’m going to be found out soon. Somebody’s going to say, “Hey, you—” ’

  I think that was part of it; I think that helped me in my career – the fear of being found out, of getting away with being paid so well for doing something that I loved doing so much. That, and knowing deep down, ‘I’ll never get that feeling ever again.’

  That’s the sad part.

  When I left the United training ground I should have stopped playing football, because I knew it would never, ever, be the same. That was why it was so hard to leave. That was why I was upset.

  No matter what I do for the rest of my life, nothing will replace it.

  That’s the big shock.

  Knowing that, for the rest of your life, everything was going to be disappointment – jobwise. Nothing could come near to it.

  I was thirty-four.

  The challenge for me now was: don’t self-explode.

  It was a case of ‘What can I enjoy?’

  I wasn’t afraid of becoming the ex-footballer, where everything is associated with your past. But I don’t really live in the past. I like getting people’s respect but I don’t want to live in their memories.

  ‘Remember that goal you got against Arsenal?’

  ‘— yeah.’

  I feel like saying to people, ‘You need to move on. That was twenty years ago.’

  It’s like your identity.

  ‘He was a Man United player—’

  And it’s still part of mine, whether I like it or not. Wherever I go in the world – ‘Oh, Keane, Keane – Man United’ – it could be anywhere. It could be China. ‘Keane – Man United’.

  I could easily have become a walking museum, and I didn’t want that.

  I didn’t miss the training, once I’d stopped. I didn’t miss the people – the companionship – that much, or the banter. My injuries had been taking a toll on me. My hip had been playing me up, so I saw the last few years as a bonus. I’d just thought, ‘Every game’s great’, every training session.

  I think it’s the people around you who suffer more than anyone else. My family – parents and brothers, sister, uncles and aunts. For years I had people coming over from Ireland to see me and to get a game in. But that stopped. I felt sad for them, sad that they were missing out on the buzz that football and my career had brought them.

  My wife and kids were fine. They’d always stepped back from the public side of my life. They almost knew, more than I did – even the youngest ones – that it wasn’t going to last.

  You miss the money. You’ve had a very good standard of living; you miss those wages coming in, hundreds of thousands a month.

  It’s about adapting. You have to kind of grow up. And accept it. When you’re at a top club everything is done for you. You end up living in this little bubble. Wherever you go, people are looking after you, and everything’s VIP or upgrades. All of a sudden, that stops. I had days when self-pity kicked in. ‘Why me?’ and ‘Poor me’. The United stuff, how it ended – I hear myself complaining. It happened. Jesus – count your blessings. Grow up, and take responsibility for what you’re going to do next, like most other men out there. Most other men who lose their jobs, or who work for twenty-five years and get a poxy watch at the end of it.

  The answer to the question, ‘What are you going to do for me?’ should start with, ‘Well, do it yourself.’ Maybe I’m being arrogant, because football was good to me financially. But I think there has to be that starting point: take responsibility for yourself. Find some work, or adapt your lifestyle. Downsize your house. Have fewer holidays. Hold on to the car for a few extra years. It’s about everyday things, your lifestyle.

  I sat down with the kids and gave them the news, about how things were going to change. It wasn’t anything too drastic. Ther
e’d be fewer holidays, and so on – ‘Those days are over.’ I was trying to put the frighteners on them, a little bit. But kids pick that up. They were looking straight through me, going, ‘Get on with the lecture, we want to watch the TV.’

  I began to realise that I’d enjoyed the luxuries – the holidays – more than anybody else. A few months later, we said we wouldn’t be going away for one of the school breaks. I remember saying to my wife, ‘Why did I go on about cutbacks?’, because I was the one who wanted to go on holiday. I’d almost been putting the onus on the kids. Even going back – ‘I don’t want to go to Real Madrid because of my children.’ They’d have upped and left in two minutes. The kids can become scapegoats – blame the kids.

  ‘Hey, kids – everyone together—’

  ‘Ah no, another Keane lecture tonight.’

  I had done a certain amount of preparation. I’d been doing my coaching badges.

  There’s no actual badge. It’s a certificate – an award. I’d gained my UEFA B award in 2004. It’s like any education; you start at the bottom. In the B course you have to show basic organisational skills – say, a session with four or five players, or a drill; setting up cones, laying out bibs, everything. It’s so basic, it’s difficult. You’ve been playing at a professional level, and now you’ve to work with kids or lads who rarely kick a ball – it isn’t easy. A lot of players who’ve spent ten or fifteen years trying to get to the top struggle with it. I found it hard. It’s almost like having to go back and do your driving test. I can drive, but I’m not sure I can tell you the rules of the road.

  I was starting the next step, my UEFA A badge, in 2006, the summer I stopped playing. You go up a level; you’re organising full training sessions, eleven v. eleven. And there’s more on tactics – say, how you prepare a game against a team that plays 4–3–3. I found the higher level much easier; it was more familiar. Still, though, you’re in charge now, not just part of it. You’re not a player any more.