The Second Half Read online

  I got to Old Trafford and limped – literally – to the dressing room. I got a few painkillers, and played. My wife said it was the funniest thing, hearing my name being announced on the radio, after she’d seen me limping out of the house that morning.

  But I liked Heinze. He picked up a bad injury too, later – his cruciate. A lot of the lads who came into the club at that time – Smudge, Gabby, Louis Saha – they were all very unlucky with injuries.

  The dressing room was changing. Younger players create energy. They can be raw; they’re not fearful. An older player losing in a semi-final is devastated; a younger player thinks he’ll be getting to finals for the next thirty or forty years. They bring that arrogance into the dressing room. I became jealous of that as I got older. The longer you’ve been around, the less chance there is of winning something, the less chance that your contract will be renewed, the more chance there is of being injured. The young lads don’t have those hang-ups yet.

  More players arrived. Gerard Piqué was a good lad and a good player. But he wasn’t getting a run of games and he wanted to go back to Barcelona. He’s done all right there! I don’t think anyone could have predicted just how much he’d achieve. This theory that he isn’t a good defender – he’s one of the best. He knows how to defend.

  Giuseppe Rossi was a really good lad. But he had a difficult time at United. He was an attacking player, and had difficulty getting into the starting eleven. Giuseppe is Italian-American and one of the first times he trained with the first team I gave him a bollocking – I think because he didn’t pass the ball to me when I was in a better position. And he looked at me – he said nothing. But I knew what he was thinking: ‘Why don’t you fuck off?’

  I turned away, and I thought, ‘I like that.’

  If he’d said anything, I’d have run at him. But he looked right through me and the message was clear on his face. I nearly went over and shook his hand. I liked him from day one.

  I tried to sign him when I was managing Sunderland, and not succeeding is one of my big regrets. I was doing my Pro Licence when we eventually got permission from United to speak to Giuseppe. I had a lecture that evening and I asked for permission to go to Altrincham, in Manchester; I’d made arrangements to meet Giuseppe. I met him at an Italian restaurant. He turned up with about eight agents. Three of them were Italian. His dad turned up, too. It was like a scene from Goodfellas – and I mean that in a nice way.

  I was at the head of the table, trying to persuade Giuseppe to sign for us.

  They were going, ‘Sell us Sunderland.’

  And I gave him a line – it was either going to be very cheesy or he’d love it. We’d just been promoted. We’d agreed to pay eight or eight and a half million for him, which was a lot for a lad who hadn’t done too much yet.

  I said, ‘Look, Giuseppe. I’ve got a good orchestra up at Sunderland. But I need a conductor. And you’re the man.’

  They were all whispering, talking among themselves.

  I was thinking, ‘It’s either gone down really well, or he’s not coming.’

  We finished the meeting. I was really delighted with it.

  He goes, ‘I’ve got to look at my other options.’

  A few days later, he signed for Villarreal.

  He contacted me and said, ‘Roy, thanks for everything.’

  Villarreal or Sunderland? I understood his decision. Villarreal were making noises now, and, as Diego Forlán had told me before, it was twenty minutes from the beach.

  We drew three of our first five games, and they weren’t good draws – Blackburn, Everton, Bolton. We beat Liverpool, and Tottenham; then two more draws, against Middlesbrough and Birmingham. The signs weren’t great. It wasn’t League-winning form. You can always have a sluggish start, but we weren’t used to draws. A draw against Chelsea would have been okay, but there were too many. It’s all about winning.

  We beat Arsenal at home, 2–0, and ended their unbeaten run of forty-nine games. I wasn’t playing.

  That summer I’d gone to a detox clinic in Milan, with Ryan Giggs and a couple of his mates. I think David Bellion might have been with us, too. It was recommended to us by some of the French players. The regime was strict; you starved yourself for three or four days and they educated you about diet. I was going through my health freakish phase at the time. Giggsy had been there before, and he’d warned me that we wouldn’t eat. I didn’t believe him; I thought we’d have to eat something. But I’d paid out quite a lot of money so I could fuckin’ starve for four days. I never ate – nothing. The first night, I wanted to leave. But I stayed. I think it was the second or third night when they gave us some carrot juice. The dietician decided that I was eating too much red meat, and I needed to cut back; I needed to eat more fruit and vegetables.

  I came home, and went on the new diet. I wouldn’t be mixing carbohydrates and protein. Typical me, the man of extremes, I went too far. I stopped eating red meat. I was almost divorced, because I wouldn’t eat what everyone else in the house was eating. I’d only eat the healthy stuff, and I stopped eating treats. My wife would be cooking for five kids and I’d be going, ‘I need to have fish – and salad.’ As I’ve said, I’m not a lover of fish so I was trying to eat food I didn’t particularly like. There was even one time my wife gave me a little trifle and I asked her to take the cream off the top. My body fat went down to 3 or 4 per cent; I went too skinny.

  A couple of days before we played Arsenal, I couldn’t get out of bed. And I’ve never been one for being ill – never. Mike Stone, the club doctor, came to my house. I just couldn’t get out of bed – no strength, no nothing. I knew I wouldn’t be right for the game – and I must have been pretty bad to miss any game, let alone the Arsenal game. Mike asked me what I’d been doing over the last few months and I told him about my detox in Milan. The decision to go there had been independent of the club, in the summer; Mike wouldn’t have been aware of it.

  He asked me, ‘What have you been doing with your diet?’

  And I told him, ‘Well, the woman told me to cut back on red meat.’

  And he said, ‘And what have you done?’

  And I said, ‘Well, I’ve cut it out altogether.’

  He did some blood tests. And I missed the Arsenal game. I was in bed for three or four days, when the test results came back. My iron levels were gone; I’d no iron in my system. Mike told me I’d have to get back to eating red meat, and eating things that I enjoyed.

  I think I was trying to eat and live like an Italian or a French player. But I’m Irish. My mother came over a week or two later and she had a right go at me, as only mothers can do. Any pictures of me then, I look gaunt. I was cold all the time; I just wasn’t myself. I’d gone too far. I had the body fat of a long-distance runner. But I was a midfielder, playing in tough games, where you need protection.

  I was gutted that I’d missed the game, and all the fighting that went on in the tunnel afterwards. I couldn’t even go to the game. There was pizza being flung around in the tunnel, but I wouldn’t have eaten it; it wasn’t healthy enough for me.

  I was well enough to go on as sub in the next league game, against Portsmouth, at Fratton Park. Phil Neville had played in my position while I was out. I remember the manager told me, ‘Listen, I’m putting you on the bench. Phil’s done well for me the last few games.’

  I said, ‘I think I’ve done okay in the four hundred and odd games I’ve played.’

  I could see his point of view; I wasn’t annoyed. But I sat on the bench while we lost 2–0, and I thought, ‘I should be playing.’ But I wasn’t kicking up a fuss. I accepted the manager’s view. But United were a better team with me in it. You have to think that way.

  In late October, we were seventh in the table. That’s a sacking offence these days.

  Missing the Arsenal game because of my diet was unusual, but I’d always accepted injuries as part of the game. You expect mid-fielders to get injured.

  I’d had two hernia operations, hamstr
ing injuries, maybe for not stretching properly in my younger years. I’d had broken ribs, stitches in the head – what I would class as normal midfielders’ injuries. And, of course, the cruciate. Being out of the game for so long, eight or nine months, gave me a chance to grow up a little bit. Because I was drinking quite heavily at the time. I was twenty-six or twenty-seven – even a touch younger.

  The injury that would eventually stop me from carrying on was my hip. I’d been in Dublin the night before – this was in 2001, I think – doing a gig for Diadora. I’d had a really late night, drinking – a right session. I was training back in Manchester the next day, doing a little bit, going on a jog – and feeling something in my hip. It didn’t feel like a massive tear but it did feel a bit strange.

  I carried on playing for months afterwards but eventually it took its toll. I saw a specialist, Richard Villar, in Cambridge. Because it was the hip area, it was almost an unknown as a football injury. The standard injuries are hernias, broken legs, knees, ankles, even cruciates. But the hip was a worrying one – an ‘Oh, you don’t want to go in there’ type of operation. It was a bit taboo; you associate hip problems with older people. But the pain was unnatural. I was needing a lot of painkillers to get me through matches.

  It was probably wear and tear, all the twisting and turning, the way I played the game, quite physically. But all that drink in Dublin the night before hadn’t helped. Maybe my running pattern was different that morning, and I hadn’t slept much, or properly, the night before.

  Eventually I had the operation. There was a flap of cartilage that had to be shaved off. I remember the surgeon told me that he wasn’t sure if I’d be able to play again because of the cartilage damage. The way he described it to me, he said that when he put the scalpel under the cartilage, it was coming away like carpet underlay. He showed me photographs, too, and it did look like underlay. I recovered, came back – but I was still in a bit of pain. I knew I wasn’t right.

  When you come back from a bad injury you know, in medical terms, that the injury is healed. But you still have to deal with the battles in your head. The surgeon had planted a few seeds: ‘There’s a lot of damage in there, a lot of cartilage damage, and you want to be careful.’ I was due to have more surgery on it a few years later, but I changed my mind, I just decided, ‘Nah, I’ll try and get on, the way it is.’

  Funnily, I think being stiff suited me. I had tight hamstrings; it was just the way I was. That tight feeling suited my personality; I don’t think I was meant to be too flexible. I’d see some of the foreign lads doing stretches, touching their toes. Mikaël Silvestre could put his head on his toe; I’d injure my hamstring just looking at him. I could never touch my toes. I started doing a bit of yoga towards the end, but I think that kind of made me loose. I persuaded myself that I was more flexible. I’d known my limitations but now I thought I was a gymnast. As with the food, I was trying to be somebody I wasn’t. And I still ended up getting injuries. The hip was affecting the quality of my day-today life – simple things like picking up my kids or getting out of the car. When I came back after my cruciate injury, people would ask, ‘How’s your knee – the cruciate?’ But I’d stopped thinking about it. The hip was the only injury that had, and has, long-term consequences.

  If the weather’s cold or I kick a ball with my son, it’s sore. Or if I’m in the wrong driving position, or in a plane, I’ll be stiff. Chances are I’ll need a hip replacement but, if I look after myself, I can avoid it for a long time. Any exercise I do has to be straight – swimming, cycling, walking. No twisting and turning.

  We had four wins in a row – Newcastle, Charlton, West Brom and Southampton. You still have to go out and win them, but these were games that we would have expected to win. Although I always had a bit of hassle against Newcastle. I’d been sent off twice up there. I’d had my battles with Shearer and Rob Lee. I always thought they were an arrogant bunch, for a club that had won fuck all. We always got decent results at St James’ Park; it wasn’t a bad place to play. But as for the Toon Army, the Geordies, the hostile reception – I never fell for all that crap.

  We drew with Fulham, away, but then we had another run of four wins in December and over the holiday period. We beat Crystal Palace, Bolton, Villa and Middlesbrough. We were third in the table on New Year’s Day, behind Chelsea and Arsenal.

  I’d met Brian Kerr, the new Ireland manager, just after he took the job, in 2003. We’d talked about the possibility of me playing for Ireland again. There were six Euro qualifying games left. I’d eventually decided against, because I felt I had enough on my plate trying to get back to full fitness; this was just after my hip operation.

  Sometime later I met Brian again, at the Alderley Edge Hotel, in Manchester. I’d been doing some promotional work for the Irish Guide Dogs and I’d mentioned in an interview that I felt there was unfinished business. I was feeling fitter, and stronger, by now. I think the suggestion for the meeting came through my solicitor, Michael Kennedy. We discussed me going back for the 2006 World Cup qualifiers. I knew I’d be under massive pressure from United not to do it. I was at an age where the manager would have thought my priority should have been Manchester United, particularly with my history of injury problems. Also, going back to play for Ireland, the added games, and after all that had happened after Saipan – all the hassle and negativity – it would be putting a lot of extra pressure on me. United were paying my wages; I could see their point of view.

  The decision was straightforward – but emotional. I did feel that there was unfinished business. I was thinking about my family. I’m proud of being Irish and being from Cork. I think that feeling has got stronger as I’ve matured. I think when you go and live in a different country – even though England is only across the road – you can lose a sense of where you’re from. It’s natural – you adapt and integrate. You change your ways and ideas. My kids were born and reared in England. They often tease me about how they support England. But as you get older, there’s a point – maybe a feeling – where you go, ‘Don’t forget what it’s all about; don’t forget where you come from.’ I didn’t want to let the family down.

  If I’d looked at it coldly I wouldn’t have gone back. There was my age; I was thirty-three. Physically – and mentally – it would be another burden. I’d be playing in the middle of the park; the demands would be huge. People would expect miracles. And I knew there’d be consequences at United. I knew there’d be a price to pay. The manager wouldn’t talk to me. But he – they – couldn’t stop me.

  There were no problems when I went back into the squad. I didn’t bat an eyelid. I’d had no disagreement with any of the players.

  I like Brian, and the only thing I found a little bit strange was that I wasn’t the captain. I’d been captain before, and we’d had success; we’d got to the World Cup finals in Japan and Korea – and, of course, I was the captain at United.

  But Kenny Cunningham was the captain. I’d played with Kenny over the years. He was popular with the players. He’d always be organising card schools and quizzes and whip-rounds for the bus driver and for the woman who’d served us tea in 19-fuckin’-52. But most of the lads liked him.

  I’d always been a bit blasé about the captain’s role. I’d often said that it was only about going up for the toss. I think I didn’t want to talk the job – or myself – up: ‘Oh, the captain’s role is vital, look at me.’ But as I got older I realised that there was more to it than that. The captain’s role isn’t just important; it is vital. And it isn’t just an English tradition. Look at the great captains in Italy and Spain – Maldini, Dino Zoff, Zanetti, Raúl, Puyol. They’re inspiring leaders. When, say, the Barcelona captain has to leave the pitch before the end of the game, he puts his armband on the player who is taking the job for the rest of the game. During the last World Cup, the Dutch captain, van Persie, put the armband on Arjen Robben’s arm when he was being substituted.

  Bryan Robson, Steve Bruce, Cantona – great captains I played
with. They led in different ways. Robbo led by example, in the way he was physically demanding, and in his attitude to training. He was also a really good guy, and liked a drink. Brucie was very friendly, and great with the families. He always had a nice way about him, always had time for you. He was good with tickets, if you needed a few extra for family or friends. It was almost a political role. Brucie dealt with it very well, and he’s brought that into his management. Cantona led by his presence more than anything else – his charisma. A captain doesn’t have to be loud; Eric rarely said a word.

  In my early years at United, there was a players’ pool, and each of us would get about £800 out of it at the end of the season, for the work we’d done for the in-house magazines, the club videos. It was before all these things were built into the players’ contracts. We were all on decent money, and eight hundred quid wasn’t going to make or break us. So one time – we were in the dressing room – we decided to put all the cheques into a hat, and the last cheque out whoever’s name was on it he got to keep all the cheques. To save face, we all put our cheques in, except a couple of the younger players – I think it was Becks, and Gary and Phil. They opted out; they were new on the scene and didn’t have the money to spare. But Scholesy and Nicky Butt put their cheques in. Last name out wins all the money – great crack in the dressing room. Lads sweating – and I was fuckin’ sweating; I used to think of that sort of money in terms of the amount of pints it would buy me. I think I was the third last name out, so I got a run for my money. But the last cheque out – Eric Cantona. He’d won about sixteen grand.

  He came in the next day. There was plenty of banter.

  ‘Eric, you lucky bastard.’

  ‘Fuckin’ money to money.’

  He’d got somebody at the club to cash the cheques. He’d split the money in two, and he gave it to Paul Scholes and Nicky Butt, because – he said – the two of them had had the balls to go into it when they really couldn’t afford it. The two lads took home about eight grand each – which upset me even more.