The Second Half (11 page)

My first game was against Clyde, away, in the third round of the Scottish Cup. We were beaten 2–1. It was a nightmare. I wasn’t happy with my own game. I did okay, but okay wasn’t enough. After the game – the disappointment. As I was taking my jersey off, I noticed the Nike tag was still on it. When I got on the bus, John Hartson, a really good guy, was already sitting there and he was eating a packet of crisps – with a fizzy drink. I said to myself, ‘Welcome to hell.’

We went back on the bus to Celtic Park. A lot of fans were waiting, having a right go at Gordon and some of the players as we got off the bus. Being knocked out of the Cup by Clyde – it was a massive shock. But Tommy Burns – I take my hat off to him – stood on the steps and had a go at the Celtic fans; some of those lads were ready for a bit of action.

‘You’re not Celtic fans,’ he said. ‘You’ve got to get behind the team.’

I remember thinking, ‘This is a good start.’

My first game, and already the fans were up in arms and one of the staff was on the steps of Celtic Park, having to defend the manager. So that was a nice, gentle introduction.

My first Old Firm game was at Ibrox, and we won 1–0. It was brilliant. It lived up to all of my expectations, probably because we won. ‘Magic’ Żurawski, a Polish lad, scored the goal. The start of my Celtic career hadn’t been great – losing at Clyde, and angry fans. But then, not long after, we go and win at Rangers, and I’m thinking, ‘This is what it’s all about.’

The atmosphere was brilliant, fuckin’ electric. The hatred – I enjoyed all that. I got a yellow card for a foul on Pršo and they were baying for a red card. Physically, I must have felt good. I was Man of the Match, and that was a little moment of satisfaction, another tiny victory. The dressing room afterwards was great. Again, it’s what football is all about.

But, at this stage, I was taking painkillers before every match. An injection in the bum – Diclofenac, or Voltarol. The cause of the pain was a labral tear of the hip, and I understood that playing on could worsen the tear. I was taking an injection before the game and one at half-time, just to get through. And you do get through, but the consequences arrive the day after, and the next day. I’d be in bits. Mind you, I’d have been in bits, anyway; the Rangers game was a physically tough one.

I doubt if painkilling injections are as regular now as they used to be, because of the advances in sports science. I don’t think players would put up with it.

The painkillers just hide the pain, and they wear off. So there was the double whammy: I was going to suffer anyway, and then the hip would be at me, too. I could justify taking the painkillers
for the game against Rangers because I knew it was going to be tough. But now I was taking them for every game. That was when I thought, ‘This is not good.’

I’d been taking them in England, but only for the big games – Arsenal, City – when I knew I’d have to be physically at my best. Now, common sense was telling me that my days were numbered.

We played Hibernian a few weeks later, away, at Easter Road, and I remember feeling a bit caught out. I’d done my homework on Rangers but I didn’t know much about Hibs. I remember thinking, ‘Fuck it, this is hard.’ They had a couple of lads in the middle of the park. Kevin Thomson was one of them; he went on to Rangers and Middlesbrough. They were both excellent. We won, but it was a bit of a shock. I thought that I should have been dominating these two, or any Hibs players. But my mind was lying; they had very good players.

We won the League Cup in March, against Dunfermline. But I went off injured. Running around like a madman, I tore my hamstring, making a forward run. We won, but I didn’t really feel involved in the celebrations. I was embarrassed.

I’d come on as a sub in the semi-final in the last minute of the second half; I played for about ninety seconds. It wasn’t a great experience, but I was coming back from injury – another one. It led to my only real disagreement with Gordon Strachan. After most games Gordon would let me go home to Manchester to do my recovery. But he’d organised a practice game for the next day. I was still getting my fitness up, and I think Stiliyan Petrov was also coming back from an injury, so he’d organised this game, eleven v. eleven.

I said, ‘I usually head straight home after a game.’

He said, ‘I’d like you to play in the game.’

I could see why he wanted that. But then he said he needed to see what I could do.

And I said, ‘Have you not seen me play six hundred and odd games down in England?’

And he said, ‘No, no – I just need to see you.’

I stayed over and played the next day and, actually, I enjoyed playing the practice game. But that was where my career was now, playing practice games, showing the manager what I could do.

We beat Hearts at Celtic Park in early April, and won the League title. I was injured that day. I remember going into the dressing room. It was hard to join in the celebrations. I hadn’t played enough.

I won League and League Cup medals with Celtic, but I never really contributed. Celtic won the League, but they were about fifteen points clear when I signed for them. I got Man of the Match away at Rangers and that pleased me, a little bit.

I look back at my time there and I’m a bit embarrassed by it. I didn’t play too often – twelve or thirteen games, I think. I was on the bench four or five times. I tore my hamstring twice. And the reason you get injured a lot is your body’s not right. I wasn’t fit. My hip. My strides – I was trying too hard to impress. I was trying to play like a twenty-one-year-old – ‘Look what a player you’ve signed.’ I was in cuckooland.

I would have been a bit cleverer if I’d still been at United. I would have been thinking, ‘I’ve earned my stripes here. I know my position. I don’t have to be running around like a teenager.’ But at Celtic, I thought, ‘They’ve signed me, the fans all think they have a top player.’

I think I was a top player, but I hadn’t sprinted in years. At United, I just read the game and was in the right positions. At Celtic, I was going, ‘I’d better start getting the odd goal here, to impress them.’ A childish attitude – stupid.

Why didn’t I go to Everton? I would have regretted not going
to Celtic, and I couldn’t go to both. But Everton would have been good. I spoke to Phil Neville, who’d moved there earlier in the season. I knew that there were good fitness people there who could have helped me. I liked David Moyes, their manager. The chairman, Bill Kenwright, was very good with Michael in the negotiations. They offered me a lot more than Celtic were paying me. But I think I might have found it hard playing for another English team. Which is stupid, I suppose, because it’s business. Although I would never summarise my years at United as business. It wasn’t business to me.

Everton might have given me another lease of life; I might have had two or three more years there. The system they played would have suited me. I would have been a proper sitting midfielder.

It doesn’t keep me awake at night.

And I’m not knocking Celtic; it’s a brilliant club. I’ve no regrets. Even though it didn’t work out. I go up to Celtic quite a bit, and I enjoy it as much as anything. I should be embarrassed because I hardly kicked a ball for them. It’s almost like a family up there. ‘You played for us; you’re one of us.’ I feel lucky to have played for Celtic.

Maybe I was just putting off the inevitable decision. I was frightened of saying to myself, ‘I’ve retired.’

My testimonial was on 9 May 2006. A player’s testimonial can be very rewarding financially. But I think it’s tradition that makes it such a big day. You’re thanking the fans and they’re thanking you. It was a chance for me to say goodbye to the United fans – a huge incentive for me.

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.