The Second Half (12 page)

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. There’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.

The next step is the Pro Licence. It’s a requirement to manage in any of the top leagues. It’s not cheap; I think it was six or seven grand. There’s a discipline to it, which is good, and you meet top people. And it’s nerve-wracking. It’s about working at the top level, and not just coaching – dealing with club boards and chief executives, budgets, handling media. They’d set up mock press conferences; you’d be challenged, and advised on how to deal with different questions.

There were session plans to be written, and you had to log your coaching sessions. This can be a problem for a lot of explayers; writing of any type is torture. Some of them wouldn’t have been great at school – I know I wasn’t. As a player you’d have been involved in thousands of training sessions, with different coaches. But now you had to become the teacher. It was difficult. And standing up in front of a group. That wasn’t too bad for me, because I’d been the club captain and I had some experience of that, and some sort of leadership qualities.

The badges are hard work but there’s big satisfaction, too, in
getting them done. I’d wanted to get started on the courses while I was still a player. I started the first, the UEFA B, when I was thirty-one or thirty-two. It’s the mistake a lot of ex-players make; they wait until they’re thirty-four or thirty-five before they decide to start their coaching awards. Quite often, players don’t do it while they’re still playing, because it’s time-consuming and they’d have to sacrifice part of their holidays. The expense is off-putting, too, especially if you want to get to Pro Licence level, although the PFA will contribute 50 per cent of the fee.

While you’re doing the courses you’re networking; you meet nice people. I ended up working with some of the men I met when I was doing my coaching course. I met Ian McParland and Gary Ablett, who both worked with me later at Ipswich. And it was Gary who put me in touch with Antonio Gómez, who became my fitness coach at Sunderland. You end up meeting people you’ll work with – or against.

I knew I’d have to be ready. Actually, in a way I’d been ready since I was a kid. I’d been lucky, but I’d made my own bit of luck. I was playing League of Ireland football, and I was doing a FÁS course; there was nobody ringing me to come over to England. As much as I lacked confidence in some things, there were other areas of my life where I went, ‘Give me a go at that—’ I wrote to a number of clubs in England, looking for a trial. I offered to pay part of the cost, although I didn’t have a penny. I got a letter back from Forest saying that if I was good enough I’d be spotted.

I
was
spotted – by Forest. When I went there for my trial I knew I wouldn’t be going back to Cork. There was nothing there, and no prospects. In my first week at Forest they put me with the kids; no one saw me. I was eighteen or nineteen. They apologised and asked me to come back; they’d organise a game. I said, ‘Just give me the game.’ I wasn’t one for going around cones – ‘Give me a game.’ They told me there’d be a game at the City Ground,
and Brian Clough was going to be there, and I thought, ‘Brilliant.’ I didn’t go, ‘Is he? Oh, fuck.’ I went, ‘Brilliant.’ When it was over and they told me they wanted to sign me, I wasn’t cocky enough to say, ‘I knew you would.’ But I thought it. It was what I’d been waiting for since I was a kid, since I was eight years of age, at Rockmount. Even back then, I played for Rockmount instead of my local club, Mayfield, because Rockmount had the better players. And I knew that at eight or nine years of age. Mayfield would have been convenient, but ‘convenient’ was boring; I needed that challenge. Good players – good people around you, pushing each other. When I was thirteen or fourteen, Eric Hogan – a decent lad, he still plays for the over-35s in Cork – he wouldn’t go training one night because he got a new skateboard. I fell out with him; we didn’t speak for a year because he wouldn’t go training. I always had that drive. ‘Stick your skateboard.’ As I matured and the situations got bigger, I’d think back to the skateboard. ‘Stick your fuckin’ skateboard.’

Sunderland should have been a nightmare. It had seven or eight Irish owners! There’d be a lot of interference; they’d all feel they owned the club. I’d have too many people to answer to.

But it was the opposite. Because there were seven or eight of them, no one felt he was in charge. Niall Quinn was the front, the public face. The Sunderland fans loved him, and he answered to the owners. And the fact that they were Irish turned out to be fine. You could have a bit of banter with them. They trusted myself and Niall to get on with it; we were the footballing people.

Sunderland had been relegated at the end of the previous season, ’05–’06. Then Niall formed a consortium, Drumaville, made up mostly of Irish property developers, including Charlie Chawke, the Dublin publican. They took control of the club in July. But then they went into pre-season, and the start of the
season itself, without a manager. Niall had to take on the job temporarily, while they kept looking. They lost their first four League games.

They’d met me earlier in the summer, soon after I’d stopped playing. Niall had contacted Michael Kennedy. I wasn’t
that
surprised. Football’s a small world and they would have known that I’d stopped playing and, probably, that I was doing my coaching courses. As for the history between myself and Niall, Niall would have been trying to do what he thought was right for the club. He would have been big enough not to let it get in the way.

They sent a helicopter over to Manchester and flew me to Dublin. They were trying to impress me, of course; I was crossing the Irish Sea in a helicopter, but I was wondering, ‘What am I in for here?’

I’m not sure where the meeting took place. Some estate, a manor house outside Dublin. All the lads in the Drumaville Consortium were there, and Niall was, too. As the helicopter landed I saw that he was a few feet away, beside the helipad, waiting with the other people. I got out of the helicopter, kissed the ground and blessed everybody.

‘The Pope has arrived.’

No, I didn’t.

I got out of the helicopter, walked across to Niall and we shook hands.

He said, ‘Do you want five or ten minutes to ourselves before you go in?’

It was the first time I’d spoken to Niall since the World Cup. I don’t think the conversation would have happened if Niall hadn’t been involved in the consortium. So it was an opportunity to let bygones be bygones.

We went into a room together, and I said, ‘Listen, the Saipan
stuff. Whatever happens with Sunderland now, we need to move on, anyway.’

He agreed, ‘Yeah, yeah.’

And that was it.

I went in and met the lads. It was all very casual. I had a suit on but I didn’t feel like I was being interviewed or that I was under any pressure.