The Second Half (14 page)

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

And he said, ‘You want me to leave this? You want me to leave fuckin’ Australia?’

I said, ‘Yeah.’

And he said, ‘Yeah, I fancy it.’

I thought we’d get him on a free. He was thirty-four. But we had to pay Sydney two hundred and fifty grand. The club wasn’t happy. But Yorkie walked into our dressing room. Like an actor. A character, in the dressing room. He’d won the Champions League; he’d played for United.

‘All right, lads? What’s cooking?’

Yorkie was my best signing. Expectations around the city were high; we were hoping to get crowds of 40,000. Some of the players couldn’t cope with it. But Yorkie was, like, ‘What’s the problem?’ He brought an aura to the club that it hadn’t had. It’s all about characters. Yorkie arrived, and my staff were going, ‘He’s some man, isn’t he?’

And I said, ‘Yeah, he’s a top guy.’

And a good guy.

I went to a lot of functions with Niall. He was trying to promote the club. We’d lost a lot of fans over the years, and he kept saying that we needed to get season ticket sales up. We were meeting and greeting fans – normally my worst fuckin’ nightmare. But I enjoyed it. What I liked about the Sunderland fans was that what happened on the pitch on a Saturday made or
broke their week. That’s not the case with every football club. So I thought, ‘I think I’ll love having that responsibility.’

We got off to a decent start, away to Derby.

My first ever team talk was before that game. We were at the hotel. I’d picked my team, and I’d had to disappoint a few people.

‘All right, lads. This is what Derby are like.’

We’d done a bit of homework in the previous three days. It had been a bit mad – trying to move to Sunderland, trying to get players in before the deadline. I’d decided the night before that I’d focus on the Derby goalkeeper. He was poor on crosses. But I went on a bit long. Dave Connolly, who I’d played with for Ireland – a funny ol’ lad, a strange lad, but he was a goalscorer, so he could be as tricky as he liked – he had his hand up at the back.

I kept going.

‘Lads, the first few balls – nail him. He’s weak on crosses. He’s good with his feet—’

I was keeping an eye on Dave. He still had his hand up.

‘What is it, Dave?’

I was wondering did he want to go out for a piss or something.

He said, ‘Gaffer, you know the keeper—?’

I went, ‘Yeah.’

‘He was sold a week ago.’

Not injured – fuckin’ sold, a week before. And I was supposed to be the big hero coming in to save the club, fans and flags everywhere, lifted on to their shoulders.

That was my first team talk.

So, I went, ‘Hey, lads, it just goes to show you, you can’t get the fuckin’ scout reports.’

I blamed the scout.

And, actually, it helped; it relaxed everybody. It was good for me, because it embarrassed me, a bit – instead of trying to be the perfectionist, the sergeant major. It lightened the mood.

Derby were doing well at the time. Billy Davies was managing them; they had good players.

We were 1–0 down at half-time.

If you’d seen the players when I walked into the dressing room – they were shitting themselves. They were expecting fireworks. Good managers have to keep people guessing; you can’t be too predictable. Clough did it, and Ferguson. So I walked in.

‘All right, lads – relax. You’re doing well, we’re doing okay. Keep at it.’

Unless things were going really badly I’d let the players settle down at half-time before I’d go into the dressing room. I’d give them a minute or two, to gather their breath, and to let me get my thoughts together. It was my first managerial job, so I wasn’t going off on some tactical journey. My plan was to keep it simple.

Brian Clough’s advice to me on my debut for Forest, away to Liverpool, was, ‘Get it, pass it to one of your team-mates, and move. Can you do that?’

And I went, ‘Yeah, of course I can do it.’

I’d been doing it since I was a kid. Pass it and move. I’d made a career out of it. Part of my admiration for Brian Clough was the simplicity of the game he saw. Alex Ferguson’s outlook was pretty simple, too.

I was looking at the players and they were expecting me to lose it, because of my reputation. But I didn’t want to be predictable. The explosion was in my locker; I think they knew that. In the media, after a press conference, whatever I said, I ‘blasted’. ‘
“We could have done better,” Keane blasts
.’ Instead of not smiling, I ‘glowered’. It was a cartoon image of me but, now and again, I used that to my advantage.

But that could also backfire on me. When I’d try to be genuine with people, or if I lost my rag just a little bit, it could become exaggerated. Raising my voice would be a big drama. Enthusiasm
could be mistaken for anger. If people felt I was angry all the time, it would lose its effect. The picture would be out there that I was constantly at the players, even though I’d made the conscious decision to be calm on the sideline and, more often than not, relaxed in the dressing room.

I hadn’t had the players for pre-season, so I wasn’t pre-judging them; I was giving everybody the benefit of the doubt. The problem is, the longer you work with players you end up looking at their defects. But at this stage I was wondering if this was a defect in a particular player, or if he was just having a bad game. I was quite nice with them, polite and encouraging. I think it was clear to the players – whether it was my body language or tone of voice, or my analysis of Derby’s ex-goalkeeper – that I was new to the job. They were well aware of that. I hadn’t made any decisions yet – ‘Four of them are going next week’ – so they wanted to do well for me.

It was all very innocent. That changes a bit when you start becoming familiar with people. You start picking holes. But my reputation as a player and my lack of managerial experience were both advantages at first.

‘You’re doing well, we’re doing okay. Keep at it.’

We won 2–1. Chris Brown, a big lad, a typical Championship striker, and Ross Wallace, one of the new lads, scored.

I’d been used to winning as a player. This was a different kind of satisfaction. I could carry it into the training ground the following Monday.

But I’d learn, losing was different, too; it carried much more responsibility. It was harder to recover. It took me far too long to get over a defeat. I was the same when I was a player, but this was worse. There has to be a certain amount of suffering, but not to the extent that I put myself through. I wouldn’t eat properly; I felt I didn’t deserve a good meal. That would have
a knock-on effect, because I wouldn’t sleep properly. When it came to handling defeats and victories, I had the balance wrong, throughout my career. When we won, I’d go, ‘Brilliant, but we’ve got to win next week.’ When we lost, I’d never go, ‘Okay, we lost, but we’ve still got next week.’

The key, I think now, is to move on quickly – if you can. If you’re in sport, you’re going to lose. We couldn’t win every game.

I’d never had an office before. Now I had a secretary. I had a phone – a phone with buttons, and different lines. I had a leather chair that swung around, a swivel chair. For the first few days I used to swing around on it. If any of the players or staff had peeped through the office window and seen me going ‘Wheeeh!’ The phone would ring, and I’d be pressing different buttons, trying to get the right line.

I didn’t take proper advantage of the office. But I didn’t really need it at first. The early signings were all lads I knew. I didn’t have to bring them in and sell the club to them. They were all eager to come. My initial reaction was, ‘What do I do with this? Do I need an office?’ I was sitting in my chair, going, ‘What do I do?’

Your own office can be a lonely place. I’m not one for hanging up loads of pictures of my family. I had one of those electrical picture frames, where the photos are repeated, but that was it. I remember thinking, ‘I’m not going to get
too
comfortable here.’ But what I should have done was the opposite. I should made myself comfortable, because you do end up spending a remarkable amount of time there. I should have made it a bit more homely, with pictures of my family. When players came to see me, they could have seen that other side of me. But even when things were going well, I thought, ‘If things go badly, I want to be able to clear it out pretty quickly. One box.’

Keep it clean, keep it tidy, and be ready for a quick getaway. I’m not sure now if that was the right way to be thinking, but it stopped me from getting too complacent. And, ultimately, it wasn’t my office; it was the club’s. But, again, I think I was afraid to enjoy myself too much – the glass was always half empty.

I’d be embarrassed to ask the secretary, Susan, to arrange anything for me. If I had to book a flight or something, I’d do it myself. She used to look after all the players. I’d give out to them sometimes, particularly when we lost: ‘Keep away from my secretary. She works for me.’

But she must have been looking at me, thinking, ‘I’ll be fuckin’ unemployed soon.’

Tony had come to the club with me, and I brought in some of my own staff as I settled in over the next couple of months. I brought in Mike Clegg, as our strength condition coach. Mike had been a player at United. Neil Bailey came in, to coach the first team. He had coached the youth team at United. I brought in Antonio Gómez, as my fitness coach, and Raimond van der Gouw, as the goalkeeping coach. I’d played with Raimond at United. Mick Brown came in as chief scout; he’d been at United. Further down the line, I brought in Ricky Sbragia, who I’d also known at United. We’d a good bunch. I felt very comfortable with my staff.

I had to let some other people go. It was horrible. I still feel a bit guilty about it. But later, at Ipswich, I’d feel guilty about keeping some people on. Guilt comes with the job.

Our next game was away to Leeds. It was brilliant; we won 3–0. Kav and Liam Millar scored, and another Irish lad, Stephen Elliott.

I wasn’t on a personal crusade against Leeds, because of my past experiences as a player or because of the Alfie Håland episode. We just needed the win, and we played really well. A couple
of Leeds fans tried to get at me in the dugout. People coming close to the dugout and shouting abuse is common enough, but these two tried to climb in. It didn’t bother me – we’d won.

The atmosphere in the dressing room afterwards was great. I was very happy with the players. These were lads who’d have a go. At the press conference after, I said that they’d shown character, desire and talent, and that I was very proud of them. I knew they’d hear the message. We all like to be praised, and they deserved it. Another away win, and the new lads were settling in. The fans were terrific, too. We had a bit of momentum. We were up off the bottom of the table. That was the priority now; I was thinking like a manager.

Leicester were next, at home. Suddenly, we were expected to win. ‘We won at Derby, we won at Leeds, now we’ll beat Leicester.’ But we didn’t. We drew, 1–1; Tobias Hysén scored for us when we were 1–0 down. Which wasn’t a bad thing. It was a reality check for us all. I could look at the group of players, and go, ‘No, we’re still a bit short.’

What I found out quickly was, everything comes to the manager. I was constantly making decisions. Niall and the chief executive, Peter Walker, were brilliant. With experience, I realised that the job of those around you at the club is to help the manager. And Niall and Peter were a proper help to me. We were all on the same wavelength. I didn’t come in, going, ‘I want us to be Real Madrid’, but I did want to change things – the players’ suits, the hotels we stayed in the night before matches. That’s all money. They knew what I was trying to do, changing the mindset, and they were right behind me. When they didn’t agree with me, they explained it well – another reality check, a lesson in economics. Not that I wanted one. I was all about winning, at any cost. Economics was the last thing I wanted to hear about.

A key to management, I think now, is to try and maintain
that childlike love of the game, that innocence – innocence, not naivety. Give people the benefit of the doubt. As the days go by, people start to challenge you – not always deliberately. Kenny Cunningham kept calling me Roy. But I wasn’t Roy any more. I had to talk to him, in my office. I felt uncomfortable about it. I’d played with Kenny, with Ireland; he was the Sunderland captain.

I said, ‘Listen, Kenny. Don’t be calling me Roy any more.’

‘I wasn’t aware I was.’

I said, ‘You were. I’m the boss or the gaffer.’

‘All right, Roy.’

That was it.

Probably the longer you stay in management, these issues – being called Roy – become less important. But these small things – I had to nail them. It seems unimportant, but it actually is important. I had to make my mark. I couldn’t have Kenny calling me Roy. It was just common sense. But a Dutch coach once said to me, ‘Common sense is not so common.’

I never felt 100 per cent comfortable being called ‘boss’ or ‘gaffer’. But I insisted on it because, from the start, they all called me that, and I couldn’t have two or three not doing it. I had to be consistent. If I go back into management, it’s a tweak I’d make, I think; I wouldn’t have them call me ‘gaffer’. It doesn’t happen in other industries, and I would certainly have felt more comfortable being called by my name. I had people of fifty or sixty, who’d been working at the club for years, calling me ‘boss’. I think I felt I hadn’t earned the right to be called ‘boss’. But even Tony was calling me ‘boss’. I felt like saying, ‘Don’t call me boss. Just call me Roy.’ It’s the tradition in football, but I like to go against tradition now and again. If I’m comfortable, I’m better at my job. It’s more human.

It was hard to get used to the number of staff employed by the club, the sheer numbers. The academy, the canteen, all these
people. Trying to get to know people’s names – it’s trivial, but vital. I found that hard. And I think most managers would tell you the same. Myself and Tony were being pulled left, right and centre, and we had more games coming right up.

‘Gaffer, do you want to travel at two or three o’clock next Friday?’