UNITED’S REBEL ROUSER
Behind the snarl was a set of skills and rare leadership that elevated the Red Devils
AT what stage should you stop kneeling at the altar of a hero? When the superstore assistant apologises, explaining they don’t stock extra-large pyjama tops honouring the legend of your unwavering support, is probably as good a time as any.
The absolute golden rule is the benefactor of your unconditional support should be older and if that is not the case perhaps a lie down in a darkened room may not just be advisable – it could be necessary.
In my defence, Roy Keane was not my first hero but he was the only one with the good manners to, at least, provide a dividend for my devotion.
However, there would have been no room in my heart for Keane if Gerry Daly had not rented space there first.
In Aghatubrid National School in deep south Kerry, where support for the Kingdom was absolute, English soccer provided the only opportunity to stand out from the flock.
Even then old habits were hard to break for many and the bulk fell in with Bob Paisley’s all-conquering Liverpool, leaving just two of us – the first cousin being the other – picking Manchester United along with one exotic soul who followed Aston Villa.
Daly was the hook – he had transferred from Bohemians to United in the early 1970s and shot to prominence in United’s 1974/75 Second Division promotion season – and once we were caught, there was no getting away.
Well, at least for some of us. United’s defeat to Southampton in the 1976 FA Cup final – Bobby Stokes’ winner was half a country mile offside but the injustice couldn’t be confirmed back then in the absence of VAR and the limitation of TV graphics in drawing up straight ruler lines – was too much for the cousin, who decided on the strength of that result to graze with the rest of the flock.
It merely served to put the cherry on the sweetest cake 12 months later when Jimmy Greenhoff’s, em, instinctive finish saw United beat Liverpool, in the process denying that shower the treble.
But, in truth, for decades that would serve as the high point of following United. It was a kind of a SLA (Stop Liverpool Association) and not a very good one at that.
Then Alex Ferguson arrived and seven years later came Keane. Everything changed, utterly and wonderfully. United had just been crowned champions for the first time in 26 years when he signed but the sense was the game was about to witness a break-out in democracy, with Leeds, Liverpool, Arsenal, Aston Villa, Chelsea and a monied Blackburn all throwing shapes.
Instead, English soccer would return to what it knows best – stable, one-party government, but this time under a different red flag.
Keane’s signing changed everything, especially given the fragile foundations that United’s first Premier League title was built on – essentially the mid-season opportunistic acquisition of Eric Cantona.
The latter brought a presence and a Gallic flair that was transformative but what Ferguson craved was a change of mindset and culture that would be sustainable long term.
In the years when United’s ambition rarely went further than a run in the FA Cup, leadership was an elusive quality right from the top to the bottom.
The sacking of Tommy Docherty for an affair with the physio’s wife thieved any chance of the club becoming a strong competitive force in the 1970s and after that United literally lost their soul and their substance.
The appointment of Dave Sexton sent United down a technical road that only those in the European leagues and Ray ‘Butch’ Wilkins were in tune with, while his successor Ron Atkinson’s instinct was to entertain rather than build anything that could endure.
As a result, the club Ferguson walked into was a mess with a culture that was more in keeping with a cabaret show, serving only light
entertainment, and where drinking was its most serious pursuit. He did inherit a wonderful player in Bryan Robson and finding his successor was key for Ferguson. Fittingly, it was after a crunching tackle on Robson by Keane, in his rookie season with Nottingham Forest, that Fergie first took notice and that ultimately paved the way for his arrival. The £3.75m was a British transfer record transfer in 1993 but coming from Forest, who had an irritating habit of dumping expensive flops – Gary Birtles, Peter Davenport and the snailpaced Neil Webb – on Old Trafford is what made it feel like a gamble. It is likely that Ferguson did not see it as such. His desire to find a midfield engine linchpin saw him sign Paul Ince in 1989, but his decision to sell the Englishman two years after Keane arrived was no coincidence. Ince famously wanted to be referred to as ‘the Guv’nor’ – Ferguson preferred to call him ‘a big-time Charlie’. It’s likely the United manager wanted, in the words of Elvis, ‘a little less conversation and a little more action’.
There is a comedy sketch still waiting to be written of Keane strutting around his native Mayfield, demanding to be called ‘the guv’nor’ with the inevitable chorused punchline of ‘will you go away, you l **** r.’
It was the sense that Keane, like Ferguson, was grounded not just in working class values but with a shared refusal to suffer fools that bonded them in the public eye and, more importantly, in the dressing room.
Together they would rule with Keane captaining United in four of his seven Premier league winning seasons – becoming the most successful skipper in the club’s history.
It was more than that, though, he also imposed his values on the team. There were times when he literally raged, eyes bulging, veins pumping, mouth foaming, against the prospect of any setback.
Losing was a reality but it could never be an option and that resonated, especially for those of us who take our sporting values from the GAA. Pride matters and it is never just a word.
But then his back story resonated too. He willed himself to be the player he was. He didn’t have Ryan Giggs’ balance, Paul Scholes’ touch or David
Beckham’s ball-striking ability, but he made the absolute best out of what he did possess.
And yet that reads almost like a back-handed compliment. Keane’s greatness is not in doubt, but is generally bestowed because of his ability as a captain and not as a footballer.
That is so wrong. Technically, he was the master midfielder. He ensured United stuck to their philosophy even on European nights when they ran into teams that were their technical superiors.
He was, when the going got tough, the one who not only retrieved the ball but also dropped back to collect it and insist they kept playing through midfield.
His engine may have roared but his brain whirred with impeccable decision–making and the skill to execute.
Memories? We have hundreds but a few stand out. The Cup final in 1996 was won by Cantona’s last gasp half-volley but, on a day when Liverpool came dressed in white suits, Keane donned his hi-vis vest and hard hat.
When the final whistle blew, Ferguson sprinted to his captain, embracing him in an acknowledgment United had not only won a cup final but a battle of cultures, one where honesty trumped celebrity’s empty promise. There
was, of course, that second-leg Champions League semi-final against Juventus in 1999, but we missed it. We left a New York bar with United 2-0 down on aggregate and rushed to JFK, only finding out the result when the plane landed in Dublin.
What grates about the analysis of that performance – heroic and brilliant – was that it was viewed in the context that he kept playing at his optimum even though his chance of playing in the final had gone after picking up a second yellow card.
Did they not know the man? What did they expect? That he would cry like Gazza?
The memory above all others is that iconic tunnel scene from Highbury in 2005 when – with a jabbing finger and widened nostrils – he railed against Patrick Vieira.
The latter was visibly shaken – Denis Bergkamp coming forward to put his arm around his Arsenal captain as Keane emerged from the dark of the tunnel to threaten ‘I’ll see you out there’.
It was almost bettered by the post-match interview where Keane presented, along with Gary Neville, to explain that he had advised Vieira that rather than ‘picking’ on the Englishman, he should pick on someone his own size. Neville, a man never shy to find his voice, demurred almost as if he was unaware of the humiliation that had just been heaped on his head.
Within a year, both Keane and Vieira were gone from their respective clubs and in so many ways the game has never been the same.
The days when Keane and Vieira snarled and tried to break each other in two seems so long ago that the archive footage might as well be delivered in a Pathé newsreel. Thing is, when the war was over, the respect they had for each other felt real, most likely because it was.
Of course, there were times when he was accused of going over the top – literally, in Alfie Haaland’s case – but never to the point that we were in any way conflicted.
That includes the great civil war that was Saipan when social evenings turned into vicious hustings.
‘It is an act of betrayal,’ raged one of our inner circle.
‘Betrayal,’ we spat, ‘is when you sell your soul to take a short-cut to glory.’
And Keane made our longer journey worth every faltering step.
O