I’ve never felt collective shock like it, 25 blokes, mute, stunned, our tongues cut out, heads scrambled, minds blown

IT is 7.30pm on Thursday, May 23, 2002. In the ballroom of the Hyatt Regency, on the tiny island of Saipan, two of the tables are full. But on the third there’s only Kevin Kilbane, Niall Quinn and Steve Finnan. Roy Keane comes in and sits with them. This is strange – Roy is never late for anything. He turns to Kev and says, “It’s going to go off tonight”. Gary Kelly doesn’t know what’s going on, though. “C’mon get in here!” The Hyatt Regency has an in-house band playing in the next room and Gary wants to have a bit of fun. “C’mon, get in here!” They march in with their grass skirts and ukuleles. Next thing, we’re all up on the tables, taking the p***, having a dance. A moment or so later, our manager Mick McCarthy walks through the door. He stands very respectfully while the band finishes ‘Stand By Me’ and they then shuffle out of the door. Mick takes out a copy of The Irish Times, looks Roy Keane in the eye and says,“Roy, care to explain this?” A problem that had been bubbling for some time. There had always been friction between Roy and Mick. There was a bust-up on a tour of the United States in 1992. There was always aggro under the surface. Roy is one of the best players to ever come out of Ireland but, as everyone knows, he also had the kind of temperament that could flip. Mick doesn’t get another word out. Roy is up for this, he’s out of his seat and he’s into Mick.

A minute ago I was laughing, singing along to the band. I’m now slunk in my chair, in complete and utter shock.

Roy is going personal, Roy is going heavy and it feels like Roy is going too far. “Why the f*** are you asking me a question? Who the f*** are you? You were a s*** player and you’re a worse manager. You’re a w ***** as a man, you’re a w ***** as a manager and you shouldn’t be managing my country. F*** you, and you can f ****** stick your World Cup.”

Mick edges in a word here and there, asking why Roy had not played in the second play-off leg with Iran, and that makes it worse. He implies that Roy was fit to play and he has let his country down.

For about eight or nine minutes, Roy keeps it up, slating every last thing he doesn’t like about Mick, the Ireland set-up, our preparations for the tournament, the delay in the delivery of our training gear, the state of the practice pitch, our professionalism as a squad, everything he can think of. By the end he’s not even raging any more, it’s just a total destruction of Mick, personally and professionally. Finally, after 10 minutes – or several lifetimes, depending on how you feel about it – Roy sits down. “Well,” Mick says, still as calm as anything. “I don’t know what happens now. Because either you go or I go. And I’m going nowhere.” Roy gets up again, takes one look at us all and goes, “Good luck lads, all the best” – and walks out. We sit around, staring at the tablecloth, staring at the ceiling, staring at our flip-flops. Nobody wants to say a word, nobody can say a word. I’ve never felt collective shock like it. Twenty-five blokes, mute, stunned, tongues cut out, heads scrambled, minds blown.