Authors: Roy Keane,Roddy Doyle
And I’d go, ‘I’m only doing it for a few more games, lads.’
My jobs as a manager had ended badly – they always do. This time, I was dictating the terms, a bit. It even gave me something to complain about, if that makes sense.
The ex-players who’ve fallen on hard times are the ones who ended up with nothing to do. Football had been good to me, so – although I’ll always argue for a good deal – it wasn’t about making money; it was about getting out of the house.
There’d be homework to do before a match. I’d have to look at the opposition – whoever was playing against an English team. I’d be sent DVDs and information on the players. You learnt you didn’t want too much information because you were only on air for short spells, before the game, at half-time, and after. I was learning the tricks of the trade.
It was work, but I don’t like the label ‘pundit’. I don’t like being labelled, generally. Although I never minded being called a footballer – because I loved being a footballer.
It wasn’t like going down a pit for ten hours, but I do think the TV work serves a purpose. It creates argument – even if it’s about different styles of punditry. There’s a skill to it. It’s a balancing act. You want to point out something that someone who hasn’t played mightn’t have spotted, but you don’t want to talk down to people. You want to educate them, a little bit – and entertain them. If I’m eating something in a restaurant, I don’t necessarily want to know everything that’s going on in the kitchen – but a glimpse is interesting.
The balance is important. The more I speak, the more rubbish I talk. So I kept it short. The hours that they get to speak on Sky or RTE would kill me. I’d end up overanalysing everything.
I was learning the boundaries, the way TV worked. I had to remind myself that the reason for a player’s movement, or a pass wasn’t obvious to everybody.
‘That’s why he’s ran in there.’
Adrian would go, ‘Well, I don’t know that.’
And I’d go, ‘Well, he’s ran in there, to move
him
,’ or, ‘It’s the pace of the pass.’
I tried not to state the obvious, and I also tried not to be too clever. I’m guessing that I had the job because, ‘He says it as it is’, and because of my playing experience, and, possibly, because I brought a bit of unpredictability. People could say, ‘Oh, he’s right,’ or ‘Oh, he’s a prick.’
And getting behind the clichés. Last year’s one was ‘parking the bus’. It was a new phrase, but it’s been a tactic for years. Liverpool did it in the eighties. The new phrase was a gimmick, like the arrows on the screen. All that TV time needs filling. Brian Clough said, ‘That’s the problem with football – there’s too much tactics.’ My job was to keep it simple.
*
The problem for me was that the TV work felt like failure. Because I failed at management, at Ipswich. I’m referring only to myself – not to the lads who’ve wanted to work in the media. I was a reluctant pundit. That attitude helped the quality of my commentary, I think. I tried to talk as I played – very simply. I sometimes saw Adrian looking at me, letting me know, ‘We need more.’
And I was, ‘You’re not getting more. I’ve said my bit.’
At some stage, I would like a life with a bit of anonymity. And I had to accept that the longer I did the TV work the less likely that was to happen. I’d be asked, ‘What’s happening at United?’, and I’d feel another slice of me gone; I’d just sold something.
It wouldn’t mean growing a beard and moving to Timbuktu, but it would be nice to go for a while without being asked, ‘What do you think of van Gaal?’, or ‘What do you think of David Moyes?’ You can feel a bit trapped by football – although there are worse places to be trapped.
There came a point when I asked myself, ‘Is this really, really what I want to do?’, and the answer was ‘No.’
For the Champions League final between Real and Atlético, in May 2014 there wasn’t too much homework because I’d seen quite a bit of both teams during the season. I’d been sent DVDs, and the latest injury news. I kept an eye on articles in the newspapers, for snippets that might have been useful.
If it was a team I didn’t know as well – say, Schalke – I’d have to do more preparation. In 2012–13, I was covering a game with Paris Saint-Germain, and thought, ‘I’m not up to date here’, so I had to do a bit more homework. I’d watch at least one full game – preferably live, if possible. If it was, say, Chelsea or United, the
familiarity was relaxing. I’d have a feel for the grounds; I’d played there. I’d seen the teams regularly.
Because it was the final we were on air forty-five minutes before the kick-off. I didn’t like being on air too long. I understand why it’s done – it’s the final, there are the commercials. But it was particularly difficult before a match. It was different at half-time or after the match, when there’d be something to get into. But before the game—
‘What do you think might happen?’
‘Who do you think is the danger man? Bale – or Ronaldo?’
‘Where can they win the game?’
We had to give our expert opinion, but I was more comfortable talking about something that we’d actually seen, not something that we might see. Although, I liked gambling a bit, putting my neck out: ‘Well, this is how I think it’ll pan out.’
I didn’t enjoy the Champions League final. I felt distracted. I felt I shouldn’t have been there. I should have been with the Irish squad, in Dublin. We were playing a friendly, against Turkey, the day after. I’d got a job in football six months before; I was Martin O’Neill’s assistant, and I’d only really started. I should have been in Dublin.
At the end of the game, Real were lifting the trophy. Steven Gerrard was in the studio, the guest.
‘Steven Gerrard, you know what it’s like to lift this trophy—’
‘Yeah, it’s great.’
Xabi Alonso, the Real player, had been suspended for the game, and Adrian asked me what that felt like, because I’d been suspended for the final, in 1999.
‘And, Roy. What do you think Alonso’s thinking? – because you didn’t play in a Champions League final.’
He’d asked the question several times. We spoke about it after the semi-final, when Alonso had picked up his second yellow card.
We spoke about it again before the final. Now I was being asked the question again. I just thought, ‘Not again.’
I felt like saying, ‘Adrian – fuck you.’
I didn’t say it, obviously, although it was after ten o’clock, after the watershed, so I might have got away with it.
I don’t like it when companies become too comfortable with me. I don’t like feeling owned – it tightens the chest. If I’m to be an employee, I want it to be for a club or a football organisation, not in media.
After the game, the producer, Mark – a good lad – said, ‘Everything all right?’
And I said, ‘No, Mark – I’m finished with TV. Forget about the World Cup. I’m not going.’
He said, ‘Are you sure now?’
I said, ‘Yeah – my heart’s not in it.’
When I’d worked on the FA Cup final the week before, I hadn’t felt comfortable. I was a pundit. But I was also Ireland’s assistant manager now, and there were Irish lads playing in the game, for Hull. I’d be coaching them a few days later. I could see myself working in TV again sometime in the future, but not while I was in a football job, working with a team. I just thought, ‘No – it’s not for me.’
It had been on my mind, and I was happy when I made the decision. It was like when I rang Gordon Strachan, to tell him that I wouldn’t be playing again. It was a weight off the shoulders. It meant I wouldn’t be going to the World Cup, but I couldn’t see myself over there anyway. I’d done two or three years and the decision felt great. I know that punditry is a huge part of the football life, but I didn’t want to do it any more. I just felt it was sucking my spirit.
There was once, we were at Juventus, in Turin – they were
playing Chelsea. We were standing just at the corner flag. Adrian was next to me.
He goes, ‘This is great, isn’t it?’
He’s a proper football fan.
I went, ‘I used to play in these games, Adrian.’
I wasn’t being cocky.
He looked at me, and said, ‘Yeah – I can see where you’re coming from.’
It’s about justification, and what you stand for. When I was at United, I was getting paid good money, but I could go, ‘Yeah, but I’m giving it back to you.’
I didn’t feel that way with this work.
‘It’s an easy gig.’
I don’t like easy gigs.
When I heard, ‘I liked your commentary last night’, I knew: I was only talking bullshit, like the rest of them. Hopefully, my bullshit was a bit better.
I wanted to do something that excited me. TV work didn’t excite me.
What I really enjoyed was the company. If we were covering an away game, we’d travel the day before and go for something to eat and a few drinks. I liked Adrian Chiles and Lee Dixon, and Gareth Southgate, when he was doing it, and Martin O’Neill. It was like a little team. Sometimes Andy Townsend joined us, or Clive Tyldesley, the commentator. There’d be plenty of football banter. And the people we don’t see on the screen – the sound technicians, producers – I’d get on well with them too.
I was on a circuit. I’d travel to different cities and stadiums around Europe. I’d bump into the same people, doing what I did. I met and travelled with Jan Mølby. He works for Danish TV, but he lives in England. I enjoyed his company – it was good crack.
Jan played for Liverpool, and some United fans saw us together. One of them said, ‘Why the fuck are you talking to him?’
I felt like saying, ‘I’ll speak to who I fuckin’ want to. He played for Liverpool in the eighties!’
I liked meeting people – old players. Jan, Ray Houghton, Patrick Vieira, Kevin Kilbane.
I bumped into Peter Schmeichel in a hotel in London. I was having my porridge, and he said, ‘Do you mind if I join you?’
We’d had a fight once, and now we were having breakfast and a bit of banter together. It was nice. We never mentioned the fight.
The fight was that time – a different environment. Patrick Vieira and myself fought in the tunnel, and now I liked meeting Patrick. I got sent off for stamping on Gareth Southgate. I get on well with Gareth now – we keep in touch. I liked meeting Ian Wright, even though we’d been on opposing sides. I kicked Robert Pires, and he laughs about it now.
I ended up thinking, ‘What good guys these are.’
I wouldn’t have allowed myself to see that as a player. I think the TV job brought me out of my shell, a bit.
I met Peter Reid.
I used to kick fuck out of Peter Reid – in a respectful way. I remember booting him when he was at City. I don’t remember him kicking me – but he must have.
Peter did one of the England international matches, and we stayed in the same hotel in Oslo. We went out for a walk and had lunch together. He was a player I’d admired when I was a kid, when he was in that Everton team, with Adrian Heath and Kevin Sheedy. And there I was having lunch with him, in Oslo. We were sitting there, and one of us said, ‘This is cool.’
And it was cool.
I love the game of football. I got distracted, I think – I lost track of why I love the game.
I thought Martin O’Neill was a clear favourite for the Ireland job. I’d met him on a few occasions. We’d done some TV work together. We’d done a couple of Champions League matches, away from home, and I just liked his company. And I’m hoping he might have liked mine a little bit. So when I thought, ‘He’s got a chance of getting the job’, I also thought, ‘Maybe, just maybe, he might keep me in mind.’
I thought the job would suit Martin, in terms of his character and his experience, even his age. I thought the challenge was perfect for him. And before you know it, he rang me and said, ‘D’you fancy coming up for a chat?’
And I thought, ‘All right – interesting.’
I’d a real enthusiasm about me then, because, after my time at United and especially at Ipswich, I’d lost a bit of love for the game – which I hate saying. Because, for me, football is still the best game on the planet.
Was I expecting it? Probably not. Was I shocked? Not shocked either. In football you just never know what’s around the corner. And I thought the Irish job, being Martin’s assistant, was probably
perfect for me. I just thought, to work with Martin, to go back with Ireland after all the turmoil, the rollercoaster – and that rollercoaster started when I was fourteen or fifteen. Resentment is too strong a word but, from a very early age, I often wondered, ‘Jesus, is this what the game is all about?’
So when Martin asked me, ‘D’you fancy coming on board?’ I just thought, ‘Brilliant.’
I really did.
I played the cool character but I had a real buzz about myself. It gave me a bit of joy, and I’d lost that – I’d lost that in football, definitely. There are never good endings in football; I was no different from lots of other ex-players. I was doing the TV work, still going to watch matches, and enjoying them, but I had no purpose in my life. The Ireland job, and the possibility of working under Martin – I thought it would be great. And the fact that I wouldn’t be the manager – that appealed to me as much as anything. I could be hands-on with the players. I wouldn’t have to go to FAI meetings – and I mean that in a nice way. I thought to myself, ‘I can be under the radar a little bit.’
I could get back to giving something to the players. When you’re a manager you have to step back, and maybe I’d stepped back a bit too much.
I was very comfortable with the prospect of being Martin’s assistant. It might have been different if it had been someone else, someone who hadn’t done as much in the game. But this was Martin O’Neill. And, particularly when I was a player, I’d never minded taking orders. I didn’t need to be the number one. I’d enjoyed it, picking my staff – and there’s more money; there are definitely pluses to being the boss. But if I’d been asked during the years when I was out of the game, would I have been happy to work as somebody else’s assistant, two or three names would
have sprung to mind and Martin’s would have been up there, at the top of the list.
When Steve McClaren got the manager’s job at Nottingham Forest, in 2011 – Steve doesn’t know this but, at the back of my mind, I thought, ‘I wouldn’t mind working with Steve.’
I’d known Steve at United, and he’s a good coach. There were other people I’d come across and, almost subconsciously, I’d be going, ‘Well, I think I’d like to work with him one day – maybe. I think I’d get on well with him.’
I think I would have liked working under David Moyes, and I might have had that opportunity if I’d signed for Everton after I left United. It’s a gut feeling. I look at managers and I go, ‘I like the way you come across.’ Then there are others, and I go, ‘Listen – that’s a no go.’
People have said, ‘Well, you’re going to be assistant. What does that mean?’ That means I’ll assist. Whatever he wants me to do, I won’t complicate it. If Martin says to me, ‘Roy, there’s a player in China that could play for us’, I’ll go to China. If I’m asked and it’s my responsibility, I’ll do it.
As for my relationship with the FAI, it’s amazing how people forget that I came back and played for Ireland, in 2004. I played for two years, and got over all that awkwardness. And even then, I didn’t find it that awkward. I just thought, ‘I’m a player, I want to go back and play for my country.’ I didn’t feel I was making up for Saipan or anything that had gone wrong there. I’ve never regretted what I’d stood for; I just regretted that it had happened. I’ve never felt guilty about my part in it.
I first met Martin when I went up to Glasgow, to watch Celtic and Rangers. God knows the year, but Martin was Celtic’s manager at the time. Celtic were playing at home and I got invited to the directors’ lounge after the game. But our first conversation
didn’t get off to a good start, because the first thing Martin said to me was, ‘I think you should have played in the World Cup.’
I said, ‘—why?’
And Martin said, ‘Well – you know—’
And I said, ‘You weren’t there. You don’t know what went on.’
He said, ‘I just wanted to say that.’
And I was back at him, ‘You’re entitled to your opinion but, you know, there’s a lot more to it than you think.’
That was our first conversation.
But a few years later, I was managing Sunderland and Martin was at Aston Villa. We played against them, twice at Villa and once at Sunderland, before I lost my job. After the games there’d be the usual get-together in his office, or mine. There’d be Martin, his assistant, John Robertson, his staff. I liked his staff; there was a warmth about them. Then myself and Martin started working together, with ITV. When we spoke about football – maybe it was down to the Cloughie thing, the fact that we’d both played under Brian Clough – we had the same ideas about the game and how it should be played. Martin might tell you different – but I enjoyed his company.
There were strange quirks, little coincidences. Martin had been up at Celtic, and I’d had a spell playing there. Martin managed Sunderland; I’d managed Sunderland. He played under Brian Clough, and so did I. Martin’s really into American Football, and I like American Football. I used to watch it on Channel 4, on a Sunday night, when I was a kid. My grandmother used to go mad when I put it on. Martin’s Irish, and I’m Irish. One of his daughters is called Alana and my daughter is called Alanna. Maybe that’s why he gave me the job!
Over the years, I’ve played different roles. Sometimes I don’t know what role I’m playing. I’m a family man, I’m a Cork man, a TV pundit; I’m a critic; I was a player with a skinhead. I felt like
an actor sometimes. Maybe we’re all like that – I don’t know. I was the manager, and I’d stand off from the players but I wanted to be hands-on with them. But when I took this job, I said, ‘I’m going to try to be myself, I’m going to work with the players, I’m going to enjoy myself.’
I’m not going to get into the politics, like I did sometimes as a player. Enjoy working with the team, don’t get bogged down by anything else. At this moment in my life, being the number two suits me perfectly.
I love the game of football. I got distracted, I think – I lost track of why I love the game. Saipan, my argument with Ferguson – they had nothing to do with the game, in a sense. I never fell out with eleven v. eleven. Being with the Ireland squad – I’m back in the zone. Being beaten by Turkey in Lansdowne, in May, was horrible – although it was a friendly. But it was great to wake up the next morning and get out on the grass with the players.
I’ve not had that feeling in years.
I was working with the lads who hadn’t played the night before, going, ‘We’ll get this right.’
That feeling was there – ‘Let’s make this fuckin’ happen.’
Being out on the grass, for me, is getting your gear on. I hadn’t put on a pair of boots in a couple of years. Puma King; apparently they’re from the 1950s because they’re not green, or orange – or odd. Getting the gear on, getting the balls out, getting the bibs, the cones, setting up a session. One part of the training leads to another, and to another. A warm-up, possession – five v. two, or seven v. two; six v. six, in a big area; two-touch, one-touch – all part of the warm-up. Then into a bit of crossing and finishing, and ending with a game. There might be additional rules in the game – say, one-touch finishing. If you’re working with a smaller number of players, say, four v. four, you might have two-touch,
with one-touch finish. A longer session might include tactical work – walking players through situations. And the shape of a session will depend on its time in the season – you won’t be working on physical fitness at the end of the season – and when you last played a game, or when your next game is coming up, and the number of players you have. Then there’s the manager’s feel for the group, and what he thinks they need. A lot of ingredients go into a session.
In the mornings Martin discusses the session plan with myself and some other staff. He gets our thoughts and ideas, then decides on the session. That’s fine, and I’m happy with it. The sessions are short, and our time with the players is short, and Martin has vast experience. But at club level, when there are a lot more training sessions, I like to get a feel for the group of players and make quick decisions myself; I like the responsibility – ‘You’re off tomorrow, lads; you’ve trained really hard.’ When you’re the assistant you can’t make those calls, and I think, ultimately, that it might eventually frustrate me.
There’s the fresh air – and getting wet, feeling cold. There’s the satisfaction of a session going well, or the disappointment of it not going so well. That’s the emotional side of being out on the grass. Going back for your lunch, thinking, ‘I’ve done a bit of work.’ Enjoying the food, going, ‘That was a good session,’ or ‘That wasn’t so good. He was good, he was bad, he’s pissing me off.’
Drinking tea or coffee is a massive part of the job – while you talk football. Video analysis, and talk of old games and tournaments. Chatting to people who love the game as much as you do.
Qualifying for Euro 2016 is going to be tough. Germany, Poland, Scotland – and there’s Georgia, too. But even that has given me an extra buzz. I haven’t had that hunger for a long time.
A lot of people decide not to go into international football,
because you don’t get to work with the players that much – and that’s fine. But I think that can actually be a hindrance, spending too much time in their company. Myself and Martin and Seamus McDonagh, the goalkeeping coach, took our first two games, friendlies against Latvia and Poland, in November, 2013. I really enjoyed it, and I think part of that was down to the fact that we were only with the players for eight or nine days. Steve Walford and Steve Guppy have been added to the staff, and that’s been a huge help to us – and they add to the football stories and banter. Steve Guppy played for Martin when Martin was managing Wycombe, Leicester and Celtic, and worked as a coach for Martin at Sunderland. Steve Walford played with Martin at Norwich, then worked with him at Wycombe, Norwich, Leicester, Celtic, Villa and Sunderland.
At the end of the ’13–’14 season, we had four games, against Turkey, Italy, Costa Rica and Portugal, in Dublin, London and the USA. This time, we had the players for more than two weeks.
It’s very different from club football. When you’re with players at a club, you start looking at what they’re not good at. But when you have them for a short spell, it’s ‘Let’s get it right for the game.’
At a club, you spend a lot of time talking about who you’d like to bring in and who you’d like to move. With an international squad, you’re not thinking like that. The players you have are the players you have – and there’s a plus to that. You have to look at the players positively. It’s a bit like being a grandparent: you get the kids, and you give them back.
I’m working with Seamus McDonagh, and I watched Seamus playing for Ireland, at Dalymount, when I was a kid, eleven or twelve. I came up from Cork for the match, with my team, Rockmount. It was a Wednesday night.
I was telling Seamus about it.
‘Were you playing in that game, Seamus?’
‘Yes, I was.’
Ireland were playing Holland. It was Ruud Gullit’s first international game.
We lost 3–2.
I slagged Seamus about it.
‘You threw in a few that night, Seamus.’
We’d won the trip to Dublin because we’d won a tournament, the Under-12s; it was called the Val O’Connor. We’d got to the final, and the winners would win a trip to see the Ireland team. It was my dream, to see Ireland play. We won 3–0; I got a hat trick.
I was going, ‘I want to see that fuckin’ match.’
But Seamus played in that game, and now I’m working with Seamus.
It’s brilliant.
I bought my first ever single that day too, in Dublin – ‘Karma Chameleon’, by Culture Club.
Niall Quinn made the point on TV recently: Dave Langan, who played for Ireland in the seventies and eighties, would have turned up with his leg hanging off, and have said, ‘I’m fit.’ I think Niall was contrasting Dave’s attitude to Stephen Ireland’s, and how things had changed. Playing for your country used to be the pinnacle of a player’s career; now it’s playing in the Champions League. Maybe I got lost in that world. I need to remember that most of our players won’t be playing in the Champions League. Playing for Ireland will be the pinnacle of their careers. I need to remind myself about going to Dalymount as a kid, on the bus, to see Ireland play.
I’m watching the way Martin speaks to the players, the way he handles the staff. I’m not saying that it’s perfect, or that I’ll try and copy it. I’m just going, ‘I like that, I like that, I’m not sure about that, I like that.’
I don’t have to deliver the bad news – ‘You’re not playing.’ But I’m watching Martin do it. He has more knowledge than me, more experience to fall back on. Again, I’m not trying to copy him. I’m learning. Like I learnt when I worked for Brian Clough and Alex Ferguson.
Brian Clough gave me my chance in England. I have a thing in my makeup where there’s that loyalty to people who I think have looked after me. Lads who might have given me a lift or picked me up at the airport – I might remember them for twenty or thirty years afterwards. Like Tony Loughlan and Gary Charles at Forest – one of them took me for a game of snooker. Just when you needed someone to dig you out. And Brian Clough dug me out by giving me a contract. I’d like to think I earned it. I wouldn’t say a bad thing about Brian Clough. He was brilliant with me. A brilliant manager, and a brilliant man.