I'd do a Cantona
THE incident between Eric Cantona and a fan at Selhurst Park in 1995 was serious for the club. But I'll tell you my immediate reaction: So what?
Fair play to Eric. I might have done the same myself.
Of course, when I got home and saw the television pictures I could see it was a nasty incident.
Out of order, too. But my attitude didn't change. My heart went out to him and all the lads felt the same. We didn't pat him on the back and say well done — but Eric was a good lad and we weren't going to turn on him now.
The Cantona enigma had been the talk of the game when he joined Manchester United.
But I liked him immediately. Sure, he was different. He did his own thing in training, had his own warm-up routine and often stayed out practising five-a-side. He also had a fierce temper that sometimes flared up – he and Peter Schmeichel frequently found themselves at odds.
Fists were raised at the training ground on one or two occasions. I remember a game against Galatasaray in Turkey in 1993. It was rough, nasty at times, and at the end all hell broke lose. Eric was sent off.
In the tunnel a policeman, who was laying into everyone around him, hit Bryan Robson on the head. Eric got involved in hand-to-hand combat. Then, in the dressing room, he went crazy. While the rest of us just wanted to get out of there, he was determined to go back and sort out the rogue cop who'd been wielding his truncheon. Eric was a big, strong lad. He was serious. He insisted he was going to kill ‘that f***er'.
It took the combined efforts of the manager, Brian Kidd and a few players to restrain him. Normally, I wouldn't have backed off – but even I wasn't up for this one.
Yet behind the enigma, Eric was a great pro, very serious about his football and immensely knowledgeable about the game. Collar turned up, back straight, chest out, he glided into the arena as if he owned the place. And nowhere more effectively than Old Trafford. This was his stage, he loved it and the crowd loved him.
The players loved him too, for many reasons. He got the job done. His finishing was deadly. He didn't exactly put himself about to win the ball back and we did more than our share of running for him – but just when we were giving him a bollocking, he'd seize half a chance and, bang, it was in the back of the net. I've never seen anyone finish like him. Bloody brilliant. And he was a strong bastard who could hold the ball up in any situation and return it perfectly.
We stuck together. In most away games, taking Eric down a peg or two seemed to be objective No1 for the opposition hard men and the extra effort made by players from clubs like Norwich, Swindon, Crystal Palace, Oldham and Wimbledon usually led to trouble.
"They're f****** crazy, Roy," Eric would complain. Yet confronted by tackles that were high, late and, yes, crazy our only option was to meet fire with fire.
It was no coincidence that Eric was sent off at Swindon and identified as the villain after a match at Norwich.
Him, me, Paul Ince and Mark Hughes would lead the resistance.
What really bugged me about these part-time hard men was that they tried to make a reputation by sorting us out. Why didn't they put that effort in every week? Maybe then they wouldn't be playing for Norwich or Swindon. That's why we didn't roll over when faced with this stuff. We met aggression with aggression and let ability make the difference.
That night at Selhurst Park Eric got involved with his marker, Richard Shaw.
It was niggly stuff, not nasty — shirt-pulling, obstruction, a bit of chat. You shouldn't bother about it but the aim is to break your concentration – sometimes it worked and, with Eric, Palace got a result.
Eric lost it and kicked Shaw. Off.
The crowd went mad. As Eric walked towards the dressing room the game resumed. Now it's a battle. Suddenly there was a commotion on the far touchline — something had happened but we didn't know what. It turned out some looper had had a go at Eric near the tunnel.
Eric didn't react immediately, then turned back and launched himself at his tormentor. Bruce Lee would have been proud of his kung fu kick, although he could have hurt himself quite badly, broken his back.
It's a good thing he wasn't wearing studs. Eric never did.
As it was, he ended up on his feet trading blows with the guy.
After the game, the dressing room was quiet. The directors were in a huddle with the gaffer. Eric sat there, head bowed.
Police were outside in the corridor. It was a big test for the manager but I still say some of the things you hear from the terraces are really sickening. Racist taunts, chants about players' personal lives — Eric suffered a lot from that — filth that makes you wonder about the people who come to football matches.
Obscene songs about the Munich air crash? What is this?
It's no surprise that when Eric retired he turned to acting. He spent his life projecting the enigma; that was his game. He was cast as the brooding, temperamental prima donna — in reality, he was one of the lads.
He pretended not to understand English when, in fact, his command of the language was good — particularly impressive when it came to swearing.
He was funny, loved a drink — always champagne — and never carried money.
I saw him create a huge commotion at Manchester Airport once, trying to pay for a packet of chewing gum with a gold card. He was a good lad and great company – one of the best, no real conceit, no bulls***.
Here's a story that captures Eric to a tee. One morning Steve Bruce arrived in the dressing room with a cheque for £15,000. The first-team squad had contributed to a video and this was to be split 18 ways.
Struggling to work out who was owed what we decided to hold a draw, winner takes all. The option of taking your cut — about £800 — was available.
For the young lads that was around two weeks' wages. Some wanted the money. Three of them took the money but the rest of us, including Paul Scholes and Nicky Butt, opted to play — it left about £12,000.
Eric's name came out of the hat. He took his cheque – and plenty of stick.
Next morning he arrived with two more cheques for £6,000 each made out to Paul and Nicky.
This was their unexpected reward for taking the gamble. He appreciated they needed the money more than him.
It was a lot to spend on a gesture, even then. Top class, Eric.
Adapted by MARTIN SAMUEL from Keane: The Autobiography by Roy Keane to be published by Michael Joseph on August 30 at £17.99 © Roy Keane 2002
THE incident between Eric Cantona and a fan at Selhurst Park in 1995 was serious for the club. But I'll tell you my immediate reaction: So what?
Fair play to Eric. I might have done the same myself.
Of course, when I got home and saw the television pictures I could see it was a nasty incident.
Out of order, too. But my attitude didn't change. My heart went out to him and all the lads felt the same. We didn't pat him on the back and say well done — but Eric was a good lad and we weren't going to turn on him now.
The Cantona enigma had been the talk of the game when he joined Manchester United.
But I liked him immediately. Sure, he was different. He did his own thing in training, had his own warm-up routine and often stayed out practising five-a-side. He also had a fierce temper that sometimes flared up – he and Peter Schmeichel frequently found themselves at odds.
Fists were raised at the training ground on one or two occasions. I remember a game against Galatasaray in Turkey in 1993. It was rough, nasty at times, and at the end all hell broke lose. Eric was sent off.
In the tunnel a policeman, who was laying into everyone around him, hit Bryan Robson on the head. Eric got involved in hand-to-hand combat. Then, in the dressing room, he went crazy. While the rest of us just wanted to get out of there, he was determined to go back and sort out the rogue cop who'd been wielding his truncheon. Eric was a big, strong lad. He was serious. He insisted he was going to kill ‘that f***er'.
It took the combined efforts of the manager, Brian Kidd and a few players to restrain him. Normally, I wouldn't have backed off – but even I wasn't up for this one.
Yet behind the enigma, Eric was a great pro, very serious about his football and immensely knowledgeable about the game. Collar turned up, back straight, chest out, he glided into the arena as if he owned the place. And nowhere more effectively than Old Trafford. This was his stage, he loved it and the crowd loved him.
The players loved him too, for many reasons. He got the job done. His finishing was deadly. He didn't exactly put himself about to win the ball back and we did more than our share of running for him – but just when we were giving him a bollocking, he'd seize half a chance and, bang, it was in the back of the net. I've never seen anyone finish like him. Bloody brilliant. And he was a strong bastard who could hold the ball up in any situation and return it perfectly.
We stuck together. In most away games, taking Eric down a peg or two seemed to be objective No1 for the opposition hard men and the extra effort made by players from clubs like Norwich, Swindon, Crystal Palace, Oldham and Wimbledon usually led to trouble.
"They're f****** crazy, Roy," Eric would complain. Yet confronted by tackles that were high, late and, yes, crazy our only option was to meet fire with fire.
It was no coincidence that Eric was sent off at Swindon and identified as the villain after a match at Norwich.
Him, me, Paul Ince and Mark Hughes would lead the resistance.
What really bugged me about these part-time hard men was that they tried to make a reputation by sorting us out. Why didn't they put that effort in every week? Maybe then they wouldn't be playing for Norwich or Swindon. That's why we didn't roll over when faced with this stuff. We met aggression with aggression and let ability make the difference.
That night at Selhurst Park Eric got involved with his marker, Richard Shaw.
It was niggly stuff, not nasty — shirt-pulling, obstruction, a bit of chat. You shouldn't bother about it but the aim is to break your concentration – sometimes it worked and, with Eric, Palace got a result.
Eric lost it and kicked Shaw. Off.
The crowd went mad. As Eric walked towards the dressing room the game resumed. Now it's a battle. Suddenly there was a commotion on the far touchline — something had happened but we didn't know what. It turned out some looper had had a go at Eric near the tunnel.
Eric didn't react immediately, then turned back and launched himself at his tormentor. Bruce Lee would have been proud of his kung fu kick, although he could have hurt himself quite badly, broken his back.
It's a good thing he wasn't wearing studs. Eric never did.
As it was, he ended up on his feet trading blows with the guy.
After the game, the dressing room was quiet. The directors were in a huddle with the gaffer. Eric sat there, head bowed.
Police were outside in the corridor. It was a big test for the manager but I still say some of the things you hear from the terraces are really sickening. Racist taunts, chants about players' personal lives — Eric suffered a lot from that — filth that makes you wonder about the people who come to football matches.
Obscene songs about the Munich air crash? What is this?
It's no surprise that when Eric retired he turned to acting. He spent his life projecting the enigma; that was his game. He was cast as the brooding, temperamental prima donna — in reality, he was one of the lads.
He pretended not to understand English when, in fact, his command of the language was good — particularly impressive when it came to swearing.
He was funny, loved a drink — always champagne — and never carried money.
I saw him create a huge commotion at Manchester Airport once, trying to pay for a packet of chewing gum with a gold card. He was a good lad and great company – one of the best, no real conceit, no bulls***.
Here's a story that captures Eric to a tee. One morning Steve Bruce arrived in the dressing room with a cheque for £15,000. The first-team squad had contributed to a video and this was to be split 18 ways.
Struggling to work out who was owed what we decided to hold a draw, winner takes all. The option of taking your cut — about £800 — was available.
For the young lads that was around two weeks' wages. Some wanted the money. Three of them took the money but the rest of us, including Paul Scholes and Nicky Butt, opted to play — it left about £12,000.
Eric's name came out of the hat. He took his cheque – and plenty of stick.
Next morning he arrived with two more cheques for £6,000 each made out to Paul and Nicky.
This was their unexpected reward for taking the gamble. He appreciated they needed the money more than him.
It was a lot to spend on a gesture, even then. Top class, Eric.
Adapted by MARTIN SAMUEL from Keane: The Autobiography by Roy Keane to be published by Michael Joseph on August 30 at £17.99 © Roy Keane 2002
