Keane's story: in his own words
August 12, 2002
WE ARRIVE in Saipan. The hotel is beautiful. Sunday is a rest day. In the evening McCarthy calls am eeting. There's been a problem. The gear hasn't arrived. No training gear, no footballs. No medical equipment. The special drink we need to take to help us acclimatise is missing as well. Nobody knows what time we're going to train on Monday. McCarthy says we'll just do some running. Because the gear hasn'ta rrived we'll have to use the tracksuits we wear around the hotel. They'reh eavy, impossible in this kind of heat. I went to see McCarthy that night. Quietly, in his room. What's the story, Mick? They've let me down, he says. Who are they, I'm thinking. I said that the gear should have been here a fortnight ago. We're at the World Cup finals. The following morning we're hanging around the hotel waiting to find out what's happening. Eventually we get on the coach to go to the training ground. The training pitch is like concrete, pot-holed with loads of loose stones lying around. With my injury problems the pitch is dangerous. Afterwards I went to the Fifa liaison officer, a local guy. I told him the pitch was rock hard. He said he was sorry but nobody told him we'd be training on the pitch today. We could have watered it, he says, if anyone had told us you were coming down. I say, you must have known the Irish team were going to traint oday. No, he replied, nobody told us. The gear arrived on Monday night. Next morning we arrived at the training ground. There was a truck there with a water hose. About 20 yards of the pitch was flooded, the rest was as rock hard as the day before. It looked dangerous. I laughed. We ended training with a game. There were no small five-a-side goals, only big goals. Big goals but no 'keepers. With five-a-side goals you don't need 'keepers but with big goals you do. So I ask about the' keepers. Evans tells me, they're tired. But I said we need 'keepers to have a proper game. We're at the World Cup finals! "They're tired," Evans insists." We're all f***ing tired," I replied. The game went on; no 'keepers. After training I went over to Packie. "Could the 'keepers not have played?" I ask. "They worked hard this morning," he answered. "I bet they'll be all right for the golf course in the morning," I said. Then Alan Kelly chipped in: "What have you got a problem with, Roy?" "I've got a problem with you," I said, "Could you notf ***ing get in goal for the game?" "We've worked hard this morning," he says. "Do you want a f***ing medal for that? You've come to the World Cup finals, you expect to work hard. You've only worked for an hour." McCarthy and Evans watched all this. Never said a word. I got back on the coach. I was angry. I'd put up with our Third World approach to the game throughout my international career. We all had. Packie and McCarthy were both players. Now with the power to put it right they were presiding over the same old joke. By the time I got back to the hotel I'd had enough. This wasn't for me. This is not what I trained my balls off for all season.< /FONT Back at the hotel I had a quick shower to cool me down. Leaving the room
I
met McCarthy in the corridor. "Can I have a word with you, Mick." "Yeah, yeah. What's it about?" "I've had enough. I want to go home." "What do you mean?" "I'm going home." "Oh yeah. Are you sure you know what you're doing?" "Yeah, and don't try to persuade me, just let me go." "What is it? . . . Is it me? . . . The training? . . . The pitch?" Of course I should have said yes, it is you, the training, the preparation. This whole thing is a disgrace. I didn't. "No, it's just me, I've had enough." "All right, all right," he said. "What will I tell the press?" "Tell them . . . personal problems." We agreed Eddie Corcoran (who was in charge of logistics) would book my flights. We shook hands. "Don't let it go beyond the three of us," I asked. "Sure," he agreed. I knew the consequences, for my family, my mam and dad, Johnson, Pat and Denis, who I'd spent EUR30,000 booking a dream World Cup trip for. But I was thinking of my sanity. We were only two days in - I couldn't stand another two or three weeks of the Carry On nonsense. I met Kells and apologised for the row at training. "No problem, Roy." I went for a walk. When I got back Mick Byrne came to the room. "What's going on, Roy?" "I've had enough, Mick. I can't stick it any more. It's not even a bad dream, it's my worst nightmare. I like to train hard, work hard. But this is the World Cup. We're playing theC ameroon in a week and a half and we've got a warm-up match on Saturday. And look at us. Jesus, Mick, look at us." We sat in silence for a few minutes. "I know, Mick, I should have waited until after the World Cup, bit my tongue." "Roy, just wait until after the tournament. Come on, let me fix it." "F*** it," I say. "Go on then, tell Mick I'll wait until after the World Cup." "Brilliant," Mick says. Two minutes later Mick comes back with McCarthy. McCarthy walks in quite aggressively. "What's going on, Roy?" "I thought Is hould wait until after the tournament. I want to stay." "I've rung Colin Healy to come out and replace you," he says. That was quick, I think. There's a moment's silence. Now I'm embarrassed. I like Colin, he's a good lad. Maybe he deserves his chance. "OK," I says, "maybe you're right. I'll go. Leave it as it is." "I wish you'd have thought about me in all of this," he says. "Mick, I'm embarrassed by it all. I can tell by your body language that you're happy with the decision. Leave it. OK." "Well, people are always walking on eggshells around you," he says. "F*** it, Mick, I don't ask people to walk on eggshells around me." I felt bad about Colin. But somewhere in the back of my mind I thought maybe I'm entitled to change my mind, maybe I deserve theb enefit of the doubt. People change their minds all the time, for God's sake. "Just leave it then, Mick, leave it. I'll go back." "Well," he says, "what do you want me to do?" "You're the manager, you make the decision." He said nothing. Walked out. Yes I know it's childish, it doesn't reflectp articularly well on me. But that's what happened. I feel it's important to tell it straight. I was indecisive. I desperately wanted to play. Yet I couldn'ts tand the f***-ups. There is no hero here. I went to Mick Byrne's room. "Tell him I'm going." That was it. What I really wanted, I thought, was a generous response. You made a mistake, let's forget about it. The news got out. Michael Kennedy rang. We talked. Michael asked me to ring Alex Ferguson. The gaffer had been on to Michael. He'd heard the news. He was on holiday in Malta, Michael said. Ring him on hism obile. I spoke to the gaffer for half an hour. I told him the whole story. He agreed it was a joke and our preparation had been a disgrace. Like Michael, he outlined the consequences. Alex Ferguson also agreed that I was entitled to change my mind. Just before 8o 'clock there was a knock on the door. It was Mick Byrne. Roy, you've got three minutes to make up your mind, we've got to fax the squad to Fifa. I said I'll stay. I'd agreed to give three interviews, to Tom Humphries and Paul Kimmage, and one to RTE Radio. Tom's article for The Irish Timesa ppeared on Thursday morning. When he showed it to me for approval I'd nop roblem. I believed people at home had a right to know the truth. At half-six I came down for our evening meal. We were told there was a team meeting at 7.30. I knew damn well what it was about. Tom's article. Half-seven, McCarthy arrives in the restaurant. The staff are with him. OK lads, we're off at eight o'clock tomorrow morning. Get your bags packed and tagged. "And while we're here," he goes on, "whoever's not happy with anything, I'd like them to say it to me." I know what's coming. But I'm cool, my conscience is clear. For one thing I had told him privately what I was unhappy with. "I picked this island and if anybody's not happy they should tell me now," he repeats. Keep cool Roy, they're dangling the bait for you. Don't bite. The atmosphere is heavy with the sense that trouble is brewing. They all know now what the meeting is about. He's going to try and sort me out publicly. Be the big man, The Manager. I'm calm. "Roy, you don't seem to be happy with something." It was pathetic. "Well, Mick," I said, "why didn't you say that from the start? We've talked about this in private. Why aren't we having this conversation in private?"" Well you've made it public," he says, whipping the Humphries article from behind his back, like Paul Daniels. "What do you mean made it public." "This interview with the Times." "Mick, do you not think I've seen the interview? Do you call this set-up man-management?" "You're going against your team-mates now," he goes on. "Look, I've seen the interview. I promised Tom last Sunday I'd do a piece with him. I spoke to him yesterday. I stand by everything I said. The interview's fine." "You've gone against your team-mates," he repeats. "You never wanted to play for your country. You were supposed to go to Iran and you didn't, you faked an injury to get out of playing for your country." He's on a roll now. "You know that's not true," I responded. "You spoke to my manager, you know I wasn't right for the Iran match in Dublin. You thanked me for coming to Dublin. You agreed that 2-0 was a good result." I was angry now, he was bending the truth. "You call this man-management?" I went on. "You were there, you know the truth. Mick, you're a liar." What was he doing this for? Suddenly I snapped. This was the worst accusation of all. That I had faked injury. No. I'm not having that. From this impostor. McCarthy running on the pitch after we got a draw in Portugal in the group phase and grabbing me. "Just stand with me Roy, for 15 seconds. Let the press get a photograph of us together.I t'll look great."" You're a f***ing wanker. I didn't rate you as a player, I don't rate you as a manager, and I don't rate you as a person. You're a f***ing wanker and you can stick your World Cup up your arse. I've got nor espect for you." "Well, if you don't respect me, I don't think you can play for me." At that I left the room. When I got to my room I knew he'd got what he wanted. It was a set-up. The insult calculated to cause the gravest offence. Humiliation in front of the whole party was the result he was seeking. Maybe he got more than he bargained for. Any possibility of reconciliation disappeared when the Irish squad put their name to a statement which insisted I shouldn't return. I would be a distraction. I can only guess - as I'm sure you can - who drafted that statement. And who corralled the younger players in the squad to add their names to it. I hope some day I'll play for Ireland again. However, it won't be for McCarthy. Extracted from Keane: The Autobiography by Roy Keane
August 12, 2002
WE ARRIVE in Saipan. The hotel is beautiful. Sunday is a rest day. In the evening McCarthy calls am eeting. There's been a problem. The gear hasn't arrived. No training gear, no footballs. No medical equipment. The special drink we need to take to help us acclimatise is missing as well. Nobody knows what time we're going to train on Monday. McCarthy says we'll just do some running. Because the gear hasn'ta rrived we'll have to use the tracksuits we wear around the hotel. They'reh eavy, impossible in this kind of heat. I went to see McCarthy that night. Quietly, in his room. What's the story, Mick? They've let me down, he says. Who are they, I'm thinking. I said that the gear should have been here a fortnight ago. We're at the World Cup finals. The following morning we're hanging around the hotel waiting to find out what's happening. Eventually we get on the coach to go to the training ground. The training pitch is like concrete, pot-holed with loads of loose stones lying around. With my injury problems the pitch is dangerous. Afterwards I went to the Fifa liaison officer, a local guy. I told him the pitch was rock hard. He said he was sorry but nobody told him we'd be training on the pitch today. We could have watered it, he says, if anyone had told us you were coming down. I say, you must have known the Irish team were going to traint oday. No, he replied, nobody told us. The gear arrived on Monday night. Next morning we arrived at the training ground. There was a truck there with a water hose. About 20 yards of the pitch was flooded, the rest was as rock hard as the day before. It looked dangerous. I laughed. We ended training with a game. There were no small five-a-side goals, only big goals. Big goals but no 'keepers. With five-a-side goals you don't need 'keepers but with big goals you do. So I ask about the' keepers. Evans tells me, they're tired. But I said we need 'keepers to have a proper game. We're at the World Cup finals! "They're tired," Evans insists." We're all f***ing tired," I replied. The game went on; no 'keepers. After training I went over to Packie. "Could the 'keepers not have played?" I ask. "They worked hard this morning," he answered. "I bet they'll be all right for the golf course in the morning," I said. Then Alan Kelly chipped in: "What have you got a problem with, Roy?" "I've got a problem with you," I said, "Could you notf ***ing get in goal for the game?" "We've worked hard this morning," he says. "Do you want a f***ing medal for that? You've come to the World Cup finals, you expect to work hard. You've only worked for an hour." McCarthy and Evans watched all this. Never said a word. I got back on the coach. I was angry. I'd put up with our Third World approach to the game throughout my international career. We all had. Packie and McCarthy were both players. Now with the power to put it right they were presiding over the same old joke. By the time I got back to the hotel I'd had enough. This wasn't for me. This is not what I trained my balls off for all season.< /FONT Back at the hotel I had a quick shower to cool me down. Leaving the room
I
met McCarthy in the corridor. "Can I have a word with you, Mick." "Yeah, yeah. What's it about?" "I've had enough. I want to go home." "What do you mean?" "I'm going home." "Oh yeah. Are you sure you know what you're doing?" "Yeah, and don't try to persuade me, just let me go." "What is it? . . . Is it me? . . . The training? . . . The pitch?" Of course I should have said yes, it is you, the training, the preparation. This whole thing is a disgrace. I didn't. "No, it's just me, I've had enough." "All right, all right," he said. "What will I tell the press?" "Tell them . . . personal problems." We agreed Eddie Corcoran (who was in charge of logistics) would book my flights. We shook hands. "Don't let it go beyond the three of us," I asked. "Sure," he agreed. I knew the consequences, for my family, my mam and dad, Johnson, Pat and Denis, who I'd spent EUR30,000 booking a dream World Cup trip for. But I was thinking of my sanity. We were only two days in - I couldn't stand another two or three weeks of the Carry On nonsense. I met Kells and apologised for the row at training. "No problem, Roy." I went for a walk. When I got back Mick Byrne came to the room. "What's going on, Roy?" "I've had enough, Mick. I can't stick it any more. It's not even a bad dream, it's my worst nightmare. I like to train hard, work hard. But this is the World Cup. We're playing theC ameroon in a week and a half and we've got a warm-up match on Saturday. And look at us. Jesus, Mick, look at us." We sat in silence for a few minutes. "I know, Mick, I should have waited until after the World Cup, bit my tongue." "Roy, just wait until after the tournament. Come on, let me fix it." "F*** it," I say. "Go on then, tell Mick I'll wait until after the World Cup." "Brilliant," Mick says. Two minutes later Mick comes back with McCarthy. McCarthy walks in quite aggressively. "What's going on, Roy?" "I thought Is hould wait until after the tournament. I want to stay." "I've rung Colin Healy to come out and replace you," he says. That was quick, I think. There's a moment's silence. Now I'm embarrassed. I like Colin, he's a good lad. Maybe he deserves his chance. "OK," I says, "maybe you're right. I'll go. Leave it as it is." "I wish you'd have thought about me in all of this," he says. "Mick, I'm embarrassed by it all. I can tell by your body language that you're happy with the decision. Leave it. OK." "Well, people are always walking on eggshells around you," he says. "F*** it, Mick, I don't ask people to walk on eggshells around me." I felt bad about Colin. But somewhere in the back of my mind I thought maybe I'm entitled to change my mind, maybe I deserve theb enefit of the doubt. People change their minds all the time, for God's sake. "Just leave it then, Mick, leave it. I'll go back." "Well," he says, "what do you want me to do?" "You're the manager, you make the decision." He said nothing. Walked out. Yes I know it's childish, it doesn't reflectp articularly well on me. But that's what happened. I feel it's important to tell it straight. I was indecisive. I desperately wanted to play. Yet I couldn'ts tand the f***-ups. There is no hero here. I went to Mick Byrne's room. "Tell him I'm going." That was it. What I really wanted, I thought, was a generous response. You made a mistake, let's forget about it. The news got out. Michael Kennedy rang. We talked. Michael asked me to ring Alex Ferguson. The gaffer had been on to Michael. He'd heard the news. He was on holiday in Malta, Michael said. Ring him on hism obile. I spoke to the gaffer for half an hour. I told him the whole story. He agreed it was a joke and our preparation had been a disgrace. Like Michael, he outlined the consequences. Alex Ferguson also agreed that I was entitled to change my mind. Just before 8o 'clock there was a knock on the door. It was Mick Byrne. Roy, you've got three minutes to make up your mind, we've got to fax the squad to Fifa. I said I'll stay. I'd agreed to give three interviews, to Tom Humphries and Paul Kimmage, and one to RTE Radio. Tom's article for The Irish Timesa ppeared on Thursday morning. When he showed it to me for approval I'd nop roblem. I believed people at home had a right to know the truth. At half-six I came down for our evening meal. We were told there was a team meeting at 7.30. I knew damn well what it was about. Tom's article. Half-seven, McCarthy arrives in the restaurant. The staff are with him. OK lads, we're off at eight o'clock tomorrow morning. Get your bags packed and tagged. "And while we're here," he goes on, "whoever's not happy with anything, I'd like them to say it to me." I know what's coming. But I'm cool, my conscience is clear. For one thing I had told him privately what I was unhappy with. "I picked this island and if anybody's not happy they should tell me now," he repeats. Keep cool Roy, they're dangling the bait for you. Don't bite. The atmosphere is heavy with the sense that trouble is brewing. They all know now what the meeting is about. He's going to try and sort me out publicly. Be the big man, The Manager. I'm calm. "Roy, you don't seem to be happy with something." It was pathetic. "Well, Mick," I said, "why didn't you say that from the start? We've talked about this in private. Why aren't we having this conversation in private?"" Well you've made it public," he says, whipping the Humphries article from behind his back, like Paul Daniels. "What do you mean made it public." "This interview with the Times." "Mick, do you not think I've seen the interview? Do you call this set-up man-management?" "You're going against your team-mates now," he goes on. "Look, I've seen the interview. I promised Tom last Sunday I'd do a piece with him. I spoke to him yesterday. I stand by everything I said. The interview's fine." "You've gone against your team-mates," he repeats. "You never wanted to play for your country. You were supposed to go to Iran and you didn't, you faked an injury to get out of playing for your country." He's on a roll now. "You know that's not true," I responded. "You spoke to my manager, you know I wasn't right for the Iran match in Dublin. You thanked me for coming to Dublin. You agreed that 2-0 was a good result." I was angry now, he was bending the truth. "You call this man-management?" I went on. "You were there, you know the truth. Mick, you're a liar." What was he doing this for? Suddenly I snapped. This was the worst accusation of all. That I had faked injury. No. I'm not having that. From this impostor. McCarthy running on the pitch after we got a draw in Portugal in the group phase and grabbing me. "Just stand with me Roy, for 15 seconds. Let the press get a photograph of us together.I t'll look great."" You're a f***ing wanker. I didn't rate you as a player, I don't rate you as a manager, and I don't rate you as a person. You're a f***ing wanker and you can stick your World Cup up your arse. I've got nor espect for you." "Well, if you don't respect me, I don't think you can play for me." At that I left the room. When I got to my room I knew he'd got what he wanted. It was a set-up. The insult calculated to cause the gravest offence. Humiliation in front of the whole party was the result he was seeking. Maybe he got more than he bargained for. Any possibility of reconciliation disappeared when the Irish squad put their name to a statement which insisted I shouldn't return. I would be a distraction. I can only guess - as I'm sure you can - who drafted that statement. And who corralled the younger players in the squad to add their names to it. I hope some day I'll play for Ireland again. However, it won't be for McCarthy. Extracted from Keane: The Autobiography by Roy Keane
