The Second Half (6 page)

I said, ‘No, I’m not bothered.’

And he said, ‘I know Becks will fuckin’ want it and I don’t want him to have it.’

The little power battles.

I’d had ‘16’ since I’d signed for the club. I was comfortable with ‘16’. I think it might have kept me on my toes, being outside the ‘1’ to ‘11’. I didn’t think I was a number ‘7’.

I said, ‘Give it to Becks.’

Becks got it, and it suited him – and Cantona. Ronaldo had it after Becks.

The captaincy of a great club is almost a brand – a brand within the brand. After I stopped playing football, I often noticed that people abroad were more impressed with the fact that I’d been the captain of United than the fact that I’d played for them for nearly thirteen years.

The captain is the leader. I think you need someone at the front, at the top of the tunnel, who’ll inspire the thought, ‘I’ll follow him – everyone’s going to follow him.’ I think I should have been Ireland captain. But I didn’t want to put that on Brian. I didn’t want it to seem like an ego trip: ‘I’ll only go back if I’m the captain.’ But I should have brought it up in the conversation.
I think Kenny enjoyed the media side of the role. We’d come in at the end of a game, and Kenny would come in after us, because he’d been talking to the TV people. That would piss me off, a bit. Don’t forget your place; it’s about the team.

My first game back was a friendly against Romania, at Lansdowne Road. We won 1–0; Matty Holland scored. It was good to be back, really, really emotional. I’d always loved the bus journey to the games. Kids waving flags – I used to love all that. The police sirens. And the rebel songs on the bus – I enjoyed them; it was tradition. We were on the bus going to Lansdowne, and we got stuck in a bit of traffic, not far from the hotel. I was sitting by the window, and there was a young kid outside, looking up.

And he said, ‘Welcome back.’

It was like he’d been planted there.

I said to myself, ‘It’s good to be back.’

The game itself, the national anthem – all emotional stuff. I always hated the hanging around and the travelling. But the bus journey and the game – if it had just been about those two things, it would have been perfect.

I was glad to be back, but the consequences of the decision were about to bite me in the arse. I made myself available to play away to Switzerland, in the second qualifier, in September ’04, although I’d fractured my ribs. I’d done that a few weeks before in a Champions League qualifier, against Dynamo Bucharest. I’d played in our next Premiership game against Norwich but my ribs were at me. I’d been ruled out for four or five weeks but, after two or three, I felt better. The club doctor said it all looked fine. But I hadn’t played for United. So I rang Alex Ferguson and told him I thought I’d be all right to play against Switzerland.

He went fuckin’ mad.

‘You’re not fit enough to play for us!’

But I went and played against Switzerland. We drew 1–1.
That was the second of the qualifiers. The first had been against Cyprus, at Lansdowne. We won 3–0, but I’d missed it because of my fractured ribs. I didn’t want to risk it in a game we’d probably win. And I was placating United a bit, too, by not playing in the less important game. We drew 0–0 with France, in Paris. It wasn’t the old French team. A lot of the men who had won the World Cup in ’98 had retired. We should have won that game in Paris.

We were unlucky. We were 1–0 up against Israel, away, and they equalised in time added on. In the return game, in Lansdowne, we were 2–0 up, and ended up drawing 2–2. I know: you make your own luck. But you need a few breaks and Brian Kerr didn’t get any.

We played the Faroes a couple of weeks after United had played Arsenal in the FA Cup final. I’d got injured in the first few minutes of that final, and ended up with a torn groin. I picked up a silly yellow card in the Faroes game – I think it was for arguing. I shouldn’t have been playing, because I was injured. But I was suspended for the next game, at home to Israel. I ended up watching that one in the stand. I’m not a gambler, but I had a bet on that Ian Harte would score the first goal – and he did. It was twenty quid, I think, and I got back a couple of hundred. That was the game we drew 2–2. I like to think that if I’d been playing we’d have won. I could have had that impact on the game.

We’d drawn with France in Paris but, by the time they came to Dublin, a lot of their best players had come out of retirement.

I spoke to Mikaël Silvestre about it before the game.

‘I can’t believe they’re all coming back.’

And Mikaël said to me, ‘I think there were financial incentives.’

They beat us 1–0.

We didn’t qualify. But I liked working under Brian. He should have been given more time, another crack at qualifying for the Euros. We were so close – the two draws against Israel killed us.
I played in six of the ten qualifiers. I was injured or suspended for the other four. I’d enjoyed being back, although not qualifying was disappointing. And I knew: there wouldn’t be another campaign for me.

At the start of the new year we were still doing okay. We beat Liverpool and Villa and drew with Spurs, and we were still third when we went to Arsenal.

I didn’t see it as a big deal at the time. It was just a bit of argy-bargy. The circumstances, the rivalry, gave it significance. And the cameras in the tunnel – that’s standard now, but I think it was quite new at the time. I was told later that the fans outside were seeing what was happening on the big screens. I didn’t know that, but it was all part of the build-up, and the story.

But, really, what’s mad about the whole tunnel episode is that it had nothing to do with me.

Gary Neville had come to see me just after the warm-up; it was an evening kick-off. We’d just come back into the dressing room. Gary told me that some of the Arsenal players had said something to him in the tunnel, that they weren’t going to take any nonsense – they’d be waiting for him. They said there’d be none of the carry-on that had gone on in the game at Old Trafford earlier in the season. There’d been a lot of kicking and argy-bargy during that game, and afterwards. Phil had played instead of me that day, and he’d been running around like a kamikaze pilot, running into everybody. I think Gary was now suffering the consequences of Phil’s actions.

But I didn’t pay much attention to what Gary said.

‘Whatever, Gary.’

I was getting into the zone myself. I was concentrating on my job, getting ready to go out on to the pitch. I wasn’t one for shouting and roaring in the dressing room. I’d be geeing myself up, in a
calm way. The last thing I wanted was Gary in my earhole, going, ‘They’ve been shouting at me in the tunnel.’

My attitude was, ‘Fuckin’ deal with it. You’re not eleven.’

But he’d planted a seed in my head, warning me.

I was always one of the first out to the tunnel. As captain, I’d be leading the team out. The Highbury tunnel was a strange one, like a little alleyway. Very tight. It was hard to avoid contact with people, even if you were trying to. There was always a lot of tension there. And night matches always created more tension anyway.

I’d forgotten my captain’s armband – simple as that. So I turned to go back to the dressing room.

‘Go down, lads, I’ll be with you in a minute; I forgot my armband.’

And I went back, past our own players. Albert, the kit man, had the armband and he was putting it on me.

‘All the best, Roy.’

As I walked to the front I heard something going on at the top of the tunnel. All I could see was a few fingers, pointing at Gary.

I lost it.

Five seconds earlier, I’d been perfectly calm, in the zone, ready for the match. But, because of what Gary had said to me, I just went, ‘The fuckers – they
are
waiting for him.’

I’d thought they might have booted him out on the pitch. But in the tunnel? I just thought, ‘The fuckers.’ They were trying to bully him. They were a big team and, in the tunnel, they were even bigger.

So I said to myself, ‘All right. Let’s go.’

I went down there. I’d lost it, but I wasn’t zoning out; I wasn’t forgetting about the game.

I said, ‘We’ll see you out there.’

I just felt they were bullying Gary. I don’t think it was
intimidation; it was bullying. There’s a difference. If Patrick Vieira had come up to me and said, ‘I’m going to have you’, that would have been intimidation. It would have been a clash between equal personalities. But Gary was quiet – I think they were going for one of the weaker players in the team. By ‘weak’ I don’t mean it as it’s usually understood. Gary was an established international; he’d sixty or seventy caps; he’d played in World Cups. He’d won the Champions League, and League titles. But his personality was wrong for this. If they’d been having a go at Nicky Butt or Wes Brown, I wouldn’t have said anything. I’d have walked past them, probably whistling. In football, intimidation is legitimate but bullying isn’t. I never went looking for a full-back who’d never done anything to me. I’d look for people who were in my position or were physically important for their team. I’d always thought, ‘They can give it back to me.’ I never went for a tricky winger or a small full-back.

‘I’ll see you out there.’

I meant it. I love the game of football. We’d sort it out on the pitch – no hiding places.

I’d read something in the match programme about the charity work Patrick supported in Senegal, where he’d been born. He’d mentioned how much he loved going back to Senegal.

I said, ‘If you love Senegal so much, why don’t you fuckin’ play for them?’

I think he said something smart to me about Ireland and the World Cup. It was grown men, bitching.

The referee, Graham Poll, was good – ‘Just leave it, just leave it.’

‘I fuckin’ am. Just let us out.’

What was important: it didn’t interfere with my performance that night and I don’t think it had an impact on the game. Although it might have thrown them more than us. We went out
and played like Brazil. We won the game, 4–2. But the tunnel incident was all part of the TV drama. It became entertainment, although I wasn’t aware of the cameras. I was there to do a job. ‘Win the game – get in and get out.’ But it was a bit like the buildup to a boxing match – the weigh-in, the press conferences – when people forget that there’ll actually be a fight.

But I still feel that I was defending one of my team-mates. I know what’s right and what’s wrong, and their behaviour that night was wrong. If it had come to an actual fight, Patrick could probably have killed me. But it was unacceptable.

I think that football might lack that energy now, a bit – that tension. It was great. But years later, people bring up the tunnel and they don’t remember the match that came after it.

After the game, we’d moved up to second, behind Chelsea.

I scored in our next game, a win against Birmingham. It was my fiftieth League goal. Scoring a goal – the best feeling ever. The jubilation. It was nice to remember where the back of the net was. We beat City and Portsmouth. We were still second.

We’d had to qualify for the Champions League group stages, because we’d finished third in the Premiership the season before. We got past Dynamo Bucharest, when I fractured my ribs. We were drawn with Sparta Prague, Fenerbahçe and Lyon. I didn’t play in either of the Fenerbahçe games. This probably marked the start of my accepting that I wouldn’t be playing in every game. I was part of the squad rotation, and it took a bit of getting used to. I was fine about missing certain games, but not the big ones. We ended up second in the group, behind Lyon, although we’d drawn with them away and had beaten them at home. But Fenerbahçe beat us 3–0 in the last game, so we finished two points behind Lyon and drew Milan in the next round.

They beat us twice, 1–0. In the home leg, Roy Carroll couldn’t
hold on to a shot. It wasn’t a bad, bad mistake, but Hernán Crespo got to it; like all good strikers, he was sniffing out the chance. He scored again in the second leg. Milan were a top team then. There was no shame in going out to a team that had Nesta, Maldini, Pirlo, and Kaká in it.

We weren’t quite there yet; we’d slipped behind – just a bit. The panic button would have been pressed if Fenerbahçe had knocked us out, but not Milan.

Bill Beswick made the point: ‘Sport is all about disappointment.’ It’s about dealing with the disappointments. It’s not the highs. There are so few of them. It’s the defeats, the injuries. Great careers carry massive disappointments. It’s how you cope with them. You have to look forward, home in on the positives. Take the positive out of every negative. Look to the next game.

But it’s difficult. It was one of my biggest weaknesses. Dealing with the disappointment, and the self-loathing that comes with it. I didn’t get over it quickly. I couldn’t. I’m not sure that the greatest sports psychologist in the world, working with me twenty-four hours a day, would have had much of an impact.

But I am open-minded about sports psychology. Bill worked at Sunderland when I was manager there. But it was always optional. I think that’s very important. Whether it’s yoga or diet, it shouldn’t be like school. The message at United was always that Bill was there if we wanted him.

I would speak to Bill about the sending-offs and the rage, and he’d say, ‘Your first target is to stay on the pitch for ninety minutes.’ I appreciated that; it was common sense. It was one of the best pieces of advice I’d been given. I’d been advised before to count to ten. That was never going to work for me. ‘Just a second, I’m angry – one – two—’ So Bill’s advice was good, very practical. And towards the end of my career, he nudged me towards ideas that were helpful.

I watched the 2005 Champions League final in Dubai, at about two o’clock in the morning. It was the mad game, AC Milan against Liverpool. I never had a hatred for Liverpool, although I wasn’t exactly jumping up and down on the balcony when they won. I remember thinking, ‘Milan, you fuckin’ idiots’, when they threw it away.

We had a dip in form in the League – two draws, two losses, two wins. If you know you’re not going to win the League, you lose your edge a little bit. It went back to the first game of the season, when Chelsea beat us. They went from strength to strength and we were always just behind them. We finished third, behind Arsenal. Chelsea had won a record number of points and were already the champions when they came to Old Trafford. We had to applaud them on to the pitch. I didn’t like that. I’m not a big fan of that ritual, even when other teams had to applaud us. The applause is insincere; you don’t mean it. I was cursing them under my breath, and I’d like to think my team-mates were doing the same. ‘Bastards – cunts—’ I wouldn’t have thought any less of the Chelsea lads if they hadn’t applauded us, if the situation had been reversed.