The Second Half

by Roy Keane

  The next step is the Pro Licence. It’s a requirement to manage in any of the top leagues. It’s not cheap; I think it was six or seven grand. There’s a discipline to it, which is good, and you meet top people. And it’s nerve-wracking. It’s about working at the top level, and not just coaching – dealing with club boards and chief executives, budgets, handling media. They’d set up mock press conferences; you’d be challenged, and advised on how to deal with different questions.

  There were session plans to be written, and you had to log your coaching sessions. This can be a problem for a lot of explayers; writing of any type is torture. Some of them wouldn’t have been great at school – I know I wasn’t. As a player you’d have been involved in thousands of training sessions, with different coaches. But now you had to become the teacher. It was difficult. And standing up in front of a group. That wasn’t too bad for me, because I’d been the club captain and I had some experience of that, and some sort of leadership qualities.

  The badges are hard work but there’s big satisfaction, too, in getting them done. I’d wanted to get started on the courses while I was still a player. I started the first, the UEFA B, when I was thirty-one or thirty-two. It’s the mistake a lot of ex-players make; they wait until they’re thirty-four or thirty-five before they decide to start their coaching awards. Quite often, players don’t do it while they’re still playing, because it’s time-consuming and they’d have to sacrifice part of their holidays. The expense is off-putting, too, especially if you want to get to Pro Licence level, although the PFA will contribute 50 per cent of the fee.

  While you’re doing the courses you’re networking; you meet nice people. I ended up working with some of the men I met when I was doing my coaching course. I met Ian McParland and Gary Ablett, who both worked with me later at Ipswich. And it was Gary who put me in touch with Antonio Gómez, who became my fitness coach at Sunderland. You end up meeting people you’ll work with – or against.

  I knew I’d have to be ready. Actually, in a way I’d been ready since I was a kid. I’d been lucky, but I’d made my own bit of luck. I was playing League of Ireland football, and I was doing a FÁS course; there was nobody ringing me to come over to England. As much as I lacked confidence in some things, there were other areas of my life where I went, ‘Give me a go at that—’ I wrote to a number of clubs in England, looking for a trial. I offered to pay part of the cost, although I didn’t have a penny. I got a letter back from Forest saying that if I was good enough I’d be spotted.

  I was spotted – by Forest. When I went there for my trial I knew I wouldn’t be going back to Cork. There was nothing there, and no prospects. In my first week at Forest they put me with the kids; no one saw me. I was eighteen or nineteen. They apologised and asked me to come back; they’d organise a game. I said, ‘Just give me the game.’ I wasn’t one for going around cones – ‘Give me a game.’ They told me there’d be a game at the City Ground, and Brian Clough was going to be there, and I thought, ‘Brilliant.’ I didn’t go, ‘Is he? Oh, fuck.’ I went, ‘Brilliant.’ When it was over and they told me they wanted to sign me, I wasn’t cocky enough to say, ‘I knew you would.’ But I thought it. It was what I’d been waiting for since I was a kid, since I was eight years of age, at Rockmount. Even back then, I played for Rockmount instead of my local club, Mayfield, because Rockmount had the better players. And I knew that at eight or nine years of age. Mayfield would have been convenient, but ‘convenient’ was boring; I needed that challenge. Good players – good people around you, pushing each other. When I was thirteen or fourteen, Eric Hogan – a decent lad, he still plays for the over-35s in Cork – he wouldn’t go training one night because he got a new skateboard. I fell out with him; we didn’t speak for a year because he wouldn’t go training. I always had that drive. ‘Stick your skateboard.’ As I matured and the situations got bigger, I’d think back to the skateboard. ‘Stick your fuckin’ skateboard.’

  Sunderland should have been a nightmare. It had seven or eight Irish owners! There’d be a lot of interference; they’d all feel they owned the club. I’d have too many people to answer to.

  But it was the opposite. Because there were seven or eight of them, no one felt he was in charge. Niall Quinn was the front, the public face. The Sunderland fans loved him, and he answered to the owners. And the fact that they were Irish turned out to be fine. You could have a bit of banter with them. They trusted myself and Niall to get on with it; we were the footballing people.

  Sunderland had been relegated at the end of the previous season, ’05–’06. Then Niall formed a consortium, Drumaville, made up mostly of Irish property developers, including Charlie Chawke, the Dublin publican. They took control of the club in July. But then they went into pre-season, and the start of the season itself, without a manager. Niall had to take on the job temporarily, while they kept looking. They lost their first four League games.

  They’d met me earlier in the summer, soon after I’d stopped playing. Niall had contacted Michael Kennedy. I wasn’t that surprised. Football’s a small world and they would have known that I’d stopped playing and, probably, that I was doing my coaching courses. As for the history between myself and Niall, Niall would have been trying to do what he thought was right for the club. He would have been big enough not to let it get in the way.

  They sent a helicopter over to Manchester and flew me to Dublin. They were trying to impress me, of course; I was crossing the Irish Sea in a helicopter, but I was wondering, ‘What am I in for here?’

  I’m not sure where the meeting took place. Some estate, a manor house outside Dublin. All the lads in the Drumaville Consortium were there, and Niall was, too. As the helicopter landed I saw that he was a few feet away, beside the helipad, waiting with the other people. I got out of the helicopter, kissed the ground and blessed everybody.

  ‘The Pope has arrived.’

  No, I didn’t.

  I got out of the helicopter, walked across to Niall and we shook hands.

  He said, ‘Do you want five or ten minutes to ourselves before you go in?’

  It was the first time I’d spoken to Niall since the World Cup. I don’t think the conversation would have happened if Niall hadn’t been involved in the consortium. So it was an opportunity to let bygones be bygones.

  We went into a room together, and I said, ‘Listen, the Saipan stuff. Whatever happens with Sunderland now, we need to move on, anyway.’

  He agreed, ‘Yeah, yeah.’

  And that was it.

  I went in and met the lads. It was all very casual. I had a suit on but I didn’t feel like I was being interviewed or that I was under any pressure.

  They asked me would I be interested in the job.

  I said, ‘I’m not sure what I want to do yet, lads. I’ll have a think about it.’

  They spoke about what various players were earning, contracts and wages, and about getting players in and out.

  I was going, ‘One step at a time; let me have a think about it.’

  They were basically giving me a plan. They seemed keen. I thought the job might be mine, if I wanted it. They’d just taken over the club, and you have to have a manager in place before the start of pre-season. If only to save face. Mick McCarthy had gone in March, before the consortium took over the club; and Kevin Ball had been the caretaker until the end of the season. They’d been relegated with one of the lowest points totals ever.

  I went home and I told Michael a few days later, ‘It’s not for me.’

  I wanted to focus on finishing my coaching courses – I was about to start the UEFA A; I didn’t want to jump into a job too quickly. Sunderland were disappointed and, over the next month or so, they couldn’t find anyone to take the job. Which still amazes me. I heard that Martin O’Neill and Sam Allardyce had turned it down before they’d spoken to me.

  At that stage, I wasn’t 100 per cent sure what I wanted to do. I genuinely wasn’t certain if management or coaching were for me. There was a stricter di
vide between the two roles back then. The courses weren’t exactly whetting my appetite for coaching. I’d often thought, ‘Well, this is a pain in the arse.’ There’s a coaching expression, ‘Being out on the grass’. I wasn’t sure that that was what I wanted. But I understood that the courses had to be done. I thought I’d be more interested in management, and running a club. But, if I did take a job, I didn’t want to be doing the courses while I was starting. Paul Ince and Gareth Southgate had had to do that. If things didn’t start well, I didn’t want the accusation thrown at me, ‘Well, you didn’t finish your coaching badges.’ And, financially, I didn’t have to jump into a job.

  I started my UEFA A course that summer, then I went on holiday for a few weeks in August. I was in Portugal when the season started, and I watched a few matches on television. Sunderland were struggling badly. They played Bury away, in the League Cup, on a Tuesday night. And they were beaten. Niall was interviewed after the game; he was their temporary manager. He looked about a hundred.

  My sister texted me: Did you see Niall Quinn? You need to help him out.

  I looked at Niall – and I rang Michael Kennedy the next day. I asked him to get in touch with Sunderland: ‘If they still want me, I’ll go for it.’

  I’d been with my family all summer. It had been great, but I didn’t want to be with them all the time. I’m a dad; I needed to go out and earn a living. I wanted my kids to see me going to work.

  The consortium came back: ‘It’s there for you if you want it.’

  And I decided I’d go for it. My best decisions are always the quick ones. I wasn’t thinking about staff, or tactics, or ‘We’ll need ten players.’ No master plan. It was just, ‘I’ll go for it.’ One step at a time.

  From a business point of view they knew what they were getting. Obviously, I was way behind Martin and Sam in terms of experience. I’d never managed a team before. It was a proper gamble for them, and it was a gamble for me. But they’d have been thinking about ticket sales, too. I think if you’d asked Niall at the time, he’d have said, ‘We’re not too worried about the coaching credentials; we need a boost.’

  They’d lost their identity, lost their spark. They probably thought, ‘He’s the man.’ I was the marquee signing, and I don’t shy away from that.

  Five defeats in five games – it was a shocking start, especially for a team that had just been relegated. Bury, who knocked them out of the League Cup, were the lowest team in the League – ninety-second. But Sunderland weren’t as bad as the results were suggesting. A lot of those players had just been in the Premiership. It didn’t matter to me if they’d been relegated with one point or thirty-five, they were still a Premiership outfit.

  On the other hand, I wasn’t thinking about promotion.

  I wasn’t associated with the club; I’d no loyalty to them – unlike Niall. I was able to go in cold; I’m very good at living in the now. And my reputation as a player probably helped. There was a certain fear – ‘What’s he going to do?’ But I know what I’m good at, and I thought, ‘I’ll be good with these players.’

  What helped me make the jump from player to manager was the experience I’d had at United, and my responsibilities as captain. I had a bit of common sense to me. But I hadn’t given the prospect that much thought, and it had never been a dream – I don’t think you’d grow up dreaming of being a manager! I just thought, ‘Let’s give it a go. We’ll see what happens here.’

  The complications of the job – board meetings, getting staff organised, even meeting the parents of young players; I was gung-ho about facing all that – ‘We’ll see how that goes.’ If I’d sat down and considered every aspect of it, I might never have gone into management. But if you keep that childlike love of the game, you’re inclined to think, ‘I’ll adapt to that, and I’ll have good people around me. From Monday to Friday, my job is to try and get a result on Saturday.’

  Sunderland were playing West Brom at home the following weekend, after I’d phoned Michael. I was back home in Manchester by then, and I drove up to watch the match, with Tony Loughlan – Tony was going to be my first-team coach. Nothing had been announced yet. I wanted to have a look at the team, and the training ground. There were 14,000 people there, in a stadium with a capacity of 42,000.

  They won 2–0 – but I don’t claim credit for that. It was what I’d expected; they were a half-decent team. I remember thinking, ‘They’re not bad, these.’

  They’d just been having a hard time – a few injuries, confidence. It was exciting, watching the team I was going to manage. I knew the potential was there.

  Niall showed me around the training ground, the Academy of Light, the next day, and introduced me to the team.

  Michael was handling the negotiations. We knew they would be straightforward, and that we were in a great position. It wasn’t going to be a case of, ‘Ah, I’ve got you now, lads’, but I’d been seen at the West Brom match; there was talk around the place. There’d been a bit of embarrassment about other possible managers. They’d be lynched if they didn’t get the deal done with me. Niall had had a bash at the job, and it hadn’t gone well. He knew it was hard work. So I thought I’d get a little bit of grace.

  Everything fell into place. I got a brilliant contract, over a million a year, a lot of money for a Championship job – and my first job. I suppose what usually happens is you’re offered a short contract, you ask for a longer one and you meet in the middle. But Sunderland offered me a five-year deal and I said I only wanted to sign for three. I was confident enough, but I wanted to see how it would go. I was still thinking like a footballer – a shorter deal and keep your options open. I should have been thinking of job security and the financial consequences of being sacked.

  I’ve learnt since that, contractually, the day you take over at a club is the day you start to leave. Most of the contract details are about what happens at the end; you’re already negotiating your settlement. It’s such a negative way to go into a job. You should be upbeat, but most of the negotiations are about how much it will cost to get rid of you.

  The distance from my home to Sunderland was about two and a half hours in the car. The plan was, the family would follow me. We’d move house, up to the area, and we’d find a Catholic school for the kids.

  Myself and Tony took training for the first time the day after I’d signed my contract. I knew Tony at Nottingham Forest. He was a player there when I arrived. He only played a couple of first-team games before he left, because of injuries. We were together a few years at Forest, and I’d always kept in touch with him. I’d kept in touch with a few of the Forest players, Tony, and Gary Charles. When I came to Forest I didn’t have a car and Tony would bring me to play snooker, and Gary Charles used to drive me around sometimes; we’d go to the pictures together. They were nice to me – simple as that.

  Tony did his coaching badges when he was twenty-one or two, at Forest; he did them on Sunday mornings with some of the other players. I’d be lying in bed, hungover, hearing him collect Gary Bowyer, who I was sharing a house with, as they were heading off to do their coaching course, and I remember saying to myself, ‘Idiots.’

  Tony had a lot of experience at this stage – he was coaching at Leicester City’s academy – and when I did my own courses, he helped me a bit with the session plans that I had to hand in. I’d always thought if I got a management job I’d ask Tony to come with me – a good coach and a good friend, and someone I could trust. We enjoyed each other’s company. I don’t remember us laughing, but I’d like to think we did. He’s coaching at Burnley now, with Sean Dyche and Ian Woan, two ex-players who were also at Forest when we were there. That’s how the game works.

  We took training, and we started looking at the staff and players. I thought, ‘My God, there’s a lot of work to be done.’ They weren’t great; they were nothing like a promotion team. But they were near the bottom of the table, so there was only one way to go.

  I loved it from thereon. From the very beginning
, I thought it was brilliant. Niall trusted me to get on with it.

  We had to spend money, although not as much as was often reported. We were heading towards League One; we’d got used to losing. Throughout the season, we invested roughly three and a half million in players, taking into account players coming in and going out. But now we only had a couple of days to get a few players in, before the transfer deadline.

  The transfer deadline makes people panic. That’s why transfer fees go through the roof. Agents are holding guns to the heads of chairmen. It backfires on everybody. We identified six or seven players – which is a lot. Meeting the players, medicals to be organised, personal terms. But Niall and the chief executive, Peter Walker, were brilliant; they got it done for me. I asked for six players and they came back with six. It made sense, of course; we were all after the same thing – success. I knew my arrival would give us a bit of a boost, but we had to keep it up.

  I brought in six. Six players I’d played with. Six good characters. They’d all played for their countries. I’d had them at the back of my mind, although I didn’t know if they’d be available.

  I only had three days. But I think, on this occasion, it worked well for us. If I’d had a couple of months, I’d have had people bouncing off me, people moving the goalposts, agents going, ‘We’ve another club waiting.’ But this time the players and their clubs had a quick decision to make. I had to make offers for them. ‘But you’ll need to make your mind up, because you’ll have to have a medical tomorrow.’ No one was taking a pay cut. We’d no one coming in from AC Milan. We were paying decent money for that level. Not thirty or forty thousand a week, but twelve or fifteen – something like that. Graham Kavanagh and Dave Connolly were at Wigan, and that helped. We weren’t dealing with six different clubs, for six players. We’d the two lads from Wigan, Ross Wallace and Stan Varga were at Celtic, and Liam Millar was being released by Manchester United