Chapter 3 – “It’s Not Just Me”
Saipan, May 19, 2002
By Roy Keane
Another session, another shambles.
The balls were barely holding air. The pitch had lines drawn by someone with a paintbrush and a hangover. And half the lads were being iced before we’d even hit the halfway mark of training. Breen’s calf was tightening up, Harte was limping, and Kinsella winced every time he pivoted.
But we pushed through it. Because that’s what we do. Still, I could see it on their faces — the look, the unspoken question in every furrowed brow: How the hell are we meant to prepare for a World Cup like this?
We’d finished a small-sided game and I was walking back toward the kit bags when Jason McAteer jogged by me. He didn’t say anything, but he gave me that look — half a smirk, half a sigh. I knew what it meant.
“Go on, Roy. Say it for us.”
Nobody said it outright. Nobody had to. You could feel it in the silences. In the glances. In the quiet stretching sessions when no one wanted to look the staff in the eye. They were waiting for someone to speak.
So I did.
I found Mick and Ian Evans behind the dugout, standing in the shade, talking quietly over a clipboard and a plastic bottle of water.
“We need to talk,” I said.
Mick looked up. Evans already knew why I was there. He’d seen the pitch, seen the tape on players’ legs, seen the mood sliding into sarcasm.
“This isn’t good enough, Mick,” I started, keeping my tone even. “The pitch is dangerous. The gear’s late. The lads are being patched up after a warm-up. This isn’t professional. Not even close.”
Mick sighed, glanced sideways at Evans. “We’re sorting it, Roy. The gear should be in tomorrow.”
“Should be?” I repeated. “We’re three days in now. We’re preparing for the World Cup, not a charity match.”
Evans nodded, trying to play peacemaker. “We’ve spoken to the FAI again this morning. They’re chasing the shipment. We’re trying to get an extra physio out here too.”
I shook my head. “Chasing? Mick, we should’ve been here two weeks ago checking this place. Or picked somewhere else entirely. Japan’s full of training centres. We’re out here like it’s a stag weekend.”
There was a pause. Mick's jaw clenched.
“Alright, Roy,” he said. “You’ve made your point.”
“No, I haven’t,” I snapped, sharper than I meant to. “I’m not walking into a tournament with half the team strapped up and the other half guessing whether their boots will arrive before the group stage.”
Evans tried to calm things. “Let us handle it, yeah?”
I nodded, stepped back. But the truth was already settled inside me — they weren’t going to fix this fast enough. Not without pressure. Not unless someone rattled cages back in Dublin. And right now, no one else had the bottle to do it.
I walked away, boots slung over my shoulder, sweat clinging to me like dust.
In the distance, I heard Matt Holland mutter to Duff:
“If Roy goes, the whole thing goes.”
He wasn’t wrong.
But I wasn’t going yet.
Not yet.
