Can't stand me now
For almost a decade, Arsenal v Manchester United was a title decider. By February 2005 there was no bigger picture, just all-consuming hatred
Roy Keane’s breathing was not just deep, it was meaningful. He stood bolt upright in the squashed old tunnel at Highbury, inhaling oxygen with extreme prejudice. It was part meditation, part intimidation. For the second league match in a row, the players of Arsenal and Manchester United had almost come to blows in the tunnel. This time it was before the game.
For almost a decade, the main purpose of the matches between Arsenal and United had been to establish the best team in England. By February 2005 there was no bigger picture, just an all-consuming hatred. While they were busy squabbling, Jose Mourinho’s Chelsea’s built up a 10-point lead and were well on the way to winning a first league championship in 50 years.
The game at Highbury, though optimistically described by many as a title eliminator, went back to something more primitive – the simple, desperate need to beat someone you can’t stand. It was the logical conclusion of nine years of increasingly vicious rivalry, a match that existed in isolation; one that meant absolutely nothing and absolutely everything.
On the way back from the warm-up, the Arsenal captain Patrick Vieira informed Gary Neville what would happen if he tried to bully Jose Antonio Reyes as he had at Old Trafford three months earlier, when Arsenal’s 49-match unbeaten run went up in flames. “I’ll break your fucking legs.” Before a dialogue could develop, a group of policemen pulled them apart.
Neville sat next to the United captain Keane in the dressing-room, and told him what had happened. When the players from both sides gathered in the tunnel, Keane exploded in Vieira’s direction, suggesting he should pick on someone his own size. Neville is actually taller than Keane, but then Keane wasn’t talking about feet and inches.
Vieira played for France but was born in Senegal, a country he spoke about frequently in interviews. This wasn’t entirely to Keane’s taste. “Every week it’s Senegal this, Senegal that. Why don’t you fuckin’ play for them?”
A couple of Vieira’s teammates led him to the front of the tunnel. Dennis Bergkamp put an arm around his shoulder and asked him if he was okay, at which point Keane rumbled to the front of the United queue and into full view of the TV cameras. “I'll see you out there, you cunt,” he said, pointing into the distance. “Shouting your mouth off you... every week you're making out you're a nice guy.”
There was disappointment as well as anger in Keane’s voice. He couldn’t handle the chancers, spoofers and shithouses who populated dressing-rooms around the country. Keane didn’t particuarly like Vieira but he respected him; he thought he was different, one of the few worthy adversaries in the game. And then Vieira picked on Gary Neville.
The referee Graham Poll stood in front of Keane in an attempt to restore order. “He's fucking starting,” said Keane. “Every fucking week he's shouting his fucking mouth off. Fucking picking on Gary Neville? Why can't he pick on one of us?” Keane stopped to take another extravagant deep breath, the equivalent of putting his game face on.
“No more in here, okay?” said Poll. Keane looked him up and down, stared out onto the Highbury pitch, and nodded.