Keane haaland autobiography samples

The finest sentence of Roy Keane’s Autobiography reads; “I like dogs, because unlike humans, they don’t talk shite.” As a human myself, who also happens to be a dog owner, I can see where he’s coming from.

It’s the sort of candor that’s become synonymous with the man; a brand of deliberately outspoken contrariness that has led some notable Reds (namely Pete Boyle and Andy Mitten) to liken Roy to Mancunian musician Morrissey. In the mini-doc, this was perfectly evidenced on a few separate occasions. Akin to Le Roi citing the fiasco at Selhurst Park as his “best moment,” Roy revels in subverting expectations. As with all the great mavericks, it wouldn’t become Roy to adhere to societal norms.

Prime examples abound, most glaringly Roy’s needless polemic against Sir Alex’s shining appraisal of his ’99 CL semi-final heroics. Roy somehow managed to take offense at being lavished with praise. It’d certainly render me reticent to label Roy the best combative central midfielder of his generation. Not without concern that he’d reply with; “Well, what do you think I was aiming to be? The fcuk1n worst?!”

Roy’s aversion to plaudits aside, the broadcasters had unintentionally presented the starkest of contracts between the Keane vs Dixon on-camera “rivalry” and the Keane vs Vieira on-pitch rivalry, though the segue from ITV into ITV4 was sufficiently subtle.

The setting was curious; inside a warehouse, when perhaps a stadium tunnel, scene of their infamous melee, would have proven more suitably evocative.

The music, conversely, was more diligently selected by ITV4’s resident DJ; Dr. Dre, someone who Roy would no doubt inform hasn’t earned the requisite qualifications to call himself a doctor, opened the second segment of the documentary. Rather appropriately, Keane’s intensity constantly reminded that the man before us was ‘Still Roy’; “representing for the midfielders all across the world.”

To the backdrop of fu

Throughout Keane&#;s autobiography the Manchester United captain repeatedly expresses a longing to be in Cork. The importance of Cork to Roy Keane is discussed elsewhere. Cork was where his home was and where his family was &#; in the suburb of Mayfield. He constantly refers to his family and friends from Cork as the only people that he could trust. These were the people and Cork was the place where he felt most at ease, most comfortable.

Since Roy Keane got married and has had children there is a sense that his Manchester home has gradually replaced Cork in Keane&#;s sense of home. (At the time of writing Keane had just moved to Ipswich.) However it will probably never supplant Cork as his spiritual home. In terms of where he feels comfortable, and feels safe being with his wife and children is his comfort zone. Roy Keane simply does not like being out of his comfort zone.

Keane Away from Home for First Time

In after he joined Cobh Ramblers Keane was sent on an FAI FAS soccer course in Palmerstown in Dublin. It involved the eighteen year old staying in digs in Leixlip from Monday to Friday. &#;Leaving home was a wrench, even thought I wasn&#;t going to the moon&#;the presence of Len Downey [his friend from Cork] made me feel a lot more secure than might otherwise have been the case&#;I was quite lonely. I missed my family.&#; [Page ].

Keane Away in Nottingham

Even though Keane said that he loved Nottingham &#; it reminded him of Cork &#; &#;&#;I occasionally yearned for Mayfield and my family.&#;[Page 36]. According to his autobiography his manager at the time, Brian Clough, indulged the young Roy Keane by frequently letting him go home to Cork between soccer matches.

Keane supplemented this by creating a mini-Cork bubble for himself in Nottingham by regularly paying for his family and friends to come over to Nottingham. After his first season at Forest he spent the entire six week Summer break in Cork.

Keane&#;s First

A lot has been made about what a frightening force Erling Haaland is, in front of goal (numbers that defy belief), as a physical specimen (he is too tall to be that fast, too strong to be that elegant, he looks like when he runs the air makes a shrieking sound like a war cry), and as a human being (I think often of his quote, as a year-old Salzburg striker: “I have five hat-trick balls in my bed and I sleep well with them. They are my girlfriends.” That was 17 hat-tricks ago).

He often gets referred to in robotic, Ivan Drago-esque terms: that he is an elite striker bred by Pep Guardiola in a lab to finish the dinner of all his bendy, 5’8” little tippy-tappers, raised in a tank of goo with metal beneath his skin and goal-tape flickered into his eyeballs. But I’ve always found him more elemental than that, more monstrous and primal: like he washed up fully grown on the shale shores of a freezing Norwegian fjord, and Alf-Inge Haaland happened to find him and pull a Kappa-branded Manchester City kit over him and feed him boar milk and raw liver, and now he’s terrorising the Premier League the same way, a thousand years ago, a man like that might have terrorised a small Scottish island that still hadn’t heard of Catholicism.

You don’t get many footballers like that, do you? Ones who seems like they might duel-wield an axe. Those elemental forces bulged out of him at the weekend when, in a volatile game against Arsenal that I am legally advised not to make any comment about the refereeing standard of, tempers flared.

Haaland, now 24, opened with one of those imperious, he’s-somehow-never-offside runs-and-finishes; Riccardo Calafiori equalised for the Gunners with the most bizarrely clean goal a left-sided centre back has ever scored; Gabriel Magalhães bundled in a gruesome header with all the élan of an Easter Island statue falling over. Then a red card, followed by odd minutes of heroic defending, a 90+8 equaliser and an entire e-m