There have been so many delightful titbits from Keane's book, that this tale appeared to slip through the net.
Keane says it marked the only time he really lost his temper as a manager. He lost his temper not with one of his diffident, characterless players, but with a member of the opposition management team.
The object of Keane's ire was Kevin Dillon, a member of Steve Coppell's management team at Reading. Roy relayed the story of how he, eh, slammed his head down on a table and pulled his tie upwards.
The game at Reading, just before Christmas, was the only time I really lost my temper as a manager. I’d lost my temper before – but I’d used my temper. This time I used physical force. I grabbed a staff member, put his head on a table, and tried to pull his tie off. But he was a Reading staff member, not one of ours...
The game was a rather important one between two Premiership strugglers in December 2007.
Steve Coppell was managing Reading, and he had a couple of lads working with him, Wally Downes and Kevin Dillon. I looked across at their dugout, and Kevin Dillon was looking back across, calling me a wanker. I go, ‘What – me?’ He goes, ‘Yeah – yeah. You’re always on at the fucking referee.’ I said nothing back. I never got involved with opposition managers or staff – never. We got to half-time, and I’m walking back to the tunnel beside Kevin Dillon, and I say, ‘Are you calling me a wanker?’ And he goes, ‘Well, you’re always on at the referee.’ I said, ‘I never said fuck all to the referee. Who the fuck are you calling a wanker?’ But I went to our dressing room, and thought no more of it. The second half, and we’re robbed – again – in injury time. Stephen Hunt got a shot in, and the linesman on the far side reckoned it was over the line. It wasn’t, but the goal was given. It was another big, big loss for us.
After the loss, Keane observed Wally Downes partaking in a custom he didn't like the look of.
At the end of the game, walking down the stairs, I saw Wally Downes shaking all my players’ hands. ‘Unlucky, lads.’ You generally don’t see staff shaking the other team’s hands. I said nothing.
Matters came to a head in Steve Coppell's office after the game. Keane had reminded the Sunderland players and backroom team to maintain their class and composure.
I walked into Steve’s office. Wally Downes was there, and their director of football, Nick Hammond. Kevin Dillon was sitting down. I go, ‘Well done, lads – well done.’ Wally was right in front of me, and I said, ‘Wally, do you always shake players’ hands after you’ve just beaten them?’ And he goes, ‘Yeah, Roy – yeah, yeah.’ And, as I was talking to Wally, Kevin Dillon stood up, and goes, ‘Don’t you come in here and—’ I grabbed him, got his head on the table, pulled his tie up. ‘I’m fuckin’ warning you—’ Nick Hammond grabbed me. ‘What are you doing?!’ ‘You fuckin’—’ ‘Get out of our office!’ I went, ‘Fuck yis, anyway.’ Dillon said, ‘What are you having a go at me for? I’m a Sunderland man.’ I went, ‘Fuck you.’ And I walked out.
Roy's coaching staff had not yet entered by the room by the time he made his abrupt departure. They were entirely oblivious as to what had just transpired. They were swiftly informed. Raimond van der Gouw kept his eyes on the prize, however.
They’d followed me in – after I’d left. ‘All right, lads?’ And somebody said, ‘Your manager has just attacked one of our staff.’ And apparently Raimond van der Gouw, our goalkeeping coach, said, ‘Well, can we still have a sandwich?’
