KEITH DUGGAN/Sideline Cut: There are not too many sports people left who can give you the old-fashioned shivers but Roy Keane is one. Last night in Leverkusen was made for the Irish man, an all-or-nothing drama and as ever, he didn't disappoint. We saw him disembark the team bus outside the BayArena, agitated and shark-eyed and we knew he meant business. Behind, Juan Veron strolled into view, whistling. You could only imagine that if the South American's tune reached Keane's ears, it would have quickened his pulse and made him car
The only new thing to say about Keane is that all has been forgiven. By everyone. He commands a respect from his peers and soccer critics that is so utter, so convinced, that all objectivity has been lost. People trip over themselves searching for superlatives that justify the enigma of the man. It is understandable. Anyone who likes sport has no choice but to be impressed by Keane. And if you follow the team whose colours he wears, you will inevitably become a little obsessed by him.
And it wasn't so long ago that this was not the case. It wasn't so long ago since Manchester was alight with rumours that Roy was about to abdicate across the border after he was pictured at a Celtic game. It's not a million years since Roy made unflattering remarks about the faltering standards of some of his team-mates. And it's not so long since many people professed disgust at that dark volatility that resides deep in his heart, a ferocity he has learned to control but that will never be fully expelled. Recall the self-immolation of the tackle on Manchester City's Alf Inge Haaland.
"When we lined up in the tunnel," said Haaland - in what was a gleeful pronunciation of revenge following their next encounter, "his eyes were all over the place." The thought of Keane not looking anyone in the eye is inconceivable. Because Roy never bottles it. Some time around then, Keane must have arrived at some private pact that was almost Faustian. Nobody, not even Alex Ferguson, has adequately explained the depth of Keane's intensity, the "why" of the man. But as ever with the Manchester United seer, his most recent pronunciations on the player were poignantly timed. Last night, Keane walked onto the field as Ferguson's acknowledged godsend, the unquestioned leader of the most famous club in the world throughout a period that has brought unimaginable financial and sporting riches. There could be no finer accolade.
Most would agree Keane made that crossing point in Turin two years ago when his pure stubbornness, his perverse refusal to respect the game's natural order, ushered United through to that final against Bayern Munich. But it wasn't the performance that will endure so much as his reaction to the brandished yellow card that thieved the very stage that he had invented.
The eyes were flinty and secretive as ever and his demeanour was resolute to the point of contempt. The lack of emotion was both a "f**k you" to those who might have expected him to show weakness and the greatest endorsement his team-mates could have wished for. The Juve players must have feared the worst.
AND it was such a contrast to the other famous semi-final yellow card incident on Italian soil. Paul Gascoigne's tears in the 1990 World Cup semi-final against Germany became the feel-good story of that tournament. But how indulgent they were in retrospect, with Gary Lineker forced to advise the sideline to speak with Gascoigne as opposed to concentrating on his own game. The cause of England, vying for an elusive World Cup final place, was subjugated in favour of Gascoigne's ruined tournament.
Keane would be genuinely incapable of such a theatrical show of emotion but so iron-willed was he that night that there is a question mark as to whether he ever allowed the significance of the yellow card to impinge on his mindset. (And it may be true that his example prompted a similar display of fortitude from Nicky Butt last night).
Little wonder, however, that it has been beyond Keane's contemporaries to explain that sort of discipline away because it is not something most of us could relate to. It is remote and a little scary.
But then so is Roy. He is a thoroughly modern sporting hero. At Old Trafford and even more so at Lansdowne Road, Keane is the terrace idol. He has managed to retain that sense of being from the street, that affinity with his public while at the same time defining his boundaries. Roy is no Georgie Best. What we know of him, we know through the lessons he delivers on the field and those guarded interviews he gives occasionally. His words are almost as meaningful as his game, articulate and lean, edgy and weighted, laced with purpose. Sometimes he shows a glimpse of a wicked sense of humour but only rarely.
How tantalising it would be to get a peek into the parallel career of Roy Keane. Because there is always the sense he has made this happen. No photos exist of the teenage Roy being escorted around Old Trafford. Maybe it was Keane's fortune - and ours - that he was tutored by the two most patriarchal and forbidding figures of the modern game, Ferguson and Brian Clough. Maybe Keane's sporting life would have tapered off under softer ambitious regimes.
Who knows? Like most people, I don't fully get Roy Keane. Perhaps the myth that has emerged has exaggerated it but when you stand in the same room as him, there is a definite sense of static, of a presence. It is probably the same feeling his colleagues have at various times in his presence.
Including last night when he chased down that dying Ruud van Nistelrooy pass and again, single-handedly, brought alive a dream. And when he lacerated Butt, Paul Scholes or Wes Brown - possibly all three - for some moment of slackness that led to a Leverkusen free-kick.
Keane plays for results and trophies and, less importantly, money but the truth of him is that he plays for every second. Regardless of any result, regardless it was not his most majestic hour, he was a marvellous force of nature again last night. We should enjoy him while he is still around as Keane is a once in a lifetime entity.
