War and peace

SUPPOSE they called a war and nobody came? November 24 at Molineux had been pencilled in the diary of many a journalistic adventurer as a date with danger not to be missed.

Flak jackets had been ordered and Sky were ready to give it the full rolling news treatment.

On the night, the Black Cats and the Wolves would go at it with teeth bared and claws unsheathed but, as far as the media and the mass audience were concerned, that was only by way of a warmer upper. Top of the bill was to be the shuddering collision of Roy Keane and Mick McCarthy, the Saipan rematch finally cast as the Rumble in the Black Country. Seismographs around the world were primed, front and back pages cleared, and the UN were said to be prepared to go into emergency session.

And then?

And then they go and spoil it all by saying something stupid like I love you. Well, not quite so amorous perhaps, but given the oceans of bad blood and bile stirred up the last time these two went head to head, this week’s words of reconciliation could almost be set to the syrupy music of Ebony and Ivory — Roy and Mick together in perfect harmony.

It was McCarthy who broke the ice, ringing up his Sunderland counterpart to arrange the on-loan signing of Neil Collins. (Thereby, incidentally, solving another riddle in Ireland’s great sporting Civil War — Mick turns out to be a Collins man, after all).

“We chatted about the players and a couple of other things that will remain private,” said the Wolves boss. “It’s been four years now and it should be put to bed. Life goes on.”

Yesterday, Keane almost sounded like an echo of his former adversary when he told a Sunderland press conference: “In life, you have to move on,” he said. “We had a good chat, but it would be wrong for me to go into the details of it. It was all very amicable. I was quite happy and Mick was, so that is the end of it, I suppose.”

For the war junkies, this is a certified case of the big one ending not with a bang but a whimper. For the rest of us, it’s a welcome full stop to what had been the single most corrosive and divisive episode in Irish sport. In the course of putting it all to bed, neither man need necessarily have retreated from their basic positions in Saipan. Agreeing to forget is sometimes more productive than agreeing to forgive; people can regret the manner in which they handled things without having to recant the point of principle on which a particular stand was taken.

McCarthy and Keane don’t have to become the best mates they never were in the first place. What matters now is that all future meetings between the two will be freed from the shackles of bitter personal history. In a game often riddled by much more petty disputes, the civilised and commonsense nature of their breakthrough reflects considerable credit on both men.

Not that anyone should think the bould Keano has mellowed. Heaven forbid. Only this week, Sunderland’s Graham Kavanagh revealed that even after a win against Hull — and before they were beaten by Cardiff — the gaffer was determined that none of his players would rest on their laurels.

“He had a go at us on Monday, even though we had won two games on the bounce,” said Kavanagh. “There was a notice waiting in the dressing room for us (after the Hull game). It said: ‘Don’t be too happy with that performance because we can do better’. The gaffer said a few things in the dressing room (after the Cardiff game). He explained how unhappy he was and how he expected us to improve. Is he the most demanding manager that I’ve ever worked with? Quite possibly, yes.”

Meanwhile, spare a thought for the writers of I, Keano, which, “by demand of the populus”, returns to the stage in Dublin in January. Just when they think it’s safe to go back into the theatre, the legend takes another unexpected turn. First it was Keano joining sides with Quinnus; now there’s olive branches being exchanged between the great warrior and McCarticus himself.

If fences keep being mended at this rate, what was once the stirring saga of the greatest gladiatorial battle in ancient history will rapidly turn into an especially soppy episode of The Waltons, all “Goodnight Roy” and “Goodnight Mick, boy”.

And as the song says, what’s so funny ‘bout peace, love and understanding?