Tasting Roy's Tears

Roy Keane is a traitor he wears a traitors ha' He coulda stay in Sai-pan bu' he din't fancy da'

He coulda play for Oirelan in kore'n japa'

He justa Cork knacka not an Irishma'

Traditional Irish ditty, circa 2002

So as Roy Keane rode off into the sunset to face the injuns (ahem, native Americans), riddled with poisonous arrows and tied to his horse for Ireland, the nation convulsed once more on the brink of civil war. Leaderless, rudderless and facing a housing crisis who could we turn to now to provide the circus while we feast on our mouldy bread? Flags fluttered at half-mast and Bertie broke away from his schedule to give us the day of mourning that JP2 couldn't elicit. A cultural moment in the nascent democracy's history, cried the leader pages of our broadest broadsheets. "Roy Done Good" screamed the Sun. 'Ní bheidh a leithéad ann arís' said Daily Ireland. Joe Duffy claimed to have been present at both his birth and death.

I come to bury Keano, not to praise him. After all, here was a man who walked out on Ireland, who, according to one of our greatest players, couldn't be away from his family long enough at the World Cup to bring us to the glory we deserve. Here was a player who "set out to maim" another fellow professional and was fined just 11 days' salary, a gouger, a langer, a judas and a man possessed of ill-breeding. Sure no-one could like that. "Roy Keane is a langer, he's not an Irishman" was the variation of the chant above lead by Rovers fans after the last World Cup, the poets among the Rovers faithful managed to rhyme Saipan with Ireland. Ironic that it took Keane's disgrace to lead Rovers back to their place at the top of the cultural tree.

The history of Keane is recorded merrily for us by pseudo-sociologists reading the tempo of how the vein throbs this week. His caricature is now so multi-faceted it looks like Picasso was the marionette for large tracts of the sporting press as they etch-a-sketched their pieces for 13 years predicting it would all end in tears for Ferguson and Keane. How right they were. Seven Premiership titles, four FA Cups, a Champions League and a World Club Championship where he scored the winner. "Let me taste your tears Roy Keane", they sing in unison now, having finally been proved right.

The only real lesson that Roy Keane has taught us is that no matter how small you are you can be the best. For that inspiration alone he was great. For his achievements with Manchester United his greatness sings. He was the best, most important and highest paid player at Manchester United, the best and most famous club in Britain as the football revolution hit its peak during their most successful ever period. Football is a money game – which means that being the highest paid player is a key fact. Within 18 months, Wayne Rooney will be the best and most important and highest paid player at Manchester United. Keane was that good and that important.

The arc of Keane's career is punctuated by Alfie Haaland, Saipan, occasional brutality and some things you wouldn't like your kids to see. But he knew that, and that the lapses in control can be made up for or spun to fit your own needs. It's also pretty hard to be the best and bloodless. It's true he should probably have played in the World Cup, if only to answer the questions he himself must want to know the answers to. It's true that the Haaland revenge was nasty. It's true the stamp on Southgate was a masterpiece of bad timing and that he's done loads of things which weren't angelic. Sitting in moral judgement is a national pastime and Keane will have to deal with drink soaked barstoolers telling him this forever. How will he ever put up with it?

The force of will that Keane exerted on his team-mates and on his country was an extraordinary achievement. Qualifying for the World Cup was his greatest national truncated hour. For Manchester United, while the seven premiership medals and the £30 million fortune provide some solace, the lack of a Champions League medal won on the pitch is as galling as missing the World Cup. The nature of his fissure from the club is equally distressing as that from his country. Time will pass and someone will make the comparison with Jay Gatsby. Both dazzling self-creations with obvious light and shade, both riven with doubt and requiring constant validation but by far the most interesting and brightest star around.