Andrew Longmore: Time for United to lay the myth of Keano

At the risk of being allocated the next slot on the psychiatrist's couch after Roy Keane, would it be wise for Manchester United to sell their captain while they still have the chance? Just a thought, based on the eternal sporting theory that no player is bigger than his club and the vague understanding that anyone who can lecture the world on the nature of commitment while going absent from a World Cup clearly needs a change of air. Keane has voiced the thought of a move himself, in his autobiography: "Another club, somewhere sunny. At least I could be miserable in a warm climate." Not Celtic then.

There is some logic in the madness. Keane is 31, his market value remains high and it is probable that his best playing days are behind him. On the evidence of last season, his influence in the United dressing-room is on the wane, which is not surprising. There is only so much ear-bashing a generation can take. Handed the responsibility of anchoring England's midfield, Nicky Butt flourished. Last Wednesday night, he was on the substitutes' bench with Paul Scholes, another who plays better for country than club.

Yet United resolutely keep faith with the myth of Keano. The extracts of his autobiography concentrate quite naturally on the confrontations. Keano's life can be documented by confrontations, but it is worth examining the forces which the United captain has ranged against him in his personal duel against the world:

1: Twenty-two of the 23-man Irish World Cup squad, including such well-known hell-raisers as "Stan" Staunton and Niall Quinn;

2: the majority of the United dressing- room, none of whom, Keane once announced with pride, deserves a place in his telephone book;

3: anyone who presumes to put money into his pocket by munching the prawn sandwiches in the corporate hospitality lounges of Old Trafford;

4: half of Ireland – though not the half that writes letters to him;

5: his original constituency, the United haters of England;

6: Mick McCarthy;

7: Denis Irwin, as inoffensive and gentle a character as football ever produced, now at Wolves, who said last week: "I am surprised he wrote the autobiography when he did. He would be the first to give someone stick in the dressing-room if they'd done something similar."

That is quite some baggage to be hauling into the United changing-room every morning and, at some point, it must enter the thoughts of Sir Alex Ferguson, whose own role in the elevation of Keane has to be questioned, that the balance between trouble and worth is less easily calculated now that trophies are becoming more elusive. Jaap Stam published a boat-rocking book and found himself Fedexed to Rome the following weekend. Are the rules of literary engagement different for Keane? Or is he now untouchable, above the manager, above the players, above the chairman and the board? The rank and file members of the Rolex culture so damned by Keane in his book might legitimately ask the question. But, either way, the schism in the United dressing-room must be growing by the day. In the World Cup, Ireland, relieved rather than retarded by the withdrawal of their talisman, responded with telling unity.

But let's get back to Keano, this mystical colossus lauded so unquestioningly by the media. Keano is different from Roy Keane. Keano is the kid from the south who would never back off, who encouraged, even flourished, on antagonism and battle. For Keano, there is no grey, just black or white, no room for compromise. Keano was portrayed in the Times serialisation last week with a head-and-shoulders photograph, the book cover, which would have shamed the inmates of Parkhurst. The cheeks are drawn, the mouth set, the eyes staring. This is Keano, whose idea of premeditation lasts not a few nanoseconds in the heat of a Premiership match, but festers for over a year, emerging in a full-blown assault on a fellow professional.

The problem is that Keano has been encouraged in his worst excesses. In a team full of stars, Keano has become inviolate, Captain Fantastic (the epithet, incidentally, which he uses so sarcastically to describe McCarthy), the professional's professional. Keano ran the show and, at every available opportunity, his manager raised him a notch on the pedestal. The adulation was good for Keano, but it had terrible consequences for Roy Keane, fuelling his sense of alienation and stretching to beyond breaking point his personal responsibility for United's success or failure. At times, so hard was Keano on himself, you wondered whether he was playing for United on his own. That is the response of an admirable pro; it also the ultimate delusion.

On the pages of another newspaper are some photos in softer focus. These portray Roy Keane, a man of self-deprecating humour and surprising charm, the family man, the character that those who know – and they are few in number – understand to be the true Roy Keane. Only occasionally has the outside world been afforded glimpses of Roy Keane. For a precious few weeks last season, for example, when the United captain at last began to number public relations among his duties and began to talk eloquently and honestly about United's performance, revealing a generosity of spirit that belied the image of Keano. It did not last. His column with a national broadsheet, irreverent and informative, lapsed and Keano returned.

At least the autobiography has avoided the nickname. The title is simply Keane, though the temptation to change the last letter must have been immense. What must worry Sir Alex Ferguson is the timing of the publication, ideal for sales in the fallow period before the start of a new season, deadly for the delicate morale of the dressing-room. Until now, Keano has been afforded full respect by his team-mates, many of whom are still in awe of the man. But the history of book publishing and football in recent times does not augur well for a prosperous and happy ending to the story. David O'Leary's authority in the Leeds dressing-room was undermined by the publication of United On Trial, an account of the Bowyer-Woodgate affair, which indisputably led to the decline of Leeds and O'Leary. Glenn Hoddle was accused of equal hypocrisy in publishing his 1998 World Cup diary; Jaap Stam did not last much beyond the final full stop on his tepid revelations of life at Old Trafford.

The cynics among us would say that the furore is predictable enough, given the pressing need to justify a six-figure advance. But the difference with Keane's autobiography is that, typically, heart and soul are laid out on the pages. There are no half-measures. No one who wants a gentle run-through of a career would choose the spiky Eamon Dunphy for an interpreter. Not a man short of his own slant on life. For example, did McCarthy really grab Keane at the end of a drawn World Cup qualifier with Portugal and say: "Just stand with me, Roy, for 15 seconds. Let the press get a photograph of us together. It'll look great"? That does not sound much like McCarthy to me. That sounds like artistic licence, extra justification for Keano's tempestuous walk-out, a convenient excuse for the disdain heaped upon McCarthy by both men.

Yet the account of his departure from the Irish camp is at least free of self-righteousness. "There is no hero here," says Keane. I beg to differ. There is a hero in all this. He is Triggs, Keane's dog. Triggs was being walked whenever Ireland played in the World Cup and when Keane was threatening to quit United after another rumpus with Alan Shearer.

"Peace, no regrets, off the treadmill," Keane writes. Triggs has walked miles in pursuit of his master's obsession and he might have to walk a few more miles yet. Roy Keane reckons he has four more years left in him. Keano might not last that long.

"Keane – The Autobiography" by Roy Keane. To be published by Michael Joseph on 30 August, £17.99)