Only one Keano

I was born in 1995 in Belfast, to a Leeds supporting father and a mother who was indifferent to football. My fate was sealed and a lifetime of Leeds United lay ahead. Poor kid. As soon as I was old enough to follow football, Leeds were in the Champions League. And then they weren’t.

In May 2002, I was unaware the club were hurtling towards financial armageddon; I was just excited for the World Cup. Obsessed with the sticker book and the promotions in the shops, I was hyper about seeing Leeds United’s Robbie Keane, Gary Kelly and Ian Harte playing for Ireland at the World Cup. My only prior experience of international football was watching Ireland defeat Iran at my grandparents’ house, qualifying for the finals, so this was all new to me.

At the time, I found it strange that World Cup fever had failed to catch on where I lived, certainly not to the same extent it had in other countries. Now, I’m not going to explain the geopolitical situation at play here. I’m sure you’ve all seen Derry Girls, or at least listened to Through the Barricades by Spandau Ballet, and I shall consider that an adequate education on the matter for the purposes of this piece. After all, the buzz generated among my friends and I with our stickers and street football, as well as the tournament’s video game, was enough hype to sustain us.

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