Two separate, unrelated incidents elicited gasps of astonishment in my local last night. The first was my exploding pint - a half-full glass of lager I'd left on the table between swallows, which spontaneously shattered, presumably out of boredom or some deep-rooted feeling of neglect, sending shards of glass flying into the air and a half-pint of lager into a friend's lap. Weird.
A couple of hours later, events took a more surreal turn. On a night that saw Arsenal put Hamburg to the sword in Germany, Real Madrid humbled in Lyon and Manchester United and Celtic serving up a humdinger on the big screen, it was the sight of "Leeds United 0 - 3 Sunderland" rolling nonchalantly across the Soccer Special ticker that elicited those gasps of astonishment from the 150 or so hardy souls who'd braved the pouring rain to enjoy the night's football over a few volatile pints. From national laughing stock to promotion contenders in just three weeks - Sunderland have become the most fascinating, talked-about team in the country. What a difference a misunderstood Irishman makes.
When Roy Keane was appointed manager of Sunderland, the reaction from most quarters of the English media was as predictable as it was amusing and misguided. Assorted gentlemen of the press who've been around long enough to know better sharpened their pencils, got busy sketching and came up with the usual skewed caricature: psycho Keane, the explosive Irish ogre with the vein bulging in his forehead, who'd rant and rave, bash heads together and terrorise his new charges before storming out in frustration at their inability to play as well as he used to.
The Keane that gave his first press conference as manager of Sunderland was the Keane that actually exists: thoughtful, intelligent, well-spoken, droll. Despite initial trepidation, not a single hack died. Having set out his stall and explained how he planned to pick a punch-drunk, once-proud club off the ropes, Keane set about administering the salts. Having reassured the most dispirited bunch of players in the English league that there'd be no cull, he busied himself on deadline day, securing a clatter of bargain-bin reinforcements that proved he isn't deluded about the nature of the Championship. In terms of ability, the likes of Graham Kavanagh and David Connolly may well fall below the standard Keane would have accepted at United, but look like shrewd investments for any manager plotting a route out of the second tier.
Three victories from three games under Keano's watchful eye (I know, I know, but does anyone honestly believe he didn't influence the outcome of that game he watched from the directors' box before his appointment?) and Sunderland are an upwardly mobile team again, disproving the notion that you can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear. Their tails up, belief has been restored and everyone with a passing interest in English football now has a passing interest in their progress.
In the three weeks he's been in charge, the Mackems' young manager hasn't put a foot wrong - looking the part and sending out a team that plays as good a game as he talks. Although we can only surmise as to the tone of his dressing-room chats, all available evidence would suggest that quiet encouragement rather than spittle-flecked rage has been his motivational tool of choice to date - no group of players could express themselves as eloquently as Sunderland's have in their last 125 minutes of football if they were terrified of displeasing their manager.
Away from the dugout and dressing room, Keane has also slotted into his new role as if to the manor born. He attends to his media duties without fuss, entertaining the stupidest of questions with Zenic calm, while stressing the need for a sense of history in the training centre, even if it is only a few pictures to take the bare look off the walls and give the current crop of players some food for thought.
Of course there will be a bust-up, of that we can be certain. Whether it's with his chairman, a referee, some tabloid Johnny that keeps pressing the wrong buttons, or a disillusioned player who takes umbrage at a decision, there's a sad inevitability about the fact that at some point Keane will explode. There isn't a football manager alive who hasn't, but the forensic examination that will greet the first show of temper or impatience from Sunderland's dapper manager will be motivated by a desire on the part of certain press box naysayers to prove they were right all along, that Roy Keane hasn't got the temperament to cut it as a manager. Would anyone in their right mind bet against him proving them wrong again?
