Interview/John O'Shea: Tom Humphries on a momentous year in the fledgling career of John O'Shea, as on-field success vied with family tragedy at home.

At the beginning of the season just past he paused from the headlong rush of football and drew a breath. It was a new working year, mint fresh and full of hope. Manchester United marked it by giving John O'Shea a locker in the first-team changing room.

That's not a big thing to you maybe but it's a huge thing when your boyhood dreams have had John Motson commentaries as soundtracks.

A locker in the first-team dressing-room. Roy Carroll for a neighbour on one side. Michael Stewart on the other. And the things that came with it. The full-time masseuse loitering. The physios always ready. The towels. The cool air. The names on each locker. So he sucked it in and said.

"Doing alright for a young lad from Ferrybank."

And he got on with life. A life with John Motson commentaries as soundtracks.

****

Ferrybank. That odd little satellite of Waterford life, itself a quirked-up version of Irish life. Ferrybank might be New Jersey to Waterford's New York but you can't get a good blah either side of the Hudson. Ferrybank looks down on Waterford and backs up almost into Kilkenny and Slieverue. It's of the city of Waterford but separate, so much so that when John O'Shea speaks of his girlfriend, Yvonne, he describes her as a townie, as if he himself grew up in a haystack.

He grew up in a cul-de-sac in Ferrybank and something of that geographical circumstance was absorbed into his nature. He makes his living now at Manchester United, the richest, most glamorised, most hyped club in the world, but it's as if all that traffic never passes his door, as if he is watching Manchester United from the same remove that Ferrybank kids grow up watching Waterford from. Part of it but quietly apart from it too.

His father, Jim, was born in William Street in the heart of Kilkenny city and he hurled until the bas of a stick chopped down on his fingers one day forcing him to re-evaluate the importance of fingers in his life. The family legend has it that Jim's stepdad, Jack Cantwell, dropped Jim down to Waterford one day and, letting him out of the car, pointed balefully towards Kilcohan Park.

'That's where they play the soccer," he said, as if it were indicating a house of ill repute.

Jack drove off. Jim walked straight through the turnstiles and fell stone flat in love.

Soccer! Ferrybank AFC! Jim O'Shea has the green and white colours running through him like a resort name through a stick of candy rock. He became identified with the club to the extent that when John was in his teens and the Ferrybank side he'd grown up in disbanded he went over the river to play for Bohemians and the first voice he heard belonged to a man called Noel Lavery.

Noel was bawling across the field: "Does your father know you're here?" Ferrybank was the heart of it and the head of it. Jim had two boys. Alan, who would grow to be six foot seven , a stature which doesn't prevent him from viewing himself as a full back in the Roberto Carlos mode. And then there was John, by five years and some inches the junior.

Having Roberto Carlos as an elder brother had its value. In the garden the ball would come flying at John from all angles with, it seemed, a skittish will all of its own. Part of growing up was learning how to tame the thing, how to stop it bowling him over like a pin. When he could do that he was ready to go down to the field and start playing with the big boys.

He was tall but there were plenty that were taller. He always played above his age group. And survived. As an eight-year-old he was out on the wing for the under-11s. The next year Jim coached John for a while. Jim and Paddy Aherne. Two coaches nurturing a good one. John was nine and a right winger all season. He reckons you wouldn't have picked him for Man U.

"Maybe Waterford U, though!"

They say he was never a superstar. He always just had the ability to adapt to whatever level he was pitched in at. He started out on the periphery and then moved into midfield, central midfield, and suddenly he was controlling games.

Ferrybank did well but the townie teams always did well too. Carrick. Bohs. Johnville. Southend. Every year there'd be a team that would come from nowhere and win the thing because of their townie swagger and unquenchable confidence.

Ferrybank ebbed and flowed. They were the best under-11 side in Waterford but won nothing at under-12. Did well again at under-13 and under-14 and then broke up just after Kennedy Cup year.

Of those that played Kennedy Cup and then moved on from Ferrybank, John was the last to go. Fellas finished primary on the Ferrybank side of the river and then moved across to the De La Salle school and got new friends who played with city clubs.

Ferrybank heads were turned. So the team broke up.

John was reluctant to move on. He'd grown up with these fellas. Brian Mallon, Ricky Kempton, the modish striker, Jimmy Vaughan, Danny Phelan and, of course, his cousin and pal, Paul Kennedy, the team's steady-eddie right back who looked as if he'd hold that position forever.

Ricky Kempton and Brian Mallon were the first to move on. John lingered but finally went. Paul Kennedy stayed a Ferrybank man but he was okay about it - just a little gentle slagging.

John was a Liverpool man and Kenno's faith lay at Elland Road, so just two issues, each as thin as a cigarette paper, separated them.

Ferrybank. The Wonder Years! They lost in a play-off final for a league title against Johnville once. It was 4-3 in the end. Played in the inestimable glamour of Ozier Park.

John O'Shea marked Stephen Hunt, the Johnville centre forward. Alan Whelan, who John went on trial with to Liverpool later, played too. Johnville won 4-3. Stephen Hunt always reminds him about it still.

He might remind Stephen Hunt that at under-11 Ferrybank won the cup and in doing so they scored 45 goals and conceded just one. Beat Tramore in the final. Couldn't imagine not winning it all at under-12 the next year.

Good days.

****

He reckons that Noel Lavery of Waterford Bohemians prepared him for Alex Ferguson. If Ferguson's voice is a hairdryer, Noel's is an industrial sandblaster.

In his first year with Bohs he played under-15, 16, 17 and 18. Oh, and schools teams as well. Eight or nine teams in the season. At least two matches every weekend. He adapted and, as was his custom, eventually thrived.

He played in a Derek Egan Memorial Cup final for Bohs. They beat Tramore 4-0. David Whittle played in the middle of the park and not long after was whisked off to QPR.

John O'Shea isn't sure whether Whittle mentioned him at QPR but his first trial was there. Two weeks in Shepherd's Bush. Shacked up in the digs with David Whittle. Outside there were street signs advising that it was unsafe to walk alone in this area or that street. What 16-year-old wouldn't love it? After a week QPR offered a four-year deal.

The O'Shea family convened in London. Four years on one hand. A Leaving Cert on the other. QPR versus UCD perhaps? O'Shea went back to the books.

He had a brief affair with Celtic, went to Parkhead seven or eight times, with Willie McStay courting him keenly. The wooing came to nothing. Liverpool took him across and asked that he come to Anfield every weekend during his Leaving Cert year. He declined. They sent him a letter curtailing their interest and offering him advice on what he should work on. Aggressive heading of the ball. He could see their point. Long-range passing. He'd like to have argued that one with them.

Finally United. They'd watched the European Under-16 championship campaign in Scotland. He'd known they were watching because Kevin Grogan, a United prospect, had told him so. Martin Ferguson, brother of himself, had contacts down in Waterford.

Next thing the O'Sheas were in Manchester. Well, the O'Sheas and Darren Fletcher and Darren's mam and dad were there. Like a greeting line for the queen. The manager was to meet them all. Darren Fletcher's mam was from Mayo and she got on well with John O'Shea's mam and by the time Ferguson arrived the ice was broken.

The Manager walked in and inspected the merchandise.

"You're big enough, you'll be alright," was the first thing he said to John O'Shea.

Les Kershaw, the youth team guy, was there, beaming. The O'Sheas were here to sign a three-year contract. Big deal. Literally.

Then The Manager says: "So John, we'll take you on a three-month trial period." Panic. Exchanged glances.

"I looked at Les. Are you going to say something? And Les stepped in. 'It's a bit different, boss. We'll be signing him on a three-year deal.' The Manager gave him one of those looks . . ."

John O'Shea disappeared into digs for three years. Cecil Avenue. The top floor of a house owned by a couple of teachers, Carol and John Daniels. Three lads, O'Shea, Stephen Cosgrove and Jed Gaff.

Daytime was training time. At the Cliff or at Littleton Road. He knew two things. Ferrybank was keeping an eye on him and Alex Ferguson was watching over him.

"I always knew that, well, you'd see lads going into the bad books and it's not too often anyone gets out of there and back into The Manager's good books. He always kept an eye on me when I went on loan and I always made sure not to go into the bad books."

He settled into the life. Homesickness came and went. He played for the youth team and the reserves. The Manager would come and look them all over the odd day, like a rancher surveying the herd. Dave Williams was the youth coach. Mike Phelan and then Brian McClair with the reserves. The Manager would come over and have long mysterious chats.

Williams might say to him so-and-so is doing well, but your man is struggling. He'd pick out three or four making progress and The Manager would talk to them. He'd pick something they each needed to improve on but they always knew he was talking to them because they were thriving. John O'Shea got plenty of quiet words.

Nightly he'd relate these things in phone calls home. The family came over occasionally. Kenno was always promising to come but life, football, exams, girls all combined to keep him in Ferrybank. Someday for United v Leeds! See ya get trimmed, boy!

****

Every time he went out on loan, he'd have doubts. Despite himself he'd have doubts. Jim O'Shea would speak to The Manager and be told young John was going here or there and it would make him a better player.

But on the streets in Ferrybank the word was different. Each loan was the beginning of the end. Should have gone to a smaller club. Told you so. He'll be back in the summer. And the word would be made law and it would float across to Cecil Street and get into John O'Shea's head and compete for space.

He went to Antwerp a few years ago now. Himself and Jimmy Davis, a nippy striker about a year younger. Good beer town. They were two up-and-coming kids from Manchester United. Off, free as birds, in Belgium. Everyone spoke English and if they couldn't understand a broad Waterford accent at least its owner could understand them.

And out of digs! Separate hotel rooms.

One evening around seven, Jimmy Davis knocked on the door out of the blue, walked in and sat down. Next thing the phone rang. Jim O'Shea. A sudden connection was made in John O'Shea's head. Jimmy is here because Dad has got bad news.

Kenno. Paul Kennedy. Cousin, pal, team-mate. They played together under the blank blue skies of boyhood. Paul had come home and hung himself in the house down the road. As simple and as black as that.

"He was 20. We were fair close. Me Dad called me up that night. I remember Jimmy coming in unexpectedly. My phone rang. Dad. He'd got Jimmy to come in, so I wouldn't be alone. We had a long old night of it and I flew back the next morning. The family never really recovered. How could you?"

One of those sad, sad, all too common mysteries of Irish existence. A kid from a happy house. Some unknowable torment hidden inside.

"It turned out he had been depressed," says John. "Some pressure from exams, different things. It just all got on top of him. How can you understand it? His mam and dad couldn't have done anything more for him. You could look at his whole life and couldn't say they could have done anything more or given him anything more. He was a mad Leeds United fan, he always had the latest Leeds strip when we were growing up. Always had everything he needed."

Paul lived down the road in Bishopsgrove. He left behind a sister, Sarah, who John is close to also. In the couple of years since the tragedy they've not been able to trace their fingers over Paul's life to find where exactly it turned, when the love was no longer enough.

"He died in January and I'd been home for Christmas," says John. "We had a few good nights out. I look back now and try to find things. There was no hint with me or with his family. One of the other lads we grew up with said later he'd tried to do it with pills and vodka two nights previously. He spent the next day in bed and he just brushed it off saying he'd been drinking.

"It passed as one of those lad things. On the night he walked home there was nobody in the house. His family have tortured themselves ever since. When his mam came home there he was. A neighbour heard her screams."

John stayed home for two weeks. The Belgian season didn't start back till late January. The return to football came as a slight relief from the darkness in Ferrybank but his mind and his heart stayed there. Everyday he unfolds the old memories and goes looking for answers.

****

This summer he went back to Ferrybank three days after the Premiership ended. United had played at Goodison Park and received the trophy there. They hugged and danced and did that thing which happy footballers do when they are around silverware. They jumped up and down together.

He wanted to slip home quietly but there was a banner across the street. Welcome Home Premiership Winner. Made him smile. The season bookended nicely. From that day in the locker-room to this moment coming home. His year.

It's different now. When he made his first start in a home game at Old Trafford a couple of years ago Phil Neville came over to him and said the match would be easier than any reserve game he'd played. It wasn't but he reckons Neville saw him shaking and thought it would be a good thing to say.

Now at home everywhere he goes people stick a pen and paper in front of him. They want to know if he was in the dressing-room when this happened or that happened. They ask what so and so is like, no, what's he really like. It's different. No Kenno waiting.

In Sale, where he lives in atwo-bedroom flat, he's come to realise he'll have to move soon. Kids know where he lives. Little crowds gather. Besides it's going so well with Yvonne the townie, who knows? He's seen how mad it can all get. Last summer he watched the World Cup in Waterford. His friends said they should go to Caulfields on the promise of a big screen and a small crowd.

Half right. They went there for every game anyway. Lots of people drinking, telling him he should be there, in Japan or South Korea, lots of people running theories and rumours past him about Roy Keane. Made him think.

"I would have liked it. To be out there. I didn't think Mick ever saw me play in a game, though. I thought I'd get a shout for a friendly maybe but . . . I was playing just before Christmas with United and then I got injured and was out for 10 days but missed three games. It took till the end of the season to get back in properly so probably I wasn't playing enough and I'd say Mick was happy with what he had. When Saipan started I was kind of glad I wasn't there. Being the other United player would have been strange. I'd have been getting it from every angle. It was bad enough at home when all those horrible rumours about Keano came out and people were coming up saying 'is that true?', 'is this true?'. That was the sad part of it. Awful."

He moved on, though. This season his career truly began. Most right-thinking people's selection for young player of the year, he established himself with a calmness and elegance that is almost continental in its cool.

He thinks of Paul Kennedy often. Paul wrote a letter before he departed and the letter offers scraps of comfort and explanation. Some of its lines were directed to John.

"It's still a hard one for us all. We're still asking so many questions. He left that letter, saying things. To me, he said 'you're on the right track, keep it going and you'll get there'. At least he left that letter, he tried to explain that.

"What he said to me made me more determined. I read Paul's letter and, inspired wouldn't be the right word, but it drove me on, drove me to make the best of what I was given in life. I think different things about it every day, different memories.

"He always talked about coming across to Manchester and he never came. That's something I would have loved."

He knows what games Paul would have liked too. They took place this season. They involved Leeds. That familiar kit from ancient games of three and in.

"We played Leeds and lost to them. Then we beat them at home. And then at the end they went and beat Arsenal to give us the league. I had a few drinks for him on those nights."

Twenty-two with the mark of greatness already on him. There's a lot of journey left in John O'Shea but a lot of John O'Shea left in Ferrybank.

For always.