Wayne Rooney: My Decade in the Premier League (27 page)

I suppose a football team is a bit like a family in some ways, too.

*****

There’s another change when I get back for pre-season training: I shower, get dressed, and when I look in the mirror, I have a full head of hair for the first time in years. It’s a transplant, bits of hair taken from the back of my head and surgically stuck to the front. Despite the comments in a few magazines and the jokes from mates, I think it looks alright.

Some blokes don’t mind their hair receding, they’re fine with it, but I’ll admit that I used to stare at myself in the morning. I used to think,
Bloody hell, you’re going bald. You’re only a young lad. You don’t want to lose all your hair, not in your 20s anyway.

It never really got me down, but I admit, I found it a bit stressful. Any fella who’s lost their hair will know exactly what I mean. It’s not fun. I thought about what I was going to do about it. I started looking at myself and thinking,
So why not get a hair transplant?
After a lot of research an appointment was made with the Harley Street Hair Clinic in London.

I’m not soft though. Before the last day of the 2010/11 season, I decide to tell everyone in the dressing room. I know that if I go on holiday with thinning hair and come back looking like Andy Carroll they’ll slaughter me over it, especially if it goes wrong, because that’s the way footballers are. Nothing’s safe at a football club. Everything’s a target for a spot of mickey-taking.

New pair of shoes?
Slaughtered.

Bad picture of you in the paper?
Slaughtered.

New advert on the telly?
Slaughtered.

Hair transplant?
Slaughtered.

When I’m putting my boots away and getting my wash-bag together after the Blackpool game, I make the announcement.

‘Here, I’m going to get a hair transplant done when I go away for the summer …’

I’m laying down a marker with the lads, like an early tackle on a centre-half. I’m letting them know that I don’t care what they think about it, that I’m up for the abuse.

They still slaughter me.

‘Oi, Wazza,’ someone shouts. ‘Are you going to grow a ponytail?’

*****

The 2011/2012 season starts with two batterings. One for us, one for Arsenal. The battering for Arsenal happens first, we spank them 8–2 at home, and it’s a game that comes as a massive shock to everyone. To score four past a team as good
as Arsenal is some achievement, especially when I think about the success they’ve had in the past ten, fifteen years. But to score eight? It’s unbelievable.

Before the game there’s the typical buzz about the place, but nothing unusual is going on. It’s not as if The Manager has stumbled across some magic, tactical formula that will help us to tear Arsenal apart. The game basically comes down to form. We’ve started the season really well, Arsenal have been performing poorly. Our confidence is high and we’re playing some great attacking football. Theirs is probably the lowest it’s been for years, especially as they’ve suffered a few injuries in the run-up to the game and one or two of their players have been suspended.

As I sit in the dressing room, I know we’re prepared, like we are for any other game, but what happens next is a one-off, a freak game, a match where we look like scoring every time we push into their half.

21 mins: Goal! Danny Welbeck nods the ball in from six yards out.

We’re up and running …

27 mins: Goal! Our new signing Ashley Young fires one into the top right-hand corner from outside the box.

Two now, we just need to keep our heads and put the game out of sight.

40 mins: Goal! I collect the ball on the edge of the area and pass it into the top left-hand corner.

Game over, we’ll see the game out in the second half, no probs.

45 mins: they score, Theo Walcott.

OK, no real drama, we’re still in control.

63 mins: Goal! I score again, the bottom left-hand side this time, a shot drilled in from the edge of the box.

The away fans have gone quiet, so have the players. Arsenal aren’t tackling as hard or working as much as they were in the first 20 minutes …

66 mins: Goal! Nani; I feed him a through ball and he hits it past the keeper from inside their area.

They’re all over the place, this lot …

69 mins: Goal! Ji-Sung Park.

Their heads have gone …

73 mins: Arsenal score through Van Persie.

81 mins: Goal! My hat-trick, a pen.

They’ve given up. They don’t have the fight …

90 mins: Goal! Ashley Young curls one into the top right-hand corner from the edge of the box.

The final whistle goes. The Arsenal lot look relieved, pleased that it’s over …

It’s a mad score, and one that doesn’t happen that often in the Premier League. It’s so unexpected that I even feel sorry for them (a bit), because being on the end of a result like that is horrible, sick, embarrassing. Like when we were spanked 4–1 by Middlesbrough in 2005. I couldn’t wait for the final whistle to blow. I wanted to get out of there as quickly as I could.
I never want to go through that again.

But then it happens to us; it’s our turn to get hammered.

City.

They batter us 6–1, but it’s even worse than the Boro’ result because it happens at Old Trafford, in front of our own
fans. It’s also a massacre that could so easily have been avoided.

We start off alright, but City score in the first half through Mario Balotelli. Then Jonny Evans gets sent off just after half-time and that’s when it all goes wrong. I know we’re in trouble because getting the ball off City’s players is hard enough with 11 men, they keep it so well.

It’s going to be a right mission now.

It’s no surprise to anyone when they score two more, but when we pull a goal back with 10 minutes to go through Fletch, I still have the belief that we might get back into the game.
If we can hang on here, you never know. A second might put the wind up them and put a bit of pressure on …

They bang in three at the death.

Gutted.

We always knew that City would be serious title rivals this season. They’ve fallen away in campaigns over the past couple of years, but I can tell they’ve got some proper quality in the side now – their new signing, Argentinian striker Sergio Aguero’s different class up front; Yaya Touré is a monster in the middle of the park. And in Joe Hart they probably have one of the best goalkeepers in the world. They look stronger than ever before.

It’s hard to take. We sit in the dressing room afterwards staring at our feet. No one wants to shower. There’s silence, awkward coughing. Somebody kicks a water bottle across the room. The younger lads in the squad, like Danny Welbeck, Phil Jones – who we signed from Blackburn in the summer, a strong player – and Chris Smalling, look
shell-shocked. But so do the older heads. I know a game like this can be damaging to a young player’s confidence, especially if they haven’t experienced it before; the more senior lads can’t let the rot set in.

We have to get over it.

‘Listen, it’s happened,’ I say, to no one and everyone. ‘We have to move on. It’s only three points, let’s pick ourselves up and win the next few games. This 6–1 thrashing is a freak, like the Arsenal game. A one-off.’

I know it’s not much, but it’s better than saying nothing.

*****

When I leave Old Trafford after the game against Arsenal, I hear The Manager giving an interview to someone from one of the TV stations. He’s telling him that he wanted the scoring to stop during the 8–2 win over Arsenal. Apparently, he didn’t want to humiliate Arsene Wenger’s side any more.

I have a laugh to myself as I walk to the coach. All we hear in training, in pre-match meetings, before the kick-off, at half-time and even at full-time, is: ‘Score as many as you can, lads. Keep going, try to finish teams off and get more goals.’

I know what The Manager means, but our job as players is to score goals and win games. After all, you never know, the title could come down to goal difference one year.

*****

I can’t wait to play City again.

I want to beat them so badly.

I want to prove that the result at Old Trafford isn’t the first sign of a changing balance of power.

It’s December when I get the news that we’re playing them in the FA Cup Third Round at their place.

Looking forward to it already.

*****

In the league, we get back on track.

The squad’s pulling together; we’re sitting in second place behind City in the table and everyone at the club is getting behind the first team. Even Paul Scholes is doing full training sessions with the reserves rather than coaching them from the sidelines.
What’s he doing that for? Doesn’t look like much of a retirement from playing to me. Not if you’re going to be working as hard as the rest of us.

I do my bit by dropping into a central midfield role when the team gets hit by injuries. The Manager thinks I can do a job there and with the likes of Tom Cleverley, Anderson, Michael Carrick and Fletch all missing games, he asks me to help out. When I get stuck into the action as a central playmaker, I love it. I get more of the ball, I’m involved loads and after one game I even think about playing there permanently (but only later on in my career).

Why? Well, in midfield I don’t have to be as sharp as a forward. I have to focus my energy on moving from box to box instead. But as a striker I’m always making quick runs, I use short bursts of pace. Once I feel that I haven’t got the sharpness needed to get away from defenders, I’ll probably drop back into midfield for a couple of seasons so I can still influence the game.

In my heart I know I’d prefer it if I was playing upfront because I can still do a lot of damage in the box, but the sacrifices don’t bother me. I’m happy at United, despite the downs that sometimes take place at a football club. Like when we stuff Wigan 5–0 on Boxing Day. I go out for dinner with a few of the lads and our other halves to a hotel. The next day The Manager pulls me up and tells me he’s not happy and doesn’t feel I’ve trained properly. He fines me, but there’s worse to come. I’m dropped for the next game against Blackburn. At a lot of clubs, people wouldn’t bat an eyelid at players having a night out six days before a game; but that’s the difference at United and a mark of the high standards The Manager demands. It’s a big deal; another lesson learned. The following week, I sit in the stands and watch us
lose 3–2 to Blackburn. It’s the worst feeling. They’re terrible, they look certs for relegation; we’re more terrible than them. As I follow the match, I feel desperate, helpless like the other fans watching the defeat unfold in front of us.

It’s no fun being a supporter sometimes …

*****

City, the FA Cup Third Round.

It’s the morning of the game and in the team hotel, United coach Paul Scholes is standing in his United suit, tie, smart shirt and polished shoes. It’s funny to see him as a coach and not a player these days, but it’s also nice of him to show up so he can give the lads a bit of support. As a footballer, it sometimes helps to have a calm head on the bus for an away game, especially a match as big as this one.

An hour later, as we sit in the away team dressing room, I notice Scholesy stripping out of his fancy clobber. He’s putting on a warm-up top, the one that’s been hanging up alongside the other kits for the first team. That’s when I see the shirt for the first time:

Scholes

22

I start looking around at everyone else, to make sure I’m not the only one who’s noticed what’s going on. The lads are staring at him, jaws on the deck. Scholesy doesn’t say a word to anyone, as usual. He’s pulling on his shorts, ignoring the
fuss around him. There’s shouting, cheering. The squad’s buzzing. The younger lads like Chris Smalling can’t believe they’re going to be playing with one of the best midfielders United has ever known.

‘Eh? When did this happen?’

‘The Manager’s kept that one quiet!’

I can’t get my head around it.

One of United’s best midfielders for years is back to play against City in the FA Cup and none of us have been told? You couldn’t make this up …

We beat City 3–2; I score a couple. It goes some way to paying them back for the hammering they gave us at the start of the season; Scholesy comes on in the second half to a massive cheer, but he makes a mistake that gives City a goal.

It’s no big drama in the end though. The game is ours and I know his match legs will come back. His return can only be a good thing, and it feels like a new signing for us, like a family reunion.

*****

Not for everyone.

Tuesday morning is the first day of training after our win against City. When I look down at Patrice’s legs as he walks out for training, I notice a pair of shinnies have been stuffed back into his socks.
So we’re not all chuffed that Scholesy’s back, then.