Wayne Rooney: My Decade in the Premier League (28 page)

An hour before the league game against Liverpool, February 2012. I wait in my office. Well, it’s not an office really, but it’s the closest thing I have to one: the dressing room underneath the South Stand at Old Trafford, a room tucked away in the far corner of the ground.

In a way, it’s a bit like most offices. Meetings take place here and decisions get sorted. There’s gossip, banter and a few unwritten rules: like never, ever speak when The Manager’s angry. My workplace is somewhere along the back wall where a Manchester United shirt hangs from a peg with the number 10 and ‘Rooney’ printed on the back. Underneath it are my shorts, socks, shinnies and footy boots, all laid out in a pile.

I’m not the only one here. Seventeen other people – Giggsy, Rio, Antonio Valencia, Michael Carrick, Jonny Evans
and the rest – are doing the same thing as me. They hang around their spots, mess about in their lockers and go through their usual routines, superstitions, habits, like it’s just another day at work.

At first it’s quiet, but it doesn’t take long for things to liven up a bit. Patrice Evra plugs his iPod into a dock; R&B bangs out from the speakers. The jokes start flying around, some of the lads are having a crack. Michael Carrick and Scholesy play two touch with a ball, kicking it backwards and forwards across the floor. Rio’s taking the mickey out of Patrice’s clothes, hanging them up for everyone to laugh at. In a room next door, Valencia gets on one of six exercise bikes and starts his warm-up.

I sit down and begin to focus. There’s 58 minutes to wait until kick-off.

Too much time
.

I undress and pull on my shorts.

I feel good; not nervous, just ready. Moments earlier I was buzzing around the players’ lounge, trying to relax. I felt edgy then, but now the game’s so close, I go quiet. It’s a weird habit I’ve had since I started playing as a kid. I’ve always gone into my shell as a kick-off gets closer, I don’t want to talk to anyone, I don’t get involved in the messing around. I’d much rather keep myself to myself.

Get your head straight for the match instead
.

I change into my socks, training top and boots.

I hop on the massage table before Michael Carrick can get there and the club masseur, Rod ‘The Rub’ goes to work on my thighs. I groan as he grips and pulls at my legs but I
can feel the blood flow increasing and the muscles getting warmer.
Pain turning into heat turning into strength
.

I start to picture the next 90 minutes and how they might go for me. Like the pre-match visualisation I always go through in a hotel room the night before a game, I imagine goals and positive passes; great tackles; flashes of skill turning defenders inside out.

I get on the bike and pedal, feeling the muscles in my calves starting to loosen, my heart rate getting faster. I’m seeing goals in my head, 20 yarders flying past Liverpool goalkeeper Pepe Reina. I imagine popping the ball through defender Daniel Agger’s legs, rounding him and dinking the ball over the advancing keeper.

I look up at the telly in the office.
Sky Sports News
is on, they’re going through the usual build-up to today’s game. My eyes drift over to the clock alongside it. There’s ages to go, 52 minutes.

Too much time
.

The second hand’s moving so slowly, like someone’s messed about with it
.

I get off the bike, wishing the seconds away. I can hear a weird muffled hum. It’s the buzz of the fans outside in the ground. There’s the occasional shout of ‘United!’, laughter, whistles.

I want the match to start
.

I pull on my training top and boots. I grab a ball and head out for the warm-up, through the long and dark tunnel; narrow, cramped, going on for miles and miles. Past the ball boys and the police and the coaches; under the red canopy
that stretches onto the grass, into the bright green blur of the pitch, the sun; the noise and the hum and the buzz getting louder, sharper. There’s a cheer, applause as we jog onto the park. Then the ground starts singing.

‘United! United!’

Because Liverpool are here, there’s a real atmosphere about Old Trafford today. The crowd are up for it. So am I. A lot of people have been banging on about the fact that I’ve not scored as many goals against this lot as I should have done. Maybe that’s because I’ve always ‘disliked’ them (The Manager’s word, not mine) as an Everton fan and I always want to beat them so badly. I never scored against them in the Merseyside derby. My mates reckon I try too hard.

We stretch and pass, jog and stretch and shoot and stretch. I see more goals in my head. I imagine the youth club pitch back in Croxteth, The Goals, Gems, the torn netting, the floodlights.

I wonder what it looks like now?

Then I get the feeling – the same one I experience before every game of football.

Today I’m going to score
.

*****

There’s a back story to this game.

When we played Liverpool at their place earlier on in the season it all kicked off: Patrice and Liverpool’s Uruguayan striker, Luis Suarez, got involved in a row. I was nowhere near the incident when it happened, but apparently there
were words as the pair of them went in for a corner. From where I was standing, I could see they were rucking over something, but I didn’t have a clue what.

When we got into the dressing room at full-time, Patrice went mad.

‘He racially abused me!’ he shouted. He was furious, wound up.

After the game there were allegations; people were saying this, that and the other about the incident, and everyone was up in arms about it. The matter was referred to the FA and a hearing was held in December. The FA decided that Suarez was guilty and in a statement they said that his actions had ‘damaged the image of English football around the world’.

When I heard the result of the hearing I felt relief for Patrice as it vindicated him, but I was also sure of something else.

It’s going to be a needle game the next time we play Liverpool …

*****

By the time the game comes around, everyone’s asking one thing: will Patrice shake Luis Suarez’s hand in the line-up before kick-off? As I warm up with short sharp sprints, then some shooting practice, I can feel an edginess building in the ground.

I haven’t got a clue what’s going to happen here today
.

*****

We’re called back to the dressing room.

It’s nearly time
.

The Manager comes in to give his team talk. Because Liverpool are such a big deal at any stage of the season, this is the second time he’s delivered a briefing on their lot in 24 hours. He reminds us of how important the match is. He shows us again where we should be for free-kicks. He tells us who to mark on corners. He tells us how he wants us to play.

‘Squeeze them,’ he says. ‘If we can defend high up the pitch and play in their half, then we can get them on the back foot.’

‘One more thing lads … keep your heads out there today. Forget what happened last time, just deal with the game in front of you. If you stay focused you’ll get all three points.’

He leaves the room without saying anything else. I think of my instructions on corners: stick on Reina in goal, don’t let him get to those crosses.

I put my shinnies on.

I put my match shirt on.

I go to the toilet and pee.

I go to the physio’s room alone, sit on the bed and pray.

Let me get through the 90 minutes safely; let me have an injury-free game
.

I’m not sure if anyone else prays before games. I suppose we have a lot of different nationalities and cultures at United, so some of the lads might be doing it now, too. But if anyone else is praying, then they’re doing it in their
own way. All I know is that praying helps me to focus, to keep calm.

I get back to my seat. Patrice is talking to everyone. He says, ‘I’m going to shake his hand. It’s the sporting thing to do.’

Everyone agrees.

Fair play mate
–
that’s being the bigger man
.

I take a look at how he is, his confidence. The Manager has named him as skipper today. He’s a good leader, Patrice.

He’s relaxed, given what’s happened. He’s a bit quieter than usual, but he’s focused. Well, how would you be? You’ve been in games where you’ve played against someone you’ve had run-ins with before …

I tighten the laces on my boots one last time.

… The same probably. Though it’s easy for you to say, ‘Come on, Patrice, just get on with the game today. Put it behind you, lad.’

I snap back.

Focus, Wayne
.

My concentration is only broken when the buzzer goes, an alarm that tells the players it’s time to line up in the tunnel.

I’m ready now.

Today we’re going to win and I’m going to score
.

*****

Suarez won’t play ball.

In the team line-up before the game, the Liverpool lot walk alongside the United players to shake hands. Patrice is at the front. He’s doing the captain’s bit.

Here comes Suarez …

This is the moment people have been talking about all week …

Patrice sticks out his hand to greet him, to put things behind them, but Suarez isn’t interested. Instead he reaches for the bloke next to him, our goalie David de Gea.

He hasn’t taken it!

He’s ignored him. Patrice looks dead moody about it, too
.

He comes to me, I shake his hand instinctively, a bit confused by it all.

That won’t look so good for Suarez. He’ll probably regret that later down the line. Why couldn’t he just shake his hand so we can get on with the football?

The players run into their halves for a final stretch, a last-minute touch of the ball. There are boos, whistling, everyone in the crowd is going mad.

Forget it, Wayne. Today we’re going to win and you’re going to score
.

*****

Half-time, 0–0. It’s anyone’s game.

I walk back to the tunnel, trying to take in what’s happened in those 45 minutes; the chances, the tackles, trying to second guess what The Manager’s going to say.
When I get to the corridor that leads to the dressing rooms, I can’t get through. The police have blocked it off. I can see there’s a bit of pushing and shoving in the distance, but I can’t make out between who. There are coaches dragging players into the dressing rooms, calming everything down. Me and Stevie Gerrard are standing behind a gang of police waiting, like a right pair of soft lads.

When I get back in the office, The Manager has calmed everyone; he’s telling us to keep the tempo high. I look around trying to work out what’s happened but everyone’s focused on The Manager. I haven’t got a clue what’s happened in the tunnel.

‘We’re in the match,’ he’s saying. ‘Keep going at them, push them back. Keep the pace of the game high and we’ll get a goal, maybe two.’

Our half-time team talks are always different – I never know what to expect. I’ve gone in when we’ve been winning three-nil, but The Manager has gone crazy. Sometimes I dread half-time if we’re hammering a team because I know he doesn’t want complacency, so we’re going to get rollicked.

If we’re playing badly but winning 1–0 at the break, he’ll get angry with us. He doesn’t want the opposition to come back at us in the second half and nick a point. Other times, when we’ve been losing by a goal, he’ll just tell us to carry on the way we are. He knows an equaliser is coming. His experience tells him that sometimes United won’t play well, but we can still win.

The scariest times are when we’re losing and not playing well. I have to stay quiet as much as I can during those
meetings. If I open my mouth at the wrong time and upset The Manager, I’ll be in big trouble. Answering back is intimidating and scary. A bad move. Afterwards it’s always forgotten though, and after a telling off, he won’t even speak about it the next day, like it didn’t even happen. I guess he’s too busy thinking about how we’re going to win the next game.

There’s no shouting today. After our team talk, the backroom staff go to work. The fitness coaches give out energy bars, gels and drinks. We have Coco Pops bars and Jaffa Cakes for anyone feeling tired. I need a sugar hit. Mick Phelan and René Meulensteen, our coaches, talk to the players one-on-one. They tell us the things they’ve noticed about the game and how Liverpool are shaping up. Mick sits down next to me. He reckons I could work their back four harder.

‘Don’t just stand up behind the defenders,’ he says. ‘Try to pin Skrtel and Agger back and create space for our midfielders.’

I nod.

I gulp down my energy drink, eat my Jaffa Cake, and think about scoring. Scoring and winning.

*****

I score; second half, 46th minute.

A cracking volley straight past Reina.

A few minutes later I score again.

Not many things feels better than scoring against Liverpool
.

We win, 2–1.

Suarez gets theirs, but it’s not enough to dampen the mood as the team buzzes around the office afterwards. There’s a queue for the food, which is a good sign. When United have won, everyone heads straight for the table loaded up with pizzas, fajita wraps and potato wedges, pushing, shoving, laughing, like they do today. We all get stuck in. It’s noisy, everyone’s dead chuffed.

Then Patrice puts the iPod back on – he’s buzzing, the fuss over the handshake already forgotten. This time it’s Brazilian party music, Samba stuff. It’s great in here after a win.

If we lose, it’s totally different. Following a defeat – like the 6–1 against City – no one touches the food. There’s a deathly silence. It’s like being in church. Defeat is the worst.

If I know we haven’t played well and we’ve deserved to lose, I always have a weird sinking feeling inside. I feel sorry for myself, I feel like we’ve let everyone down. I feel embarrassed.

Even if I’ve played well personally but we’ve lost, it’s no consolation. I might have scored two goals in a game, but if we’ve been beaten 3–2, I feel bad afterwards. It’s not bittersweet, it’s horrible.