Wayne Rooney: My Decade in the Premier League (7 page)

We’ve got a great result against the league leaders, we’re within touching distance of the top teams and maybe the result will launch our season. But the atmosphere in the dressing room feels a little bit weird.

*****

After Arsenal, we fall on our backsides by losing 2–0 to Portsmouth at Fratton Park. Then we go on a five-month unbeaten league run, defeating Arsenal again, Palace, City, Liverpool and Villa along the way. It’s not until the beginning of April that we get beaten, 2–0 by Norwich. Then comes the game I’ve been waiting for all season: Everton away, Goodison Park.

Time to face the music.

It’s the first time I’ve played here since signing at Old Trafford and I know the Everton fans aren’t exactly made up about me playing for United. In fact, they hate it. When the transfer was going through in the summer, death threats
were sent to the house. I even had to get personal security sorted out for my mum and dad.

I know exactly what to expect as the United bus winds its way through the backstreets that lead to the ground because I’ve driven this way loads of times before as a player. I’ve even walked this route as a fan when I watched the games with my dad or travelled to the ground as a ball boy. I reckon there’s going to be a crowd of hundreds waiting to give the away team some stick as we get off the bus.

We turn the corner.

I can see the police horses and the burger vans.

Goodison comes into view, then the crowds waiting for us. For me.

Bloody hell, there’s thousands of them.

The mob are waiting by the club gates, dozens deep, all of them booing as the team coach turns into the car park. Everyone onboard knows they’re here to have a pop at me, so they start pulling my leg, winding me up. Someone makes a joke about my mates waiting to say hello, but then a brick bounces off the side of the bus. Then another. I hear the horrible pop of breaking glass. Someone’s thrown a bottle. I sussed I’d be getting some stick this afternoon, but nothing has prepared me for this. As the bus door opens, I make the short walk down the steps in full view of the Everton fans. They’re seeing me in a United suit for the first time and the boos and jeers are deafening.

It’s pure anger.

The atmosphere is upsetting. Everton are the team I’ve grown up supporting and although I’m with United now, I
still want them to do well. OK, not today, but they’re the side I played for and dreamt of playing for when I was a little kid. To get abuse from people who I’ve probably stood side by side with in the stands really hurts. They’re fans of a club that’s still close to my heart.

Then I walk into the ground and everything feels strange.

It’s the same building, with the same faces and the same fittings, but the atmosphere is disorientating. I’m in the place where I grew up, the stadium where I made my name as a footballer, but it feels alien. Sitting in the away dressing room at Goodison Park doesn’t seem right.

But I’m not going to let it throw me.

I get my head straight.
Focus
. The Everton fans out there haven’t intimidated me, they’ve made me even more desperate to win. I want to score. I want to show them what I’m really capable of.
I want to shut them up
. There are some footballers I know who would happily take a draw when they play their former clubs, but I’m not like that. Today, I want to win so badly.

When I line up in the tunnel during the minutes before the game, I can tell that the home supporters are really up for it today. I hear the theme from
Z-Cars
, the club’s anthem, as the two teams move towards the pitch. When I walk out of the tunnel into the sunlight and see the Gwladys Street End, the boos are deafening. All of them are aimed at me and the hairs on the back of my neck start to tingle. Now I’m really wound up. Any thoughts of being an Everton fan disappear on the spot.

I have to score today.

When the whistle goes for the kick-off, the expected happens: my first touch is greeted with thousands and thousands of boos. As is the next one. And the next. And the next. I hold my temper and we hold our own for the first 45 minutes, but the second half turns into a ’mare for all of us. Everton are pumped up with that cup final feeling, they fight all over the pitch. Duncan Ferguson, my hero as a school kid, scores in the 55th minute. Gary Nev boots a ball into the fans and gets a straight red, then in injury time Scholesy gets sent off after a second yellow.

When I walk off the park at full-time with the game lost, the laughter and the cheering from the Everton fans sound louder than boos.

It’s the worst part of the day.

*****

Some goals feel more important than others. Scoring the fourth in a 4–1 win is nice, but not special. Scoring a consolation goal in a 3–1 defeat means nothing. Hat-tricks are always amazing.

Scoring an absolute screamer is even better, probably because it all happens in a split second, so it’s always surprising.

In April, I hit a blinder against Newcastle at home. A volley from about 25 yards that leaves my boot and rifles over Shay Given in the Newcastle goal. The funny thing is, as it happens, I’m arguing with the ref. We’ve just won a free-kick and Alan Shearer has booted the ball away. I’m
trying to get him booked. I’m even more moody because we’re losing 1–0 after a Darren Ambrose goal and I’ve picked up a dead leg. The Manager wants to bring me off.

As play restarts, the ball is played upfield. I follow it, still chewing the ref’s ear off, but I stop short of the box. The ball gets headed out from the Newcastle defence and drops right in front of me at the perfect height. Out of anger, I smack it as hard as I can and it flies right into the top corner like a rocket. Old Trafford goes mental.

Dead leg? What dead leg?

Every day at work begins with the same drive into Carrington, past the autograph hunters waiting at the gates with their shirts, posters and old matchday programmes. I pull into the car park with the Beemers and the Mercs. The Manager’s Audi is here – he’s in work hours before anyone else at the club and he’s probably the last to leave at night. It doesn’t matter what time I turn up or what time I leave, The Manager’s car is always parked in the same spot.

I walk through the club reception with its fancy model of Old Trafford in the foyer and down a brightly lit corridor. Along the way I pass the photos on the wall: the famous Busby Babes; Giggsy and Ronaldo celebrating a goal; The Manager looking scary in a smart suit.

Down the corridor, through more doors into the dressing room. I can hear some of the lads in there already, laughing. Gary Neville, Darren Fletcher, Rio, Wes Brown.

‘Alright, Wazza?’

I say hello and get my kit ready. The United squad meet here before every training session. You can tell because it looks like a kid’s bedroom. There’s rubbish on the floor – Ribena cartons, cycling magazines and the cardboard packaging from a new pair of shinpads – alongside trainers, flip flops, towels. On the wall there’s a TV screen. It tells the players when they’re due to have a pedicure or massage; the lunch menu is always up there. Somebody’s stuck a toy monkey on one of the shelves. There’s an iPod dock so we can play tunes.

My locker’s in the corner. On the door, someone’s cheekily stuck an old magazine cutting of me and Coleen from a couple of years ago. Sometimes when I’m sitting in here, getting changed, I can’t believe my luck.

I’m a professional footballer
.

It’s great playing football every day for a living. Sometimes I hear of players who don’t like training, but I love it. I mean, what’s not to like? The rules are pretty simple: be in for 9.30; anyone who’s late gets fined. Once we’re in work, do what The Manager says. It’s a doddle.

Today we go through the usual routine. We get ready and the lads have a laugh and mess around. Then we take our first warm-up session: a gentle, 20-minute cycle on the exercise bikes.

We get our footy boots and go outside.

We play keep ball in a box marked on the training ground and eight of us flick the ball around while two players in the middle try to pinch it back. This drill gets us used to the ball. Afterwards we do short, sharp sprints between a set of cones to get our lungs and legs going.

Then it’s the part of the day I love most: the practice game.

I never know what type of game we’re going to be doing from day to day. Sometimes we work on possession, other times we work on tactics. Today we look at how we’re going to break down the opposition in our next match: Charlton Athletic. While this goes on, The Manager stands on the sidelines, watching us play. He tells us to increase the tempo if we need to. He tells us to get the ball into the box quicker. He changes us positionally.

In the practice match, everyone wants to win, even a game like this eight-a-side today. The tackles fly in, thick and fast.

Wes Brown comes in late on me, his foot well over the ball. He cracks me on the ankle. I’m in the area, but the ref, our fitness coach, doesn’t give anything. My team start moaning, I’m livid. Moments later, in the same spot, Wes catches me again. It’s high. His studs are showing and it’s a blatant foul, but still there’s no sign of us getting a penalty. Then he runs up the other end and scores.

The Manager watches from the sidelines. All of a sudden he stops the game.

‘Lads, calm down! Watch the tackles. I don’t want anyone getting injured.’

The next time I run into the penalty area, I feel a slight touch and decide to dive (we all do in training).

That’s got to be a pen!

Nothing’s given.

Now I’m furious.

I start shouting at the ref because I want to win this game as much as I want to win a Premier League game against City or Chelsea, or Aston Villa. There’s an argument, like there is nearly every day in training, but it’s par for the course. The battling atmosphere, that edge, comes from The Manager – he wants us to train like we’re playing for real.

The ref blows his whistle.

Game over.

I’m furious because we’ve lost, but I carry on shooting, firing balls towards a goal for ten minutes. It’s all part of the routine: I’m getting ready for any opportunity that might come my way at the weekend.

I hit volleys.

I hit shots from outside the box.

I hit shots where I have to control a ball passed into my chest.

I hit penalties, free-kicks.

Then one of our coaches makes me stand with my back turned away from the ball. He rolls a pass across the box in a random direction and then calls out to me. I turn, react, and shoot as quickly as I can. It gets me ready for those loose balls in the 18-yard area – I want to be prepared for anything.

I’m not the only one. When I look around the training ground afterwards, I see different players working on
different drills. Rio on headers, our keeper Tim Howard on crosses, Giggsy on free-kicks.

We can all improve in one way or another, even at United.

*****

People always go on about the art of goalscoring and whether it comes down to natural ability or training, but to be honest, I reckon goals come from a combination of both. Some of it can be coached, but you can’t teach instinct. You’ve either got it or you haven’t.

I guess I’ve got it. I’ve always had it. When I was a kid I was alert to any stray ball in the box. When I’m upfront for United now, I’m always on my toes. I’m alive to every chance. I’m always trying to guess where the ball is going in the next split second so I can be ready for it. I’m looking, anticipating, gambling on free balls and defensive mistakes, but this is natural ability. Guessing where to move (and then scoring when I’m one-on-one with the goalie) is a knack that some players have, some don’t. And that instinct can be the difference between scoring five goals a season and scoring 25, at any level.

Whenever I play for United, I have to react differently to whatever’s happening around me. If I see one of our wingers – Ronaldo or Giggsy, say – shooting from one side of the area, a gut feeling tells me to leg it to the back post. I know that the ball could get dragged wide and I might have a tap-in. If I see Scholesy or Alan Smith shooting, I always
follow the ball in for the rebound. It might come my way, it might not. Even if it only falls my way once every 20 efforts, that could be enough to grab two or three extra goals a season.

It’s not just about guessing the flight of a shot or pass either, it’s about reading body shape. Before a ball is played from the wings or in midfield, I look to see what type of position my teammate is in as he passes. From his movement, I can roughly judge where he’s looking to pass the ball, then I’ll run to that space.

If I’m lucky, if I’ve judged everything right, I’ll be running in on goal. That’s when I have to be ready for the next bit: my control, my movement, and my shot. That’s where training comes in.

By working on my technique constantly, I’ve developed muscle memory. I know instinctively what to do when a pass comes my way. If a ball comes to my chest on the penalty spot, I know without thinking how to bring it down, set myself and shoot, because I’ve trained my mind. I’m not the only one. All the best goalscorers in the world do it, too.