Wayne Rooney: My Decade in the Premier League (8 page)

I practise it all: long shots, volleys, half-volleys, free-kicks. My movement in the box has already improved dramatically over the years through experience, plus I’m really helped by some great crossing from my teammates, like Giggsy and Ronaldo – but only when he releases the ball as quickly as he can. Don’t get me wrong, Ronnie is turning into a great footballer, but when we play together, I never really know what he’s going to do next.

He picks up the ball wide. I make a run.

He cuts inside. I check, make another run.

He chops back. I check again, get into an onside position.

He drills a shot in and I stand there, frustrated. It can get a bit much sometimes.

*****

We finish just after midday. At the end of each session, we warm down, relax. Some people jump into ice baths, others get into the swimming pool. Then there’s the gym. It looks a bit like an old-school leisure centre: mats, weights, bikes, one of those green drapes that divides the two halves of a sports hall. Ryan Giggs sometimes does yoga in here after training. I tried it once or twice but it’s not really my thing, it’s too boring. For 45 minutes an instructor got me to stretch and hold my positions. When I ask Giggsy about why he does it, especially when it’s so boring, he tells me that it’s strengthened his muscles.

‘I reckon it prolongs a player’s career by increasing their flexibility,’ he says.

Maybe in a couple of years I might get into it more. Right now, I don’t feel like I need it.

Sometimes in training I’ll work out in the gym, but only if I’m injured and can’t play in the practice games or run properly. If we have a free week – that’s a game on Saturday and then the following Saturday with no fixtures in-between – we’ll go in as a team to work on the weights. Some players
have set programmes, others do their own thing. I’ll go in there occasionally, but really, if there isn’t a ball around, I’m not that interested.

I just want to play football.

*****

Team spirit isn’t the same as friendship. Players don’t have to be great mates to be great teammates. I speak to a few lads outside of training like Rio; I play a bit of golf with some of the boys, but we don’t do any more than that. They’re my teammates, I see them enough during the day. It’s like any profession; I have pals at work just like everyone else, it doesn’t mean I have to knock about with them all the time.

That’s not to say it isn’t fun, though. I love going to work. The dressing room can be a right giggle. Someone’s always messing around, everyone’s laughing, and I buzz off stitching up some of the other lads, often with the help of Darren Fletcher. Fletch is always up for a laugh.

Today it’s the turn of Quinton Fortune, our South African midfielder, to get it. We superglue his brand-new trainers to the dressing-room floor because Rio has got us going this morning. He’s always stirring the lads up, willing us to play practical jokes on one another. More often than not it works. Once we’ve finished with Quinton he tells me that Wes Brown has been moaning.

‘You should watch out because he wants to get you back for some of the pranks you’ve played on him,’ he says.

I fall for it.

‘Fletch, we should get Wes first, before he can get us,’ I say.

I notice that Wes has also come into Carrington today with a flashy pair of trainers. As he showers, Fletch and I carve them apart with a knife borrowed from the team canteen, carefully arranging the sliced leather together and leaving the shoes by his locker so he won’t notice the damage as he gets dried.

He pulls on his clothes and can’t work out why the team are rolling about laughing. When he picks up the trainers they fall apart at the heel and the dressing room cracks up. Rio’s laughing harder than everyone else because he’s kickstarted the whole thing.

Not everyone’s happy with the joking around. Wes is moaning about his slashed trainers; Quinton’s trying to pull his shoes off the floor. Some of the fitness coaches start complaining that we’re not professional enough in the dressing room. Then one of the kit men complains that we’re always on our phones, he says they should be banned.

‘But I see you in your office on the phone,’ I say. ‘What’s the difference?’

He shuffles around, picking up the dirty training kit. He carries on moaning about the mess. Though this time he does it under his breath.

*****

Gary Neville, Giggsy, Scholesy, all of the United players have the same routine as me at work.

In at 9.30.

Warm up.

Train.

Warm down.

After lunch, work is done for the day, but not for everyone. At half-twelve I’ll walk down the corridor, past the laundry room, through reception and its fancy model of Old Trafford. I drive away from the club car-park gates where more autograph hunters are hanging around.

In the rearview mirror, I can still see The Manager’s Audi.

We’re just not good enough to win the title; we can’t seem to settle the team and push ahead of Arsenal and José Mourinho’s Chelsea, who go on to win the league. Eighteen points separate them from us.

I’m gutted. I know the club had bought in myself and Ronnie for the long haul and that The Manager is always talking about how this has been a season of transition, but
it’s no consolation for me. I’ve come here to win league titles and trophies. Coming third is not good enough.

Still, Chelsea have looked like title winners all season; they’re organised and consistent. They have Didier Drogba upfront who’s strong and powerful; Arjen Robben works on one wing, Damien Duff the other. Frank Lampard orchestrates play from the middle of the park. They’re also tough defensively and difficult to break down because of John Terry and Ricardo Carvalho. JT is a brilliant defender, a real leader. The Portuguese lad is hard to play against too. He’s quick, he reads the game well; he’s tough, he tackles hard. Chelsea deserve the title.

Our only chance of silverware comes in the FA Cup final where we face Arsenal, having beaten Exeter City, Boro’, Everton, Southampton and Newcastle in the earlier rounds. I’m buzzing to be playing in an FA Cup final. I used to love watching it as a kid when I’d spend all day in front of the telly, getting dead excited as the teams got on the coaches and made their journey to the ground. I’d watch the interviews with the players and the squad as they walked around the pitch in their suits before the game. It felt like a real occasion. When I used to play footy in the park with mates we’d always talk about scoring a goal at Wembley, the pressure of The Big Day and what it would be like to take a penalty and win an FA Cup final for Everton.

Now it’s happening for real.

From the opening minute we batter Arsenal. Rio has a goal disallowed for offside; Lehmann makes save after save to keep them in it. Myself, Roy Keane and Ronaldo all have
chances to score, but we can’t put the ball away. I hit the post; Ruud has a handful of opportunities, but he can’t finish them off. Somehow, Arsenal make it to extra-time.

They’re fortunate to have got this far and they know it, but I reckon their good fortune might give them a bit of extra momentum. A shot of inner belief. Sometimes I can tell when a game isn’t going to go my way and today seems like one of those days.

Just keep going, Wayne. Hope for a lucky break.

The lucky break never comes.

Arsenal cling on through extra-time. Then it goes to pens even though we’ve been hammering them for 120 minutes. They can’t believe it. They still have a chance of winning the cup. I can’t believe it. I know it shouldn’t have gone to pens in this game, not after the way we’ve played.

The Manager puts me down to take one.

‘You’re number four, Wayne,’ he says.

No problem.

I know the penalty kick is a mental battle. Me against the goalkeeper. One on one.

A lot of the time I win.

I practise penalties every day in training. In the dressing room before a match I decide where I’m going to put the ball should we win one later in the game. Before every kick-off, I know exactly how I’m going to take the pen and how hard I’m going to hit it. If ever I have to take one in a match, I just step up and put the ball there. I never change my mind because a split second of indecision or hesitation can mess the whole thing up.

Taking the kick is a lonely moment, though. When I’m placing the ball down, I shut everything out – the crowd, the opposition, the keeper waving his arms. I think:
I’m 12 yards from goal, if I was running through in open play this would be easy
. It boosts my confidence. I fancy myself to score every time.

I look down. I can only hear a roar of noise – their fans whistling and jeering; our fans wishing the ball in – but it’s just a buzz. The crowd doesn’t even register in my head. They don’t bother me at all.

All I have to do is make a good connection with my laces.

I look at the ball.

I look straight at the keeper.

I look at the ref.

Once I hear the whistle, I go, head down and make as sweet a strike as I can.

Goal!

Some players feel relieved to have scored a penalty. They figure the pressure’s on them, not the goalie. I’m different. I figure it’s another chance for me to put one away and I enjoy them as much as a 25-yard rocket into the top corner against Newcastle.

It’s different in a penalty shootout, though. Then it’s sudden death. Then it’s more tense. One mistake can knock United out of a tournament, or decide an FA Cup final like this one. The walk from the centre circle to the penalty spot feels like the longest in football. I can imagine it gets to some players.

Not me. I know when it comes to my kick, I’m going to put the ball down and do the business, like with any penalty.

Not everyone’s the same.

Ruud scores our first kick; Lauren scores for them.

Paul Scholes misses our second. We all feel sick when it happens, but at United we put missed pens down as being an occupational hazard. It’s just one of those things.

Arsenal score again, Freddie Ljungberg.

Ronaldo puts his away. Van Persie scores for Arsenal.

I know that if I miss Number Four then they’ll have a great chance of winning. I’m not thinking about that though. I’m so focused on hitting the ball sweetly as I reach the penalty area that the nerves fade away.

A look at the ball.

A look at the ref.

A look at the keeper.

Whistle, head down …

Goal!

Not that it matters. We later lose the shootout 5–4; Scholesy’s miss is enough for Arsenal to take the trophy. I get Man of the Match, but I’d swap it for a winner’s medal because personal accolades mean little to me. Goals in penalty shootouts mean nothing to me. I’ve not worked all season to be a runner-up or to come third in the league. I certainly didn’t dream about collecting a loser’s medal when I was a kid, playing in the park with my mates.

Football’s all about winning trophies, always has been, always will be.

*****

In the week I ring a pal from Crocky, one of the lads I used to play football with in the park.

‘Remember we used to talk about what it would be like to score a penalty in the FA Cup final?’ I say. ‘Well, it’s a great feeling. Unless you lose the shootout. And then it’s really horrible.’