Wayne Rooney: My Decade in the Premier League (12 page)

It’s May. I’m walking down the steps of AC Milan’s cavernous San Siro stadium, a route that leads the United team from our dressing room and onto the pitch. It’s the second leg of the Champions League semi-final and we’re one game away from the biggest match in club football.

Once I’m in the warm, spring air, 80,000 AC Milan fans scream and shout at me; they whistle and jeer. The noise seems so loud that I reckon it could snap me in half if I allowed it to weigh me down mentally. The atmosphere is heavy, pressurised. High up in the stands – in the seats that seem a million miles away – banners are being unfolded. Firecrackers and flares fill the air with smoke. The supporters in the stadium seem to hang right over the players.

Surely that lot are going to cave in on us at any minute?

I start juggling a ball on the pitch, like you do, stretching, warming up with the rest of the lads, when all of a sudden a series of explosions go off, like hundreds of old cars backfiring at the same time.

Bang! Bang! Crash!

What the hell is that?

The deafening handclaps from Queen’s ‘We Will Rock You’ echo around the ground and a huge roar explodes from the crowd. Then I see Gennaro Gattuso, Milan’s midfielder, the bloke they call ‘The Growl’ because he always snaps at his opponent’s heels like an angry Rottweiler. He’s sprinting out of the tunnel, wild-eyed, long-haired. He races across the field, past our players who are staring at him like it’s the craziest thing they’ve ever seen. The Milan fans go berserk; the stadium is rocking. Then, one by one, Gattuso’s teammates casually amble out onto the pitch to mild applause and pick up their warm-up bibs. They’ve probably seen this stunt a million times before, but it’s enough to get me thinking:
This is mad. There’s nothing quite like the Champions League
.

I’ve been in this situation several times now, playing massive European teams in amazing stadiums. Competing on the continent can definitely be a bit weird. Gattuso’s sprint across the grass isn’t the half of it, though. I remember when the team went to Roma in April. The walk from the pitch to the dressing room was so long that by the time we got there at half-time, The Manager only had a few moments to give his team talk. Then we had to walk all the way back to play again.

The most intimidating atmosphere I’ve ever been in was at Be
ş
ikta
ş
in Turkey (where we play a couple of years later). The crowd were incredible. The fans turned their backs to the pitch and started jumping up and down together. When I came off in the second half after being subbed, one of their supporters gobbed in my face and some stuff – rubbish, probably – was luzzed in my direction. It took all my mental strength not to react and punch the fella who did it. I know he wouldn’t have done it to me if he was passing me in the street, but in a big crowd he figured he could get away with it. He could hide. I sat in the dugout afterwards and threw my boots to the ground. It was all I could do to get the anger out of my system.

The crowds sound different in Europe, too. In Premier League stadiums the fans sing and shout loads, which really gives the players a lift and creates an amazing atmosphere. In Spain and Italy, they whistle and jeer. In Germany, whenever a sub comes on, the announcer shouts the first name of the player and the crowd shouts his surname in a deep roar. It sounds really intimidating.

When I’m in grounds like the San Siro today or the BJK Ìnönü Stadium – Bes¸iktas¸’s ground in Istanbul – I’m never sure what’s going to happen with the crowd. Sometimes it’s great, sometimes it can be quite unsettling. In Roma’s Stadio Olimpico, trouble kicked off between the fans. It didn’t really affect the players, but we knew something was happening because we could see all the riot police in the stands with their shields and helmets. At times like that I
just have to focus on the game and get on with my football.
Shut out the madness
.

*****

I love playing in the Champions League because it’s an entirely different game to playing in the Premier League. It’s a lot harder for starters and I know I have to take my chances. With all due respect, if we’re playing the likes of Norwich or Southampton in the league, I can miss one or two crosses because a couple more will probably come my way later on in the game. In Europe, I know I’m only likely to get a few scoring opportunities – if I’m lucky – because the standard of football is so high. I have to make sure I take those chances when they come along.

The refs are generally good in Europe, too. They talk to the players, more than they do in the Premier League. In England, the FA ask footballers to respect the officials more, but the refs won’t speak to us when we’re on the pitch. They won’t communicate. They need to give respect too. It’s the same for the fans: the refs should come out and explain their decisions after a game; they should admit to the mistakes they’ve made. I know I’ve scored some goals myself where I’ve been offside, ahead of my marker, right in front of the linesman, but he hasn’t flagged; United have conceded goals that were miles offside. How hard would it have been for that official to have apologised afterwards? If he goes into a post-match interview and says, ‘From where I was standing he looked onside. I’m sorry, I got it wrong,’ I’d
think, ‘Fair enough, at least he’s admitted he’s made a mistake.’

The sad thing is, they never do.

Refs are like players, though, they have bad games. And any footballer can see when it’s happening. They book us for diving when we’ve been fouled, they give silly penalty decisions. I think any fan can understand the frustrations of a player when they’ve been hacked down only to be booked for simulation afterwards. And the most annoying rule we have to work with is the appeal system. If I’ve been booked for diving, even though TV replays show it’s a foul, I can’t overturn the yellow card afterwards.

I understand it’s a difficult job for the refs, though, and I personally wouldn’t mind video evidence in the game. It works in rugby, so why not in football? When there’s been an important incident in the area – a penalty decision, or the ball bouncing down off the bar and onto the goal line – everyone spends a minute or two arguing with the officials anyway. That time could be better spent looking at a TV replay. It would only take a few seconds.

The refs in the Champions League understand that the game isn’t about them. They understand the players more. And I know they’re the best refs in the game because I’ve never really noticed them when I’ve been playing.

*****

To get to the Champions League semi-final against Milan, we play some blinding football, including an 8–3 aggregate win
over Roma in the quarter-finals. We lose the first leg 2–1 at their place and the Italians, foolishly, think that the game is won. A few of their players start giving it, making out to the press that they’re going to hammer us at Old Trafford.

You lot don’t know Old Trafford
.

On the night we’re pumped up, confident. Michael Carrick scores after 11 minutes.

Alan Smith gets one a few minutes later.

I score straight afterwards.

Ronaldo, 44 minutes.

It’s a shooting gallery; Roma are shell shocked.

Not so cocky now
.

At one point, just before half-time, I have to look to the scoreboard to remind myself of how far ahead we are. We’ve scored that many goals.

After 90 minutes we run out 7–1 winners.

Time to face Milan in the semis
.

I feel confident we can turn the Italians over because a lot of teams are struggling to live with our pace and fitness. I also know now that playing Champions League football can be tactically challenging, like a game of chess, and The Manager always likes to have a game plan. This usually means he wants us to score an away goal and not concede at home, and he tells us the match against Milan will be no different. In the Premier League it’s more straightforward, we go out to win every game, but that’s not the case in Europe when sometimes a 1–1 draw or a 2–1 defeat on our travels is a good result because we’ve scored an away goal. The key is to stick to the game plan as best we can.

At Old Trafford in the first leg against Milan, the game plan goes out of the window. We score early through Ronnie, but then their Brazilian striker, Kaka, scores twice before the break. As we walk in at half-time, I know we’re in trouble.

Milan have got two away goals, this is going to be an uphill slog
.

The Manager doesn’t seem too upset.

‘There’s a long way to go lads,’ he says. ‘Keep working.’

Playing against AC Milan is mad. I grew up watching Italian games on Channel 4 as a kid, and I loved it. Every Sunday afternoon, after playing football in the morning, I’d settle down to watch the likes of Alen Boksic, Fabrizio Ravanelli, Edgar Davids and Zinedine Zidane. It was brilliant.

Now I’m playing against Paolo Maldini and Alessandro Nesta, legends of the Italian game
.

I’m buzzing.

In the second half, we push and push and push. I score in the 59th minute. Not long afterwards, at a corner, I hear heavy breathing, panting. It’s Nesta and Maldini. They’re battered. I can see they want the game to end – our fitness and speed is killing them.
These are knackered. We can get a winner here
.

In injury time it happens. A ball comes in from Giggsy. It’s one of those rare Champions League chances so I make the most of it. I smash the pass early, 20 yards out, catching the keeper off guard. The ball pings into the back of the net.

3
–
2!

It’s only a slim lead, but in the dressing room after the final whistle, we’re confident we can take them at their place. I know if we score an away goal, we’ll rattle them, especially if it comes in the opening stages of the game. And that might be enough to get us through to the final.

How naive am I?

Milan score early in the return and kill the tie. Then they blow us away. Kaka is unplayable; in Dutch midfielder Clarence Seedorf – all killer passes and strong tackles – they have trophy-winning experience in bundles. Gattuso defends tightly, doing a job on Ronaldo, stopping him from racing down the wing, closing him out for the entire game.
We just can’t break them down
.

We get done, 3–0; 5–3 on aggregate.

Milan are a class apart.

*****

I’ve never known anyone to be so focused on success as The Manager, and he wants the whole squad to think like him. We’ve won the 2006/07 league title with a few games to spare, but when we lose our final game of the season, 1–0, at home to West Ham, he’s furious. He gets us into the dressing room at full-time and lays into us, just because we’ve blown a meaningless match.

Hang on, we’re about to be presented with the Premier League trophy. Most sides would be celebrating in the dressing room, getting ready for the champagne and the photos!

Not us. We’re staring at the floor like school kids, The Manager giving us The Hairdryer.

As I sit there, my ears burning, I’m reminded of Gary Nev’s advice about us never being allowed to think that ‘we’ve made it’. He’s right, but it doesn’t make me feel any better. The Manager shouts the dressing room down. After the rollicking it takes a while before everyone cheers up enough to put their Premier League-winning smiles back on. We’re too busy thinking about how important it is to win the next trophy.

*****

Our FA Cup run, 2006/07:

The FA Cup final between United and Chelsea is held at the new Wembley and it’s a big deal. Playing in Cardiff was great, but being in a final at the new Wembley is something special – there’s a real sense of occasion to it. I remember the last time I went to the old Wembley as a kid in 1995. I watched Everton beat Blackburn Rovers in the Charity Shield. Before that, I’d watched them win the FA Cup in the same year when they beat Man United, 1–0.

To be playing here is a real buzz
.

The Manager is buzzing too. He has a respect for José Mourinho. The Chelsea boss is arrogant, he’s got personality and confidence, he’s brilliant for the league. The pair of them enjoy competing with one another in big games like this one.

There’s a problem with the Wembley pitch, though. It’s crap. It doesn’t live up to the occasion and shortly after kick-off I can tell it’s going to be a tough afternoon. Everyone seems unsteady on their feet, I can feel different forces running through the muscles in my legs and it takes extra effort to remain balanced. I’m not the only one. The turf soon takes its toll on all the players. People are slipping over, everyone’s touch become nervous, unsteady.

It’s a rubbish game from the kick-off and boring for the fans to watch, because neither team can build any momentum, and nobody looks like scoring. The Manager plays me upfront on my own and sets us up to counter-attack, but both sides seem more concerned with not losing the game rather than going all out to win it. We quickly cancel one another out.

The final moves into extra-time. Our best chance of nicking it comes when I slide a ball across to Giggsy who’s racing into the penalty area. He’s only three yards out, the goal’s on a plate, but he can’t quite get a full touch on the ball. Chelsea’s keeper Petr Cech makes the save, but the ball looks like it’s gone over the line.

Goal! It’s gone in!

We all appeal, not that the ref’s having any of it, and my mind flashes back to our last FA Cup final.

Arsenal
.