Wayne Rooney: My Decade in the Premier League (23 page)

‘Did you see Rooney’s winning goal tonight?’ he says. ‘It was brilliant.’

I laugh. I know the excitement of getting the winner is going to live with me for weeks but I don’t let on to him who I am. Instead I sit there, making passes with the game pad, a massive grin plastered across my face.

No mate, I didn’t watch the game.

‘It was great,’ he says. ‘Last-minute winner.’

Once we finish playing, I put the game on again. I watch it over and over. I’m awake for hours afterwards. Like every United fan in the country, I can’t wait to go to work tomorrow.

*****

I’ve scored 26 for the season.

It’s only February. I can still match Ronaldo’s 42 goals
. Then, in the knockout stages of the Champions League – the last 16 – against Milan in the San Siro, we win 3–2 (I score twice) and the home crowd whistle and boo every time I get the ball. Can’t blame them really. I’ve scored six in six games against Milan, and I feel like I’m in the form of my life. It gets even better when I grab the winner against Villa in the Carling Cup final at Wembley a couple of weeks later.

I start on the bench; The Manager plays Michael Owen up top. Even though I’m not on the pitch, I’m thinking about being out there, firing one past the keeper. As a sub, I’m always watching the game closely. I think it’s why I always do well when I come on if ever I’ve been rested.

I sit there at Wembley, not moody because I’ve been dropped, but looking, watching the play, taking the whole game in, dying to get on. James Milner scores an early pen for them, Michael equalises for us shortly afterwards, but rather than watching the game as a fan would, I’m working out exactly where the space is opening up on the pitch. I’m looking at which Villa players are tiring on their feet. They’re the ones I’m going to attack if I get on.

Then Michael gets injured after half an hour, and I’m ready as soon as The Manager gives me the nod to get warmed up, but even though I’m alive from the minute my number goes up on the fourth official’s board, the first few runs on the park feel like hard work. I remember Ryan Giggs telling some of the younger players in the squad – Jonny Evans, Danny Simpson – that it doesn’t matter how much
you warm up on the sidelines, you’re always knackered for that first run on the pitch. He’s right. It must be the adrenaline that does it. I’m dead fit but breathing hard as I leg it after the first through ball.

There’s a lot of running to be done because it’s a quick game and one of those matches that neutral fans love: wide open, 100 mph football where a goal could come at either end. Martin O’Neill is the Villa boss and he likes his team to soak up the pressure and attack on the break; we’re dominating possession but struggling to crack their midfield. Villa are so quick up front it’s frightening, especially with winger Ashley Young and striker Gabriel Agbonlahor. One mistake from us could lead to a goal. Our fans are edgy.

By the time the second half gets under way, I feel sharp. It’s mad, for a couple of months now, every game I play, I know I’m going to score, and this one is no different.

A chance is coming my way. And I’m going to take it when it does
.

I suppose that’s the self-belief and focus all strikers need if they’re going to score lots of goals at the top level. Sure enough, the chance I hoped for comes when Antonio Valencia breaks on the right-hand side of Villa’s box.

He lays it off to Berbatov in the penalty area. Berba backheels a return pass through the Villa defence and Valencia gets onto it fast.

He checks. I gamble, pushing onto the penalty spot. I know roughly where his pass is heading because I’ve seen this move a lot in training recently.

A seven-a-side at Carrington.

Berba collecting the ball, holding it up in the area.

Other players in training bibs moving into space.

A smart pass to a teammate
–
Nani, Valencia, Ji-Sung Park, or Ryan Giggs
–
then a ball across the box.

Pass. Move. Goal.

The attack depends on Berba. One of his strengths is bringing other players into the game, whether it’s at Carrington, Old Trafford or Wembley. His touch is fantastic; he can bring an 80-yard clearance down with his boot like it’s a pillow. Some fans reckon he’s lazy because his body language is quite relaxed, but to me he’s one of the most unselfish players I’ve ever played with. He doesn’t mind not scoring as long as United win. And he’s great at unlocking tight defences like the one Villa have today.

The mad trick here is the understanding between my teammates. Berba has the ball, so Valencia knows to leg it for the cute through pass. Once Valencia picks up his lay-off, I know I have to time my run into the box from his movement. As soon as he’s two steps away from the ball, I pull away from my marker.

Right now, the hard part is choosing exactly where to run. This is always a guess. I haven’t seen the ball leave Valencia’s toes yet, so the cross could be heading towards the near post or somewhere behind me. I’m relying on luck, but today I play it just right: I move towards the penalty spot and now the ball is coming right for me. In a split second I have to decide what to do next.

Do I turn my marker?

Should I bring the ball down and shoot, or attack with my head?

But there’s really no time to work it out. I’m in position. I’m set. The pass is on me. I see the ball, the goal, a defender’s elbow as he comes to intercept …

I’m going to get smashed.

I glance the ball up and over the keeper.

Goal!

A header!

2–1!

That’s how quickly it happens, the winning goal. It’s the one I dreamt of scoring when I woke up this morning. It’s the goal I dreamt of scoring as a kid – I’ve always fantasised about scoring the winning goal in a tight final at Wembley, but right now I’m not 100% sure how I’ve actually done it. I’m still not sure until I see the action replay on the box later that night, because it’s so instinctive.

I can practise for hours, five days a week in front of goal, hitting shot after shot, or working on heading drills. And while these routines improve my game and build muscle memory, my instincts can’t be coached. In that split second, I’m basically reacting to the target, which was the top right corner of the goal. The decision to head, shoot, bring the ball down, or turn my marker is a snap thought that happened without thinking. It’s one in probably a million decisions that I don’t even know I’m making during a game.

I’m not the only one either. No footballer at any level really has the time to analyse how they’re going to react. That’s a luxury nobody gets. Well, I don’t. James Collins, the
Villa centre-half who marked the space on the penalty spot at Wembley moments earlier, didn’t get it either. In height, Collins has inches on me. He’s also built like a tree. I just got there first. I reacted quicker. And that’s the difference between winning and losing, success and failure.

Playing footy in the Premier League is like having an addiction – it’s taken over my life. It’s the first thing I think about when I wake up in the morning, it’s the last thing I think about before falling asleep at night. I even fantasise about it: I always daydream about winning big for Manchester United. It’s what inspires me because playing for United is a huge high. The size of the club and the expectations of the fans mean that everything is magnified. The crowds are big, the expectations are big, and the goals give me a massive buzz.

Most of the time, kicking a footy around is all that I want to do. Whenever I wander around our house, walking from room to room, I’ve got one at my feet. Whenever I’m talking on the phone, I’m sitting back in my chair, doing small keepy-ups on my toes. And like any obsession, when I can’t
play, I get down. I get fed up. I remember one of the lads comparing playing football to alcohol one day. ‘Playing for me is like beer is for most people,’ he said. ‘What’s somebody going to be like if they can’t have a beer for eight months? They’re not going to be able to wait until they get to the pub for the first time and have a beer. And that beer’s going to taste great.’

I can see what he means. I’m a footy obsessive: when I can’t play with the ball, I hate it. It’s so bad that whenever I get injured in a game, like I do against Bayern Munich in the 2009/10 Champions League quarter-final, the first thing I think about is the next fixture and whether I’m going to be fit enough to play.

When I’m laying face down in the turf at Bayern’s Allianz Arena, one hand clutching my busted foot, the other waving to the bench for help, the season’s fixtures race through my mind.

Will I be fit for the Chelsea game on Saturday?
Ninety minutes are on the clock, the game is in the balance at 1–1. I’m in agony, but I can’t help myself.

Is the season over?

Then it gets worse: as I lay there, Bayern score a winner. I can tell because of the deep, moody roar that rocks around the stadium like it does whenever a big German team gets a goal. I’d given us the lead after 64 seconds to go one-up; now we’re 2–1 down. A good result turned bad.

Will I be OK?

Rob, the United physio rushes over. The final whistle goes. He checks my foot, squeezing the boot, feeling the
ankle, checking for breaks. It kills so badly that I can’t talk and I’m gutted because it was such a cheap injury to get. I was legging it back, chasing the ball when Bayern’s striker, Mario Gomez, cut across me. I’d already picked up a yellow card so I checked my run, knowing any contact would send him flying. The ref would have given me a second card for sure, and that would have meant a suspension. It’s funny what you can instinctively remember in a split-second, a heat of the moment challenge like that. Don’t believe any player who reckons he’s forgotten that he’s on a yellow when he’s playing footy. It’s always on his mind.

The annoying thing is, if I’d tackled him, I wouldn’t have got hurt. Instead, I jumped out of the way. My left foot landed and Gomez accidentally stood on it. His studs hit my toes. When my right foot landed, the ankle rolled over and my boot slipped awkwardly underneath, sending a shot through my foot.

I know it’s bad from the second I trip because the pain is so severe. My ankle is in proper agony.

Rob helps me off the pitch.

‘How long will I be out for?’

He thinks it might be ruptured ligaments.

‘Can I play at the weekend?’

He pulls a face. ‘Maybe four to six weeks out.’

I can’t get my head around it. ‘You’re kidding?’

I’m gutted. It’s the obsession. A month to six weeks means no Bayern Munich at home in the Champions League, no Chelsea, no Blackburn, no City, no Spurs, no Sunderland and no Stoke City in the league. Season over.

The final whistle goes. I can’t face going off on a stretcher with everyone looking down on me from the stands, so Rob and the club kit man, Albert, help me from the pitch. I’ve got an arm around them both as I hobble off. Giggsy and the other lads gather round as we struggle down a flight of stairs that takes us away from the pitch. We’re jostling with Bayern players, UEFA officials, cameramen and people in Champions League bibs in the cramped tunnel. Then we have to get up another flight of stairs to the dressing room. This isn’t easy.

When I finally sit down, Rob puts my ankle in ice. I’m dead angry, I can’t talk. All I can think about are the games I’m not going to be playing in, the training I’m going to miss.

The Manager asks me how I am.

‘My foot’s hanging off,’ I tell him.

‘Don’t worry, it’s going to be OK, Wayne,’ he says.

But I’m not so sure it will be. Rob and the club doctor want to get me to the nearest hospital so I can get my ankle scanned, but they’ve been given more bad news: I’ve been selected for a random drugs test and there’s no getting out of it, busted foot or no busted foot. The only way UEFA are going to let me off is if my injury is really dangerous – like a broken leg – or if I’m out cold.

‘You’ve got to do it Wazza,’ says Rob.

After 10 minutes of ice, he gently slides my foot into a protective boot. He hands me some crutches and takes me to the testing room. I want to get my foot scanned in the hospital; everyone wants to get my foot scanned, but instead I have to sit here with Patrice, two Bayern players and a
couple of blokes from UEFA while we all wait to pee into some plastic containers.

It’s always weird getting a drugs test and this is no different. First of all, I’m sitting in a room with two players from the opposition, which feels odd. Sometimes I know the lads who are there, other times I don’t. Today, the two Bayern players are subs and I don’t know who they are. We let on to them, they let on to us, but nobody really says anything. I sit in silence, wondering how long it’ll be before I can pee. Probably ages. I’ve been playing football for 90 minutes. I’m completely dehydrated. It’s the least of my worries though.

My season might be over.

We have drug tests all the time at United and they’re never fun. Usually we get selected for testing by a lottery, though I remember a couple of days before the last game against City a team of FA testers came down to take samples from the England lads. Me, Rio, Michael Carrick – we all had to go.