Wayne Rooney: My Decade in the Premier League. Wayne Rooney

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СКАЧАТЬ of 2010, when he announced that he wanted to up sticks and leave Old Trafford.

      I was shocked, and not a little disappointed, but it didn’t take long to set him straight on that little matter and soon enough he was putting pen to paper on an extended contract.

      I’m not about to say what was said between us during our discussions at that time, but I knew from the start that his heart was still with Manchester United and that all wasn’t lost as we set about showing him the error of his thinking. Wayne Rooney has it within his grasp to carve for himself a very special place in the history of Manchester United.

      He has already started overtaking long-standing club records, and with age on his side there are no limits to what he can achieve before the time comes for him to call it a day.

      I’d like to think I’ve made one or two good decisions during my time in football – and a few I’d rather forget! – but there is no question that the signing of Wayne Rooney from Everton is right up there with the best of them.

      

      Bang!

       Everything goes dead mad, dead quick.

      Then that feeling kicks in – an unbelievable feeling of satisfaction that I get from scoring a goal in the Premier League. Like the sensation I get whenever I’ve smashed a golf ball flush off the face of the club and watched it trickle onto the green.

      It’s a high – a mad rush of power.

      It’s a wave of emotion – but it takes me over like nothing else.

      This feeling of putting one away for Manchester United is huge, selfish, nuts. I reckon if I could bottle the buzz, I’d be able to make the best energy drink ever.

      A heartbeat later and I’m at normal speed again, I’m coming round.

      Everything’s in focus: the sound, a roar loud enough to hurt my ears, like a plane taking off; the aching in my legs, the sweat running down my neck, the mud on my kit. There’s more and more noise; it’s so big, it’s right on top of me. Someone’s grabbing at my shirt, my heart’s banging out of my chest. The crowd are singing my name:

      ‘Rooney!’

      ‘Rooney!’

      ‘Rooooo-neeee!’

      And there’s no better feeling in the world.

      Then I look up and see the scoreboard.

       12 FEBRUARY 2011

      United 2 City 1

      GOAL!

      Rooney, 77 minutes

      Who I am and what I’ve done comes back to me in a rush, a hit, like a boxer coming round after a sniff of smelling salts. I’m Wayne Rooney. I’ve played Premier League football since 2002 and I’ve just scored the winning goal in a Manchester derby – probably the most important game of the season to fans from the red half of town. A goal that puts our noisy neighbours, the other lot, in their place. A goal that reminds them that United have more history and more success than they do right now. A goal that warns the rest of the country that we’re on our way to winning another Premier League title.

       The best goal of my career.

      As I stand with my arms spread wide, head back, I can feel the hate coming from the City fans in the stand behind me, it’s like static electricity. The abuse, the screaming and swearing, is bouncing off me. They’re sticking their fingers up at me, red-faced. They’ve all got a cob on, but I don’t give a toss. I know how much they hate me, how angry they are; I can understand where they’re coming from though, because I go through the same emotions whenever I lose at anything.

      This time, they’re wound up and I’m not.

      I know it doesn’t get any better than this.

      I’ve bagged hundreds of goals during my time in the Premier League with United and Everton; goals in league games, cup games, cup finals, meaningless friendlies, practice games in training. But this one is extra special. As I jog back to the centre circle, still tingling, I go into rewind. It’s ridiculous, I know, but I’m worried I might never feel this way again. I want to remember what’s just happened, to relive the moment over and over because it feels so good.

      We were under pressure, I know that, the game level at 1–1, really tight. In the seconds before the goal, I try to lay a return pass back to my strike partner, Dimitar Berbatov – a ringer for Andy Garcia in The Godfather Part III; dangerous like Andy Garcia in The Godfather Part III – but my touch is heavy. I overhit it. My heart jumps into my mouth.

       City can break from here.

      Luckily, Paul Scholes – ginger lad, low centre of gravity, the fella we call SatNav because his passes seem almost computer controlled, probably the best midfielder ever to play in the Premier League – scoops up the loose ball and plays it out to our winger, Nani, on the edge of the box. He takes a couple of touches, guiding the ball with his toes, gliding over the grass more like a dancer off Strictly Come Dancing than a footy player, and curls a pass over the top of the City defence towards me, his cross deflecting off a defender, taking some speed off it.

      I see a space opening up in the penalty area. City’s two man-mountain centre-halves, Joleon Lescott and Vincent Kompany, move and get ready for the incoming pass. I run into a few yards of space, guessing where the ball will land. My senses are all over the place.

      It’s hard to explain to someone who’s never played the game or felt the pressure of performing in front of a big crowd before, but playing football at Old Trafford is like running around in a bubble. It’s really intense, claustrophobic.

      I can smell the grass, I can hear the crowd, but I can’t make out what’s being sung. Everything’s muffled, like when I’m underwater in the swimming baths: I can hear the shouting and splashing from everyone around me in the pool, but nothing’s clear, I can’t pick out any one voice. I can’t really hear what people are yelling.

      It’s the same on the pitch. I can hear certain sounds when the game slows down for a moment or two, like when I’m taking a corner or free-kick and there’s a strange rumble of 20,000 spring-loaded seats thwacking back in a section of the ground behind me as I stand over the ball, everyone on their feet, craning their necks to watch. But it’s never long before the muffled noise comes over again. Then I’m back underwater. Back in the bubble.

       The ball’s coming my way.

      The deflection has changed the shape of Nani’s pass, sending it higher than I thought, which buys me an extra second to shift into position and re-adjust my balance, to think: I’m having a go at this. My legs are knackered, but I use all the strength I have to spring from the back of my heels, swinging my right leg over my left shoulder in mid-air to bang the cross with an overhead kick, an acrobatic volley. It’s an all or nothing hit that I know will make me look really stupid if I spoon it.

      But I don’t.

      I СКАЧАТЬ