Wayne Rooney: My Decade in the Premier League (11 page)

*****

After the Fulham game, the first of 2006/07, I’m probably the most confident I’ve ever been in a football team because on paper United seem strong enough to tear any side apart. It’s clear that with Ruud gone, The Manager wants us work on a style of football that will blow everyone away. He sets up the team to have bags of pace with myself, Ronaldo and Louis Saha upfront. We’re being told to counter-attack at speed; he reckons teams will find it impossible to play against us in the coming months.

Across the park, everyone’s starting to click. Darren Fletcher is maturing in midfield; Michael Carrick – Geordie lad, soft feet – joins us from Spurs in the summer and finds his rhythm pretty quickly. In pre-season friendlies, he sits in front of the back four and controls the tempo of the game, giving us extra protection in defence when everyone bombs forward. Elsewhere, Patrice Evra and Nemanja Vidic suddenly look the business. Patrice
caught his breath by the end of the 2005/06 season and now he seems up to speed with the pace of English football, which is a million times quicker than anything he’s had to deal with in France; Vida and Rio are shaping up to be the best centre-half pairing in world football at this moment.

After pre-season is done, we look solid. I know we can score goals for fun, I know we have the strength to sweep teams aside.

I’m right, too: the 5–1 win against Fulham is just the start.

Charlton Athletic, 3–0.

Spurs, 1–0.

Newcastle, 2–0.

Liverpool, 2–0.

Bolton, 4–0.

Everton, 3–0.

Villa, 3–0.

Watford, 4–0.

From the first day we sit at the top of the Premier League for the whole campaign (bar one or two weekends) and never look like shifting.

Spurs, 4–0.

Bolton (again), 4–1.

Blackburn, 4–1.

We’ve gathered enough experience to grind out ugly victories, too.

Sheffield United, 2–1.

Boro’, 2–1.

Reading, 3–2.

I know we’re tough enough to win games when we’re not playing well. It’s a sure sign that United are a title-winning team in the making.

*****

I get the Number 10. After Ruud leaves the club in the summer for Real Madrid, I go into The Manager’s office. I ask him for his shirt.

‘I’ve always loved the Number 10,’ I say. ‘I’ve always loved players like Maradona, Pele, Zidane – all the greats have been Number 10s. It’s a big thing in South America, too …’

‘It’s yours,’ he tells me.

It’s feels brilliant to play in it for the first time.

*****

There’s nothing worse than getting The Hairdryer.

When it happens, The Manager stands in the middle of the room and loses it at me. He gets right up in my face and shouts. It feels like I’ve put my head in front of a BaByliss Turbo Power 2000. It’s horrible. I don’t like getting shouted at by anyone. It’s hard for me to take, so sometimes I shout back. I tell him he’s wrong and I’m right. Once I’ve cooled down, I usually realise that it’s the other way round.

Mark Hughes came up with the nickname when he was here and it’s stuck. The Manager knows all about it: he even
told the papers that if someone challenges him in the dressing room, he has to go for them. He believes you can’t avoid the confrontation, no matter who the player is. It’s his way of ruling the team. Apparently he once went for keeper Peter Schmeichel, and he’s six-foot four.

Often it’s worse to watch another player get The Hairdryer, especially if I know they can’t take it. It spurs some of the lads on, but it crushes others. I’ve seen The Manager shout and scream at people and when they’ve gone back on the pitch their heads have dropped. They’ve lost it. Most of the time, The Manager knows which players can take it and which players can’t.

After an away game in the Champions League in 2006 against Celtic, Louis Saha misses a last-minute penalty. I play poorly. We lose 1–0. In the dressing room, The Manager lets loose. It’s the worst Hairdryer I’ve seen. He’s in Louis’s face, shouting and screaming. But Louis isn’t the only one getting an earful. The Manager knows I’ve been negotiating a new deal with the club and he saves some for me after the Celtic game.

‘Players wanting more money from the club and new deals, you don’t deserve anything after that performance!’

He doesn’t look my way, but I know where he’s aiming the comments. I don’t like it, but he’s right. After that performance I don’t deserve an improved contract.

*****

We play away to Fulham at the end of February, and Liverpool at the beginning of March, and I know we’ve got it in us to be Premier League winners because along with the skill, speed and the experience, we discover a mad determination that pushes us on to score, whatever the odds. It comes from The Manager.
He’s drilled that desire into every one of us over the last couple of seasons
.

‘Be patient,’ he says in his team meeting before the kick-off at Craven Cottage. ‘You can win the game in the last five minutes today.’

Then he reminds us of our talent on the park.

‘If we play the way we can – even if we don’t score early on – the opposition will get tired. Chances will come our way.’

He says it again: ‘Be patient.’

He’s right. Even when we go a goal down thanks to Fulham’s American striker, Brian McBride, and we struggle to break down the opposition (they’re chasing every loose ball like their season depends on it) we keep going. I move the ball around the park quickly, tiring out the opposition. Ronnie bombs down the wing, giving his marker a horrible time. I scrap it out with Carlos Bocanegra and Philippe Christanval in the middle of their defence – I can hear them breathing hard as they try to keep pace with us. As the game wears on, gaps start to open up on the pitch and we exploit them.

A ball comes across to me and I lay it on for Giggsy to score.

Then with a couple of minutes to go, Ronaldo picks up the ball inside our own half and races at the Fulham
defence. He drives the ball past their keeper and everyone goes nuts. The Manager is hugging Ronnie on the sidelines.

It’s just the start though. The following week we go to Anfield and win; not that I see it because I’m off the pitch. Liverpool’s skipper, Jamie Carragher, goes in on me hard. His studs rake down my shin, leaving a nasty gash. I limp out of the game, the score balanced at 0–0 and the club doctor puts eight stitches into my leg in the dressing room as the match goes on without me.

These moments are the worst. I hate being helpless, useless, away from the action. I’m anxious. I sit on the treatment table, feeling the weird stillness of an empty changing room,
the muffled cheering outside. Then I hear a roar from the crowd – a big, echoing cheer. My heart sinks. I look at the club doctor, worried.

Oh no, have we gone one-down?

It doesn’t really sound like a goal, though. The noise isn’t big enough. I’m right. Moments later, the dressing-room door swings open with a crash and Scholesy walks in. Another red card.

He sits by his locker and lets on to me. His head drops. The game hasn’t been going great for us even with 11 men, now it’s a lot worse. We’ve defended well without offering much upfront. Without me and Scholesy, United have only a small chance of taking this game. I know a win today isn’t vital to get my first ever Premier League trophy, but three points will be a massive boost.

There can only be seconds left on the clock.

The muffled cheering starts up again, then another roar, a really loud one, the kind of noise that follows a goal. I check the doctor’s face; Scholesy does too, like we’re waiting for his diagnosis. I can tell what he’s thinking.

Oh, for ‘eff’s sake, Liverpool have scored the winner.

This time, my head drops. I feel ill. The pain in my leg gets a whole lot worse.

The door is kicked open again, like someone’s booted it angrily, but it’s our coach, Mike Phelan. A massive grin is spread across his face.

‘John O’Shea’s scored!’

What?

‘Sheasie’s scored! The final whistle’s gone, we’ve won!’

I’m off the treatment table, the pain in my leg gone. I sprint out of the tunnel, under Liverpool’s ‘This is Anfield’ sign and onto the pitch with Scholesy, dancing around with the rest of the lads in my dirty kit, shinpads and bloody sock.

‘We’re going to win the league!’

Like I need an excuse to celebrate at Anfield.

*****

Dad doesn’t bother watching me when United play against Everton anymore. He still has his seat at Goodison, but when we show up in April he gives it a swerve. I don’t blame him. During the last two games there, Dad has had to sit quietly while the fans around him have sworn at me and screamed all sorts, even though they’ve known that I’m his lad. Now he’s decided he’d rather stay at home, maybe watch the
highlights on the telly in the evening. I don’t mind, I’d be the same if it was me watching him, but this time he misses my best game of the season – a 4–2 win that strikes a psychological blow to the title hopes of Chelsea, the one team who have been on our backs all season.

Still, it doesn’t start well. We’re 1–0 down at half-time, and in the dressing room word goes around that Chelsea are winning 2–1 against Bolton. The lads start chatting: it gives us the desire to have a go at the game and put some daylight between them and us in the table. In the second half, Everton score again, but we battle back with a goal from John O’Shea and a Phil Neville own goal. Not long afterwards, I put us ahead for the first time in the match. Our sub Chris Eagles scores a fourth and I clock The Manager waving his arms on the touchline. He’s shouting.

‘Chelsea have finished, 2–2!’

He’s telling us to stay calm, to see the game out.

When the final whistle goes I know two things: a) we’ve put five points between us and Chelsea and taken a massive step towards winning the league, and b) Dad is miles away, safe from the boos and V-signs being fired my way.

*****

We beat City 1–0 at their place in May, Ronnie scoring the winning goal from the penalty spot and I can almost taste the party champagne. We’re eight points clear at the top; Chelsea only have to drop points at Arsenal the following day for us to win the title, so I spend Sunday afternoon in my
front room watching the game on the telly, praying for them to lose. I’m like a fan, one of the lads from the Stretford End. I take another look at the league table as it flashes up on the screen:

I settle down with the remote controls and the match starts well, with Chelsea getting a man sent off and Arsenal scoring from a penalty just before half-time. I think about going to the bedroom to pick out my clothes for a Premier League winners’ party with the lads, but I can’t tear myself away from the TV screen.

I’m fidgeting on the sofa, hoping for one more Arsenal goal.
So this is how it feels to be a United supporter
. Coleen starts to iron a shirt for me in case I have to leave the house as soon as the final whistle blows. The texts are coming in on the phone, the lads are talking about where we can go if we win the title today –
today
– but I’m in bits.

Then the atmosphere gets really edgy because with 20 minutes left Chelsea equalise.

I start to pace around the front room; the texts stop.

Please, God, don’t let them get a jammy three points.

I watch through my hands, sinking into the sofa.

So this is squeaky bum time.

Then, somehow, amazingly, Arsenal do us a favour and manage to cling on for a draw. We’ve done it.

‘Coleen, I’ve won my first Premier League winners’ medal!’

The phone starts to go mad again. It’s sorted for the squad to meet up in a bar in the middle of Manchester and when I get there, the whole place is buzzing. There are fans everywhere – it feels like an old-school knees up, the players and the supporters mixing together, having a few beers, and I love it. When I stand at the bar to get some drinks, I look behind me. All I can see are dozens of fans with their arms up, their mobiles in the air filming the party.

My head’s spinning and it’s not the bevvies. All through the season, I’ve asked the older players – Giggsy, Gary Neville, Scholesy – the same question about winning a title:

How does it feel?

What’s it like?

Do you feel different?

They all say the same thing: ‘The first one is always the best, Wazza. You never forget it.’

All I know is that it’s the greatest buzz I’ve ever had in football and I don’t want it to end.

*****

The next day we have to be in at Carrington for a photoshoot to mark our title win. Nine a.m. I’ve only had a few hours of sleep, though I’m not the only one. It’s a beautiful day, The Manager’s all smiles for the cameras, but some of the lads look rotten, tired, like they’ve been out all night. Ronaldo even wears a cap.