'%20x='0'%20y='0'%20height='100%25'%20width='100%25'%20%0A%20%20%20%20%20%20%20%20%20%20xlink%3Ahref='data:image/jpg;base64,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'%3E%3C/image%3E%3C/svg%3E)
“Remember the name”
19 October 2002: The clock showed “89:12” as Thomas Gravesen launched a hopeful punt into the typically overcast Liverpool sky. Everton’s opponents that day, Arsenal – the champions of England – had come into the game unbeaten in their previous thirty and as the tight, scrappy match wound to an end, it was looking increasing apparent that this was going to be number thirty-one.
The stocky, freckled, young boy – recently promoted to the Toffees first team after incredible exploits in the youth leagues – chased Gravesen’s punt with all the enthusiasm of the exuberant school kid that he was. He stretched out a leg, and with a velvety soft first touch, plucked the ball from the sky.
The young lad – born in Croxteth, a couple of streets down from Goodison – had made his debut at the home of Arsenal’s fierce North London rivals, where the White Hart Lane faithful had serenaded him with boos and chants of “Who are ya?” every time he touched the ball. Two months and nine games on, Clive Tyldesley was about to let them know.
As he turned with ball, he was still a good way away from the goal. With the imposing figures of Lauren and Sol Campbell in front of him, the safe option would have been to pass it to Kevin Campbell or lay the ball off, back into midfield. Kevin Campbell’s run in between the two Arsenal defenders was ignored thoroughly as he took a couple of steps towards David Seaman’s goal.
Espying the England goalkeeper a couple of feet off his goal line, the young Evertonian unleashed a curling thunderbolt that thudded off the underside of the crossbar and into the goal.
The roar from the blue half of Merseyside lifted the roof off of Goodison Park. The normally demure David Moyes charged around like a man who had hit a million dollar jackpot. ITV’s senior football commentator Tyldesley retained enough presence of mind amidst the boisterousness to utter his now famous line - “Remember the name. Waaaayne Rooney”.
He was all of 16 years and 360 days that day. England’s golden boy had just announced himself on the big stage. Twelve and a half years, a controversial multi-million transfer to Manchester United, a rather well done hair transplant, more than 290 goals, a Champions League medal and five League titles on, can we call Wayne Rooney the greatest English footballer in the 23 years of the Premier League era?
Can numbers be used to judge greatness?
Greatness, much like beauty, lies very much in the eyes of the beholder. For the Kop no one can come close to Steven Gerrard, the Bridge will swear by Frank Lampard, the older Stretford End faithful will laugh you out of the room if you name anyone other than Paul Scholes and for a Geordie, claiming any Englishman is greater than Alan Shearer would be nothing less than blasphemy.
So let’s look at the one thing that many feel should be the sole criteria for being granted the tag of the “greatest”. The one thing they say is objective enough to determine the “reality” – the numbers.
| Player | EPL Goals (assists)** | Total Club goals (goals per game ratio) | England goals (goals per game ratio) | League Titles (Domestic, European, Inter-Continental Cups***) |
|---|---|---|---|---|
| Frank Lampard* | 177 (173) | 258 (0.30) | 29 (0.27) | 3 (6, 2, 0) |
| Steven Gerrard* | 117 (162) | 183 (0.26) | 21 (0.18) | 0 (5, 2, 0) |
| Alan Shearer | 260 (122) | 379 (0.52) | 30 (0.48) | 1 (0, 0, 0) |
| Paul Scholes | 107 (138) | 155 (0.22) | 14 (0.21) | 11 (5, 2,,2) |
| Wayne Rooney* | 185 (144) | 247 (0.45) | 47 (0.46) | 5 (5,1,1) |
*Active players
**Assists include those from open play and dead balls - from premiersoccerstats.com
***Domestic cup competitions include the FA Cup and League Cup, European ones include the Champions League and the UEFA Cup
Do these numbers truly tell the tale of just how good these players are though?
Frank Lampard’s and Alan Shearer’s numbers serve to burnish the image of the men. The Londoner is a great goalscorer who plays in the garb of a midfielder; a man with that uncanny and priceless, ability to pop up with a goal or two at the most critical of times. A runner-up for the Balon D’Or in 2005 (Steven Gerrard was third that year), Lampard was at the top of his game in the mid to late 2000s, a time in which everything he touched turned into a goal and his Chelsea team started dominating football in England.
Shearer’s numbers are about as scary as the great Geordie himself. The only person to have scored more than 200 goals in the Premiership, Shearer was a terrifying force of nature who went from creative, all-round forward to a deadly marksman as his career progressed and his knees gave away. In the mid-90’s he was arguably the best striker in all of Europe who could have walked into any of the top clubs but chose his hometown club Newcastle.
For the two other players who turn(ed) out for their hometown clubs, the numbers aren’t a true reflection of the impact they have had on their team’s fortunes.
Does a goals-per-game ratio of 0.22 show how Paul Scholes’ subtle genius pulled the strings of the greatest team of the Premiership era? Of how his busy running and his imaginative passing were the bedrock on which Alex Ferguson built his empire in the late 90’s through the 2000’s?
Scholes was underrated by many, but not his peers or his coaches. His brand of football was something England wasn’t used to, a virtuoso who could have been exalted as the greatest in the world had he started off at La Masia instead of Langley Furrows.
Do those stats that tell you how Steven Gerrard would channel the spirit of the Kop and be its embodiment on the Anfield pitch? Do any of those numbers show how he would frequently single-handedly drag Liverpool from the brink of mediocrity and defeat to the cusp of greatness and victory? Gerrard was one of the great midfielders of his generation, a man who inspired his team with his all-round, all-action character and whose goals were as spectacular as they were significant.
Wayne Rooney’s numbers though are, much like the man himself, an enigma. He has a goals-per-game ratio of nearly a goal every other match, something that is more than acceptable. In a world where Cristiano Ronaldo and Lionel Messi didn’t exist, this would be called great. He also has an assist tally that most creative midfielders would be envious of.
He is five years younger than the next youngest player in that list (of whom two are retired, and the other two are playing, what should be, their last seasons in England) and those numbers show no sign of slacking up. He could, and should, assail Alan Shearer’s seemingly unassailable record (260 Premier League goals), and Sir Bobby Charlton’s age old record (the great man has 49 goals for England) is almost as good as done for.
These numbers though, as brilliant as they are, merely make him a great player. What makes him the greatest are the intangibles.
The freckled demon
As Manchester United prepared to take on Real Madrid in the Bernabéu in February of 2013, Marca described the Rooney as “the freckled demon, built like a barrel packed with gunpowder”. Typical of the Castilian paper to be so colourful; atypical to be so accurate.
Bustling with violent energy, Rooney used to play every game like he would have were he back on the streets of Croxteth, running after every ball, taking on every man himself, scoring goals, creating chances and charging into tackles everywhere. For Everton, and in his first years at Manchester United (and with England), he played just off the main striker, running, nay, charging into spaces and creating about as much chaos in opposition defences as an angry bull in a china shop.
Later, after Ruud van Nistelrooy moved on, he teamed up with Cristiano Ronaldo and Carlos Tevez to form a deadly (and incredibly hardworking) front trio. After Tevez and Ronaldo moved on, Rooney moved up top on his own, where he discovered the traditional English art-form of heading a football with the violence of a Glasgow kiss. Surprisingly, heading had been the one weak chink in his armour, not anymore. He still put in a shift for the team, and took as much pleasure in creating a goal as scoring one.
More than his ability, though, what shone through was his willingness to sacrifice personal glory for the team’s success. The likes of Ronaldo may have stolen the limelight, but that success was built on Rooney’s skill and perspiration. If he could have played as a goalkeeper, few doubt he would at the very least have been a very committed one.
In 2013, the day after Marca had called him a freckled demon – and United’s biggest threat – he lined up on the right wing, with the express detail of making sure his old buddy, Ronaldo, didn’t get up to any mischief. As frustrated as he must have been to be sidelined so, he followed the orders to the T and Ronaldo got very little joy, or support, on Rooney’s side of the pitch.
As ever, Rooney’s all-round ability and bloody-minded commitment had been sacrificed for the greater good of the team (not that it did United any good though).
Where Alan Shearer always played through the centre, and the trio of midfielders always preferred the centre of the park, Rooney has been successful across the pitch. It’s an ability that Louis Van Gaal sought to harness by playing him in the middle of the pitch – where he acquitted himself rather well.
Van Gaal, as David Moyes and Sir Alex Ferguson (as well as a host of England coaches) before him, had recogonised the incredible concoction of technically ability, attacking instincts, sheer commitment, willingness (and desire) to ask for the ball anywhere on the pitch and overall footballing nous that make Rooney so potent; a footballing force like no other seen in the last 20 years on the shores of the land where they first began to kick a ball around for sport.
Epilogue
4 April 4 2015. Angel Di Maria sent a high, fizzing cross into the box. The Manchester United captain struck out an improbably high leg and with a velvety soft touch killed the pace and spin on the ball.
As the ball bounced, no danger to Brad Guzan’s goal seemed evident. Within that split second though, the stocky, freckled man spun with the viciousness of an uncoiling cobra and lashed a perfect first time volley high into the net.
Old Trafford erupted. Wayne Rooney stood in the middle of the opposition six-yard box, arms outstretched, basking in the glory.
He is only 29-and-a-half years old. For arguably the greatest English footballer of the Premier League era, the glory will not stop any time soon.
