Editor’s note: This article was written on the 24th of September, 2016 – when the possibility of Wayne Rooney being sent to the fringes of the Manchester United squad emerged, when people seriously started considering a future where someone else wore no.10 for the Red Devils. On the 9th of July, 2017, Wayne Rooney was officially confirmed as an Everton FC player... but the premise of this article still remains. Whether it be at Old Trafford or Goodison Park, the man would be well served to heed Dylan Thomas’ words of wisdom
Do not go gentle into that good night,Old age should burn and rave at close of day;Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
The Street Fighter from Croxteth
Rage.
'A violent uncontrollable anger''A vehement desire or passion'
Whichever of the two commonly accepted definitions you choose to use, no word could describe the 18-year old tyro from Liverpool who had just transferred from his boyhood club Everton to the land's biggest, Manchester United for a record GBP 28 million, quite like 'Rage'.
He had grown up playing football on the streets of Croxteth and the grounds of De La Salle Academy (an all-boys Catholic school) - unforgiving battlegrounds where footballers are moulded as much by their fighting ability as their skill with the ball. He grew up on streets that were as loud as they were crass; mediocrity and poverty mixing in that unforgivably vicious way of its. He grew up in a family that loved its boxing, punching taped-up bags at his Uncle Richie's run-down gym. He grew up fighting, swearing loudly and not backing away from anything, or anyone. He grew up supporting Everton – the side that was so often looked down upon by their vastly richer, vastly more successful city neighbours. He grew up having to battle his way to get anything he's ever wanted, raging against everything and everyone - and that background had been ingrained into every fibre of his being.
He was a doughy, stocky, pasty-white teenager who was standing toe-to-toe with the biggest, meanest defenders in the world's and beating them. He scored goals, he chased down lost causes (prompting his teammates to nickname him 'The Dog'), he ran, ran, and ran – fighting, tackling, dribbling, creating chances, defending, chasing back.
His first goal was against an Arsenal side that was at their absolute, England-dominating, Invincibles-era peak, a team of artists and hardmen that gave as good, nay, better than it got. It was a piece of magic that will forever remain enshrined in the hearts of English football fans, one that can cause goosebumps in the toughest of men. Time and hindsight have proven how superb the choice of words were by the inimitable Clive Tyldesley as he struggled with his emotions to describe the goal, and its significance - “Remember the name, WAYNE ROONEY”
He played with a drive and fighting spirit that endeared him to Englishmen – men who often seem to be fonder of a good fight than anything else on the planet – and a rare skill and audacity that wowed them. His rage was at the bottom of it all – drawing out the talent from the hidden recesses of his being, providing him courage, propelling him forward. His transfer to United was headline news - it was their best young talent moving to arguably the biggest club in the country, if not the world. The predominant hope across the nation was that Alex Ferguson – fiery and temperamental himself, but with a reputation for straightening out bad boys that rivaled none – could channel all that anger, all that rage to build a Champion off the fiery young talent. England had lost too many of its talent to their innate volatility.
From the off, the union was a success. The young man, who was building a reputation of not being over-awed no matter how big the occasion, scored on his debut – and that in a Champions League match against a Fenerbahce side that were better than most give them credit for. And he couldn’t stop scoring – netting 17 goals in his first season – the same number that he had achieved in two seasons at Everton.
Little of his rage had left him though.
Playing against Newcastle in 2005, he was particularly displeased by the referee at one point - disagreeing with him on a matter of principle after he had been penalised with a yellow card for a nasty challenge on James Milner - and turned to deliver a bollocking that the meanest kid on Croxteth would have been proud of. Jogging alongside the referee, head still turned toward him, mouth still streaming out expletive after expletive, he saw the ball dropping out of the sky with a corner of his eye. Now, watching it again, you can see how his entire being was becoming focused on the ball – all the rage about the referee, the yellow card, the unfairness of life in general, was being channeled into his right boot.
The ball dropped, Rooney swung his boot. The goalkeeper didn't stand a chance.
It was Wayne Rooney in a microcosm – violence, anger, hatred; rage; that when funneled into his football produced untouchable magic.
The Great English Hope
He wasn't good looking. He didn’t have a rich family backing him. He was a street brawler, a kid who loved his drinking and his cuss words. He was like them. One of their own. And yet he was not. He had talent, and he had not wasted it. He had got a chance, and he had taken it.
He was now their great hope. For an England national team underperforming massively in the eyes of its fans, Wayne Rooney was going to be their saviour. And he almost was on his first go at the shebang. At Euro 2004, Rooney was galvanising – a mad bundle of power, anger and pure will that steamrolled everything in its path. Every time he had that beautiful silver-black ball at his feet, the decibel level in the stadium rose, the air crackling with electricity. He was 18, he was English, and he had Europe at his feet.
They loved him.
And then an errant Portuguese tackle cracked his fifth metatarsal – an injury that kept him out of action for four months. More immediately, it sucked the wind out of England's sail, and one of those sad-Beckham-in-an-England-shirt moments later, they were out of the tournament.
That fracture was a harbinger of times to come; he broke his right metatarsal again. An innocuous challenge from another Portuguese player (this time Chelsea's Paolo Ferreira) snapping the bone; but he did what he had always done – fight. He came back in time for the tournament, but playing a half-fit his frustration got the better of him against his old foe Portugal. He was still fighting, battling away in that tenacious style of his, when a tackle from two Portuguese players proved to be one too many. Two violent stamps (on Tiago and Ricardo Carvalho), and a push (on his club-mate, a young talent named Cristiano Ronaldo) later he was in for an early bath. And England were out of the tournament.
Meanwhile, his United Career just kept on hitting new heights. He was easily their most exciting player up untill the end of the 2006/07 season – a man capable of producing moments of magic out of absolutely nothing. He kept on adding to his armoury - learning new techniques, unleashing hidden ones. He didn't just belt them in like he had against Newcastle; he placed them into corners, he produced cheeky chips; more importantly (in the long for Ferguson) he started providing more and more assists.
He combined brilliantly with that Dutch goal machine Ruud van Nistelrooy, and the other exciting young talent in the team, Ronaldo. He scored 19 goals in 2005/06 and 23 in 06/07. By then Alex Ferguson, with the canny insight that had allowed him to build a footballing dynasty at Old Trafford, decided it would be best if Rooney played second fiddle to a pumped-up Ronaldo.
The Portuguese kid soon grew to become the biggest superstar in the game, but when he was banging in goals for fun, Rooney was there for the team, shunted to the right of a front three that now included the tireless Carlos Tevez, (or at times the inimitable Dimitar Berbatov). He still kept scoring, and he still kept exciting crowds, but you could sense that Old Trafford, and stadiums across Europe, were becoming more responsive to the United no.7
In today's football world of primadonnas and telenovela actor-esque figures, most would have thrown a tantrum and sulked for ages. Rooney, however, was hewn from a block of another nature. He buckled down and ran his legs out for the team. He scored 18 and 20 goals respectively in the two seasons Ronaldo was king. More than that, he evolved as a player – imbibing new qualities and bringing in a new level of self-discipline on the field, while also employing a PR agency off it to clean up his bad boy image. He still swore, he still fought, and he still barged into tackles when he felt he had been wronged; but he had toned down considerably.
The snapshots kept coming (that first-time volley against AC Milan in the Champions League comes to mind), but they were less frequent. He didn't chase every ball, even though he did keep tracking back. Power had been replaced by precision. You could see it in the eyes - a little bit of the rage had died.
Ferguson had successfully managed to tame the animal.
The Return of the Rage
The three seasons after Ronaldo left were Rooney's chance to assume the mantle of superstar-in-chief. He rose to the occasion - like he had been doing ever since he broke into senior-level football at the age of 16. The first season after Ronaldo, he was restored to a centre-forward position – and scored a career-high 34 goals in the season. This may seem low by today’s Ronaldo (the Real Madrid-edition) and Messi standard, but it really wasn't something to be scoffed at.
He had used the welled-up rage to become United's chief goal threat once again (adding a still underrated heading to an almost-full quiver of attacking weapons in the process). He followed that with a disappointing return of 16 goals next season but returned in 11/12 with another 34 goal haul. His rage was back, and along with it came the genius.
Also, Read – Is Wayne Rooney the greatest English footballer of the Premier League era?
It was around this time that he scored arguably his greatest goal ever. It was early 2011, and a tense Manchester Derby hung in the balance, the tie level at 1 all. In the 77th minute, Rooney made a run into the box, in anticipation of a Nani cross. Over the years he had worked on the timing of his runs, and this one wasn’t too bad. The ball though took a wicked deflection off the back of a Man City shirt and ended up flying in just behind the United no.10.
The boy from Croxteth immediately adjusted his position… and then, time stood still. Nay, it was reversed. Suddenly everybody was taken back ten years. The slightly overweight, balding, cynical veteran had been replaced with a fresh-faced stocky young lad. Leaping high into the air, Rooney connected perfectly with his bicycle kick – the ball hit the back of the net, just as the jaws of the 70,000 odd assembled in Old Trafford, and very many more watching at home, hit the floor.
He had gained weight and lost his hair, but he hadn’t lost any of his mojo. A little of that old rage had been uncaged and he was almost back to his goose bump inducing -best.
Almost.
The Dying of the Light
In between all that he had top-scored for England in their World Cup 2010 qualifying campaign and he seemed all set to lead England to glory. Then Mario Gomez stepped on his right ankle (inadvertently) and he hobbled off with a protective cast on his foot and crutches under his arms. He recovered in time for the tournament, but was a shadow of himself and did not score as they exited the Cup in the second round.
Euro 2012 then seemed to be the perfect platform for him to banish the ghosts that haunted every single one of his major international tournaments. England had missed the trip to Switzerland-Austria for Euro 2008 after Rooney had suffered a small knock and as a consequence missed the crucial qualifying match against Croatia. But the innate violence that so many claimed had held his career back reared its ugly head again – just like in 2006. In the last qualifier to the ’12 edition, he received a straight red card for an ugly tackle on Montenegro’s Miodrag Dudovi. The resulting three-match ban was subsequently reduced on appeal to two by UEFA, but it still meant that he missed the opening two games. He returned for the third and celebrated by scoring against Ukraine, but the English team appeared a muddled up mess and bowed out on penalties after being comprehensively outplayed by Italy over 120 minutes.
This time, the knives were out in full force, and Rooney was crucified – by the press, the fans, and even his own coach Fabio Capello (who claimed, rather unfairly, that Rooney played well only in Manchester).
Also, Read – The elephant in the room: A look at Manchester United's biggest problem - Wayne Rooney
His image with the fans suffered too at that point as his relationship with Alex Ferguson deteriorated to near breaking point. The spat turned ugly as Ferguson pilloried his player for seeking a substantial wage increase, or a transfer out of the club. Reports emerged that he was going to join City -a group of masked United hooligans visited Rooney’s place to warn him of the repercussions if he ever did.
He was no longer one of their own. He was now a mercenary-for-hire whose ‘English’ qualities of loyalty and commitment to the cause were buried under the evil blanket of his greed.
And yet, he continued to play his heart out for the team. 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” – the English may not have respected him, but the Spaniards certainly knew greatness when they saw it.
In that game, he spent the majority of the game marooned on the right wing. His brief? To protect Rafael against the wiles of his former colleague and friend Cristiano Ronaldo. It was humiliating and would have hurt the ego of a man once considered more talented and more promising than the Portuguese superstar, but Rooney stuck to his task and gave Ronaldo hell for the full ninety minutes – prompting Ronaldo to continuously switch flanks. As he had time after time, he sacrificed individual glory for the team’s success. In the return leg, Rooney was benched in favour of Danny Welbeck.
Sure, while this was going on he had also kept scoring - 16 in 12/13 and 19 in the 13/14 season - but this was the beginning of a slide that hasn’t stopped still. Under David Moyes, he showed brief glimpses of recovering but faded along with his former Everton boss and all his teammates.
The 2014 World Cup, held the summer after Moyes was fired, was an unmitigated disaster, Rooney appearing slow and cumbersome and holding up the team’s play rather than catalyzing it.
Under Louis van Gaal, Rooney started experimenting with his position – trying his hand at playing the role of trequartista, and even central midfield, in the Paul Scholes role. He scored just 14 and 15 goals in those two seasons – his lowest return since his transfer to United.
Even today, under Jose Mourinho – neither player nor coach seem to know where his best position is.
At times this season, United’s best play has come when Rooney has been shunted out to a flank – out of the way from the flow of the ball. He has looked a defeated player, his vacant eyes deserted of all the ‘fire and brimstone’ passion that made him so great, his voice no longer carrying the authority of competence, his first touch as atrocious as his shots-on-goal are devoid of power and precision. Not even the most nostalgic Rooney fan can think of a good reason for why he should start for either Manchester United or England.
There is no happy ending in sight. No peaceful goodbyes a-la Ryan Giggs.
There never was if we are, to be honest. Rooney has waged a war against demons, both internal and external, knowing fully well where the road ends up at if he gives up. Perdition. Hell.
The lights are dying now, fading into the everlasting darkness of memory and nostalgia. Perdition approaches.
A man who is the highest goalscorer for England (with 53 from 115), who is the second highest scorer in Manchester United’s long history (with 246 from 526), is now being mocked for his inability to even come close to finding the back of the net. A man, who once electrified millions with a swish of his boot, now invites boos of derision. A man, who sacrificed his body and his individual glory for the team when he was at his peak, now invites chaste comments about how selfish he is. A man, who was worshiped as the best talent in the land, is now dismissed as rubbish and ridiculed by almost everyone.
This is no way for Wayne Rooney to be remembered.
No one did him any favours on the streets of Croxteth, and no-one is going to start now on the hallowed turf of Old Trafford. As ever he must raise his head and stand up for himself. He must fight for himself.
He must channel all his rage once again, this time, against the dying of the light.
Heed the word of the great Welshman Dylan Thomas, Wayne.
Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage, against the dying of the light.
Do not go gentle into that good night,Old age should burn and rave at close of day;Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,Because their words had forked no lightning theyDo not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how brightTheir frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sightBlind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
