The Boxer

The Stamford Bridge result was hard to take, and no  two ways about that. Sitting in a hotel in Düsseldorf, watching the game on and off through shit internet on my phone, I felt desperately hollow at the end of it; because of the end of our winning streak, but even more so because we should have won. (Funnily enough these same four words I used in my post-match review of the last time we met, but there you go – football for you.) I was talking to a friend about the match, and she told me that after the game Wayne Rooney was crying. And that – that was so painful.

Pansy, I hear the accolades flowing in. Sissy. As they did with some bitter Chelsea fans. Wimp. Criticism that, if you think about it, is barely on the level he gets when he plays for England. Week in, week out, Rooney is slaughtered – for his performances, for his transfer requests, for his receding headline and unfortunate resemblance to Shrek. And I don’t think that’s fair. So here it is: I’m going to tell you just why I love Wayne Rooney.

I often refer to Rooney as my problematic fave, and that’s because he is problematic. Compared to other players I admire, like Juan Mata, who must be one of the nicest guys in football, you can insert your choice of colourful expletive here. Someone who’s asked to change clubs not once, but twice, and possibly questioned their manager’s philosophy and intent should probably not be given the Captain’s armband. And it’s true that he has had a horrible attitude in the past, throwing temper tantrums and whatever else – stamping on Ronaldo is one of the highlights. This is a man whose determination, dedication and responsibility can be called into question – until you see him on the pitch. And I think that not only was Captain Rooney the most rational decision, I would say that this is one of the best decisions van Gaal has made thus far.

Just watch any game in the 2014/15 season. Watch how he approaches any altercation with the referee. Calm, firm, not like the shouty-mouthed, hot-headed lad of old. Watch how he leads by example – I think there was an early game where he shouted at a teammate, and that was a bad decision, but no longer. This shift of responsibility has turned him into a proper old hand. Only two players from the 2008 Champions’ League final are left now, Carrick and Rooney, and while the former has never had a problem with this, the latter has finally lived up to that image. Carrick leads to, in a sort of Ryan-Giggs, calm without having to say anything, way, but Rooney’s assertiveness and strength are just what a team needs.

Now that he’s managing his old behavioural problems better, you start to appreciate the side of Rooney that was always there – graft. Not graft as in the Sting, but graft as in sheer, hard work – players like Rooney and Ashley Young are the quintessential British workhorses of old. In every single game, whether he’s been playing well or not, whether he’s playing striker or defensive midfielder, you can never accuse Rooney of not trying. That’s his hallmark – again and again, he tries. Fights on. He’s the one who’s most characteristic of that old Ferguson mentality – playing as if he can win, and will win, never mind the actual score. In the better teams you’re more likely to find players like Mata, Herrera, Oscar, Özil – players typified by their flair, skill, trickery with the ball. Players who sit tight, grit their teeth and ground out a result by working for it are often found in the lower levels of the league, for which they are (rightfully) praised. When you’ve got a player like that in a top-end team, however, it’s not what you expect to see, and teams are criticised for playing like lower-level ones. But all clubs at times need to ground out a result. Sometimes flash and spark is not enough – sometimes you have to play ugly to win – and there is no demon like Rooney.

Sometimes I do miss the old Wazza. The boy who’d fight anyone. He wouldn’t have played in midfield for this long; would have gone up to van Gaal and said “look, this isn’t working. I’m a striker.” Instead, week in week out, he plays where van Gaal wants him to play. No fuss, no questions asked. While bemoaning this situation as a team, you can’t help but admire his fortitude as a person. This is new-look Wazza – a marriage of the old fighting spirit and determination with an understanding and level of responsibility that comes with being senior player/Captain. Rooney understands that he cannot answer back the manager or hand in a transfer request once he’s been placed in this position, so he does not. Instead – and this is what I find most impressive, a combination of all that he’s learnt – he soldiers on. He says, if I’m going to play here, I’m going to play well here. And maybe he won’t eventually, but he tells himself he needs to – that’s why he cried after the game, though it was no fault of his own. The mark of a sportsman is perfection, and Rooney excels at that.

Ultimately, this is a twenty-eight-year-old boy. A lot of people forget how old footballers are, because of the relative ages sports makes you think about. But Wazza is young by normal standards, and the expectations placed on his shoulders is insane. It happens less for United, though there are grudges, of course. With England, the usually hostile English press go almost gleeful with indulgence, delighting in castigating Rooney for any and all of England’s failures. Gerrard’s slip up cost England the World Cup game, but once again badmouthing Rooney seemed the order of the day for failing to deliver, for disappointing a nation, and for all the usual unimaginative stick that comes from criticising for the sake of doing so. But a team is not just one man.

What’s the most amazing thing is that no matter how many times he gets kicked, he’s never out. He ignores his critics. He defies popular perception that he’s not going to be a good Captain, and tries to become a good Captain. People have to learn how to appreciate this guy. He’s a talent far removed from the type we are expecting to see – a Honda to the Lamborghinis, if you would. It’s not going to be able to hit 300km/h if you asked it to, but it’s damn well going to try. There’s passion written all over the dashboard.  Like the titular song, Rooney is cut until he cries out in his anger and his shame I am leaving I am leaving –

but the fighter still remains.