Читать книгу Wayne Rooney: My Decade in the Premier League - Wayne Rooney, Wayne Rooney - Страница 11

Every day at work begins with the same drive into Carrington, past the autograph hunters waiting at the gates with their shirts, posters and old matchday programmes. I pull into the car park with the Beemers and the Mercs. The Manager’s Audi is here – he’s in work hours before anyone else at the club and he’s probably the last to leave at night. It doesn’t matter what time I turn up or what time I leave, The Manager’s car is always parked in the same spot.

I walk through the club reception with its fancy model of Old Trafford in the foyer and down a brightly lit corridor. Along the way I pass the photos on the wall: the famous Busby Babes; Giggsy and Ronaldo celebrating a goal; The Manager looking scary in a smart suit.

Down the corridor, through more doors into the dressing room. I can hear some of the lads in there already, laughing. Gary Neville, Darren Fletcher, Rio, Wes Brown.

‘Alright, Wazza?’

I say hello and get my kit ready. The United squad meet here before every training session. You can tell because it looks like a kid’s bedroom. There’s rubbish on the floor – Ribena cartons, cycling magazines and the cardboard packaging from a new pair of shinpads – alongside trainers, flip flops, towels. On the wall there’s a TV screen. It tells the players when they’re due to have a pedicure or massage; the lunch menu is always up there. Somebody’s stuck a toy monkey on one of the shelves. There’s an iPod dock so we can play tunes.

My locker’s in the corner. On the door, someone’s cheekily stuck an old magazine cutting of me and Coleen from a couple of years ago. Sometimes when I’m sitting in here, getting changed, I can’t believe my luck.

I’m a professional footballer.

It’s great playing football every day for a living. Sometimes I hear of players who don’t like training, but I love it. I mean, what’s not to like? The rules are pretty simple: be in for 9.30; anyone who’s late gets fined. Once we’re in work, do what The Manager says. It’s a doddle.

Today we go through the usual routine. We get ready and the lads have a laugh and mess around. Then we take our first warm-up session: a gentle, 20-minute cycle on the exercise bikes.

We get our footy boots and go outside.

We play keep ball in a box marked on the training ground and eight of us flick the ball around while two players in the middle try to pinch it back. This drill gets us used to the ball. Afterwards we do short, sharp sprints between a set of cones to get our lungs and legs going.

Then it’s the part of the day I love most: the practice game.

I never know what type of game we’re going to be doing from day to day. Sometimes we work on possession, other times we work on tactics. Today we look at how we’re going to break down the opposition in our next match: Charlton Athletic. While this goes on, The Manager stands on the sidelines, watching us play. He tells us to increase the tempo if we need to. He tells us to get the ball into the box quicker. He changes us positionally.

In the practice match, everyone wants to win, even a game like this eight-a-side today. The tackles fly in, thick and fast.

Wes Brown comes in late on me, his foot well over the ball. He cracks me on the ankle. I’m in the area, but the ref, our fitness coach, doesn’t give anything. My team start moaning, I’m livid. Moments later, in the same spot, Wes catches me again. It’s high. His studs are showing and it’s a blatant foul, but still there’s no sign of us getting a penalty. Then he runs up the other end and scores.

The Manager watches from the sidelines. All of a sudden he stops the game.

‘Lads, calm down! Watch the tackles. I don’t want anyone getting injured.’

The next time I run into the penalty area, I feel a slight touch and decide to dive (we all do in training).

That’s got to be a pen!

Nothing’s given.

Now I’m furious.

I start shouting at the ref because I want to win this game as much as I want to win a Premier League game against City or Chelsea, or Aston Villa. There’s an argument, like there is nearly every day in training, but it’s par for the course. The battling atmosphere, that edge, comes from The Manager – he wants us to train like we’re playing for real.

The ref blows his whistle.

Game over.

I’m furious because we’ve lost, but I carry on shooting, firing balls towards a goal for ten minutes. It’s all part of the routine: I’m getting ready for any opportunity that might come my way at the weekend.

I hit volleys.

I hit shots from outside the box.

I hit shots where I have to control a ball passed into my chest.

I hit penalties, free-kicks.

Then one of our coaches makes me stand with my back turned away from the ball. He rolls a pass across the box in a random direction and then calls out to me. I turn, react, and shoot as quickly as I can. It gets me ready for those loose balls in the 18-yard area – I want to be prepared for anything.

I’m not the only one. When I look around the training ground afterwards, I see different players working on different drills. Rio on headers, our keeper Tim Howard on crosses, Giggsy on free-kicks.

We can all improve in one way or another, even at United.

*****

People always go on about the art of goalscoring and whether it comes down to natural ability or training, but to be honest, I reckon goals come from a combination of both. Some of it can be coached, but you can’t teach instinct. You’ve either got it or you haven’t.

I guess I’ve got it. I’ve always had it. When I was a kid I was alert to any stray ball in the box. When I’m upfront for United now, I’m always on my toes. I’m alive to every chance. I’m always trying to guess where the ball is going in the next split second so I can be ready for it. I’m looking, anticipating, gambling on free balls and defensive mistakes, but this is natural ability. Guessing where to move (and then scoring when I’m one-on-one with the goalie) is a knack that some players have, some don’t. And that instinct can be the difference between scoring five goals a season and scoring 25, at any level.

Whenever I play for United, I have to react differently to whatever’s happening around me. If I see one of our wingers – Ronaldo or Giggsy, say – shooting from one side of the area, a gut feeling tells me to leg it to the back post. I know that the ball could get dragged wide and I might have a tap-in. If I see Scholesy or Alan Smith shooting, I always follow the ball in for the rebound. It might come my way, it might not. Even if it only falls my way once every 20 efforts, that could be enough to grab two or three extra goals a season.

It’s not just about guessing the flight of a shot or pass either, it’s about reading body shape. Before a ball is played from the wings or in midfield, I look to see what type of position my teammate is in as he passes. From his movement, I can roughly judge where he’s looking to pass the ball, then I’ll run to that space.

If I’m lucky, if I’ve judged everything right, I’ll be running in on goal. That’s when I have to be ready for the next bit: my control, my movement, and my shot. That’s where training comes in.

By working on my technique constantly, I’ve developed muscle memory. I know instinctively what to do when a pass comes my way. If a ball comes to my chest on the penalty spot, I know without thinking how to bring it down, set myself and shoot, because I’ve trained my mind. I’m not the only one. All the best goalscorers in the world do it, too.

I practise it all: long shots, volleys, half-volleys, free-kicks. My movement in the box has already improved dramatically over the years through experience, plus I’m really helped by some great crossing from my teammates, like Giggsy and Ronaldo – but only when he releases the ball as quickly as he can. Don’t get me wrong, Ronnie is turning into a great footballer, but when we play together, I never really know what he’s going to do next.

He picks up the ball wide. I make a run.

He cuts inside. I check, make another run.

He chops back. I check again, get into an onside position.

He drills a shot in and I stand there, frustrated. It can get a bit much sometimes.

*****

We finish just after midday. At the end of each session, we warm down, relax. Some people jump into ice baths, others get into the swimming pool. Then there’s the gym. It looks a bit like an old-school leisure centre: mats, weights, bikes, one of those green drapes that divides the two halves of a sports hall. Ryan Giggs sometimes does yoga in here after training. I tried it once or twice but it’s not really my thing, it’s too boring. For 45 minutes an instructor got me to stretch and hold my positions. When I ask Giggsy about why he does it, especially when it’s so boring, he tells me that it’s strengthened his muscles.