Free Wayne Rooney: My Decade in the Premier League by Wayne Rooney

look at the ref.
    Once I hear the whistle, I go, head down and make as sweet a strike as I can.
    Goal!
    Some players feel relieved to have scored a penalty. They figure the pressure’s on them, not the goalie. I’m different. I figure it’s another chance for me to put one away and I enjoy them as much as a 25-yard rocket into the top corner against Newcastle.
    It’s different in a penalty shootout, though. Then it’s sudden death. Then it’s more tense. One mistake can knock United out of a tournament, or decide an FA Cup final like this one. The walk from the centre circle to the penalty spot feels like the longest in football. I can imagine it gets to some players.
    Not me. I know when it comes to my kick, I’m going to put the ball down and do the business, like with any penalty.
    Not everyone’s the same.
    Ruud scores our first kick; Lauren scores for them.
    Paul Scholes misses our second. We all feel sick when it happens, but at United we put missed pens down as being an occupational hazard. It’s just one of those things.
    Arsenal score again, Freddie Ljungberg.
    Ronaldo puts his away. Van Persie scores for Arsenal.
    I know that if I miss Number Four then they’ll have a great chance of winning. I’m not thinking about that though. I’m so focused on hitting the ball sweetly as I reach the penalty area that the nerves fade away.
    A look at the ball.
    A look at the ref.
    A look at the keeper.
    Whistle, head down …
    Goal!
    Not that it matters. We later lose the shootout 5–4; Scholesy’s miss is enough for Arsenal to take the trophy. I get Man of the Match, but I’d swap it for a winner’s medal because personal accolades mean little to me. Goals in penalty shootouts mean nothing to me. I’ve not worked all season to be a runner-up or to come third in the league. I certainly didn’t dream about collecting a loser’s medal when I was a kid, playing in the park with my mates.
    Football’s all about winning trophies, always has been, always will be.
    *****
    In the week I ring a pal from Crocky, one of the lads I used to play football with in the park.
    ‘Remember we used to talk about what it would be like to score a penalty in the FA Cup final?’ I say. ‘Well, it’s a great feeling. Unless you lose the shootout. And then it’s really horrible.’

The opening day of the 2005/06 season begins at home: Everton, Goodison Park. Back to all the boos and the jeers that their lot can chuck at me. Like I’m bothered. I’ve got plenty of pre-match habits to get my head right, as most footballers have, and before this game I pray, which is something I’ve started to do because Coleen’s mum and dad are religious, so it’s become important to me, too. I have faith now.
    It’s funny, I’m not afraid to be a believer in God, but I do all my praying in private. I’m not going to show it to people because I don’t need to. I don’t want people to see me praying every time I go on to a footy pitch. I’m not one for crossing myself as I run over the white line; I’m not looking up to the sky if ever I miss a sitter. Instead, in the away dressing room at Goodison – my United kit on, my bootslaced – I go off into a quiet corner and have a moment to myself.
    I pray for the health of my family and my friends.
    I pray that I don’t get badly injured or hurt.
    I don’t pray for victory or a goal, I pray for my safety.
    I’ve got other rituals, too.
    Last night I collared the club’s kit man because I wanted to know exactly what combination of colours I’ll be wearing the next day.
    ‘Er, it’s the home shirt tomorrow, Wayne, black shorts, black socks. Why?’
    Just wondered.
    What I don’t tell him is that I’ve started visualising my performances the night before a game. As I get into bed I imagine the players I’m going to be coming up against the next day and I spend 20 minutes seeing situations where I’m in front of goal. I’m planning for what I’m going to do. I’ve realised that if