Wayne Rooney: My Decade in the Premier League by Wayne Rooney Page B

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