A blip not start of Wayne of terror

HE may only have been on the scene for a matter of weeks, but Wayne Rooney’s autobiography could already boast more chapters than many a seasoned pro.

Ever since his right foot launched a missile of a winner past David Seaman in October, justifying in one thrilling moment the mega-hype that had accompanied his footballing infancy, the boy from Croxteth has barely been off the back pages. Here was "a special talent," Arsene Wenger proclaimed, while he was merely the finest 16-year-old player his boss David Moyes had ever seen.

Possessing the kind of build usually found only in rugby scrums, Rooney settled in to the rough and tumble of English top-flight football with astonishing ease. Often arriving as a second-half substitute with the swagger and menace of a pantomime villain, the opposition fans soon sensed they were perhaps watching the first steps of a glittering career.

First he ended Arsenal's 30-game unbeaten run with a goal that has already achieved where-were-you-when status on Merseyside. A fortnight later he left Leeds' back four in knots before sliding the only goal beyond England's great hope for the future, Paul Robinson. Crowds and press boxes buzzed in excitement at the sight of Rooney's name on the teamsheet here was the lad from the streets playing for his heroes, a George Best for the 21st century.

But even though Moyes used every swab of Goodison Park cotton wool he could find to keep his bright young thing under wraps, it was obvious to see that Rooney was no Michael Owen. Not in footballing ability Rooney has already scored a Premiership goal sooner than the Liverpool striker and nothing yet suggests he will not find the back of the net as many times but in terms of just about everything else, the two are a different species. Of course nothing profound should be read into Rooney's first sending-off of his career yesterday one slightly harsh red card hardly suggests an impending career of Gazza-like impetuosity and waste.

A sign of things to come or just a small blip in a meteoric rise, it should be nevertheless be remembered that Rooney is probably no different from a lot of people born in 1985, especially one born in working-class Liverpool.

The gum-chewing, top-button-open boy that so outraged many viewers of BBC's Sport Personality of the Year were probably more aghast that the proposed saviour of English football did not dress, walk, and, they presumed, speak like Owen, Gary Lineker or Alan Shearer.

Whereas Owen seemed to come pre-packaged with a a degree in media skills and a knack for courting absolutely no controversy whatsoever, Rooney was, you suspected, wearing a suit for the first time. As raw and immature as the mates who probably wear his handed-down shirts around the terraced streets of Croxteth, he was nonetheless a breath of fresh air amidst the pomp all around him.

There was something of the loose cannon in him, too. And just three days after nearly scoring a wonderful winner in the Merseyside derby, the now 17-year-old has guaranteed himself the back-page exposure his manager had probably feared.

But then whoever thought Wayne Rooney was an angel probably put sherry and a mince pie by their chimney, too.

James Milner yesterday eclipsed Rooney as the youngest player-ever to score in the Premiership when he notched for Leeds against Sunderland at the Stadium of Light.