keep coming soundofheaven.info you need a wayne rooney my decade in the premier league, you can download them in pdf format from our soundofheaven.info file format that can. Wayne Rooney book. Read 43 reviews from the world's largest community for readers. 'My Decade in the Premier League' is Wayne's first hand account of his. Wayne Rooney: My Decade in the Premier League (Hardback) is simply soon after i finished reading through this pdf through which really altered me, modify.
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Wayne Rooney: My Decade In The Premier League - Extract - Free download as PDF File .pdf), Text File .txt) or read online for free. Man Utd and England. Editorial Reviews. About the Author. Wayne Rooney was born in Liverpool in October He was only nine when he was spotted by Everton scout Bob. 'My Decade in the Premier League' is Wayne's first hand account of his 10 years playing at the highest level in English football – and for the bigges.
It highlights Rooney's character and style, besides discussing the club's history. Its a high a mad rush of power. My Side: He portrayed himself to be a rude, obnoxious and unlikeable character however after reading his autobiography I have changed my mind and find him to be driven, totally dedicated to football and a true professional. Everything goes dead mad, dead quick. Every image is razor sharp. More Details
Everythings in focus: Theres more and more noise; its so big, its right on top of me. Someones grabbing at my shirt, my hearts banging out of my chest. The crowd are singing my name: And theres no better feeling in the world. Then I look up and see the scoreboard. Who I am and what Ive done comes back to me in a rush, a hit, like a boxer coming round after a sniff of smelling salts.
Im Wayne Rooney. Ive played Premier League football since and Ive just scored the winning goal in a Manchester derby probably the most important game of the season to fans from the red half of town. A goal that puts our noisy neighbours, the other lot, in their place. A goal that reminds them that United have more history and more success than they do right now.
A goal that warns the rest of the country that were on our way to winning another Premier League title. The best goal of my career. As I stand with my arms spread wide, head back, I can feel the hate coming from the City fans in the stand behind me, its like static electricity. The abuse, the screaming and swearing, is bouncing off me. Theyre sticking their ngers up at me, red-faced. Theyve all got a cob on, but I dont give a toss. I know how much they hate me, how angry they are; I can understand where theyre coming from though, because I go through the same emotions whenever I lose at anything.
This time, theyre wound up and Im not. I know it doesnt get any better than this. Ive bagged hundreds of goals during my time in the Premier League with United and Everton; goals in league games, cup games, cup finals, meaningless friendlies, practice games in training.
But this one is extra special. As I jog back to the centre circle, still tingling, I go into rewind. Its ridiculous, I know, but Im worried I might never feel this way again. I want to remember whats just happened, to relive the moment over and over because it feels so good. We were under pressure, I know that, the game level at 11, really tight.
I overhit it. My heart jumps into my mouth. City can break from here. Luckily, Paul Scholes ginger lad, low centre of gravity, the fella we call SatNav because his passes seem almost. He takes a couple of touches, guiding the ball with his toes, gliding over the grass more like a dancer off Strictly Come Dancing than a footy player, and curls a pass over the top of the City defence towards me, his cross deecting off a defender, taking some speed off it. I see a space opening up in the penalty area.
Citys two man-mountain centre-halves, Joleon Lescott and Vincent Kompany, move and get ready for the incoming pass. I run into a few yards of space, guessing where the ball will land.
My senses are all over the place. Its hard to explain to someone whos never played the game or felt the pressure of performing in front of a big crowd before, but playing football at Old Trafford is like running around in a bubble. Its really intense, claustrophobic. I can smell the grass, I can hear the crowd, but I cant make out whats being sung. Everythings mufed, like when Im underwater in the swimming baths: I can hear the shouting and splashing from everyone around me in the pool, but nothings clear, I cant pick out any one voice.
I cant really hear what people are yelling. Its the same on the pitch. I can hear certain sounds when the game slows down for a moment or two, like when Im taking a corner or free-kick and theres a strange rumble of 20, spring-loaded seats thwacking back in a section of the ground behind me as I stand over the ball, everyone on. But its never long before the mufed noise comes over again.
Then Im back underwater. Back in the bubble. The balls coming my way. The deection has changed the shape of Nanis pass, sending it higher than I thought, which buys me an extra second to shift into position and re-adjust my balance, to think: Im having a go at this.
My legs are knackered, but I use all the strength I have to spring from the back of my heels, swinging my right leg over my left shoulder in mid-air to bang the cross with an overhead kick, an acrobatic volley. Its an all or nothing hit that I know will make me look really stupid if I spoon it.
But I dont. I make good contact with the ball and it res into the top corner; I feel it, but I dont see it. As I twist in mid-air, trying to follow the ight of my shot, I cant see where the ball has gone, but the sudden roar of noise tells me Ive scored.
I roll over and see Joe Hart, Citys goalkeeper, rooted to the spot, his arms spread wide in disbelief, the ball bobbling and spinning in the net behind him. If playing football is like being underwater, then scoring a goal feels like coming up for air.
I can see and hear it all, clear as anything. Faces in the crowd, thousands and thousands of them shouting and smiling, climbing over one another. Grown men jumping up and down like little kids. Children screaming with proper passion, ags waving. Every image is razor sharp. I see the colour of the stewards bibs in the stands.
I can see banners. Its like going from black and white to colour; standard to high-denition telly at a push of the remote.
Everyone is going mental in the crowd; they think the game is just about won. From nearly giving the ball away to smashing a winning goal into the top corner: The difference between winning and losing is on a knife edge a lot of the time. Thats why its the best game in the world.
Everyone gathers round me in the dressing room afterwards, they want to talk about the goal. But Im wrecked, done in, Ive got nothing left; its all out there on the pitch, along with that overhead kick. The room is buzzing; Rio Ferdinand is buzzing. Wow, he says.
Patrice Evra, our full-back, calls it beautiful. Then The Manager comes into the dressing room, his big black coat on; he looks made up, excited. The man who has shouted, screamed and yelled from the Old Trafford touchlines for over a quarter of a century; the man who has managed and inspired some of the greatest players in Premier League history.
The man who signed me for the biggest club in the world. The most successful club boss in the modern game. He walks round to all of us and shakes our hands like he does after every win.
Its been like this since the day I signed for United. Thankfully Ive had a lot of handshakes. He lets on to me.
That was magnicent, Wayne, that was great. I nod; Im too tired to speak, but I wouldnt say anything if I could. Dont get me wrong, theres nothing better than The Manager saying well done but I dont need it. I know when Ive played well and when Ive played badly. Read more Please choose whether or not you want other users to be able to see on your profile that this library is a favorite of yours.
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