WHY I'M STARTING TO FEEL SORRY FOR WAYNE

By Andy Ritchie

SYMPATHY costs nothing but, for some strange reason - no doubt associated with my crazy career - I’m never too liberal with it.

So today’s question is: do I feel sorry for Wayne Rooney? Or, more accurately: do I feel sorry for multi-millionaire Wayne Rooney?

Well, here’s one straight from the Surprise, Surprise catalogue. Yes, I do.

Hey, the World Cup is off and running and people can hopefully concentrate on the football rather than the urban protests that have provided an uncertain backdrop in the long run-up.

But I fear all cannot be well on Rooney’s doorstep. It seems open season has been declared on him. He’s been getting it in the ear from Gary Lineker, Paul Scholes (his old colleague at Manchester United) and, soon, is due a performance assessment of a different nature from a former prostitute.

If the producers of Big Brother have their way, Helen Wood will recall his alleged three-in-a-bed sex exploits.

Poor lad: he’s got nothing going for him, has he? He’s got £250,000 a week and he doesn’t go without, if you know what I mean. What else is there in life?

Well, for starters, there is this World Cup in Brazil. It’s an important one for Rooney. To employ highwayman-speak, he’s got to stand and deliver. Whatever, he goes into action against Italy with the weight of the world balanced on his shoulders.

Forget Lineker and Wood. I reckon Scholes, the guy who for years worked and played beside the Liverpudlian in Manchester United colours, has been successful in inserting a shaft of doubt in Rooney’s mind by saying that his best days may be behind him.

So, has this former wonder kid, at 28, gone past his sell-by date at a time when he should be uprooting forests of football trees?

Has he fulfilled his potential? I think he has. He’s been lurking about our game for 12 years now since making his professional debut for Everton aged just 16. He’s scored a multitude of goals and stood the test of Premier League durability: he’s made great donations to the cause of Man Utd, and also been England’s best player for the last ten years.

You could comfortably argue that he’s not an undisputed genius like Lionel Messi. There have always been question marks hovering over his head - the way he lived his life, his weight, his hairstyle!

Look, we would have been raving about him probably had he moved to Real Madrid or Barcelona. Maybe his career would have gone in a different and more positive direction.

But the fact is that he’s stayed around his homeland for so long; we tend to become a bit bored with players like him when that happens and begin to stick pins in effigies. That’s what has happened here.

Possessing the neck of a bulldog, he’s got issues with weight - he’s the type who goes out of condition very quickly - and he probably won’t make old bones as a footballer. I can’t see him performing at any level at 35.

You might say it’s over the top to say he’s over the hill. But Scholes is close enough to the situation to put a decent handle on it. Indeed, he’s probably not a million miles from being right, because Rooney’s had all those tough years. And there’s only so long you can do that.

As for the Scholes issue, he’s spent all his career without a good word to say to the media - and now he can’t stop talking.

I wouldn’t think that his dig was intended as a spur. I think it was somewhere between telling the truth and - call me an old cynic - him doing something controversial for his Paddy Power app line.

I imagine he’s been coaxed into doing this; someone’s said: “We don’t want any of that drivel you get in the newspapers: we want something that’s got a bit more meat on the bone. You’ll never have a media career unless you start shouting out.”

So, Scholes has shouted for England. The thing is he has another career - as a coach at Manchester United. I’d vote for the job of fly on the wall when pre-season training starts at Carrington. Scholes versus Rooney: a catch weight contest.

Has Rooney been affected by what’s been said? I’d say he has, considering his revelation that they never been close and never had each other’s telephone numbers. If it wasn’t affecting him, he should have said nothing. It seems it’s been preying on his mind.

I would seriously doubt whether he will be able to banish this cloud of negativity that has enveloped him. His performances last season were okay in a bad United team: I feel his performances will be likewise in an ordinary England team.

Many people think he’ll have a great World Cup to make up for all the previous disappointments, but I can’t see it. In fact, the more I think about it, the more I tend to sway towards the Scholes contention. He's not the player of a couple of seasons ago when he was hot to trot and the name on everyone’s lips.

Scholes, remember, sees him in training, knows what his condition is like. And that has always been a worry - Alex Ferguson has referred to it in the past. I can remember reading that he could lose his physical condition in a fortnight.

Mind you, when all is said and done, I don’t think England will survive their section. As I say, I bracket them in the 'B' division. And, if they come home early, the fans will need to blame somebody. I imagine Wayne would be a prime target should that happen.

Deep down, I hope he proves us all wrong and has a wonderful World Cup. If not, he may need any sympathy that’s out there. Mine included.

GIGGS, THE NEXT MAN UTD MANAGER? - SORRY, BUT YOU'RE HAVING A LAUGH HANSEN!

By Bryan Cooney

WHENEVER I see that supercilious look on Alan Hansen’s face, I’m tempted to dismember the old flat screen television.

There was a maniacal urge to do so on Saturday, when Hansen made an unfortunate appearance on Football Focus, together with the relative newcomer, Martin Keown.

A rather diffident Dan Walker was obliged to function as referee rather than presenter in a show that for once divested itself of its inherent predictability and produced some spirited debate.

Sometimes it promised to become over animated as a conflict of opinions developed between the pundits. “I’ve got to take control of this programme,” Walker admitted nervously.

Hansen reckoned the Premier League was firmly in Liverpool’s hands. Keown intimated that the fat lady had not even pulled her corset strings together, far less test-driven her vocal chords. The Scot opined that Fulham could survive the relegation battle; the Englishman professed himself far from confident of this occurring.

But it was the divergence of opinion over whom should next pick up the pieces of Manchester United that declared them to be polar opposites - and perhaps emphasised the fact that they belong to different generations.

Now, in 1995, Hansen was once ridiculed for insisting that a team wins nothing with kids. Manchester United, Alex Ferguson’s squad of adolescent brilliance, duly went on to win the league and FA Cup double.

On Saturday, he offered himself up for further derision - again on the altar of Old Trafford. Supporting Ryan Giggs’ claims for the preferment, he pointed out that Kenny Dalglish had once done something similar with Liverpool almost 30 years ago.

“What if he wins his last four matches in a style Man Utd supporters are used to?” Hansen asked rhetorically. “How do they turn around and say he’s not getting the job then?”

The naivety of that statement was seized upon by a remorseless Keown. Recognising and understanding the pragmatic and unromantic world inhabited by the Glazers, he stressed: “Giggs is for the future. United now need a safe pair of hands.”

This is Hansen’s 22^nd season as an occasionally dyspeptic and sometimes despotic pundit for the BBC. It’s also his last. It’s said he’s about to retire, possibly to devote further attention to the golf courses of the universe. The time may be ripe for a departure.

The scars of football management have not inflicted themselves on him as they have many others. He had the chance to lead Manchester City out of their mid Nineties wilderness. Instead, he pledged himself to the punditry game.

Consequently, he is a fine advertisement of a man of 58 years: handsome and unlined. And rich into the bargain. But punditry, like most things, is changing. And if Hansen is seeking a comfortable ride before delivering his last sermon at the World Cup, he may have to reconsider his options.

Broadly speaking, Mark Lawrenson, his old oppo, has been removed from centre stage. Increasingly, this now belongs to the young, ambitious thrusters such as Keown, Alan Shearer, Robbie Savage and Danny Murphy.

To adopt an American colloquialism, they take s*** from no man. Not even Hansen.

Now, though there have been times I’ve saluted his professionalism and his critiques, I cannot say I’m unhappy with this situation. We all have our favourites and betes noir in this very subjective business. I find Hansen crosses that line between self assurance and arrogance.

There again, I must admit to a bit of previous with him. Some sportsmen can surprise you with their generosity of spirit. I cannot recall being overwhelmed by Hansen’s on the two occasions we met.

Our first, essentially brief, encounter occurred in the Wembley tunnel in the Eighties. Hansen was talking to family and friends after one of Liverpool’s regular FC Cup final appearances.

There were no mixed zones back then to inhibit the media’s lust for adventure, but nevertheless this was not the time for ignorant behaviour on my part. Thus, I maintained a respectable distance from the Hansen entourage and, like a jungle predator, waited patiently, poised to strike as soon as their exchanges ended.

When they did, I politely asked whether I might have a word with him. His response was unambiguous, if not downright rude. “No!” he announced, before turning his back on me. I observed that this negativity was accompanied by a rather superior smirk that would become familiar to millions of television viewers.

It’s difficult to forget these things when you are treated so disrespectfully

Our second meeting, in 1991, was comprehensively longer and infinitely more rewarding by comparison: plus it had the bonus (for me) of a positive ending. Hansen agreed to an audience at Anfield early one Friday morning, our interview having been brokered by a Liverpool colleague of mine.

I expected no effusion from him and indeed found none. Our conversation centred on his manager and friend, Kenny Dalglish. The fact that Liverpool players were never renowned from divulging state secrets meant that Hansen’s words were necessarily routine and clichéd.

We ended on Dalglish’s future. “When do you think Kenny might have had enough of this managerial game?” I asked. Hansen said he didn’t know but insisted it would not be for a while.

Leaving the ground, I prepared to drive to the house of the guy who had arranged the interview. But when I telephoned his home, I was told he was on his way to Anfield as an emergency press conference had been convened.

I redirected myself and was back at the stadium a few minutes later and the whisper was that Dalglish was quitting. Confirmation of this fact was soon provided when the latter swept into a packed room and made the announcement.

The reason was speedily downloaded: Hillsborough and its ramifications of death and disaster had finally caught up with him. His head was ready to explode.

A few minutes later, Dalglish had left the room and also the building. It transpired he’d broken the news to his players before he had entered the press conference. None, I imagine, would have been more stunned than Hansen. He was one of Dalglish’s closest confidants and yet on this day the limitations to that friendship had been exposed.

It had been a rather surreal day. I retreated from Anfield, soon after Dalglish, to write about it all. I was informed later that Hansen had been searching frantically for me.

I could only conclude that he was thinking of asking me to forget our conversation of that morning. If he had found me, however, he’d have been wasting his breath.

My answer would have been “no” - just like that day at Wembley. Mind you, common courtesy would have dictated that this would have been preceded by one five-lettered word of apology.

　

• Adapted from Fingerprints of a Football Rascal. Amazon Kindle. £2.56

ANDY RITCHIE ON HOW RACING MAN SIR ALEX BACKED THE WRONG HORSE

WATCHING Davie Moyes being hung out to dry on the Man Utd washing line wasn’t a pretty or pleasant spectator sport.

But the resident cynic in me admits that the wee bit of compassion I felt for him in his moment of humiliation has evaporated already.

He was never the right man for the job in the first place.

And I’d go as far as to say that the timing of his sacking was wrong - he should have been away by last Christmas!

Someone once told me that it pays to be a failure in football. Well, in that case, Moyes has been a spectacular flop.

So, think of the situation not so much as a man picking up his P45 but of a man winning the Lottery. He’s a wealthy guy already, but he’ll soon be spectacularly richer.

He’s just bought a £5million ticket that nobody else in the country will buy.

Save your compassion for those who really need it: there’ll be plenty of wee souls around Britain who’ll be losing their jobs - and will only have a week’s money with which to feed the family.

The fact is Moyes will take his big pay-off, attempt to bury his disappointment in the white sands of Mauritius or somewhere similarly exotic, and move on to another football address, if not such a fancy one as Old Trafford.

Someone else, perhaps the imperious looking Louis Van Gaal, will come in as a replacement. And life will move on.

Well, it may not move on quite so peacefully if, as reports suggest, the combative Roy Keane enters the equation as his assistant. But that potential Punch and Judy Show is reserved for future viewing.

What I’m still trying to figure out is why Moyes came to be at Old Trafford in the first place. When he was at Goodison, he had good sides and he had not so good sides. He did spend some time avoiding relegation a little while back, but he had time in abundance.

There were negatives: some wag labelled him “Dave the Ditherer” for an alleged failure to make up his mind about the recruitment of playing staff.

Aside from that, he had always been a defensive manager and any time Everton did anything was by sheer weight of numbers.

Sure, they were hard to beat; they went to places and sneaked goals - but this was a completely foreign ethic to Manchester United. They never played like that; they never were like that.

So, hereabouts, we should turn our attentions to Sir Alex Ferguson, who picked his fellow Scot out as the Chosen One.

I’d imagine Fergie is suffering deep disappointment right now, not to say embarrassment.

Oh, nothing will ever take away his achievements as a Manchester United manager, nor what he did for the game as a whole in the process. But this move turned into a barely watchable reality show.

Surprise, Surprise could be renamed Astounding, Astounding.

Look, if Fergie never handled failure very well as a manager, the important thing was he could always put things right the next week.

Unfortunately, the appointment of David Moyes is now a stain on Ferguson’s curricula vitae that will never be erased - it’s resistant to all known detergents.

Nobody knows, or maybe is unlikely to know, the exact nature of the relationship shared by the two men. Until Fergie comes out with another book, of course. But I imagine there’ll be a bit of him that says: “I shouldn’t have got involved in this - I should have left it to somebody else.”

What we do know is that the appointment equalled a catastrophic mistake. And it was a catastrophic mistake to imagine that the Man Utd way of playing would have been continued by Moyes.

If I remember correctly, it was mooted in some quarters some years ago that Martin O’Neill would be the one to replace Fergie, but it was blown out of the water by the suggestion that O’Neill’s style would be incompatible with United’s.

Yet that was conveniently forgotten when Moyes was appointed.

Oh, to have been a fly on the wall and witnessed their relationship over the last few months.

Maybe Fergie thought if he had a fellow Glaswegian on board, then he could influence things. But, obviously, with the way the new arrival went about it - sacking Fergie’s backroom staff and alienating his squad by talking openly about making six or seven signings - suggests he didn’t want that influence.

I remember coming across something similar when I went back to Celtic Park as a scout under Tommy Burns. We were sitting having a cup of tea and Jaffa cakes and there had been a suggestion that Billy McNeill should come in and oversee things with Tommy.

Tommy shook his head and I asked him why.

“’Cos Big Billy would have been asking the washer woman which soap powder she was using to wash the strips,” he replied.

“And maybe the groundsman wouldn’t have been cutting the grass the right way. At the start, Billy’s input might have been 20 or 30 per cent; by the time his feet were under the table, you’d find it was 60 or 70 per cent. I couldn’t have that.”

Hey, who knows in this daft game of ours, maybe Fergie thought that Moyes could adapt himself and grow into the job. But the truth is that everything he touched in those ten months in charge has turned to dust.

I remember one match early on when the camera panned in on Fergie and his face was set to fizz. You could almost see steam coming out of his ears.

There was no width on the park, everything was concentrated in the middle of the park. But that was Big Davy’s way of playing: narrow everything down, sit back for 70 minutes away from home until opportunity presented itself.

I mean, there was a time when going to Hull and winning 1-0 was a great result for Everton. But this was Manchester United. A bit of style and class was demanded.

It was apparent that the majority of players were not singing from the same hymn sheet. How did Patrice Evra and the boy Buttner feel when they knew the manager was trying to sign Leighton Baines?

They weren’t going to get the toolboxes out if noises were being made that they weren’t going to be there long. He kept making it known in public that some players weren’t good enough.

So Fergie, whatever the input he has in the next appointment, has to live with the memory of this fiasco. If he‘d gone into proper retirement and let them get on with running United, perhaps voiced his opinion if and when it was asked for, it would perhaps be a very different story,

But he seems to like being the doyen of managers - the Godfather, giver of gifts.

Well, this one's come back to haunt him. He‘s a racing man is Sir Alex and, in racing terms, he backed the wrong horse.