A fictional chapter of a fictional novel about a fictional transfer move about to happen.
It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. It wasn’t
supposed to happen this way at all. He looked on outside, as kids played and
giggled together. The past week, he hadn’t been very good at doing either. The
media had extrapolated the wrong sources. Everyone had forgotten what he had
given for all these years. It didn’t matter. He had been dethroned. He wanted
to come out and make a statement, but he knew it would just get worse. He was
still trying to learn the rules of this new reality.
His mind reeled the Scotland game. 67 minutes looked too
less. The touch from Lambert looked too many.
Could this be the same at Manchester United? Persie would walk into the
starting XI, and Hernandes loved to do such 67 min cameos.
He looked at himself in the mirror. He still had it in
him, didn’t he? Why else would Chelsea bid twice for him? He didn’t know if the
Rooney or bust headline made him look good or bad.
He looked around his living room. The trophies oozed of
satisfaction. Every season, he had added another concrete coating to Gary
Neville’s statement about him. His bank balance was well above what he had
expected. His agent had done a good job.
So did he need this? Did he deserve this? He had already tasted this around 10
years back. He didn’t want to do this all over again.
Just a year back, he had reasoned the pros and cons. Sir
Alex and he had debated this long enough. The football pundits had debated this
even more. He never thought such dilemmas and his receding hairline would ever
come back. But both of them did.
Chelsea’s transfer targets always hogged most of the
limelight. He had seen the Modric saga. If the club didn’t want to sell, he
wouldn’t be going. He had also seen the treatment Chelsea had given to Malouda,
Anelka and Alex. He didn’t want to be in either situation.
He switched on the television. The sports channels were
showing the Anzhi situation; Eto’o would be available. If Chelsea were ready
for his wages, they surely would bare Eto’os. He changed the channel.
“ Fear is the the path to the Dark Side. Fear leads
to anger, anger leads to hate; hate leads to suffering. I sense much fear in
you." –Yoda spoke to young Anaken.
Rooney thought about his own demons. He was just like Anaken,
hailed as the best. He had proved it too. But was he choosing the wrong path?
Would he be Darth Vader? His hair transplant would go unnoticed underneath the
mask. He giggled and shook his head at the childish analogy he had created.
Chelsea was a really good option. And Mourinho was a
good leader. The World Cup was coming closer day by day. But could a new team
help him better than Manchester United? Would a (god forbid!) pay cut be
viable? Was all this…normal?
He didn’t fear the arm chair critics; nor the ridicule
of the fans. He didn’t want his goals to dry up like Torres... Or Shevchenko…
Or Anelka… Or Pizzaro. A young Padawan in Lukaku was waiting under the wings to
conquer the Premier League. Would such a force be reckoned with?
“Aaarghh..stop
it with the Star Wars references” he thought to himself
He wanted to end this tonight. The unsigned transfer
request was lying in his drawer. While taking it out, he found a quotations
book in the drawer too. Finally something that didn’t mean media quotes or
quoting a price.
Distracted he was.
Rooney opened the first page.
‘The pen is mightier than the sword’ – it read. Rooney
strangely interpreted it as a question, would he sign it or tear it apart?
