He's one of the greatest players ever to have graced the hallowed Old Trafford turf. A true Manchester United legend, his name, famous throughout the world, is synonymous with the club's illustrious history and proud traditions, whose loyalty to the United cause, not to mention his incredible achievements on the pitch, serves as an inspiration to players and fans alike.
But enough about Sir Bobby Charlton. It's the man who looks increasingly likely to usurp him as Manchester United's all-time leading goal-scorer, Wayne Rooney, that has been occupying my thoughts.
Having woken, on the Monday morning after the Arsenal match, with that warm glow that comes only from beating one of your rivals over the weekend, in a potentially season-defining match, it didn't take long for the seed of dissatisfaction, sown as I sat in the stands of Old Trafford, to germinate into something altogether more sinister.
I racked my brains and searched my soul. All the doubts and fears of a first season spent without the familiar presence of Sir Alex Ferguson at the helm bubbled to the surface. Yet, it wasn't that. We'd won. We'd beaten Arsenal; the league leaders; the pace setters. Okay, we didn't do it in style, but we still beat them.
So why did I still feel so hollow?
Then it struck me, as I read match report after match report and the name, Wayne Rooney, leapt from the page, again and again, and was thrust down my throat.
I was there. So I can understand why his performance was praised so highly. He was, after all, one of our star performers on the day, having put in a quintessentially Rooney-esque shift, more working class than world class; tracking back with admirable tenacity; running himself into the ground, without ever setting the world alight with a moment of brilliance like, say, a Ronaldo or a Messi would do. Still, I even found myself chanting his name at one point, caught up in the moment, transported, momentarily, to a different time, long ago, when he had seemed another potential hero to me.
I was there on his debut, you see, when he tore apart the first European opposition he'd come across in his career with the nonchalant brutality and fearless arrogance of a Killer Whale toying with a helpless seal. I was one of the thousands that watched from the stands as the Old Trafford floodlights became his personal spotlight for the night, this footballer-that-looked-more-like-a-boxer from Croxteth, who had crossed the divide from Merseyside to Manchester, his eyes glinting with the cockiness of youth, the flag of his steam-rolling England performances during Euro 2004 waving proudly in his wake.
We all chanted his name that night. We took him to our hearts. Even the doubters, myself amongst them, who had thought him little other than a jumped-up scally, quickly realised that we were witnessing the dawn of something potentially very special; something raw, dangerous and exhilarating. There was a fire and a fury about the young Wayne Rooney that spoke to our collective soul. Here was someone, like Cantona and Keane before him, who could grip a game by the scruff of its neck and change its outcome through the sheer swashbuckling force of his will.
Yes, we chanted his name, even labelling him the 'White Pelé,' a comparison to one of football's true icons that seems a little silly all these years later.
We forgave him his occasional bouts of bull-like, mindless aggression, putting them down to youthful exuberance and reminding ourselves of all the other United greats that had been prone to such moments of insanity over the years, excusing his every petulant kick and scything challenge, and closing ranks whenever such actions left him otherwise isolated on the national stage.
Then he betrayed us.
Now, I'm a fully grown, thirty two year old man. I'm not labouring under the illusion that anyone who pulls on the sacrosanct red jersey of Manchester United should be willing, nay happy, to give their life, unquestioningly, to the cause, not just content, but privileged, to devote every moment of their career to this great club.
Still, flirting with City is unforgivable.
Nevertheless, while perhaps not forgiving Rooney, the majority of us, over time, opted to give him another chance, convincing ourselves he'd been badly advised by the posse of parasites that have attached themselves to him over the years, with Paul Stretford chief-leech among them.
Inevitably though, it has never been the same. The days of our revelling in his glory are gone. We have been putting up with him ever since Sir Alex's famous press conference, when he came as close as ever he would to lowering himself onto bended knee and tearfully begging a player to stay.
We remember that day, we fans, when we watched, mortified, as our leader whored himself and our football club out for the sake of one individual, who was holding us to ransom in order to improve his own personal circumstances, recoiling at the realisation that we needed him more than he needed us.
Still, as I said, we moved on. We got over it and, after a time, we began to believe that, with Sir Bobby's goal tally in his sights and the acquisition of a truly world class, ready made goal machine in Robin Van Persie for him to play alongside, Wayne would surely see that staying at United was the best thing he could have done.
Only, he didn't. Instead, he seemed to take the purchase of RVP as a personal attack on him which, in part at least, it probably was. After all, for years, Rooney had been United's go-to man for the big games, often carrying those around him. Now, he was being dropped or substituted on a regular basis, and had to suffer the indignity of Sir Alex publicly poking fun at his weight, seemingly revelling in his role being reversed from bullied to bully, and making it abundantly clear that he felt Wayne Rooney had now become eminently dispensable.
Yet the new regime, with David Moyes at the helm, made keeping Rooney, this repeatedly disloyal, selfish, arrogant, self-serving, sulking, out of shape, self-styled-megastar, at the club their overriding priority over the summer, and they celebrated the achievement of it like they would the purchase of a new star signing, conveniently brushing over the fact that he was yet to actually sign a new contract and refusing to celebrate goals with his teammates, indicating that he was merely being held hostage.
I don't hate Wayne Rooney. He has given us some wonderful memories over the years. Likewise, I'm not so bitter that I can't appreciate when he puts in a genuinely world class performance, as he did last night, providing four assists in United's 5-0 demolition of Bayer Leverkusen. I just prefer it when someone else, like Shinji Kagawa, for example, takes the accolades, because then my joy isn't tainted by treachery.
I'm sick and tired of Wayne Rooney. I'm tired of his name. I'm tired of his face. I'm tired of his attitude. I'm just tired of him.
As for Sir Bobby's record, the thought that we may see Wayne Rooney's name at the top of that list in the future would prove beyond doubt that there really isn't any justice in the world. I can only pray that David Moyes plans to offload the pretender to Sir Bobby's throne as soon as his 248th United goal hits the back of the net.
Well said.
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