Wayne rides again: boy's own story that can't be put down

Rooney's display of keepball exhilarating and exasperating

It was rather like flicking through the pages of a book after a too-lengthy absence. Now, where were we? Ah, yes. Portugal 0, England 1. Lisbon. European Championship quarter-final. 24 June. Our young hero has been forced to depart the field. We will never know what the denouement would have been if Wayne Rooney hadn't broken a bone in his foot, though the suspicion is a finale rather more auspicious than that which England actually experienced.

What we can confirm, after yesterday, is that his adventures in this, the revised version of the chronicles of S G Eriksson, appear destined to continue for several tomes to come.

Which is not to suggest that the presence of football's Harry Potter dominated this encounter as it had here on his debut for Manchester United, when Fenerbahce were the victims. It was not that kind of contest. Too much familiarity altogether, frankly, and sometimes that breeds nothing more than yet further familiarity. What this contest cried out for was some good, honest contempt.

Even without the presence of Welsh sport's version of the boy racer in a souped-up Ford Escort, the suspended Wales midfielder Robbie Savage, one assumed this was going to be car-crash football, the kind best watched watch with fingers over eyes.

In that respect, Rooney, designed primarily for acceleration with a precise built-in direction-finding system, but most pertinently constructed of the most robust material, was eminently suited to these circumstances. An early collision between the Manchester United striker and John Hartson threatened to lead to an outburst of road rage, but both clambered to their feet and shook hands.

Such a moment encapsulated an encounter which, apart from some typical brattishness from Craig Bellamy, whose ever-lengthening blond locks give the appearance that he is metamorphosing into a Savage-with-talent, was played out in extraordinarily docile fashion.

Having considered as many shapes as a Blue Peter presenter, Sven Goran Eriksson had eventually opted for the diamond he had attempted to thrust on his team before, this time with Nicky Butt at the base and Rooney at the apex. While such a formation had its virtues, namely the advantage to the England coach that he did not have to decide which of Michael Owen and Jermain Defoe should partner the 18-year-old Rooney, now considered an England stalwart, it also yielded space down the flanks to the opposition.

As it transpired, in a strangely muted contest, that threat was rarely realised. England having secured an early lead from Frank Lampard's boot, simply bided their time, countered Wales's largely impotent attack, and foraged for a second goal to quell all doubts about the destination of the points. It was to arrive late on from the foot of the mercurial David Beckham.

"I think it worked very well; all three had good games," Eriksson said of the triple assault on Paul Jones's goal. "There was a very good balance in the team." Against these opponents, perhaps. One cannot see the Swede repeating the exercise against more wily opposition, however.

Within Eriksson's formation, Rooney, wearing distinctive white boots and confirming his attitude with that shirt-out-of-shorts demeanour of the maverick down through the ages, probed and irritated the Wales rearguard in what was, for much of the game, a restrained return to the fold.

The stocky Fulham defender Mark Pembridge had been detailed, if not exactly to negate him, then at least to puncture some of his exuberance. That ploy appeared decidedly futile when the striker swerved past his marker, brushing him aside like a matador confronted by an enraged bull, before unleashing a drive which scraped a post. It displayed an athleticism which the guest of honour, double Olympic gold-medallist Kelly Holmes, would have approved.

After the interval, Eriksson's pride of Lions began to snatch at chances. A second goal was essential, of course, but one sensed there was rather more to it than that. Owen, released from his purgatory at Real Madrid, had something to demonstrate, and not just to his detractors. Perhaps to himself as well. He ventured on the kind of scintillating run that first brought him to the attention of an international audience in France 98, only to fail as the Wales rearguard snared him in the penalty area.

Defoe, too, as an international player still under scrutiny, also had some persuading to do that he is more than potential, despite that goal against Poland. The Tottenham striker cannot be said to have done himself total justice here. Rooney is all about sheer instinct. No coach in his right mind, would consider dissuading him from performing with the devilry and resource- fulness which brought him to the goal-line, a mere couple of yards from Jones's near post. This time, his inexperience did fail him. Identifying space 'twixt post and custodian, he went for glory and was thwarted by the goalkeeper, much to the displeasure of the loitering Beckham and Owen. Before the end, you sensed Rooney was impaired by an inevitable fatigue that any player who had been absent since late June until recently would suffer. Then in the final 10 minutes, he made us appreciate the folly of that theory, dissecting the visitors' defence with an insolence and insouciance which is the stamp of the man. His finish, though, was that of a jaded individual.

Fortunately, Beckham had by then, well, bent it like Beckham used to do here on many an occasion, over the stricken Jones. Thereafter, in Mark Hughes's penultimate contest in charge, it was the England stroll that some had prophesied. Facile enough, and with only rare evidence from the Wales team that they possessed the heart to overcome a virtually full-strength England team.

This was an unexpectedly bland response to all those who contend that such a fixture should become a regular part of the British Isles football calendar. Certainly, what England do not require is more non-competitive matches against such teams, who are nothing but poor imitators of themselves. At least for Rooney it was the opportunity to ease himself back into the international fray. Not his most compelling display, certainly, but enough to convince us that his is a story that we simply won't be able to put down.