James Lawton: Rooney's real talent undermines celebrity status of Beckham

Maybe, just maybe Wayne Rooney's as yet uninflated but quite brilliant precocity will change not just the prospects but also the operating style and demeanour of Sven Goran Eriksson's England.

That, after the months of drift which was checked and perhaps turned back with Wednesday's ultimately conclusive victory over the World Cup semi-finalists Turkey, certainly must be the well-founded hope.

What Rooney could well represent is a shift to a celebration of real talent rather then mere celebrity for its own sake. Levels of performance by big-name England players will, you have to believe, need to be re-appraised in the shadow of an authentic major talent.

Some things, of course, did not change at the Stadium of Light. David Beckham was still celebrity-in-chief, acting out his carefully scripted role on centre stage. He seemed less a field general than a series of headlines waiting to happen. So what was new? A kid sharing the field who looked as if he was intent on one thing only: a proper exploration of talent which, when it erupted so memorably, dwarfed everyone else.

Before the match, Beckham said that he was personally insulted over the charge that the team he leads lacked passion, and in the first phase of a hugely important game he seemed to be intent on revealing to the world his own levels of commitment. This didn't smack of mature leadership, and the cynical might have said he had a far better opportunity in the World Cup quarter-final against Brazil, when of all the sad symbols of a witless defeat the most pervasive image was certain to be his leap into the air and surrender of the ball which helped set in motion Rivaldo's crushing equaliser.

On Wednesday night, Beckham's leadership, particularly in the opening phase of the game, carried the hallmark, frankly, of a decapitated chicken. He was booked, inevitably, which means that he misses the next game against Slovakia. Worse even than that was the flurry of advertisements for himself and, when right at the finish, he had the opportunity to cement his side's victory from the penalty spot, he of course ran into the crowd with his arms outstretched, which, given the turbulence of the terraces and the powder-keg presence of many vendetta-driven Leeds supporters anxious to reacquaint themselves with Turkish fans, was another major failure of football statesmanship. Another small crowd invasion ensued.

Over the 90 minutes Beckham no doubt made a significant contribution to a much improved England effort. When he abandoned his connect- the-dots psychological-warfare kit, he looked like the player of considerable talent he is. But there was much nonsense to clear away, and before it was done the strong conviction had to be that the captaincy of England should not be used so relentlessly as a means of drawing attention to yourself.

Where Rooney's role, beyond the wonderfully functional value of his talent, may also be valuable is in the perspective it can bring to the worst excesses of the celebrity game.

Rooney is a kid who so far seems blessedly unaffected by the force of his arrival in the big time. The most serious indictment against him so far is that when he was prematurely awarded the Young Sports Personality of the Year award he forget to remove his chewing gum – and tighten his tie knot.

At the Stadium of Light he bathed the embattled Eriksson in a new and much more hopeful light. Most radiant was the sense that in an hour of extreme pressure, the Swede had found some genuine nerve. In Japan the knock on him was that he was passive to the point of slipping into a coma of indecision. In Shizuoka he tried nothing. In Sunderland he went for Rooney over Heskey, a profound decision which, his bosses must pray, has the potential to illuminate however long is left for his regime.

Rooney against Heskey would not have been a debate in Brazil, of course. It would have been noted, as a matter of course, that when Rooney receives the ball he has the natural capacity to de-populate the space around him. He makes his own ground, instinctively, while Heskey, wonderfully hearted no doubt, has quite the opposite effect. His corner of the pitch suddenly becomes a tube station at rush hour.

It would be easy to overstate Rooney's contribution against the Turks. When you pared it down to its essentials, it consisted of three or four lovely, sinuous runs, one or two examples of brilliant control and the exquisite creation of two chances for Michael Owen.

But it would also be negligent to dwell only on the details. Growing out of them was something much broader, much more moving, It was the overwhelming sense of a young footballer playing the game not for effect but from the deep well of his nature and his talent. There is no artifice about Rooney. He is what you see. He has no act, no agenda before the prosecution of the gifts with which he was born. His performance was a gale of fresh air and if it blows Eriksson to safety, so be it.

In football, as in life, you tend to make your own rewards. Rooney is Eriksson's gift for the boldest moment of his career as England's boss, and only his meanest critic would begrudge the dividend, and maybe the salvation, it has brought.