There was a time when if you were told that Manchester United had won 3-0 as it did Monday against Newcastle United, your instinctive response would be "How many did Wayne Rooney score?" The hugely gifted Shrek look-alike was a goal-o-matic last season, notching 34 in all competitions, and would surely have added another dozen save for a debilitating ankle injury suffered in the first leg of the Champions League quarterfinal against Bayern Munich on March 31.
Did I mention he hasn't scored since? In soccer terms that is the equivalent of a geological age. By comparison, the gap between A-Rod's 599th and 600th home runs was a mere speed bump.
Oh, how Sir Alex must wish he hadn't acted so impetuously and rushed Rooney back for the second leg against Bayern when he was a hobbling shell of his former rampaging self.
Zero goals in South Africa, nada over the summer, and, against the lackluster Magpies, another big fat goose egg. It didn't matter that Newcastle played for a draw from the opening kickoff, chasing the home side's shadows. United created chance after chance. If scuffed point-blank shots counted as goals, Rooney would have had a hat trick. As it was, he was hauled off after 63 minutes of pressing to break his duck, making way for the Mexican wonder boy Javier Hernandez.
What's stopping the Rooney drought from becoming a full-blown crisis is that ManU has two old warhorses and one freshly coiffed, chain-smoking Bulgarian picking up the slack. Do any world-class athletes mask their decrepitude more gracefully than Paul Scholes and Ryan Giggs, whose combined age is roughly the same as Betty White's? Scholes controlled midfield, spraying passes down the flanks or through the seams. One sumptuous ball found Dimitar Berbatov in the box, and the suddenly energized Bulgarian lashed it into the net. Scholes ended the night with a seeing-eye cross that Giggs volleyed triumphantly into the far corner.
Scholes and Giggs' delight at their ability to shrug off the years like so many half-hearted tackles stood in direct contrast to the forlorn figure Rooney cut on the field. His once Velcro touch betrayed him on the cusp of halftime when he turned in the box to drill a close-range shot, only to see the ball skitter off his foot into Darren Fletcher's path for the Scottish midfielder to put away.
Credit Rooney with an assist and remind him that even Tiger lifted a trophy again. Oh wait.
$162 million can't buy Manchester City a single goal
Despite having almost all his nouveau riches on gaudy display, Manchester City manager Roberto Mancini neglected to inform them that in the Prem, unlike say, in La Liga or Serie A, you don't have time to read a Prada catalogue when in possession of the ball. It's not called The Fastest (If No Longer The Best) League In The World for nothing.
Tottenham isn't the most turbo-charged team in the Prem, but Aaron Lennon's Mach 4 speed alone makes it dangerous in the open field. Time and again, City's slack-heeled defensive rookies Aleksandar Kolarov and Yaya Toure both seemed a yard or 3 off the pace, often tackling nothing but air. As for "The Other Spanish Attacker Named David," Silva saw slightly more of the ball than Robinho and Craig Bellamy, both of whom now reside in Mancini purgatory and remained rooted to the City bench.
Ever the cagey tactician, Mancini started three rugged ankle-shredders in midfield -- Yaya, Gareth Barry and Nigel "Karate Kid" de Jong -- to stanch the flow of the Spurs' attack, but it couldn't stop the home side from outshooting the monied arrivistes by 15 attempts to six. It was a display that led Tottenham's fast-talking manager, 'Arry Redknapp, to write off City's title hopes with 37 games still to play!
Only Joe Hart's acrobatic goalkeeping kept Tottenham from winning by three or four goals -- his reflex tip to deny Jermain Defoe's swiveling flick was the sickest of the bunch -- but unless City rachets up its game in the next few weeks, even England's New No. 1 won't be able to save Mancini's job. Continue reading here....
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