A Letter to Wayne Rooney

We watched the England match with anticipation, and I must say, some hope that we could perform at least a little better.


England, lets face it, for what ever reason played extremely poorly.


At tha end of the match, the English fans booed, and Wayne rooney approached the cameras and wasnt overly happy with the loyal fan.


Heres a letter i found that pretty much sums up how I feel about it.









Dear Wayne,
You're not very happy with us, are you? You walked off the pitch last night to deliver a scathing verdict on 30,000 England fans who had travelled 6,000 miles to watch their country in the World Cup.
"Nice to see your own fans boo you. That's what loyal support is."
We read that comment last night as we trudged back to our Cape Town apartment. If it's OK with you, I'd like to share some thoughts on those supporters who you clearly feel treated you and your team-mates so harshly and unfairly.
What you heard at the final whistle was a collective howl of frustration, anguish and despair. It was the sound of fans guilty only of caring too much, investing too much faith and hope - and expectation - in an England team on whom they spend thousands of hard-earned pounds to follow across the globe.
And you think we're crap? You think we're unworthy of you? You think our performance in the stands was worse than yours on the pitch?
For 90 minutes, as England fans always do, we backed our team. We watched our England lions put on a performance - in that magical stadium in this wonderful city - so abject that it was almost beyond belief. South Africans watched, bewildered. Three fans in Brazilian shirts sitting near us fell asleep midway through the second half.

And still we stood and we sang - when we could be heard over the wounded elephant blaring of those wretched vuvuzelas - as we prayed for you to remember that you are one of the best footballers in the world and that any one of the club sides that pay you and your team-mates' extraordinary wages would have beaten that brave Algeria team without breaking sweat.
On a personal note, I opened a monthly savings account on the day we got back from Germany in 2006, into which I have paid £100 a month to be able to begin to afford this holiday. I'm with three lads in their mid-20s who have borrowed money they cannot afford to come with me. Thousands of similar stories would be told by those clad in red and white last night. We're here because we love football and we love our country.
But for me there's a sort of unwritten contract in place here. We invest everything in you. In return, we have the right to expect something in return. It's not the trophy, it's not victory in every match, it's not even victory in any match.
What we deserve, I think, is to walk away from every match knowing that we have watched eleven players who have performed with pride and given everything for the cause, no matter what the outcome. Can you look yourself in the mirror this morning and say you kept your side of that bargain?
You see, I know it sounds crazy and in my heart I know it's not true, but it looked to us as though you had almost given up towards the end of last night's match. You, who have that fire in your belly, that burning passion for the game you fell in love with as a kid? You're a football genius and you could barely control the ball. And your head was down.
I'm sure you're probably already regretting your scathing attack on the England fans. I'm sure - despite appearances to the contrary - that every one of you was desperate to give us something to cheer about last night.
And there is of course one last chance, against Slovenia, to salvage this wreck of a World Cup campaign. England have been here before and pulled off the Great Escape. Win that match and much will be forgiven and forgotten.
But for that to happen, it feels like we'll need to ship in a small army of sports psychologists to get inside your heads and work some magic to lift the burden of wearing an England shirt. I'd pay them all your salary if they could get you playing with the freedom you did as a kid, kicking a ball with your mates, two jumpers for goalposts on a back street in Liverpool. They'll probably tell you that we're part of the problem, that the weight of our expectation acts like a crushing, leaden weight on your shoulders. Get a siege mentality if you want, hate all of us if it makes you play like a team.
We're going to escape from football for a few days, staying in a tree house on a citrus farm on the edge of Addo Elephant National Park, 50 miles north of Port Elizabeth. But we'll be there to watch you on Wednesday afternoon - praying for a miracle.
Just remember this, Wayne. Those boos last night: they were the sound of a mangy old Labrador dog that has spent years lying loyally at its master's feet, gazing up at him with moony eyes, utterly devoted despite its owner's indifference, ready to forgive any slight if, just once in a while, a ball is picked up and thrown for it to chase.
But it's been ignored and left unfed once too often. So last night, it turned and snapped at its master. At you. Treat it better. Pick up that ball next time. Better still, kick it into the f***ing Slovenian net



Whats your views?