In the past few days, the good people of Football Twitter have rediscovered a Guardian article from 2014. Dick Bate, former manager of the England Under-17s, recalled an occasion from the 2002 European Championships in which a young Wayne Rooney, at a meal with the entire squad, stood up and read a self-composed poem called When Saturday Comes. In this poem, Rooney expressed his pride in representing his nation. This has got me thinking: are footballers truly thick?

Have we judged Rooney unfairly?

Have we judged Rooney unfairly?

That is certainly the prevailing sentiment. Admittedly, I have not been able to obtain a copy of When Saturday Comes, to determine whether it is actually any good. But regardless, the Rooney who not only writes poetry but also desires to read it to his teammates is not the Wayne Rooney that has been presented for 20 years in the media. Have we judged Rooney unfairly based on a mixture of tabloid headlines, granny shenanigans and his unavoidable Scouse accent?

This is actually not the first anecdote of Rooney from recent years that has shifted my opinion of him. Football journalist Henry Winter has told the story of when he went to Auschwitz with........

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