Having brushed away a question about disciplinary issues, Wayne Rooney’s blue eyes grew ever paler and colder when the matter of his diminishing goalscoring record for England was raised. “I’ve no problem with it,” he said.

“Don’t you even think . . .” his examiner continued.

“No,” Rooney said, interrupting with a finality that suggested a third question on the subject might lead to the matter of discipline being raised again, as the result of a flying head-butt. And maybe he doesn’t. Maybe Rooney never sits down and wonders what became of the player Sven-Göran Eriksson compared to Pelé during the European Championship tournament in 2004; but the rest of us do.

What we recall about the teenage Rooney is that he always looked like scoring. He had a shot, a trigger that he was ready to pull from just about anywhere around the box, and it frightened the life out of defenders. His movement was great, and it still is, but when he got within range, he just developed greater purpose. He looked as if this was what he was born to do, as if he operated on pure instinct. That must be terrifying for a defender. A manufactured player, one whose talent has been coached and honed and polished, you know what he is up to, you know his rules. The guys that can make it up as they go along, those little explosions of imagination all around the penalty box; they must be a nightmare.

I remember sitting down with Jimmy Greaves and Robbie Fowler many years ago. “Do you do your work, Rob, do you track back, cover the defender,” Greavsie asked.

“Oh yes,” the young man said, dutifully, trotting out the stock answer, every bit the modern striker, match-winner one minute, first line of defence the next.

“What the bloody hell are you doing that for?” Greaves exclaimed. “You’ve got nine others to win the ball and one to stay up there and stick it in the net. How are you going to do that if you are chasing all over the place making tackles? You’re going to be knackered.”

Fowler’s face suggested Jimmy’s advice would not be conducive to winning a regular first-team place at Liverpool.

And Jimmy is a dinosaur on this subject, I know. The modern game, bizarrely, has more time for the striker who works but doesn’t score, than it does the striker that scores but does no work. The extended international career of Emile Heskey, 47 caps, five goals and counting (but only on the fingers of one hand) confirms that. Yet there is a middle ground and Rooney needs to rediscover it. In six minutes against Andorra in Barcelona, Joe Cole equalled Rooney’s competitive scoring record for England over more than four years. Cole scored twice, as has Rooney since June 21, 2004. For any striker this would be poor; for England’s Pelé, it is a minor catastrophe. Fabio Capello’s first thought on taking over as national coach was to make Rooney his lone wolf, the equivalent of Luca Toni, of Italy, but in two matches he played more like Luca Brasi and Capello’s plan A was sleeping with the fishes.

Rooney could have played alone in 2004, no doubt about it. He could have played anywhere in 2004 such was his talent. Somehow, in nobly suppressing his instincts for the greater cause at Manchester United, creating the space for Cristiano Ronaldo in that selfless, 21st-century, style, Rooney has lost a crucial part of what made him irresistible as an international footballer.

It is not just that his scoring ratio is no longer that of a successful forward but that it is inferior even to the midfield. In the years when Rooney has scored twice in competitive matches, Steven Gerrard has scored seven times, Frank Lampard and Joe Cole six, and even David Beckham has scored on three occasions.

The matches spent chasing the ball out wide for Manchester United, or creating the diversionary space for Ronaldo are taking a toll. Even Capello now talks of Rooney as one of a number, rather than the decisive player for England. “Rooney is not fantastic right now, but he is important for the team,” he said. “It was not the best game for him against Andorra, but he tried to touch the ball a lot and made a fantastic pass for the second goal. He needs space, and I hope he will find it. At this moment he is playing well.”

Not a verbal portrait of Pelé, though, is it? Not the reference of a player that terrified France, the European champions at the time, in 2004. It is as if the demands of the modern game have sucked the instinctive life out of him, making Rooney a player that chases down a defender or happily mucks in when he should be the star. It is admirable, this devotion to the team, except English football is suffering for his unselfishness. United have Ronaldo, which makes it understandable that last season Rooney was sometimes required to do a workmanlike shift on the flank, but, for England, Rooney is Ronaldo. He is the special one, the player that makes the difference. Indeed, since Ronaldo has been absent for Manchester United, even Sir Alex Ferguson has grown frustrated with Rooney’s decency, and called on him to toil less and score more.

For England, that certainly applies. An unreconstructed member of the bone idle goalscorers club he may be, but, in essence, Greavsie had it right: England have nine water carriers to run up the hill all day, and one intuitive genius that briefly made a connection with Pelé. And if that footballer turned up in Zagreb, it might scare the life out of them. For once, son, just go out and play.

And another thing...

Donkeys but no Messiah

Details just in of Newcastle United’s nativity play: one Wise man, 11 donkeys and most definitely no Messiah.

Corluka gets timing wrong

There is an old story about a boxer, a good, honest sort, British champion, loses his opponent one week before a televised bout. Fixer steps in, saves the day, gets an American over, meant to be a bit useful but nothing out of the ordinary.

Straightforward pay day, everybody happy. Anyway, 12 rounds later, the boxer is back on his stool, battered, bruised, bleeding. He got the points decision, but it was the hardest night of his life. The unknown turned out to be able to do a bit. The press gather round. “So, who are you going to fight next?” they ask. “The f***ing matchmaker,” the boxer replies.

Probably apocryphal but, even so, I was reminded of it when Vedran Corluka’s agent at last managed to secure his move from Manchester City to Tottenham Hotspur, roughly an hour before two hundred billion quids-worth of Arabian oil money walked in.

West Ham out of order

For a club who lost their last manager, Alan Curbishley, amid claims he was undermined at board level, West Ham United do not seem to learn. The directors may wish for a positive answer from Slaven Bilic over the manager’s job, but parking their tanks on Croatia’s lawn two days before a World Cup qualifying match against England in Zagreb is no way to go about it.

Bilic is the proud coach of a proud country. Privately, he may feel that as a young man he has already exceeded expectations with the national team and it is time to take a significant club role. The Barclays Premier League is the place to be right now and West Ham are a club who regard him with special affection. Even so, what are they doing? How can they be so thoughtless as nakedly to make their interest public, even trying to put Bilic under pressure by attempting to organise a meeting in the next 48 hours, while talking up other candidates.

This man is preparing for the biggest match of Croatia’s World Cup qualifying campaign; West Ham want to have a new manager in the stands by the time of a game with West Bromwich Albion on Saturday. You will notice the difference? A final shortlist is to be discussed at Upton Park today, hence the attempt to coerce Bilic into making a decision, but to behave as if this overrides his present schedule is of little credit to the club. It is poor behaviour, arrogant and insensitive, with the potential to embarrass and weaken their prime target if Croatia do not get a good result against England on Wednesday.

Even leaving ethical concerns aside, as a headhunting tactic it could backfire if Bilic feels that he must dismiss West Ham’s overtures just to prove his loyalty to his employers at the Croatian federation.

Remember how Brian Barwick blew the FA’s courtship of Luiz Felipe Scolari in 2006, by pressuring him to make a decision while still under contract to lead Portugal at the World Cup finals.

Curbishley did not do the finest job at Upton Park. He bought poorly and expensively, and his successor will be paying for his mistakes. Yet one thought remains. If this is the consideration that is being shown for the new guy, what must life have been like for the manager the directors were no longer trying to impress?

Gerrard is not perfect

Steven Gerrard believes that he has been played in his proper position, central midfield, just five times in 68 appearances for England. This is bizarre. Records show that Gerrard has played there six times in the past year alone: against Israel, Russia, Estonia and Croatia at home, Russia and Austria away. He played there against Brazil and Estonia before, and through most of Sven-Göran Eriksson’s time as England head coach.

Yet Gerrard does not really mean central midfield. He means as the sole attacking central midfield player, with the team shaped and selected to serve his needs. No doubt a few would like similar indulgence.

Derren Brown, the psychological illusionist, conducted an experiment in which he gathered a group of strangers in a room and interviewed them. He then wrote detailed psychological profiles of each, which he distributed at random, instructing the individuals to study the profile and exchange it with a neighbour if the folder contained their own notes. All attempted to swap. That was the trick. The profiles were identical. Brown fooled the group with standard, nonspecific pages of flattery.

“Your perfectionism means you sometimes struggle to get things done,” he wrote. We would all like to think that, wouldn’t we? Not that we are idle, or slow, or lack aptitude. No, it is our high standards that cause us to miss deadlines or make mistakes.

Gerrard’s explanation for the fact a succession of England managers – and frequently his Liverpool manager, Rafael BenÍtez, too – refuse to mould the midfield around his talent alone is that he has paid the price for being decent in other positions.

He is a wonderful player but, like the members of Brown’s circle, not perfect; very few are.