The name of the man we love is Rooney.
In Argentina the boy genius is known as the "pibe". They have a long tradition of slender gypsy boys, who begin as whispers in the barrio and strut their merry way across the stage of world football (usually never quite fulfilling their potential, yet being adored for their very specialness, their rareness -- for nothing, really, is rarer or more valuable than the number 10 who can thread it through a tight Argentine defence and make magic happen).
Rooney is no slender gypsy, of course, being a big fat scouser, who barrels rather than struts. He is no Beckham -- you cannot imagine him taking to the catwalk, and his girlfriend, though pretty, has no pretensions to being "posh".
But we love him despite that because he does do magic. He has made it possible for us to believe that we can, finally, see greatness in our team. His enormous self-belief and drive seem to be enough for the whole team.
Even Scholes scored. You know witchery is in the air when Scholes does anything worthwhile, let alone hit the net.
Our dreams will be shattered, we know. Rooney will lose his battle with booze/his weight/referees/injury. But he can have his moment right now and he must take it. Love may only burn for an instant, but the embers can warm you for life.