Michael Owen was once England's finest but cruel truth is that time has passed for Stoke City's new signing

After England had slipped out of the 2006 World Cup in wearily familiar fashion – losing on penalties in the quarter-final – distraught supporters found a modicum of comfort in this thought: never mind the misery of the present, the future looked bright indeed.

Michael Owen was once England's finest but cruel truth is that time has passed for Stoke City's new signing
Former glory: Michael Owen celebrates scoring for Manchester United against Bolton in September 2010 Credit: Photo: REUTERS

What with talents like Owen Hargreaves, Joe Cole and Michael Owen to see us through the next few years, England fans could easily believe things could only get better.

So, how did that go? Such is the capricious nature of football that, six years on, none of those extravagant hopes have been fulfilled. All three players have seen their progress compromised by an endless succession of injuries.

None more so than Owen, once England’s finest, once the striker who terrified the rest of the footballing world, now hobbled by a wretched catalogue of physical damage.

If ever a sportsman has been punished – Icarus like – by the sporting gods for his early promise it is Michael Owen. At 18, he was unstoppable, dancing through Argentina’s defence, apparently rocket-propelled, an image of youthful zest forever burned into our collective consciousness. He was not only quick, he was a dead-eyed finisher, the finest talent this country has produced in a generation.

And then came payback, the price paid for that moment of teenaged glory. A succession of injuries checked his pace and compromised his purpose. A fine, determined athlete, he kept training, kept trying, buoyed by a self-belief that did not recognise doubt.

Even as his hamstrings frayed and his ligaments snapped, Michael Owen remained convinced that Michael Owen was still the man, that he could still do it.

And – very occasionally – he could. That winner in the closing seconds of the Manchester derby suggested he retained his lynxlike eye for goal. But every time he did something like that – generally accompanied by a clamour in the press that he be reinstated in the England line-up – injury struck with metronomic cruelty.

If we were to be particularly harsh, however, it is possible to insist that Owen’s ill luck does not extend to his employment record. He has managed to trade reputation and potential to find continued employment in the Premier League since rupturing his cruciate ligament playing for England against Sweden in that 2006 World Cup.

In the six years since that unhappy snap, he has made but 60 Premier League appearances for Newcastle United and 31 for Manchester United. The last time he was seen on a football pitch was last November, when he played in United’s Champions League tie with Otelul Galati.

His last league game was against Stoke nearly a year ago. The man we assumed would be the first name on the international team sheet for a generation was last picked for England in August 2008.

Yet even as his ability to contribute has stuttered and stalled, still the money has come in, paid out by management more in hope than expectation. The wages of blind faith have financed his racing interests, enabling him to turn his hobby into a serious business.

And here he is once more signing a deal which could net him £25,000 a week with Stoke City. Conveniently placed, too, his new employers. The Britannia Stadium is just down the road from his stables in Malpas.

You can’t blame him for taking the money. He is no shirker, swinging the lead in the physio’s room. He would much rather be playing than cashing cheques, much rather be smacking the ball into the back of the net. And he has not walked away from the game because he believes he can still contribute something, believes that his talent still has currency.

It appears he is not the only one. The man who once graced Anfield and the Bernabéu is about to turn out at the Britannia. He has signed a pay-per-play contract similar to the one which was offered to the equally compromised Jonathan Woodgate last season. Which, if nothing else, demonstrates that the Stoke manager Tony Pulis is a born optimist.

Indeed, his signing suggests that those in control of football share this characteristic with us fans: they are incorrigible romantics.

How we all want Owen to be back to what he once was. How we all relish the idea that he could do it once again, defy the injury devil, switch on the after-burners and tear through a defence once more. And Peter Coates, the Stoke chairman, is no different.

“Michael is a good guy,” he said of his new player. “He is also a very proud guy. He might feel he’s been written off and might feel he’s got a point to prove.”

It is no surprise that Coates made his fortune from gambling. Sure Owen is one of football’s decent types, dedicated, polite, clean-cut; someone who has always understood the power of an unsullied image.

Sure, he may be absolutely determined to remind the world that he can still cut it on the football field. But the chances of it happening are about as high as Hargreaves and Cole being voted footballer of the year. Or England ever progressing beyond a quarter-final shoot-out. The truth is, if there was genuinely anything left in those legs, Manchester United would not have let him go.

Cruel as it may sound, if they are looking to resurrect the past, Stoke might have been better off trying to tempt Jimmy Greenhoff out of retirement. It is not remotely his fault, but Owen is simply no longer the man he was. Worse, reality may soon be about to prove he is no longer the man he thinks he could still be.