It has been a week of breathtaking cynicism and opportunism seldom exceeded when it comes to exposing so much that is wrong and morally bankrupt about modern-day footballers and a grubby industry where the rich are so obsessed with getting richer it can feel like money is how we must now keep the score.

Never again will anyone speak of Rooney, that old street footballer, being a throwback to those days when we would like to believe there was a bit more nobility about the men we wanted as our heroes and the most important words in the lexicon of the sport were not "pound", "thanks" and "cheerio".

Football has become a business where young men with fluffy chins can barely spell their own name but sure as hell do a good job when it comes to adding up – and there is a depressing inevitability that we will soon be subjected to the sight of Rooney putting the badge on his shirt to his lips, as if all the posturing and strategic manoeuvring and the cha-ching of men who like to chew gum as they swig their champagne has been a trick of our collective imaginations.

A part of you admires his nerve. It takes a special form of self-interest, after all, not only to wangle an extra God-knows-how-many millions out of England's biggest club over the space of his new five-year contract but to have done so at a juncture in Rooney's life when public opinion of him had dropped to a point where it was not just low but subterranean in some places.

And yet it has also been a week in which there has been at least one glowing reminder of the pleasures and the pride that should accompany being employed by Manchester United and the impression left is this: whatever you think of Sir Alex Ferguson, his hypocrisies, the frequent mistruths and the even more frequent rages, how can anyone not have at least begrudging admiration for that shrewd, political mind, still as sharp as a tack as we approach the beginning of his 70th year?

A preconception has built that Ferguson will send any player who challenges his authority to the guillotine. It is one he likes to cultivate himself. "If footballers think they are above the manager's control," he once said, "there is only one word to say: 'Goodbye.'" And there is a decent XI – Jim Leighton, Jaap Stam, Paul McGrath, Gabriel Heinze, Norman Whiteside, David Beckham, Paul Ince, Neil Webb, Roy Keane, Ruud van Nistelrooy, Dwight Yorke – who could testify to this ruthlessness.

But Ferguson is a pragmatist. He did not move on Peter Schmeichel after losing a 3-0 lead at Liverpool in January 1994, when a screaming match came close to turning into a punch-up. Paul Scholes was not transfer-listed in 2001 when he turned up his nose at playing with the kids in a Carling Cup tie against Arsenal and refused to board the bus. Whiteside and McGrath were ushered out for their apparent belief that beer and football were virtually synonymous but Ferguson kept Bryan Robson even though the great warrior had many of his own lost nights.

This was what compelled Ferguson to seek out Rooney at the club's training ground at 10am yesterday: the knowledge that losing him would cause too much damage to the team.

It was the morning after the night in which manager and player had never seemed further apart. Paul Simon once sang there are 50 ways to leave your lover and Rooney's idea was the worst kind of infidelity, namely to go off with their worst enemy, Manchester City. To twist Ferguson's analogy, he had seen a cow in a different field and, well, he wanted to milk its udders. But Ferguson, however much he felt personally let down, never lost sight of the fact that Rooney is the talisman of this team and, still only 24,, at 24, the great hope.

The manager set to work, reminding him of the club's history, the trophies he has already won, the size of the place, the traditions, the romance and what it means to put on that red shirt. He told Rooney he was making the most calamitous mistake of his professional life contemplating a move to Eastlands. He asked him whether it was worth becoming a pariah, to be remembered for all the wrong reasons. He asked him to put a price on the prestige of running out at Old Trafford – before answering the question himself and saying there was none.

As we have seen over the past five days, there is nobody better when it comes to long, impassioned homilies. Rooney listened, took it in and rang his agent, Paul Stretford, on the drive home to suggest they arranged another meeting, one final set of make-or-break talks.

A conference call was set up with the club's chief executive, David Gill, and two of Malcolm Glazer's sons, Joel and Bryan. Ferguson had done his bit. He had seen in Rooney's eyes that his words had got through but he knew there was still the issue of money to be resolved. Then, finally, at some point last night he took a call from Gill. The first two words were: "Good news."

Whether it is a cause for celebration is another matter but Ferguson was entitled to blow out his cheeks and chuckle as he sat down for an interview with MUTV today. Rooney, he said, had apologised to him and the other players, and would do likewise to the supporters. Rooney was then interviewed, but there was no apology. Somehow it symbolised a grubby week.