Take Diego Maradona out of the 1986 World Cup and what have you got? Yet another German triumph, probably. Karl-Heinz Rummenigge lifting the solid gold after a victory in Mexico City over — who knows? — England. There would surely have been no place in the final for Argentina. Not without the little big man with his blasphemous hand and divine feet.

Maradona was much more than the god of dribbling and during that tournament he inspired a whole squad. The likes of Jorge Valdano and Jorge Burruchaga grew and delivered their best for a month. Four years later, though nowhere near fully fit, Maradona almost did the same in Italy, helping Argentina to scrape past the hosts in the semi-finals before falling to the Germans in Rome, eventually with nine men.

Given that Maradona was arguably the greatest player of all time — I’d narrowly favour Pelé, while some even older people advocate Alfredo di Stéfano — a great deal of hesitation precedes the mention of Wayne Rooney in the same breath. But, if England are ever to have an equivalent of Maradona, a creative and dynamic force capable of turning a team into world champions, Rooney is the man.

Paul Gascoigne was too brittle mentally and, in consequence, physically. Bryan Robson did not quite have Gazza’s talent. Glenn Hoddle was too slow. David Beckham’s virtues lay — or lie — mainly in serving others. Michael Owen had — or has — to be served. Rooney, like Maradona, can make or take. He is quick enough and very strong and becomes more of a leader with every international. Last night we had a distressing glimpse of Fabio Capello’s England without him.

Capello began the evening with a probable five matches in which to balance the requirements of keeping the team attuned to Rooney and finding an alternative strategy in case misfortune befalls the Manchester United player. There are now four matches left and he can hardly afford to experiment against Brazil in Doha, Qatar, next month.

The system used against Belarus offered no semblance of the poise, rhythm, variety and penetrative quality Rooney supplies. At least until Beckham arrived, an aimless performance proved, using Aaron Lennon and Shaun Wright-Phillips as uncomfortable examples, that speed alone achieves nothing. Rooney has an instinct for a team’s requirements; it has led some critics to accuse him of being too unselfish when the truth is that, in football beyond a certain level, there is no such thing. If you doubt it, look at England without Emile Heskey, let alone Rooney. Look at the efficacy of the 4-2-3-1 system Capello has devised to get the best out of Rooney, with Heskey in front and Steven Gerrard just to the left.

Last night they lacked Rooney — and Heskey, and Gerrard — and we were delivered the nightmare scenario, the Plan B of which Capello had spoken on Tuesday, a sort of 4-4-2 with Peter Crouch and Gabriel Agbonlahor at the front, the kind of thing we used to have except when Hoddle or Terry Venables was trying to teach English footballers to play between well-worn lines.

Capello’s choice of wide men told its own story. Some speed merchants are clearly more equal than others and Lennon took the right while Wright-Phillips occupied the right-footers’ graveyard on the opposite flank. He scored amid a goalkeeping display by Yuri Zhevnov that must have been the worst seen at Wembley since Frank Haffey, of Scotland, let in nine in 1960.

The first of Crouch’s easy goals had suggested that it would be a night when reputations advanced. But the next entry in the notebook, nearly half an hour later, was a tick beside the name of Glen Johnson for the covering that denied Alexander Kulchy a look at the whites of Ben Foster’s eyes.

This was not supposed to be an occasion for defenders. Yet there was no England attack to discuss — just a void where Rooney used to be. The tactics were pre-Zagreb Capello. There was too much pointless width and a gulf between midfield and the front.

Spain or Brazil would have been a couple of goals to the good by half-time. If this was Plan B, spare us Plan Z.

The band played frantically and a Mexican wave started, only to peter out through lack of interest; it was the most heartening sign thus far. You could only feel sorry for the crowd. To have paid Wembley prices for a party like this must have been galling. No wonder most had headed home before the players clapped thanks for their support.

Lennon and Wright-Phillips, isolated on the flanks, had little option but to wait for hospital balls from Frank Lampard and Gareth Barry. It was all so arid until Beckham appeared on the touchline.

Plan C? A touch of stardust, certainly. You could see what Steve Bruce meant with the man-of-the-match award. Only Beckham had a hint of the Rooney effect.

All the erstwhile captain did at first was take a short corner, but Wright-Phillips, as if fortified, tried a shot that Zhevnov somehow failed to stop. The spectators could unfurrow their brows. Not Capello, though. He had some explaining to do.

He said that his players had failed to win the ball back quickly enough and passed badly. “This was the problem,” he added. “We did not make enough short passes.” He admitted being angry with them and it was tempting to reflect that, in Steve McClaren’s day, the anger would have been coming the manager’s way. So now for Brazil, with Rooney and Plan A. What lies beyond? A nation of crossed fingers.