Craig Bellamy - GoodFella (20 page)

By preparing as though I was going to play, I was also ensuring that the disappointment would be even greater when I didn’t play. So then I started telling myself I had to change tack. I stopped building myself up too much so that it would be easier to deal with the disappointment of not being selected. But then when I did start, it almost came as a shock to me. I had an hour to get prepared. That was it.

Rafa said he would not release the starting eleven until an hour before kick-off because he didn’t want to give the opposition an advantage. What he meant was that he didn’t want anyone to leak the team early and he didn’t trust players to keep it secret. He didn’t trust the players on the pitch so he certainly wasn’t going to trust them off it.

Crouchie and I made a joke of trying to guess what combination Rafa would pick up front. He and I never started together because Dirk Kuyt, who had been signed from Feyenoord for £9m in the summer, usually got the nod ahead of both of us. So it was one from two. If the opposition had a quick defence, I knew Crouchie was going to play. If they were poor in the air, Crouchie would play. If they were vulnerable to pace, I would get the nod.

Like I say, I thought Rafa over-complicated things. He liked the idea of turning a match into an intellectual contest. He was obsessed with trying to second-guess the opposition line-up, too. Then, if he thought he knew what they were planning, he’d spring a different formation to try to unsettle the team he thought the other manager had picked.

It felt as though it always had to be about him. Maybe this was a striker’s paranoia but I noticed a couple of times that he substituted players when they had scored two goals. It was as if he didn’t want that player to go on and get a hat-trick because if he got a hat-trick, all the headlines would be about the player, not what a tactical genius Rafa was. It was always about Rafa. It was so important to him to be the one everyone was talking about. It was like he always had something to prove.

A few months into the season, I went up to Blackburn to see Mark Hughes and some of the lads at the training ground. He could see it in my face. “You’re not enjoying it, are you?” he asked. He said he wasn’t going to say ‘I told you’. In fact, he told me to stick at it and I might be surprised how things turned out. He also mentioned I’d be welcome back at Blackburn any time.

After the way Liverpool had finished the previous season, we thought we might have a real shot at the Premier League title. Players like Fernando Morientes, Didi Hamann and Djimi Traore had left the club but they had been replaced by quality signings like Kuyt, Alvaro Arbeloa, Fabio Aurelio and Jermaine Pennant. I thought I could add something, too.

But we started the season slowly. We only won one of our opening four games. We drew on the opening day at Sheffield United and then lost heavily in the Merseyside derby at Goodison. We had also been beaten at Chelsea, Bolton, Manchester United and Arsenal, too, by the middle of November. When we drew at Middlesbrough on November 18, we were in ninth place, already 16 points behind United, who were top.

That November was a difficult month for me. When I signed for Liverpool, I was facing charges that I had tried to strangle a woman in the No 10 nightclub in Cardiff the previous February, when I was playing for Blackburn. The woman’s friend had also accused me of grabbing her wrist and pushing her against a wall so I was up on two charges of common assault.

Liverpool asked about the case when I was signing for them. They wanted to know what the worst-case scenario was. They were told it was unlikely I would go to jail, even if I were found guilty. I knew that I hadn’t done anything wrong. I hadn’t touched either of them but I also knew that if Liverpool were worried about the publicity the case might generate, it could have derailed my move.

That didn’t happen but my trial was set for the end of November and, obviously, the closer it got, the more it worried me. The papers brought it up every time my name was mentioned and I struggled to deal with it. I was at Cardiff Magistrates’ Court for five days, listening to the account of how I was supposed to have grabbed one woman by the throat.

But the prosecution case was described in court as ‘a shambles’ and I was cleared by the district judge who said there were ‘serious discrepancies’ in the case against me. I understand that accusations have to be answered. I understand that my reputation probably went before me but I also felt bitter that the case had ever been allowed to go to court.

It was a great relief when it was over. My play began to improve. The first game after the end of the trial was Wigan away and I got the first two goals in a 4-0 win. I scored again in victories against Charlton and Watford and just before Christmas, Rafa called me into his office. I thought maybe he was going to say how pleased he was with my form.

That was naïve. Rafa turned the video on and started showing me clips of matches that had happened earlier in the season and which illustrated what I had been doing wrong then. I told him this was all very helpful but that I was actually playing quite well now.

“Yes,” Rafa said, “but I have got to show you what you were doing a few months ago to keep you improving.”

I wanted to tell him it would be nice if he gave me just a little bit of praise. He always talked about the negatives. He said he was trying to improve you but sometimes showing you what you are doing well can improve you as well.

It was pointless wanting him to change, though. I know it wasn’t anything personal. It wasn’t just me that he treated like that. It was just Rafa’s way.

20

Spanish Golf

W
e might have started slowly in the Premier League but we were flying in Europe. We drew away at PSV Eindhoven in our first Champions League group game but then we reeled off successive wins against Galatasaray and Bordeaux (home and away) before securing qualification to the knock-out phase with a game to spare courtesy of a victory against PSV at Anfield.

The draw for the last 16 paired us with Barcelona. That got my pulse racing. I had never played at the Nou Camp before. What a prospect that was.

Every player wants to test himself against the best, too, and this was a chance to play on the same pitch as stars like Lionel Messi, Xavi, Andres Iniesta and Carles Puyol. If I was selected, of course.

A fortnight before the game, I played for Wales against Northern Ireland at Windsor Park and all I could think about was avoiding injury. Rafa’s favourite word was ‘focus’ and I was focusing everything on that game at the Nou Camp. The Windsor Park pitch was hard with frost and there were a few lively challenges flying around. My spell at Celtic seemed to have made me a marked man with the crowd and some of the Northern Ireland players took up the cudgel too. The match was a rather dull 0-0 draw but I was just relieved to get out of there unscathed.

At the beginning of the following week, Rafa took us away to the Algarve in Portugal for a camp to prepare in earnest for the first leg of the Barcelona tie. It was made very clear that this was all about work. No going out. None of that. We were going to be allowed one game of golf and that was it. We knew we were going to have to be at our very best to have a chance against Barcelona. They were the holders, after all, so it was going to be tough. But Rafa had the golden touch in Europe and that inspired confidence in everyone. We worked hard in Portugal. We did a lot of defensive work. By the time the trip drew to a close, we felt thoroughly prepared.

The camaraderie within the squad was okay. The Spanish lads stuck to each other and then there was me Crouchie, Carragher and Steve Finnan in another group. It was just cultural. You could try and have a laugh with the Spanish lads but our mentalities were different. The training regime was all about being focused and the Spanish lads were very intense. Focus was Rafa’s favourite word but it drove me nuts. How can you not be focused when you’re playing for Liverpool?

Anyway, the last night before we flew back to England, we were allowed out for something to eat at one of the restaurants at the Vale do Lobo resort where we were staying. The whole squad went out. We were supposed to be back by 11pm but after a couple of drinks, we made a collective decision that we would ignore that deadline.

The evening started to get lively. There was some singing. There was a tradition at Liverpool, as there is at many clubs, that new signings have to get up and sing a song in front of the rest of the squad. I’d done mine at the Christmas party at John Aldridge’s bar in Liverpool (I sang ‘You’re Gorgeous’ to one of the reserve keepers who was a great lad but whose looks were, let’s say, rather rugged) and now it was the turn of a couple of others.

Javier Mascherano had only joined the club a couple of days earlier but he got up and sang some Spanish song. Then a few of the lads decided that John Arne Riise ought to sing, too.

Riise, who was known as Ginge, had ducked out of the Christmas do because he said he had some sort of family commitment in Norway. But someone discovered he had never actually gone to Norway. The lads set up this mock court where evidence was presented against him and in the end he admitted that he hadn’t gone to Norway at all. He had to pay the bar bill for the Christmas do as a fine and he agreed he’d do some karaoke the next time we had a party.

Ginge was a nice enough lad. He was a bit of a child. He was insanely competitive about challenges that might be set. Like if there was a competition to see who could ping a shot against the crossbar, he was always mad keen to win it. People used to make a joke of it and say ‘I bet Ginge could do that’.

That night at Vale do Lobo, I was sitting with Steve Finnan, who was my roommate, Sami Hyypia and Ginge. I told Ginge he had to sing a song. I might have said it a couple of times. He said he didn’t want to do it. I mentioned it again and he snapped. He got shitty about it. He got up and started shouting.

“Listen,” he yelled, “I’m not singing and I’ve had enough of you banging on about it.”

Sami told me to ignore him and Ginge left fairly soon afterwards. But as the evening wore on and I had more to drink, it started eating away at me. At that time, the way I was, I didn’t know how to control my emotions if someone disrespected me in front of the rest of the players. I wasn’t going to let it go, especially after a drink. I am one of the worst people on drink. It doesn’t agree with me. I used to put myself in situations I shouldn’t be in.

After a while, I told Steve Finnan we were going. I told him I wanted to sort it out with Ginge.

“I’m not having that,” I said to Finny.

“What are you on about?” he said.

“That ginger fucking prick, he ain’t speaking to me like that,” I said.

Finny told me to ignore him. He told me to forget it and go to bed.

“I’m not ignoring him,” I said. “I’m going to go to his room.”

Finny told me to calm down. He said I couldn’t go to his room.

“I’m going to his room,” I said again.

“No, let’s go to our room,” he said. He was trying to humour me, like a warder with a madman.

We did go back to our room but I still couldn’t let it go. We had a shared lounge with bedrooms that were upstairs. Our golf clubs were in the lounge. I’d got one out as I was stewing over what Ginge had done. It was an eight iron. I started taking a few practice swings with it.

“Let’s go and see him now,” I said.

Finnan tried to stop me again but I was determined. I had got to the point where I wouldn’t be stopped.

I knew Ginge was sharing with Daniel Agger so I texted him to ask what room he was in. Daniel was still at the party but he texted me the room number. I marched off to find it. Finny came with me. He had given up trying to stop me by then.

“I’ve got to see this,” he said.

I just wanted to wind Ginge up a bit. He had tried it on with me once or twice in training. He had given me a little nudge in the back, you know the kind of thing. I’d just look at him and think ‘fuck off, Ginge’.

So we got round to the room and I knocked on the door. There was no answer. I knocked again and still no answer. I texted Daniel again and made sure it was the right room. He said it was. So I tried the door and it was open. I let myself in and turned the light on. Ginge was in bed.

He was facing away from me and covering his eyes with his hands because the lights had been switched on. I just whacked him across the backside with the club. You couldn’t really call it a swing. It was just a thwack really. If I’d taken a proper swing, I would have hit the ceiling with my backlift. Finny, by the way, was hiding behind the door at that point.

Ginge panicked. He curled up in a ball with a blanket.

“You ever speak to me like that in front of people again,” I told him, “I will wrap this round your head.

“Listen, I didn’t mean it like that,” he said.

“Yes you fucking did,” I barked at him.

“No, no, I didn’t,” he insisted.

“Yes, you did,” I told him again. “That’s a couple of times you’ve pulled that fucking stunt on me and it won’t be happening any more.”

I was warming to my theme now, like people who have had too much to drink usually do. I threatened him a few times.

“And if you’ve got a problem with any of this, come and see me in my room tomorrow,” I told him. “Don’t go moaning about it.”

I look back at what I did now and I cringe. It was pathetic. It was stupidity of the highest level. It was drunken, bullying behaviour.

Eventually, I left. As Finny and I were going back to our room, the coach pulled up outside and all the players poured off it. They bumped into us in the corridor and, not knowing anything of what had just gone on, piled into our lounge. It had been a big night. Nobody even noticed the golf club in my hand. If they did, they didn’t mention it.

So the night out continued in our room. The room got wrecked basically. Sofas were turned upside down, lampshades got knocked off lamps, somebody even chucked a plate at one stage and it split someone’s head open. By the time I went to bed, that lounge was not a pretty sight.

The next thing I knew, Finnan was knocking on my door.

“The Gaffer and Pako are downstairs,” he said.

‘Oh, shit,’ I thought. ‘There are a whole number of reasons why they might be here.’

I went downstairs. It was not a pretty picture. Rafa and Pako were sitting on a sofa that they must have had to pull upright themselves. Rafa, the most ordered, controlling man I knew, surrounded by utter chaos, by a scene that screamed out loss of control. There were plates and lampshades everywhere. Rafa looked at me and told me to put some shoes on before I cut my feet on some debris.

“John Arne Riise has just come to my room to say you attacked him with a golf club,” Rafa said.

“I wouldn’t say I attacked him, exactly,” I said. I gave him my version.

They weren’t quite as angry as I thought they would be. They told me I had been stupid, of course. I was already full of remorse. I told them I would apologise.

Rafa looked bemused. It turned out he had had quite a night himself. He said he had been woken at 4am by a phone call telling him that Jerzy Dudek, who was our reserve keeper by then, was being held at a local police station.

Finny and I went down to breakfast. A little while later, Dudek appeared with grazes down the side of his face.

“What the fuck happened to Jerzy?” I asked.

After I had left the previous night, things had got out of hand, apparently. Jerzy had refused to leave the bar and the police were called and he had ended up in the cells. Rafa had to go and bail him out.

I actually felt relieved. ‘That’s miles worse than my one,’ I thought as I stared over at Jerzy. ‘That might save me.’

Most of the lads were talking about Jerzy, not me and Ginge. And me and Ginge were fine. I apologised to him straight away and he said he hadn’t meant to offend me. We were even talking about it while we were warming up for training that morning. I was still worried the media might find out about it but I thought I’d be okay. ‘Jerzy’s the story,’ I thought.

That delusion didn’t last long. When we got back to England, I got a call saying the News of the World had got the story about me and Ginge. I rang Kieron Dyer and spoke to him about it. He said he’d get hold of a copy of the first edition and let me know what it was like. I knew I’d be asleep by then so I told him to text me how bad it was on a scale of 1 to 10. One would mean it had hardly broken the waves, 10 would mean all hell had broken loose.

I woke up, got in the car and went to training. I switched the radio on and listened to the sports news and there was nothing about it. Not one word. I thought maybe they hadn’t run it. Then, I remembered about Kieron’s message. Just as I was about to walk into Melwood, I turned my phone on and the message waiting icon flashed up. It was from Kieron.

‘10,’ it said.