Gerrard: My Autobiography (11 page)

When it came to sorting out the hotel rooms, Gérard
split me and Wrighty up. I shared with Jamie. ‘Watch him,’ Gérard advised me. ‘Watch how Jamie behaves around the place. How he eats, trains, conducts himself, how he plays. You can learn off him.’ Jamie was, as usual, first class. He treated everyone the same. He talked to me as if he were talking to Jason McAteer, Phil Babb or anyone he had played with for years.

I still didn’t expect to get closer to the pitch than the stands. But then I walked into the dressing-room and found a shirt with my name and number on, 28. My own shirt. I belonged. I was now part of the fabric of Liverpool FC. It hit me then that I had crossed the threshold into an exclusive new world. Gérard named me and Wrighty as subs. European ties allow seven on the bench, so Wrighty and I had our chance.

We sat there that night and watched Liverpool being given a lesson in possession. Celta were a useful side with players like Claude Makelele, who went on to prove such a formidable player for Real Madrid and Chelsea, and the clever Russian attackers Valeri Karpin and Alexander Mostovoi. Celta were too good for Liverpool and we lost 3–1. Neither me nor Wrighty made it off the bench. No problem. It was unbelievable simply to experience European combat close up, in a noisy stadium containing 24,600 fans, scarcely a month after playing in an U-19 game at Liverpool University in front of 200 people. Some change.

When we got back to England, I was dying to find out whether I had kept my place in the match-day squad. I was at full throttle in training. In our first session back from Vigo, I absolutely took the piss out of Paul Ince. He
couldn’t get near me, I was that up for training. Incey was only interested in matches, not practice, but he could turn it on when he wanted. A lot of people claimed when Incey came to Liverpool from Inter Milan that he wasn’t as good, but there were certain training sessions and games when he was awesome. I swear it. I never knew there was any tension between him and Gérard, but I did know Incey was one of the main men in Liverpool’s dressing-room. Everyone knew it. Incey made sure we all knew it. Rule number one at Melwood: don’t get on the wrong side of Incey. Training was different. I was busting to make a point, to prove myself. Towards the end of the session, Incey started to step it up, but he still couldn’t touch me. The players wound Incey up something rotten. ‘That’s the end of you, Incey,’ Fowler shouted. ‘Fuck off,’ he yelled back. The banter was only starting. ‘Watch your back!’ Redknapp teased Incey. I wasn’t showing off. I was just doing everything right. Deep down, I thought, ‘I want Incey’s place. End of story.’ I was on fire that session.

Gérard obviously noticed. He named me in his eighteen-man squad for Liverpool’s next Premiership game, against Blackburn Rovers, on 29 November. My heart went out to Wrighty, who wasn’t included, but privately I was overjoyed for myself. ‘I have a chance of being on the bench here,’ I told myself. Two got left out of the squad, but I was picked among the subs. Gérard selected his subs on covering positions and he appreciated I could do a number of jobs: central midfield, right midfield or at right-back. ‘The boss must have an idea of putting me on,’ I thought.

Magical is the only way to describe the whole
experience that day at Anfield. The memory is so strong it feels like yesterday. I left the dressing-room, lined up in the corridor and religiously touched the ‘This Is Anfield’ sign on the steps leading to the pitch. This is Anfield. This is it. I came out and heard the noise of the 41,753 fans. Bloody deafening. During the game, Gérard sent the subs down the touchline, towards the Kop, to warm up. All the subs were applauded. Well, nearly all. When I ran towards the Kop, did they clap me? Did they fuck! Nothing. Nerves filled every part of my body. I could see the doubts on the fans’ faces as they watched me warm up. I could almost hear them say to each other, ‘Who’s this skinny little twat? Who the fuck’s he? I hope he doesn’t come on.’ I was shitting myself.

With five minutes left, I thought, ‘I’m not coming on. I’m sound. I’m safe. Just relax.’ Liverpool led 2–0, with goals from Incey and Michael, and the lads were just seeing out the game. It was all over. Then Phil Thompson turned round and said, ‘Go and do a warm-up.’ I put in a big professional warm-up, actually believing I might now get a minute or two. I was sixty yards away from the dug-out, doing my stretches in front of the Kop and waiting for Phil to wave at me. I didn’t want to look back, as if I was being busy. I leant down to do some stretching and blagged a glance back. Phil was standing up and beckoning to me. Me! Breaking Anfield’s touchline record, I sprinted back to the dug-out. Sammy Lee leaned over, steaming for me to come on. ‘Good luck,’ he shouted. I saw Sammy’s face. He was delighted, completely made up for me. A local lad, Sammy served Liverpool so well as a player and then as a coach.
Sammy knew how much this moment meant to me.

So this was it. My Liverpool debut was seconds away. All the hard work, all the dreaming, all the fight-backs from disappointments and injuries would be made worthwhile with one step over a white line. All the batterings I took on Ironside. All the fears about losing my toe and my career. I’d survived. Now, my debut awaited. I nearly dropped a load.

Veggard Heggem, our Norwegian right-back, came off and I was told to slot in there. ‘Keep the ball for us,’ Gérard ordered, ‘keep the position, see the game out.’ My heart beat crazily fast. I tried to keep my cool. ‘Get on, get the job done, get off,’ I told myself as I ran into the fray. Despite my nerves, I was desperate for the ball. I didn’t want to come on and not get a touch. Touching the ball just once would feel like I’d arrived. The ball soon came my way. I controlled it, looked around and passed to another red shirt. Nothing fancy, nothing risky. Thank God. I didn’t want to see the ball again. My job was done. I looked at the ref. Blow the fucking whistle!

Then the ball got switched and I was down the right. Incey played me in, the ball gagging to be crossed into the box. It was set up perfectly. Jesus, I had been in this situation so many times before and always delivered. As I brought my right foot down into the ball, one aim raced through my mind: ‘Just whip it in, put it in the danger area.’ But the occasion got to me. I must have been too keen. With 41,000 pairs of eyes burning into me, I overhit the cross disastrously. The ball went twenty yards over the last defender’s head and almost cleared the Centenary
Stand. Incey gave me a little snarl. ‘Shit,’ I thought. I was gutted, fuming with myself.

Liverpool won, so the atmosphere was good in the dressing-room afterwards. Everyone shook my hand, patted me on the head and gave me hugs. Wrighty came over and said, ‘Well done – you’ve now played for Liverpool.’ I really appreciated that, because it must have been hard for Wrighty. For all his frustration at not yet getting a game, Wrighty was buzzing for me. Everyone was. I just wanted to get my clothes on and go and see my family in the players’ lounge. That was another massive thing. Mum, Dad and Paul mingling with the other players’ families. It was a long way from shivering on the touchline at Liverpool University.

Games kept coming. On Friday, 4 December, I was down at Melwood getting ready with the rest of the squad for the journey down to White Hart Lane. It was a big game, and I was hopeful of a place. Carra walked past as I talked to a local reporter, Paul Joyce, now of the
Daily Express
. He caned me: ‘Fucking hell, Stevie, youse have only played one fucking game and you’re doing big-time interviews already! And don’t pretend you don’t know the team.’ But I didn’t. Gérard gave me no indication I would play against Spurs. Carra stitched me up!

As Liverpool had been hit by some injuries and suspensions, though, I had an idea I might be involved. After dinner at our hotel on the edge of London, Gérard called me to his room. ‘Steven, you are starting,’ he said. My first start! I floated out of Gérard’s room, thinking, ‘Fucking hell.’ I got back to my room, lay down on my bed but never slept a wink. ‘I’m so nervous,’ I told
Wrighty, my room-mate. ‘I will be up against Allan Nielsen. He’s useful.’ I was convinced I was starting in the middle so would be facing Nielsen.

The next morning, Gérard ran through the formation: 3–5–2. ‘Steven, you’re on the right,’ the boss said. The implication sank in like a dead weight. Starting on the right meant one thing: David fucking Ginola. As we left the meeting-room, all the lads said, ‘Ginola! All the best.’ I knew Ginola was good. I’d seen him on TV many times, but he couldn’t be that good, could he? French international, darling of the Spurs fans, on his way to being voted Footballer of the Year. Fuck it, get on with it. Just give it your all. Adrenalin will get you through. I looked again at our team line-up and saw Incey was playing. If I had a shocker against Ginola, Incey would slaughter me all game.

Before leaving the dressing-room, Gérard took me to one side. ‘Get fucking stuck into Ginola,’ he ordered. ‘Don’t let him do his turns.’ Gérard never swore, but he really wanted me to nail Ginola. There was history between the pair. Make that bad blood. He and Ginola were not the best of friends after their falling-out when Gérard coached France. Gérard claimed a mistake by Ginola cost France the chance of qualifying for the World Cup in America in 1994. He wanted Ginola sorted out here.

No chance. Ginola was on fire. He took the piss out of me. He was so strong. ‘Go away, you little boy,’ Ginola seemed to be saying, ‘you are not good enough. Get away. Come back when you can live with someone as brilliant as me.’ I stumbled through a nightmare. Ginola was
awesome that afternoon. Within five minutes, he had done seven step-overs running at me and put six crosses into the box. He was just knocking balls into Steffen Iversen and Chris Armstrong for fun. It was an onslaught. I was a bag of nerves, terrified when the ball came near me. I panicked. I gave a few passes away, and Incey was on to me straight away. ‘Get a fucking grip!’ he screamed. ‘How can this get worse?’ I wondered. ‘Incey is on at me. Fucking Ginola is taking the mickey. I am out of position, and out of my depth. Get me out of here!’

Liverpool got battered first half. I actually had a half-chance to score but couldn’t take it. What a disaster. Players I really respected rallied behind me. Thank God for good team-mates. Fowler was on to me all game, helping me. Jamie said, ‘Carry on, you are doing all right, keep the ball for us.’ Incey, though, was on my back big-time. ‘Get tight to Ginola, keep the fucking ball, come on!’ I was fuming with him. Hated him big-time. The words ‘fuck off’ formed on my lips as I looked at Incey, but I never said them. Christ, how much did I want to confront him. Why pick on me? I never had his respect early on. As I got to know Incey better through the season, I realized that non-stop moaning was his way of getting players going. Incey was not having a go at me to put me down. He felt this was the best way to help me. Now, if Incey said something really nice to me on the pitch, I would think, ‘You don’t mean that.’ If I played with him now, I would prefer him to be on my case. That’s his style. Always aggressive. Always demanding. That’s why Incey’s career has lasted so long.

In the first half, I was on the far side of the pitch from
the bench, so I got no encouragement or advice from Gérard, Phil Thompson or Sammy Lee. Actually, that was probably a blessing. That far away, maybe Liverpool’s coaches couldn’t tell the excruciating level of my discomfort. Still, every second I expected my number to go up. I could imagine Gérard’s thoughts: ‘Gerrard, you’re off. Sharpish. You’ve been found out.’ I wouldn’t have blamed him for the early hook. All the Spurs players were miles too good for me. On the day, Ginola was The Man, but even when I was bumping into Iversen and Armstrong, they were just so much bigger and stronger.

My first start ended in a 2–1 defeat for Liverpool and humiliation for me. Everyone was polite enough afterwards. ‘You did OK,’ said Gérard. ‘Well done,’ said Thompson. All the lads were all right with me, yet I knew deep down I hadn’t done myself justice. Some words of my dad’s crept into my head: ‘Just take your chance, Steven, just take your chance.’ I hadn’t.

The trip home was long. I sat next to Wrighty but couldn’t bring myself to say more than a few words. Family and friends phoned and enquired, ‘How did it go? How long did you play?’ I gave them the bare details, and hoped they would be out when
Match of the Day
came on. Dad called. I could be honest and open with him. ‘It was really hard, Dad. I hope I haven’t blown it.’ Sammy Lee knew I would be hurting. He came down the bus and was brilliant with me, trying to lift my spirits. But my depression was beyond even Sammy’s motivational powers of curing. When the bus arrived back in Liverpool, I didn’t want to get out. I thought it wouldn’t be long before I was out permanently, sent back
to the U-19s with a note marked ‘Not Good Enough’.

Somehow, I survived. Liverpool’s next game was the return with Celta Vigo at Anfield on 8 December – a big game, even though we trailed from the first leg. I was surprised to discover I was actually starting – amazing, given that I was convinced Ginola had dug a grave for me in North London soil. Incey was suspended in Europe after getting sent off against Valencia, so Gérard turned to me. A rumour gathered pace that I would be used in my normal position. The stories were right. I started in the middle, and immediately felt comfortable. I played a couple of nice balls early doors and confidence flooded through me. This was it! I was showing people what I could do, thumping into tackles, pinging balls about. Back on the dirty old tarmac of Ironside, I had dreamed of this. The fans’ songs and applause lifted me higher. Liverpool supporters have always loved home-grown players and they were right behind me, cheering whenever I did something right. I was even voted Man of the Match.

In a way, there was no pressure. Everyone knew Liverpool were up against it that evening, because of what happened over in Spain. Our team was really weak, too. Injuries and suspensions took their toll, claiming important players like Incey, Redknapp, Heggem and McManaman. People could see our defence was suspect at that time. No-one really gave us too much hope of overturning the deficit against Celta. The Spaniards were a tidy outfit. For their goal, by the Israeli Haim Revivo, me and Danny Murphy got turned inside out, embarrassingly so. We were made to look like schoolboys. But that mistake never got mentioned in the changing-room
afterwards. Everyone came over and congratulated me. Gérard was made up. Liverpool had lost 1–0, but the look in the manager’s eyes told me how pleased he was with me. All the staff and players were going, ‘Fucking hell, your first home start and you did really well.’ When I first entered the dressing-room that night, my mind was racked with doubts about whether I could cut it as a top player after my Trial by Ginola. When I walked out of the dressing-room at the end of the evening, I knew I belonged. ‘I can handle this,’ I told myself as I left Anfield.