Gerrard: My Autobiography (13 page)

Those match nights were magical, extra special when Michael started, against Colombia and, famously, Argentina. I grabbed a bite of dinner and jumped on the sofa in front of the telly. I couldn’t wait for kick-off, I was that excited. The Argentina game in St-Etienne was awesome. When Michael picked the ball up and began accelerating towards Carlos Roa’s goal, pandemonium broke out in our front room. ‘Trouble!’ I shouted. ‘If Michael gets you one-on-one with space behind you, you’re history,’ added Dad, almost as a warning to the Argentina defenders. Jose Chamot and Roberto Ayala had no chance. Too slow, too late. Michael was off and past them, racing into the history books and the hearts of a
nation. I leapt up and down, screaming my head off, hugging Dad and Paul. I almost went hoarse shouting Michael’s name. Yes! Get in! Brilliant, Michael!

When the TV replayed the move, Dad said, ‘Paul Scholes looks like he is about to nick it just before Michael shoots.’

‘No chance,’ I replied. ‘There’s absolutely no chance in the whole wide world that Michael was going to leave that ball.’

I fell back in my seat and just tried to imagine how Michael’s world was going to change. I looked across at Dad, who still had this massive smile on his face. He liked and respected Michael. Everyone did. ‘What has Michael just done there?’ I exclaimed. The camera focused on Michael, but he was concentrating on the game, as if he hadn’t just struck one of the greatest goals in the history of football. ‘That’s him finished!’ I laughed. ‘That’s his life changed. It’s over for him now. He won’t be able to do nothing. Imagine what it will be like when he comes back. It will take him days to get out of the airport there will be so many press and fans there.’ I was so happy for my mate.

Michael’s success made me believe even more I could make it. My own journey towards the England shirt I craved was assisted by Howard Wilkinson. During his time as technical director of the Football Association, Wilkinson looked after the U-18s and the U-21s and picked me regularly for both. He had a certain reputation. I knew that. Wilkinson was often slated for some of his management skills. True, he was a bit long-winded in team-talks. We wondered occasionally what the hell he
was going on about. He often sounded like a school teacher addressing very young children. Howard also called team meetings when he didn’t really need them. I don’t care. People can snipe at Wilkinson if they want, but he was good to me and knew his football. I liked Wilkinson because he liked me. He always spoke well of me, always included me in his squads, always suggested things to improve my game. He even made me captain of England U-18s – a massive honour. All my family were so proud. We will always thank Howard for that. When I heard he got the U-21 job, I had half an idea that sooner or later the call would come for me to step up.

Throughout 1999 I was steadily making a name for myself in Liverpool’s first team. One day in the late summer, a letter arrived from the FA. Finally calming my shaking hands, I ripped open the envelope. Inside were instructions to report for U-21 duty against Luxembourg on 3 September. Another rung up the ladder! Wilkinson must really have rated me because he started me in midfield. I repaid his faith by scoring after twelve minutes. We won 5–0, and there was a real buzz about the team.

Every English player knew the new season ended with Euro 2000. Every ambitious young player wanted to force himself into the thoughts of Kevin Keegan, the England manager. Whenever Keegan took his seat in the directors’ box of a Premiership ground, all the English players on the pitch were aware of his presence, and determined to parade their abilities. I certainly felt under scrutiny. When Liverpool beat Coventry City 2–0 a week before Christmas, Keegan was there, watching me. When the U-21s then saw off Denmark, Keegan was there again,
appraising me. I knew that. Howard marked my card. ‘Do well and Kevin may call you up,’ he told me. I never stopped running against Denmark.

I impressed for Liverpool in 1999/2000, scoring against Sheffield Wednesday and filling in all over the place. Right-back, left-back, right midfield, central midfield – no problem. Every challenge made me a better player. When Liverpool beat Leeds United 3–1 on 5 February, I bust my lungs stifling Harry Kewell, a real tricky winger. A week later I set up Titi Camara’s winner at Highbury – a huge result for Liverpool. Arsenal are a class side, and Freddie Ljungberg almost scored. He rounded our keeper, Sander Westerveld, but I managed to get a tackle in to stop him. Victory came at a cost for me: I damaged my groin and had to walk off for some ice treatment.

About a week after that, Dad called. He could barely speak he was so excited. ‘Get on to Steve Heighway and Gérard Houllier quick,’ he said. ‘They have something to tell you.’

What the hell was going on? I rang Steve immediately. He had big news. ‘Kevin Keegan wants you to go down to England to train with the squad before the game with Argentina,’ Steve said. I couldn’t believe my ears. Training with England? Gérard confirmed the news. England wanted me! ‘Now, Steven, you have not been named in the squad, but you will be working with them,’ warned Gérard. Fuck that. I felt I was in the squad. This was my chance. England! I was going to have a right go in training and convince Keegan to pick me for the friendly against Argentina on 23 February. Wembley. Full house. Argentina. Brilliant! Michael made his name against them,
so why not me? Officially in the squad or not, I wasn’t going down to England’s base at Bisham Abbey just to train. I meant business.

The FA contacted Liverpool and offered to chauffeur me down to the team hotel at Burnham Beeches, a few miles from Bisham. But Dad lent me his Honda and I made my own way south because I was that nervous. I was shitting myself big-time on the journey. At one point I thought there was something wrong with the car. I almost got out to check the noise until I realized it was me rattling. Getting so close to something I wanted so much filled me with self-doubt. Was I good enough? Shit. Let’s turn round. Get back to Liverpool. Steve Heighway can call Keegan. Apologize. Gerrard’s too nervous. Not ready. That would save me the embarrassment of looking a dick in training. But I kept going. I had to conquer my insecurity, kill the panic attack. Go on. Drive through the gates of Burnham Beeches. Park the Honda. Don’t hit the smart cars. Into reception. Up to your room.

Made it. Thank God. I sat on the edge of the bed, knowing I had to report downstairs to Kevin in the dining room. The players were all eating. What do I do? I couldn’t face the thought of walking into a room crammed full of my heroes. Alan Shearer, Tony Adams, David Beckham – world-famous names. How could this newcomer at Liverpool stroll calmly into the middle of the England dining room and coolly sit down next to Beckham? Shit. I had another panic attack. I phoned Jamie Redknapp, who was downstairs with the squad. ‘Jamie,’ I pleaded, ‘I’m upstairs shitting myself. Come and get me, please.’ Jamie was brilliant. He quietly
left the dining hall and sprinted to my room. ‘Come on,’ Jamie said. ‘Keegan wouldn’t have called you here unless he really rated you. Let’s go.’ The other Liverpool lads also came out, so we were all able to walk in together. Without the support of Jamie, Robbie, Macca and Michael, I would have spun on my heels and raced back north, back home, where I felt safe. With my club-mates by my side, I found the strength to enter the dining-room of Burnham Beeches.

Stepping through that doorway was still one of the most intimidating things I have ever done. Looking around the room, I caught my breath. Top players were everywhere; it was an autograph-hunter’s paradise. ‘What the fuck am I doing here?’ I thought. ‘Get me back to my room!’ Somehow, I negotiated my way to the staff table.

Kevin Keegan looked up and smiled. ‘Hi, Steven, welcome to England,’ he said. He shook my hand, then stood up.

Bloody hell. He was only going to address the whole fucking room.

‘Lads, stop eating and talking for a second,’ Keegan said. A host of household names looked up. Keegan pointed at me. ‘This is Steven Gerrard. The kid will be training with us. He’s a player. Don’t be going easy with him because he certainly won’t be going easy with you. He is going to be with you full-time very shortly.’

I squirmed from one foot to the other, my face as red as a Liverpool shirt. Fucking shut up now, Kevin. Let them carry on eating. Forget about me. I’m nothing compared to all these superstars. They know of me, but these are heroes who have played in World Cups and had hundreds
of career games. And Kevin Keegan was talking to them about me! I thought, ‘What the fuck is going on here?’ I felt every England player staring at me.

Thankfully, Keegan did stop. I retreated to a table with familiar Liverpool faces and sat down to a fantastic meal, but I couldn’t eat. No chance. My stomach had space only for butterflies. Just the thought of food stirred a nausea inside. All I wanted in that England meal-room was an escape route. At least I was surrounded by club-mates. I heard and read about these cliques with England, how the tables were split up along club lines. Being in that meal-room confirmed it was true: tribal rivalry ruled.

The Liverpool boys took me round to all the other tables and introduced me to the rest of the squad. To David Seaman. ‘David, this is Stevie.’ To Sol Campbell. ‘Sol, this is Stevie.’ I was in a daze, shaking hands with some of the greatest footballers ever to represent England. God, I was nervous. I have sweated less in games. The last table I visited belonged to Manchester United. Phil Neville, David Beckham, Andy Cole and Paul Scholes looked up and smiled at me. What the hell was going on? Shock-waves ripped through me. These people were supposed to be my enemy. I’m Liverpool. They’re United. We don’t smile at each other. We snarl. Growing up in Huyton, I was taught to loathe Manchester United, their fans, players, manager, kit-man, mascot, megastore workers – everyone associated with Old Trafford. But almost twenty years of being conditioned to hate Man U went up in smoke that day at Burnham Beeches. There I was, shaking hands with Beckham and Scholes, thinking, ‘But they hate me and I hate them.’ But they didn’t hate
me. They were brilliant at putting the new boy at ease. The United lads couldn’t have been more welcoming. In fact, they were so nice I began to wonder about all this long-standing hatred.

Before coming down to Burnham, I talked to my mate Boggo about what it would be like seeing the United players. ‘I am convinced in training the United lads will have a pop,’ I told Boggo. ‘They’ll wind me up. Kick me. I’d love it to go off. United don’t like Scousers, so they might kick me. I’ll be on my toes.’ I was ready to kick all of them. Scholes, Beckham, the lot. That misconception also disappeared in a flurry of handshakes and smiles. I ran out at Bisham the next day for practice, looking for any sign of an ambush. Surely this would be normal United v. Liverpool, just in a neutral venue? No. Again, the United lads were fantastic. I chatted with Boggo on the phone that night. ‘Becks, Scholesy and the rest are top lads,’ I said. He was amazed. Liverpool fans slaughter United players without realizing they are human beings. Rivalry clouds their judgement.

I spoke to Gary Neville about the tension between his United and my Liverpool. At the time, Gary was getting some stick for something he was supposed to have said about Liverpool supporters. He got misquoted. What Gary actually said was, ‘I have been brought up in my area to hate Scousers.’ The same way Liverpool fans are raised to hate Mancs. But the newspapers printed it as ‘I Hate Scousers’. I don’t know whether Gary was telling me to get the message across! He certainly got on with this Scouser.

Whether United or whoever, all Keegan’s players
greeted me really kindly. They treated me as if I were actually in the England squad and was in contention for the Argentina friendly. They couldn’t do enough for me. After that first meal, I returned to my room at Burnham and flicked the telly on to kill some time before bed. After ten minutes, there was a knock at the door. Arsenal’s huge centre-half Martin Keown stood there. ‘I’m rooming next door,’ said Martin. ‘I know it’s difficult with all the times for meals and trainings and meetings. People are always late. If you get stuck for the right time, just phone me. I know you are with the Liverpool lads, but I am next door. Just give me a knock if you’re bored.’ How good was that? Martin had won Premiership titles, he’d been to big tournaments, yet he was kind enough to help a new boy. I got to know Martin dead well straight away. What a top fella. Honest to God, Martin is probably one of the funniest men I have ever met.

Keegan gave us all an afternoon off, so Martin said, ‘Do you fancy London for a few hours, go round the shops?’ None of the Liverpool lads were going out, they were staying in with their DVDs, so I was grateful for Martin’s offer. ‘Do I!’ I smiled at him, and rushed off to get some money. I don’t know why Martin did it. Maybe he was lonely or bored. Maybe he just took pity on me. Who cares? I was buzzing that I was in London with Martin Keown, England centre-half. I laughed at his jokes, even if they weren’t funny. What a character! Because he was so serious, the England lads enjoyed teasing him, knowing he could explode. They loved lighting Martin’s fuse and then running for cover. Climbing on the bus for training, one of the players warned me, ‘If Martin’s head goes, get out
of the way! It’s very funny, but watch out.’ An intense man, Martin treated training like the last minutes of a World Cup final. In one of the practice games at Bisham, he even left a few stud-marks on me. ‘Take it easy on him, Martin,’ the players shouted. Martin didn’t know how to go easy. He trained with studs every day, never mouldies. He had those red Pumas, long studs in, and he wasn’t scared to show them. If someone upset Martin, nutmegged him or just wound him up, a red mist would grip him and he’d start topping people. The other players fell about laughing. Real ding-dongs erupted between Martin and Michael Owen – classic centre-half against centre-forward stuff. No love lost. No quarter asked or given. Martin and Michael flew into each other, going to work on each other’s legs like tattooists. Michael is as competitive as Martin and is prone to the old red mist as well. It was brilliant watching the two of them piling into each other. A proper dust-up!