Gerrard: My Autobiography (14 page)

I wasn’t the only new boy at Bisham that week. Jonathan Woodgate, the young centre-half, had been doing really well at Leeds United so Keegan brought him down as well. Woody was the same as me on the bus going to Bisham, dead nervous, quiet and intimidated. Neither of us could believe we were on the England coach, heading off to practice with all our heroes. Keegan was so good to us on the way to Bisham. He stood up again and sang our praises to the players. Keegan talked about me again. ‘Just wait till you see this little prick play!’ The Liverpool players shouted back: ‘We are fucking with him every day!’ When we arrived at Bisham, Keegan treated me and Woody like we were the best two players in the
squad. How unreal was this? I was on the England training field, keeping a ball up in the air with Beckham and Shearer, and the media were out in force, filming us. I had a sneaky look to check where the cameras were to let the lads back home see me! Get on that telly! We then went into possession straight away, and that’s when Keown began to put it about. I thought there would be some fireworks between the Liverpool and United lads, but it was physical all round. No chance of anyone taking it easy with a big match like Argentina coming up. People were getting right stuck in.

The possession was lightning quick, far quicker than at Liverpool. I never got anywhere near anyone. The session was too fast for me. ‘Keep the ball, keep on your toes,’ I kept telling myself. ‘Concentrate.’ I did one turn on Keegan, dragging the ball away from him, and Keegan raved about it. So did some of the other players. ‘Ahh, did you see that, lads?’ Keegan shouted. ‘Steven will be with you soon. Watch your places.’ I laughed. The trick was nothing special, more luck than judgement. It was tough, though. The skill and speed levels were nothing I had experienced before. Whenever I gave the ball away, everyone screamed, ‘Fucking keep it!’

Afterwards, I rang home. ‘Dad, I’m nowhere near this level,’ I told him.

‘Just keep going, keep trying,’ Dad replied.

‘I’ve no chance of playing for England, Dad. I did one half-decent turn, but it was hard. This lot are different class. But I’m enjoying it. I can’t wait for the next session.’

It was true. I was loving it, even though I felt out of my depth. I wanted afternoon sessions, anything to get back
out on the training ground. The next day, the training was even more incredible. I couldn’t believe some of the things I saw at Bisham that day when we did some crossing and finishing. Shearer in the finishing – my life! Every one, top corner, keeper no chance. Bang, take that. All around, the quality was frightening. This was the first time I had seen Beckham cross a ball close to. ‘Fuck me!’ I said to Michael. ‘How does he do that?’ When it was my turn to run in to finish one of Beckham’s crosses, it was a goal before I touched it. Honestly. He was that accurate. Beckham puts his crosses in just the right place; it is in fact harder to miss. We had a game after the crossing and finishing, and Beckham was again sensational. After only a couple of hours’ training with England it was obvious who the top players were.

A couple of weeks earlier, Michael and I had been at Melwood, chatting away. ‘Just wait till you get to Bisham and see how good Paul Scholes is,’ said Michael. ‘Wait till you see with your own eyes.’

I looked at him. ‘Well, I’ve watched Scholes loads of times and I know he’s good.’ Michael just smiled. That set me thinking. Michael was going on as if Scholesy was different gravy, streets ahead of everyone else. During that shooting session at Bisham, I realized where Michael was coming from. Scholes was just so sharp, so clever. He was banging goals in from anywhere. Crossing, finishing, volleys, the power in his shots, the dip and movement. ‘Fucking hellfire,’ I said to Michael. ‘How do I get to this level?’ The Man United players were just brilliant. I swear it. ‘Just watch the United boys,’ Keegan told me. ‘Just watch the way they are around the place and in training.
Learn off them.’ The United lads gave a master-class. Bisham was heaving with top players, like Shearer, but Beckham and Scholes seemed to be just on a different level.

Back at Burnham after our first session, I counted down the hours and minutes until we returned to Bisham. I was so wired into training that I stupidly ignored a few little niggles in my back. On the bus going back to Burnham, I felt it stiffen a touch. If I had been at Liverpool, I would have mentioned it to the physios. But I was that scared to go to England’s physios and tell them, ‘Look, my back’s sore.’ The main England physio, Gary Lewin, is a top guy, but I just couldn’t admit my problem, and there was no way I would have told Keegan. ‘Fuck it,’ I said to myself. ‘I’ll just take a painkiller when I get back to the room.’ I took two. Before the second practice, I gulped down another one.

I survived that second session, but the pain deepened. I called Dad.

‘What shall I do?’ I asked him.

‘Just make them aware of it,’ he replied.

‘Dad, I can’t, because they might send me home.’

I sat in my room, in tears of frustration. I had to make a decision. Eventually, I went in to see Lewin. He called Kevin down to the medical room and explained the situation. ‘Listen, Steven,’ said Keegan. ‘We have got to be careful with you because of Liverpool. If we let you continue, it gets worse, and you miss games, we would get into trouble with Liverpool. Let the physio and doctor have a look, miss the session, and we’ll see how you are.’ Keegan then went off and phoned Gérard Houllier.

‘Get him back here,’ said Gérard.

Keegan came to my room and broke the news. My England dream was on hold. ‘Listen, I am under strict orders to get you back to Anfield,’ Keegan said. ‘But you have done well. Keep doing what you are doing. I will be watching you. Hopefully, next time when you come back it will be as a proper squad member.’

When Keegan left the room, I collapsed in tears. A sense of devastation overwhelmed me. I returned to Anfield with a sore back and a heavy heart and they immediately sent me off for a scan. My back really troubled me from then on. Now, if I feel something in training, I go straight off. I don’t take risks. Missing Argentina was frustrating, but the media have always made too much of my injuries. Press speculation about my fitness never helped me at all. My injuries have never been career-threatening, as some people wrote.

The problem having eased temporarily, I launched myself back into games. England still occupied my thoughts: the door remained open to Euro 2000. The biggest U-21 international that season was the Euro play-off against Yugoslavia on 29 March, in Barcelona. This was serious stuff, with qualification for the European U-21 Championship at stake. England had to win. The papers were full of talk about the tie. Everyone speculated over who would be in Wilkinson’s party, as if it were the senior squad. I have never needed any additional motivation to work my bollocks off for Liverpool, but I really bust a gut in the build-up to the Yugoslavia game. I was desperate to be selected. For me, it offered a short-cut to the seniors. That was my ambition: climbing the ladder as
fast as possible. Keegan announced he would be watching the Barcelona game closely for any likely young lads to take to the big show in Holland and Belgium that summer. Some incentive.

Good as gold, Wilkinson picked me in the squad. When the list of names came through the post, I thought, ‘This is a proper U-21 squad.’ Players like Rio Ferdinand and Jamie Carragher had racked up loads of Premiership games. The squad was packed with names who wouldn’t have looked out of place in Keegan’s full squad. All of us youngsters who flew out to Spain felt this was a ninety-minute audition for Euro 2000. After settling into our Barcelona hotel, we engaged in a final training session that was sharp and full-on. Everyone was up for this. And the quality of the players there was frightening. Sitting down for dinner that night at a table with Lee Hendrie, Kieron Dyer, Frank Lampard and Ferdinand, I was too scared to talk. These lads were serious players. I felt an apprentice in comparison. My experience of top-level football ran to a few first-team outings for Liverpool and a handful of U-21 matches. I knew my place. Be seen and not heard. ‘Just shut up and listen to the banter, new boy,’ I told myself. I was intimidated by confident West Ham lads like Lampard and Ferdinand. I didn’t really mix with anyone except Carra. My shyness was compounded by the U-21s being really cliquey. Club-mates stuck together. I just wanted to train and get back to my room dead sharp.

The mood mellowed a bit as the trip went on. My nerves began to disappear. I became increasingly involved in the banter, while guarding against appearing cocky. In my heart, I still didn’t feel I belonged with England. I
knew I had done well against Luxembourg and scored, and I’d played in U-21 wins against Poland and Denmark, but a play-off against Yugoslavia was a proper game. Everyone was talking about it. I never expected to start. So I was shocked when Wilkinson told us the team after dinner. My name was among the eleven chosen ones.

As the meeting broke up, Howard sat me down for a quick chat, basically to mark my card. ‘Tomorrow is a very important game for you,’ he told me. ‘The top people are going to be studying you. This is the game to perform in. Kevin Keegan is particularly looking to see how you do. He’s watched you before. There’s a possible place up for grabs in the Euro 2000 squad. Go get it, Steven.’

Music to my ears! A ticket to Belgium and Holland!

Wilkinson hadn’t finished. ‘If you do well tomorrow, don’t think that’s it,’ he continued. ‘In the Premiership games after this, there will be people watching you every game – England scouts, probably Kevin himself. Always have it in the back of your mind you are being watched, not just by the people at Liverpool but also the FA. So make sure you perform.’

I walked back to my room, lay on the bed and tried to get my head around the size of the challenge hurtling towards me. My mobile rang. It was Dad. As usual, he called to wish me good luck and to remind me to seize my chance.

‘I’m starting tomorrow, Dad,’ I told him.

‘Well, Steven, this really is the game you’ve got to deliver in.’

It sounded like a warning. The stakes were that high. Sky’s cameras would be rolling live. Keegan would be
taking notes and looking for names. Could I handle the pressure? But then I remembered a saying Dad loved to tell me: ‘Big players come into their own in big games.’ And I wanted the big time.

I smiled to myself. I couldn’t wait to get to the stadium.

I almost ran there the moment morning dawned. The game was held next door to Camp Nou, at Barcelona’s reserve-team ground. Wilkinson fielded a strong team, lining up 3–5–2 in front of Richard Wright. At that time, Wright was doing brilliantly for Ipswich Town and everyone was raving about him. He was the hottest young keeper around. Everyone predicted he would be David Seaman’s successor for England. When I travelled down from Liverpool for U-21 get-togethers, Carra always went on about how naturally brilliant Wright was. Great shot-stopper, terrific anticipation. Wright’s career has gone a bit downhill since, but he was the main boy about then.

Glancing around the dressing-room, I was thrilled by the wall-to-wall talent. Defenders of the quality of Carra and Rio were slipping their shin-pads on, ready for battle. Juggling a ball in one corner was Kieron Dyer, buzzing with energy; he was an amazing performer in training out there. Midfield comprised me, Lampard and Lee Hendrie. We all knew how good Lampard was. Everyone had seen him shine for West Ham. And Hendrie was probably the best young midfielder around at the time. In training, he was the busiest, the cleverest, a good kid as well. Up front, Andy Campbell was very quick. I thought he might play at a higher level, but things never really worked out for him at Middlesbrough. We also had Emile Heskey, who copped a shit-load of racist abuse off the sick Yugoslav
fans. What morons. Their monkey chants just made us doubly determined to stick it to their team. And we did them good and proper. We won 3–0, and the game went brilliantly for me. Dad told me later that on Sky, Ray Wilkins said I played really well, which was a great compliment coming from a former England midfielder. The press lads all gave me decent write-ups, too. My career started moving quicker after that game.

Keegan watched me more and more. One day, in the middle of May, I was walking through Liverpool city centre with Dad when my mobile went. ‘Private Number’ came up on the screen. I pressed the green answer button.

‘Steven? It’s Kevin Keegan,’ came a voice.

I didn’t believe him. ‘Yeah,’ I replied, ‘good one, whatever. Go on then.’

I was convinced it was mates stitching me up. Probably Boggo. But the bloke on the line kept talking, and I got a bit worried. Oh my God, if it’s not Keegan, they have got his accent in the bag, absolutely spot-on. How do I play this? Christ knows!

‘I am calling you up for the game against Ukraine,’ the voice said.

It was possible. I had been playing well for Liverpool, and I remembered the last words Kevin said to me: ‘It won’t be long before you are in the full squad.’ So I decided to go with the flow – act normal; don’t let on any suspicions – even if I eventually had the piss taken out of me. Dad looked at me, wondering what the hell was going on. I walked away. If it was a wind-up, I didn’t want him witnessing my embarrassment.

Two minutes into the conversation I was sure it was
Keegan. It couldn’t be a hoax. This bloke knew too much stuff about the squad and about the FA staff who organize the travel. It had to be Kevin. But even when the caller signed off with a cheery ‘see you at Bisham’, I still wasn’t 100 per cent certain. Fortunately, a couple of hours later someone from Melwood phoned to say they had an FA fax confirming I was in the squad. Until then, I had been waiting for a mate to ring, laughing. ‘Ha, ha, it was a wind-up!’ The next day, I got a text off the England team administrator, Michele Farrer, giving me details about meeting up. Keegan then announced the squad officially. That phone call had been a call-up, not a wind-up.

Stories stating I would start against Ukraine on 31 May kept appearing in the newspapers. ‘Don’t believe none of that,’ Dad urged. ‘Just keep doing what you are doing in training. Until you’re told, keep playing for a starting place.’ On the Monday, two days before the game, Keegan pulled me during training at Bisham. We were doing some shape work, tactical pattern-of-play stuff. ‘Come Wednesday, don’t do that, do this,’ said Keegan, indicating a position he wanted me to keep. His words stopped me in my tracks. Had Keegan just dropped a big hint there that I might be involved? I pretended I never heard it. Me? Starting for England? The possibility still seemed unreal.