Gerrard: My Autobiography (17 page)

Bang. As we crunched into each other, this loud noise
reverberated around the Belgian forest. Everyone looked up. All the media were there, filming and watching. Some even ducked for cover. The noise sounded like a gun going off, not a tackle going in. Keegan exaggerated the incident afterwards. ‘That showed the commitment of the lads,’ he said. ‘I thought the ball was going to be taken off on a stretcher!’ To me, it was just a tackle. I got on with it straight away, chasing the ball. Privately, though, I smiled to myself. A point had been made. Keegan and the rest of the lads knew there and then that I was up for the challenge of Euro 2000.

Even though I was making my mark in training, and coming out of my shell a tiny bit more every day, I knew I had no chance of starting England’s first game, against Portugal in Eindhoven on Monday, 12 June. Paul Ince was the man of steel in our midfield. He had a calf problem for the game against the Ukraine, but now he was fit, and he was well established in the side. Whenever he pulled on the Three Lions, Incey was brilliant, shifting up a gear from his Liverpool form. He was my hero. Incey had the job I craved with Liverpool and England: tackle, kill, pass. My ambitions were obvious to him, but he was still as good as gold with me around the England camp. Even when he moaned at me, I felt he was helping me. Anyway, Incey knew he was top dog. Keegan might have rated me, but he wasn’t stupid. He was never going to put an untested kid in against the likes of Luis Figo, Rui Costa and João Pinto ahead of an experienced international like Incey. No chance.

I was on the pitch before kick-off, warming up with the rest of the England squad. PSV’s stadium was packed out,
but I caught a glimpse of Dad in the crowd. The FA had set up a scheme whereby friends and families could fly in and out; the cost was deducted from our match fees, and it was worth every penny to have Dad’s reassuring presence in Eindhoven. Sneaking a look around to check if Keegan or any of the other coaches was looking, I sprinted over dead quick and shook his hand. ‘Good luck,’ he said, in case I came on. I knew I wouldn’t.

I sat on the bench and watched the game. When Scholesy and Macca put England 2–0 up within twenty minutes, I was buzzing. England were up and running, playing like they owned the tournament. And Portugal were no mugs. Their team was full of class names, but England were taking the piss out of them. I was so excited I was up and out of my seat, geeing Macca, Incey and Michael on. Go on! Go on! Do it! Get the third! Kill them off! I could just imagine the scenes in the dressing-room afterwards, everyone laughing and shaking hands and saying we could win Euro 2000. I thought about the coach journey back to Spa, the singing, the card games, the happy banter of a team after a memorable win. I couldn’t wait to learn Dad’s view before calling home to hear about the celebrations, the parties, people going crazy over England’s glory.

Then it all turned sour, like a runner leading a race suddenly encountering quicksand. England began to sink. Suddenly, we couldn’t cope with Portugal’s clever passing. Figo was outstanding. What a player! What a leader! The Portuguese refused to give up. They simply would not be led that last step to their execution. So they went for us, turning the tables. I couldn’t believe my eyes.
It didn’t make sense. We had the game sewn up. We had the players. Shearer, Owen, Beckham. The belief was there, but it just went. The confidence drained away as if someone had pulled the plug. Even the great Tony Adams, the rock on which England teams had been built for so long, made a mistake. England’s jugular was exposed, and Portugal went for it. Figo and João Pinto made it 2–2 by the break and we knew the second half promised only more torture. The fire had gone out of Keegan’s players. On the hour, Nuno Gomes got the winner, and Portugal’s celebrations sounded like a nail being driven into a coffin. Nightmare.

Devastated, the players crept back to the dressing-room. Keegan had a little go. ‘You cannot give away the lead, you cannot make defending errors,’ he said. ‘But the tournament’s not over. We can get back into it.’ Kevin couldn’t say too much. No-one could. Everyone was shell-shocked. Players, staff, subs. No-one could absorb any words. Feelings were too raw, minds too clogged with disappointment. I sat in the corner, telling myself how glad I was that I hadn’t played. That game was a bit too big for me. When a team like Portugal turn on the power, it’s like being run over by a juggernaut. The old doubts came racing back: could I cut it at this level? Good players, stars I had watched and admired week in, week out in the Premiership, were sitting there almost motionless. Just empty. Crushed. Figo and João Pinto had sapped all the life from them. As Keegan finished his brief talk, the only sound I could hear was the laboured breathing of the players – almost sighs of regret. My idols just sat there, heads in hands, occasionally raising them to drink some
fluids. This wasn’t a dressing-room, this was a morgue.

Slowly, life began to pump through those shattered bodies again. Some began to move towards the showers, as if to wash away the trauma. Keegan’s coaches started to go round, Cox and Fazackerley having quiet words with each player individually. It was not a time for lectures or long speeches, just a few words about what the player had done right or wrong. Gary Lewin, the physio, tended to strains and bruises. Nothing, though, could heal the wounds Portugal had just inflicted.

Becoming invisible seemed the most diplomatic move. I shrank into the corner. I hated intruding on private grief, although it was my pain as well: I was desperate for England to do well at Euro 2000. Nerves were so exposed that I didn’t talk to anyone. I didn’t even offer consoling words to my Liverpool friends, for fear of getting my head bitten off. Witnessing the distress and anger in that Eindhoven dressing-room taught me what football was really all about, how much it meant. Up until then, I had just played a few games. Football, to me, was fun. If I lost, yeah it was bad, but I got on with it. But this England embarrassment was proper serious shit. Defeat is sport’s version of death.

It was time to leave. We filed out to the coach, resembling a line of captured prisoners as we walked, heads down, to the bus. As we hit the road to Spa, Keegan sat down briefly with me and Gareth Barry. ‘I hope you are learning from all this,’ he said. ‘Watch the opposition. Learn. You will both be involved in this tournament somewhere down the line.’ ‘Yeah,’ I thought, ‘as if.’ I was convinced I was just there to make the numbers up. Still,
I would have loved just one minute on the pitch to say I had played in a major tournament for England. The next game was against Germany, the enemy. I prayed Keegan would give me a chance.

The feeling about England’s game with Germany on 17 June in Charleroi was simple: do or die. Our loss to Portugal meant the lads were up for the match even more. All around the hotel, groups of players met and talked about our date with destiny. ‘We need to win this one or we’re history’ was the gist of the conversations. The pressure was on big-time. Tension checked in to our hotel. Players and staff became edgy. Everyone knew what was riding on this: our place in Euro 2000, our reputations even. The whole country would be thrown into depression if we lost to Germany. God, it scared me just thinking about what the mood would be back home if we slipped up. History weighed heavily on this fixture: two world wars, 1966, 1970, Italia 90 and Euro 96. All the players understood this was a fixture like no other, almost a derby match, spiced by events on and off the pitch. ‘We just cannot get beaten by Germany’ became our motto. Bitter rivalry with the Germans is ingrained in every English footballer. I was no different. The thought of piling into a German midfielder, testing his shin-pads and his bottle, was as much a part of my professional existence as breathing.

I never thought Keegan would risk me in Charleroi. The stakes were too high, surely? A must-win game against opponents like Germany was no place for a kid. Keegan put me on the bench again. Before kick-off, I bumped into my Liverpool team-mate Didi Hamann, and we had a
chat. He was starting for Germany but still had time for a word of encouragement for me.

‘Is there a chance you can get on?’ he asked me.

‘None,’ I replied.

I settled back to watch the match. Even while I was doing my warm-ups in the first half and during the break, I never thought I would feature. Eight minutes after the break, Shearer scored. Game on! The Euro 2000 dream was back on. England were back in business. But could we hold on? Germany would not go down without a fight. Keegan whispered something to Fazackerley, who turned and shouted at me: ‘Go and get warmed up. Really warmed up.’ This was it. None of the other sub midfielders had been ordered down the touchline. I had to be coming on. Keegan wanted to kill the game off, and that challenge on Southgate in Spa had shown him I loved a tackle.

As a manager, Keegan was not known for his caution, and there he was, pushing at the boundaries of his technical area, screaming at England’s players: ‘Let’s keep the result!’ Kevin could see salvation just thirty minutes away. All the stick he’d received after Eindhoven would be replaced by praise.

I warmed up like a madman, getting every sinew and muscle ready. Then the moment came for Keegan to let me loose. Michael Owen’s number went up – a brave move by the manager. Michael can make a goal out of nothing, but Keegan wanted to sit on the 1–0 lead. I stood on the touchline, flicking up a boot behind me to let the linesman check my studs. Butterflies danced in my stomach. I had played for Keegan only once, in a friendly. What the fuck
was he putting me on for in a competitive match as crucial as this? ‘I don’t need this,’ I was thinking. Sensing my unease, Kevin put his arm round me and said, ‘Just do what you do for Liverpool. Be disciplined. Keep the ball for us. Break up Germany’s attacks, because they are starting to come on to us a bit.’ Kevin paused then. His next comment will stay with me for ever: ‘Steven, enjoy it as well.’

Enjoy it? Fuck me! I was about to step into a storm for my competitive debut against the team England loathed most, and Kevin was telling me to treat it like a stroll in the park! Unbelievable. But that was fantastic man-management by Kevin. To tell a nervous kid to enjoy himself in such a serious situation was inspired.

I crossed the white line, into battle, my head spinning with thoughts. Me in central midfield, Shearer up front on his own. Against Germany. Fight to the death. Bring it on. Full house going mental. England fans singing till they were hoarse. Cannot let them down. Cannot let Germany through. Let them fucking have it.

The Germans had a good team, class from back to front. Oliver Kahn – one of the best keepers in the history of football. Defenders of real quality in Markus Babbel, Jens Nowotny and Christian Ziege. Legends like Lothar Matthaus. Big target-man in Carsten Jancker. Tricky play-makers like Mehmet Scholl. ‘Get tight to Scholl,’ Kevin had told me. ‘Stop Scholl.’ I knew all about the Bayern Munich man. I hadn’t been expecting to play, but I’d still watched the tapes to learn who Germany’s dangermen were. Sitting in the team meeting, I’d day-dreamed about how much I would love to test myself against Scholl. Now
was the time to put theory into practice. I immediately put a big tackle in on him. He was class, so I tackled him again. And again. No doubt about it, this was an exceptional German side that would not go quietly.

Certainly not with Didi in their midst. I knew Didi too well to believe Germany would surrender tamely. That’s not Didi’s way. He gives everything, and then some more, drawing from a well of resilience few other pros have. When Didi arrived at Liverpool, I was ecstatic. He’s a great player, and I learned off him day in, day out. I have always watched Didi, picking up little tips to improve me and I was gutted when he left Liverpool in 2006. He is the ultimate holding-role player, a clever sentry who allows other midfielders to bomb forward. His qualities were not restricted to the art of tackling and passing. My admiration for him as a man grew during my twenty-nine minutes in opposition to him in Charleroi. After my first few passes, Didi ran past and said, ‘Keep doing what you are doing.’ Unbelievable. I was stunned. We were sworn enemies until the referee’s final whistle, representing rival countries in a vital game with half the world tuned in. Yet here he was, helping me. Incredible. Germany themselves had so much riding on the game. They had drawn their first match, with Romania, and were trailing here. Yet even in the heat of battle, Didi was prepared to think about me, a young club-mate struggling not to sink in unfamiliar international waters. Didi could see in my face that I was sweating, nervous and panicky. When the ball next went out of play, I turned to him.

‘I am shitting myself here, mate,’ I said. ‘I’m fucking terrified.’

Didi looked at me. ‘Relax, Stevie,’ he said. ‘Just do what you do normally.’

Didi’s kindness to an opponent that evening showed he was a real mate. As long as I live, I will never forget our exchange of words in Charleroi.

I still wanted to thrash his team though. No amount of generosity of spirit from Didi could dull my desire to run Germany out of town. A couple of minutes after my chat with Didi, he went past me with the ball. Fucking cheek. That did not even happen in training at Melwood. The Kaiser was stepping it up. Time to raise my game some more. ‘I’m going to have him,’ I thought. ‘Watch out, Didi, I’m after you.’ He was making a dangerous break. I had to bring him down. I chased after Didi and hit him with a full-whack tackle. Bang. Take that. Down you go. Don’t try to fucking go past me. Didi shouted something in German, and I didn’t need to understand his words to realize he was not happy. He was rolling around on the ground, moaning. I lost it. ‘Fucking get up, Didi!’ I screamed at him, standing over him. ‘I didn’t fucking touch you. Get up! I’m going to get a yellow unless you fucking get up now. Two yellows and I miss the quarters.’

After the game, I told the press that Didi had ‘squealed like a girl’. That was naive of me, and totally unnecessary. It was a stupid comment that I regret deeply. All I can say in my defence is that it was uttered shortly after the final whistle when the only thing going through my mind was adrenalin. England had held on for victory, I had played well, and I wasn’t thinking straight. I have so much respect for Didi, particularly after he helped me settle into such a difficult game. I hope he reads this. He has never,
ever once mentioned my comment about him squealing like a girl. Too polite. I’ve never really had the chance to apologize, until now. I’m sorry, Didi. You are too much of a man to squeal like a girl.