Gerrard: My Autobiography (25 page)

Temmink’s mercy still didn’t erase the bad memory of being dismissed. Red cards are humiliating. No indignity matches the despair of sitting in an empty dressing-room, listening to the shouts of the crowd outside and knowing your team-mates are struggling without you. Letting the lads down is a cardinal sin in football. I’ve played in teams when somebody has been sent off and it’s pure graft, extra running, with little chance of getting anything from the match. I had to change, because I was becoming a liability to Liverpool. It was around this time that I really started responding to the advice of people like Struan and Gary Mac. I altered my tackling technique, going in with one foot, not two. The red mist still lingers, especially in derbies. After a silly booking for kicking the ball away against Everton in the 2005–06 season, I got another yellow for a late tackle on Kevin Kilbane and was sent off, so I’ve not eradicated the problem yet. I still love the thud of a good tackle. That’s why I enjoy watching England play rugby. Big hits and bloody battles are my idea of sport!

I have been on the receiving end of a few painful hacks myself, of course. One of the worst was Viorel Ganea’s coward’s tackle on me when Liverpool played Wolves at Molineux on 21 January 2004. I’d just returned from three games out and the last thing I needed was some mad Romanian ploughing into me. He did me. Blatant. My
sock was ripped from knee to ankle, my leg badly gashed. What angered me most was that Ganea did not even get booked. Nothing. Fucking scandal. He bloody nearly broke my leg. I suppose it was hard for the ref, because he was following the ball. The ball had gone, but Ganea kept coming and he did me good.

After the match, I limped past Wolves’ manager, Dave Jones. ‘That was a fucking coward’s tackle by Ganea,’ I told him.

Dave agreed. ‘It was out of order,’ he said. ‘How he hasn’t been sent off I don’t know.’

I respected Dave Jones for saying that. Everyone knew Ganea had gone in to hurt me. Phil Thompson went bananas.

My old Liverpool team-mate Paul Ince patrolled midfield for Wolves that day. Incey and I have enjoyed plenty of argy-bargy down the years, mainly during his time at Middlesbrough. I find it really strange with Incey. We can be laying into each other all game, hammer and tongs, no respite, yet moments later, in the players’ lounge over a drink, Incey is my good mate. He can switch the aggression on and off. One minute Incey’s screaming ‘I’m going to fucking have you!’ The next, showered and changed, suited and booted, it’s ‘How’s your family?’ Bizarre. ‘Top man, Stevie!’ Incey will say, giving me high fives moments after we have been kicking the shit out of each other. I admire him for that.

I’m different. When I have a run-in with someone, I worry how they will react when I see them next. Most are brilliant, like Incey. And that’s the great thing about the Premiership. What happens on the pitch stays on
the pitch. Dust-ups get forgotten the moment the final whistle blows. All resentment stays within those four white lines. I love all that walking off the pitch, shaking hands, apologizing for ninety minutes of aggro with a ‘Hey, let’s go have a drink.’ That, for me, is real sportsmanship. That is why English football is the best in the world.

It’s not perfect, of course. Gamesmanship goes on – diving, shirt-tugging. I’m not an angel, I’ll admit that. Just ask Aston Villa fans. The Holte End hate me. Ever since the Boateng foul, I get serenaded with ‘Steven Gerrard is a wanker’ whenever I play at Villa Park. And I enraged Villa supporters on another occasion. Back in 2001, I was through down the right, played in by Jari Litmanen, speeding into the Villa area. One of their defenders committed himself, slightly touching me, but nothing heavy, nothing I couldn’t ride. I could easily have stayed on my feet, but I went down. Penalty! It didn’t appear a dive. It looked a blatant pen. But it wasn’t. I stitched up Villa’s defenders. After the match, I thought long and hard over whether I’d done the right thing. I’m not a diver, but I did exaggerate the force of the challenge that day.

Captaincy has matured me. Since the bad days of the Boateng and Naysmith tackles, my disciplinary record has improved radically. It is my responsibility to look after the younger players, to represent Liverpool the right way. Showing respect to referees is vital. Incey loved abusing refs, but they are far stricter now. Any lip shown to officials brings instant yellows. As Becks and Wazza have discovered, even clapping your hands at the ref in Europe means the end of you. Slaughtering refs is dangerous.
When I first broke into the Liverpool team, refs were routinely abused. I slated them over shite decisions. It helped get frustration out of my system. Even as captain, I’ll still have a go at refs if they screw up, but I have great relationships with them now. The good ones, like Mark Clattenburg and Graham Poll, understand the importance of communicating with captains. They enjoy the banter and keep the dialogue open. Poll can’t stop chatting and joking; he bloody loves a chat! Mark Halsey relishes a bit of banter as well. That’s good. Clattenburg and Poll are the best refs around; confident in themselves, they treat players as equals. So we respect them back. There’s none of this ‘I’m in charge and you’re a little boy, so behave yourself’ crap from Clattenburg or Poll. Firm but fair, those two don’t care in which famous ground they are refereeing, which difficult managers are in the dug-outs or how much pressure players try to put them under. I watch Clattenburg and Poll a lot on the TV and they are never influenced by the occasion. I can tell a good ref in ten minutes, and I knew immediately Poll and Clattenburg were top-drawer. They have an aura about them but no arrogance. Paul Durkin was the same. He was brilliant, top-class. All the players liked and respected Durkin. I never felt like testing Paul’s patience because he just wanted to get on with the show. His retirement disappointed me, yet even with that setback, the standard of refereeing in the Premiership has improved.

As captain, I view refs in a different light. It’s handy to build a decent relationship with a ref, to get him on Liverpool’s side. I’m quite cynical about that. It’s gamesmanship. A tight decision in the ninetieth minute may go
my way if I’ve spent all game being friendly to the ref. He’s only human. An official like Poll or Clattenburg is likely to be more sympathetic if I work with them than if I am in their face like a cheeky Scouser, as I was years ago. I used to think refs were steaming to book me, but since getting the Liverpool armband I’ve realized they have a tough job. So I try to help. Players should help them more. Sometimes, when Liverpool are doing badly, I blame it all privately on the refs. They are shite, useless, hell-bent on destroying our season, in league with the oppo. Then I think clearly and realize that, given what is at stake in modern matches, English refs do a good job.

Sadly, there are a few referees around who I simply don’t rate, like Uriah Rennie and Neale Barry. News of Jeff Winter’s retirement did not upset me. Winter was a moaner. The worst refs are the arrogant ones who don’t talk; they just look away, have a chip on their shoulder, and actually think they are celebrities. Jeff Winter is on Sky more than me. No matter how blatantly wrong the ref has got it, Winter will go all the way around the world to stick up for the ref. Jeff, come on, just say, ‘That’s a bad mistake.’ But no, Winter goes, ‘If I was in that situation I would have done this.’ He refereed me loads of times and, in my opinion, fucked up big-time. He wasn’t one of my favourites. He never listened. I haven’t got much time for Mike Riley either. He’s actually a decent ref, but he went down in my estimation when he refused to punish Tiago for trying to take the lace out of the ball when Chelsea played at Anfield in 2005. Tiago’s was one of the most obvious hand-balls ever in the history of football. Diego Maradona’s Hand of God looked sound in comparison.
Liverpool were blatantly done by Tiago and Riley that day. We were convinced Riley was going to blow for it. He began, but then stopped. ‘You put your whistle in your mouth!’ Carra shouted at Riley. It was a disgrace. When Wazza got that penalty out of Sol Campbell at Old Trafford, I was in the Sky studio. I knew Riley had been tricked. It was the type of decision given by a referee to Man United in front of the Stretford End at Old Trafford. Would Wazza have got the penalty yards from the North Bank at Highbury? No chance. Riley has made a couple of howlers.

The best ref was Pierluigi Collina. Bar none. Foreign refs are far fussier than their cousins in the Premiership – apart from Collina. The Italian was pure class, demanding and getting instant respect. Jesus, he scared me. ‘Gerrard!’ he’d shout if I crossed the line into what he considered unacceptable, and he’d wave that long, bony finger at me in admonishment. Shit, I’ll be good. Collina’s bulging eyes were terrifying. Answering back was one step from suicide. I did once, and Collina gave me a glare that screamed, ‘Don’t fuck with me!’ I miss him. It’s a shame for all football that Collina has retired. He would have been a star in the Premiership, because he does let a good tackle go. And I love a good tackle.

MY WORLD TURNED UPSIDE
down on Saturday, 7 October 2000, and I wasn’t even playing. Kevin Keegan quit after England’s 1–0 World Cup qualifying defeat to Germany at Wembley, a decision that really distressed me. I felt terrible for Kevin. He’s a proud man who loves England intensely, the country and the team, and no-one hurt more at losing to bloody Germany. I let him down, I suppose. I ached to face Germany until an old enemy of mine, the hated groin injury, hacked me down.

If I can walk, I always report for England duty, whatever the state of my injury. So I showed up.

‘How’s the groin?’ Kevin asked as I arrived at the hotel.

‘Not too bad, boss,’ I replied, although it wasn’t the best.

Little mentions were made in the media that I might start. Incey was out, so I had a chance of the holding role. Me against Didi again – bring it on. Please, God, let the groin get better.

On the Friday, I stepped gingerly out for training and headed off for some work with the physio, Gary Lewin.
Kevin jogged over. ‘Steven, you’re in the team tomorrow. How is it?’

‘Not brilliant,’ I finally admitted.

‘Try it a bit more, and if it’s no good, then fair enough,’ said Kevin, and nipped back to work with the team.

With Gary watching, I tried twisting and turning, but the groin wouldn’t respond. No chance. I was out.

Wembley’s stands were a depressing place to be that afternoon. Gareth Southgate stood in for me, a centre-half in midfield, a decision Kevin copped a lot of flak for. I sat there, helpless and frustrated, watching a shit game in shit weather. Of course, Didi went and scored the bloody winner, the last goal at the old Wembley.

As Germany celebrated and England fans howled their anger, I shot down to the dressing-room to see the boys. Consoling words were useless; I just wanted to show solidarity. As I reached the dressing-room area, there was a buzz along the corridor. Groups of people, some telly and some FA, were whispering to each other. ‘He’s walked out,’ I heard someone say. Who’s walked out? Must be one of the players, pissed off with the result. I hurried on, and entered the dressing-room. All around sat shell-shocked players, my friends. They were all down, silent, devastated. Normally Kevin would be going around, lifting spirits.

‘Where’s Kevin?’ I asked.

‘He’s speaking to the press,’ someone mumbled.

Then Keegan walked back in, his eyes dulled with pain. He didn’t hang about. ‘My time’s up,’ he said. ‘It’s time for somebody else to have a go.’

Keegan had resigned! Shit. How to react? I looked
around, embarrassed, not knowing what to say. Tony Adams tried to talk Kevin round, pleading hard with him. ‘Don’t do it now. Wait. Kevin, slow down, don’t do it.’ Too late, Tony. Kevin’s mind was made up. ‘Thanks for everything you have done, lads,’ he said. ‘You are a great set of players. I’m proud to have worked with you. But that’s it, lads. I’m off.’ Kevin had told the FA, informed the press, and he was now off out the door. Amazingly, he stopped on the way and looked at me.

‘How are you, Steven?’ he asked.

Jesus, what could I say? Kevin had just quit as manager of England but he was still concerned for me. ‘I’m all right, boss,’ I muttered.

‘What did you think of the game, Steven?’ he added.

Fucking hell. What a time for chit-chat! I was gobsmacked. Words failed me. Kevin smiled and disappeared, out of Wembley and out of my life. I kicked myself. Say something. Shout after him. He capped you. He believed in you. Too late – he’d gone. I regret never getting the chance to thank Kevin – until now. I hope when Kevin reads this he will understand how much I admired him as a bloke and a manager.

Selfishly, I was hacked off. England lost a manager and I lost a mentor. Keegan rated me. The moment I was fit I was straight into Keegan’s England, first choice in the middle, no question. Now I must start again. Impress the new man. Best behaviour. Every day I flicked through the papers to see who was being linked with the job. News that the FA were considering going foreign alarmed me. I prayed the FA would choose an Englishman. They would know me, appreciate my
strengths. I wasn’t against foreigners, of course. If they have a top CV they are good enough to manage England. But I had reservations. Would an overseas coach like me? Would he even know me? Would he prefer the experienced players to fresh names? If only Kevin had stayed. English, familiar, and trusted. Many people in the press, pundits and ex-players, were screaming that England shouldn’t have a foreign coach. ‘Maybe they are right,’ I thought, ‘especially if the foreigner doesn’t believe in me.’

My nerves tightened when the FA appointed a Swede. But all my fears disappeared the moment Sven-Goran Eriksson picked me in his first squad for the friendly against Spain at Villa Park on 28 February 2001. In interviews, Eriksson spoke well of me, so maybe he’d be all right. On reporting for England, I was quite looking forward to meeting the man. Injury again ruled me out, but I drove down to the Midlands to have the problem checked over by Gary Lewin.