Gerrard: My Autobiography (26 page)

As I climbed back in the car to head north, I got a call from Michelle, the team administrator. ‘Steven, don’t go home yet,’ she said. ‘The manager and Tord Grip want to see you over at training.’

Christ. Here goes. Important moment. Good impression. I drove over to training and found Sven and Tord, his number two.

‘I have seen quite a bit of you,’ Sven said, after shaking my hand. ‘I rate you. Tord has been coming to Liverpool’s games and watching you. We are desperate to get you fit. If you need any help, we can advise you. We are going to keep close contact with Liverpool’s medical people. I’ve
spoken to Gérard Houllier and Kevin Keegan and they rave about you. Get yourself fit, Steven, and you are in the team.’

Jesus! Eriksson hadn’t even seen me train with England yet! I certainly didn’t know Tord was scouting me. After all the disappointment of Keegan’s departure, my world began to come good again. Although gutted about my injury, I left the camp with a smile on my face. ‘Get yourself fit, Steven, and you are in the team.’ Sven’s last words made welcome companions on the M6 home. I had got off to the right start with my new England boss. Eriksson’s warmth surprised me. He was really friendly. His English was pretty decent as well. When I’m speaking to foreigners, I always wonder how well they understand me. Many of them have difficulties making sense of English, let alone Scouse! With Eriksson, I talked dead slow, to make sure he took it all in. I didn’t know much about him, apart from his winning Serie A with Lazio, which was a tidy achievement. But Eriksson valued me, and that was all that counted. As I headed back to Liverpool, I thought to myself that Eriksson would improve me. Gérard was making me a better player. Why couldn’t another foreigner?

Eriksson’s impact was immediate. He restored confidence, got England’s shape right and had us playing to our strengths: shifting the ball forward quickly to exploit Michael’s pace. When we arrived in Munich for the return with Germany on 1 September 2001, we were ready. Revenge was in the air. England must batter Germany, get back on track for the World Cup, and pay them back for the misery of Wembley. Privately, some of us wanted to win it for Kevin, too. I certainly did. The
game was massive, like a cup final and a big Champions League tie rolled into one.

To our surprise, Eriksson booked us into a city-centre hotel, which showed how relaxed he was. No hiding away in the country. No fear. A message was sent to the Germans: we are here, in the middle of your city, and we are going to take you apart. I loved being in my room, hearing the German and English fans outside our hotel singing their songs. Every shout from below reminded me how much was riding on this game. I lay in bed, unable to sleep because of the unbelievable racket. It didn’t matter. Tiredness wasn’t an issue. Listening to the England supporters just made me more determined. I couldn’t let them down. No way. They travelled to Munich in their thousands, hoping to see England perform after the embarrassment of Wembley. We had to deliver.

There was no escaping the huge interest in the game. Whenever I switched on the TV, all the channels, German and English, seemed full of pictures from training or pundits discussing what might happen. The two nations talked of nothing else. All the interviews with Germany’s players detailed what they were going to do to us. We’ll see about that. Germany’s keeper, Oliver Kahn, whipped up a storm with critical comments about England’s qualities. Typical. Experienced players on either side always stir up a blizzard of headlines before major matches. It’s a deliberate trick, to make the opponents tense. The media spun Kahn’s comments into a controversy, stoking the fire raging about the game. The long, often bitter rivalry between England and Germany added more fuel. Good. Pressure suits me. All our players were
up for this. The Liverpool boys – me, Michael and Emile – had just sorted out old man Kahn in the Super Cup. The whirlwind that hit Bayern Munich in Monaco was now heading Germany’s way.

The atmosphere in England’s final team meeting was fantastic. I looked around at Becks, Scholesy, Michael and the rest and knew they were all as pumped up as me. Let’s fucking get at the Germans. Come on! We wanted to win. We had to win. Simple. Everybody was focused. Eriksson was so calm that we felt completely in control. On the bus to the Olympic Stadium, all the lads talked about how much the match meant, the volume rising higher and higher. In the dressing-room, most of the players were really vocal. Eriksson said a little bit, but the real noise came from the players. The language was dead lively. Fucking come on! No club dressing-room could ever compare with this decibel level. Unbelievable. Deafening. At Liverpool, one or two of the lads shout and get everyone going; with England in Munich that night, the whole room went mental. Shouts everywhere. Big Dave was right up for it. Come on, lads, this is it! Gary Neville screaming. Let’s do it! Rio, Sol, both psyched up. Germany didn’t know what was going to hit them. Ashley Cole talked away, not loud words, but constructive, giving off a quiet determination. Everyone knew he meant business out there. This was England v. Germany, a derby with pride and vital points at stake.

In the tunnel, the Germans were yelling stuff. They, too, desperately wanted to beat us. I saw Didi, a friend for life but an enemy tonight. We nodded at each other, but this was no time for pleasantries. Anyway, Didi knew how
much I respected him. He also knew how ready England were for Germany.

Not that anyone could tell from the first ten minutes. Germany were all over us. It was a miracle they led only through Carsten Jancker’s goal. Sebastian Deisler had a great chance. Germany were good, full of belief. Jancker dominated the air. Ballack ran the game on the deck. Must get close to them. Can’t. Shit. Doubts filled me. Away from home, the odds looked stacked against us. The German crowd began crowing: ‘Olé, olé!’ Fuck them. Come on! Big Dave made a magnificent save. Thank God – 2–0 and it would all have been over. Just believe. Long way to go. Trust in your team-mates. Trust Michael to give us hope. Michael always does.

When he equalized, the whole mood spun round. Now let’s go and win this. Suddenly, Eriksson’s tactics looked spot on. We played 4–4–2, deep and compact, hitting on the break because we had burning pace up front in Michael and Emile. In all our team meetings, Eriksson instructed us to smack diagonal passes behind Germany’s wing-backs. Hit Emile. Get Michael behind them. Now deliver. We had the passers to release them. In midfield, Becks was on the right and Nicky Barmby on the left, both working overtime. In the middle, Scholesy played more defensive than normal. My job was to break everything up, smash the Germans before they got going. Thanks! I’d prefer to be more attack-minded, but this was still good, banging into Germans.

England were now playing it around, getting on top. Just before half-time we got a corner. A goal now would go through Germany’s nerves like a wrecking ball through
an old wall. Their walk to the dressing-room at half-time would be a funeral march. Here goes. Beckham, eager as ever to keep things moving, sprinted over to the flag, placed the ball and swept it over. Panic filled German eyes. All speed and flight, Becks’s corners are a nightmare to deal with for defenders. I wasn’t in the box. In our set-piece practice the day before, Eriksson had me lurking on the edge of the area, looking to pick up the pieces and any nod-downs. I never got a touch in training. No clearances came my way. Nothing. I was a spectator. Match-day proved different. As 63,000 fans watched, Beckham’s corner flew across, German heads straining to reach it. Rio was magnificent, timing his leap well. ‘Set!’ I screamed at Rio. ‘Set!’ I was perfectly placed. If Rio set me up, I knew I’d score. Nailed-on goal. Would Rio hear and see me? Most defenders are daft as brushes. They don’t listen. They get frightened and head the ball anywhere. Not Rio, the king of composure. His awareness was brilliant. Jumping with other players, Rio somehow managed to see me. He met the ball superbly, heading it down to me. Great flick, perfect set. All yours, Stevie. Don’t screw up.

As the ball came down, I knew there was no margin for error. People think it’s a dead good position, hanging around on the edge of the box, waiting for a loose ball to ram back in. The risks are huge, though. If England got hit on the counter, it was so dangerous. Beware their pressure. Shoot quickly. Don’t let the Germans nick it. Good touch and hit the target. Luckily enough, I caught an absolute worldie. The ball flew into the bottom left-hand corner. Take that, Kahn.
He was nowhere. That’s for all your comments about us.

The German keeper was well beaten. Afterwards, everyone banged on about my accuracy, but I never intended to place it there. I just meant to hit the target with power. Bang. Get in! Not a bad time to score my first England goal! I couldn’t believe it. I took off in celebration. Seeing the England fans in the corner, I sprinted towards them. Get close to them. Share the moment with them. I began to run out of pitch, so I dived full length, screaming with joy as I slid on the Munich turf. Dad was among the fans going crazy. I pointed towards them. ‘That’s for you, Dad,’ I thought. ‘You backed me all the way. You made this possible.’ Emotion overcame me. All the hard work, the years of training and dreaming, had paid off.

Racing down the Munich tunnel at the break, 2–1 up, I knew what our dressing-room would be like. Buzzing. We can kill Germany off now. The lads were flying so much they even wound me up big-time. Each player walked over to Barmbs and patted him on the head. ‘Well done, Barmbs, great goal. Fantastic reaction to Stevie’s pass!’ Robbie, typically, came across and pretended to console me.

‘I bet you’re gutted, aren’t you?’ he said.

‘Why, Robbie?’

‘Well, Barmbs just told Sky the goal was his.’

My head went. ‘Fuck off, all of youse. It’s my fucking goal.’ I was steaming.

Fowler then burst out laughing. So did the others. I’d been done. Nicky was smiling. Fair play to him, Barmbs did well to get out of the way of my shot. He actually
helped, because Kahn was unsighted. And I put some bend on it!

Eriksson was his usual self at half-time. Calm. Composed. His message was simple. ‘You played really well for the last twenty-five minutes of the half,’ he told us. ‘Keep doing what you are doing. The next goal is important. If we get the next goal, we have won the game.’ This was it. Let’s finish the Germans off. No mercy. Kill them.

Amazingly, the Germans had nothing left. Their hearts and legs had gone, drained like a boxer who had taken one too many punches. They were on the ropes, and we spent the second half battering them. With their wing-backs high and centre-halves slow, Michael’s runs down the channels into all that lovely space on such a big pitch destroyed Germany. Becks and Scholesy kept picking him out, and his pace, touch and eye for goal did the rest. Michael was Michael in Munich: quiet, then bang, bang, bang. Three goals, thank you, and auf wiedersehen, pet. Michael and England were unstoppable. At one point, we put together a twenty-pass move, including a drag-back from me around Didi. People thought I was taking the piss. Bollocks. Didi closed me down dead quick, so I flicked the ball around him. My aim was to keep the ball from Didi, not humiliate him. The press made a meal of that moment, and even suggested I gestured to Rudi Völler, Germany’s coach, to hook Didi. Rubbish. I signalled to our bench that I was cramping up. Eriksson sent on Owen Hargreaves, and I spent the last twelve minutes sitting on the bench, just smiling at the carnage Michael caused.

The atmosphere in the dressing-room afterwards was
different gravy. Everyone was shouting, punching the air, shaking hands and laughing. Eriksson said little; he just sat there smiling. Go on, you old Swede, let yourself go! Scream and shout and get into the party! No chance. Eriksson was too restrained, but he must have been bursting with pride inside. We all were. England sent out a message to the world that night. We are fearless. We don’t give up. We have players like Michael Owen who can demolish any defence. After that victory and performance in Munich, we genuinely believed we could go anywhere, however inhospitable, and succeed.

England still faced a huge obstacle before qualifying for Korea and Japan. Greece came to Old Trafford a month later and we had to match Germany’s result against Finland to keep top spot. A massive game, no doubt. The build-up to the match on Saturday, 6 October, was very intense, particularly for me. The Sunday before, I was knocking about my apartment in Southport when some mates called, asking if I fancied a night out.

‘Yeah, good shout, but I’ve got to make sure I’m in my bed quite handy,’ I said.

‘OK,’ they promised.

There seemed no problem in going out. Eriksson told us to report to the Worsley Marriott outside Manchester on Monday. A couple of beers wouldn’t hurt. Greece was six days away, so I felt I could unwind. I’d earned it.

I was enjoying myself in the bar in Southport, relaxing nicely, when this Everton fan walked over.

‘Flash cunt,’ he shouted at me.

‘What?’ I replied.

‘You’ve only played a few games, so what are you doing fucking driving around in a flash car?’

‘If that’s what you think, that’s what you think,’ I said to him. I had a nice Merc, but nothing fancy. ‘Anyway, what’s wrong with having a nice car?’

‘You shouldn’t fucking have one,’ he said. ‘Who the fuck do you think you are?’

Dickhead. I decided to keep the peace. ‘Fine, fair enough,’ I said to him, and turned back to my friends.

The lad disappeared, so I thought that was the end of it. The following day, I headed off to the Worsley, having forgotten what went on. Then Struan phoned. ‘Stevie, there’s a piece going in the
Daily Mail
tomorrow about you,’ he said.

‘What the hell about?’

‘Some kid tipped the paper off that you were drinking in a bar with a big England game coming up.’

Shit. It was that cocky Everton lad.

With a heavy heart, I checked into the England hotel, went training, and then had to do a press conference. Nothing sinister in that; it was just my turn. I still shat myself in case any of the reporters mentioned it, but only the
Mail
knew. The next day, I got down early to look at the papers. There it was: news pages and back page. ‘England Star Out Drinking’. So fucking what? I was twenty-one and entitled to a bit of fun now and then. This was ridiculous. I was harshly done by. If I had been out on the town in Southport, rotten stinking drunk until five in the morning, I could understand the problem. But I wasn’t. The truth was that I went out, had two beers and a couple of glasses of Coke, and was back in my flat at
12.30. I was out trying to pull a few birds, not trying to get drunk. I lived on my own, a single lad, and I had a right to relax occasionally. The next day, I had a lie-in before driving over to Worsley for 12.30. No hangover, no nothing. I had four days’ serious training ahead of me before the game with Greece. What the hell was the fuss about?