Gerrard: My Autobiography

by Steven Gerrard

  My journey through the Merseyside school system was straightforward and undistinguished. I looked on schools as fantastic playing fields with boring buildings attached. My first stop was St Michael’s, which became Huyton-with-Roby Church of England Primary. Though only a short walk from Ironside, Mum still insisted on driving me to St Mick’s and picking me up. I enjoyed the infants and junior school, just messing about. When I was naughty, the teachers made me stand by the wall, looking at the bricks for five minutes as punishment. I never bullied anyone. I never hurt anyone or swore. I was just cheeky and mischievous. My crimes were petty ones: answering back or going on muddy grass when we were told to stay on the yard. Usual kids’ stuff.

  School held limited appeal. I sat in class, longing for play-time because there was always a match on in the playground. I loved dinner-time because it lasted an hour, which meant a longer match. I abandoned hot dinners because they wasted precious minutes. Queuing for my meal, I’d shout, ‘Come on, there’s a big game going on out there.’ Eventually, I asked my mother for packed lunches. ‘You should be on hot dinners,’ she screamed, ‘or come home if you don’t like school food.’ We compromised on packed lunches: sandwich, bar of chocolate and drink. And some fruit. The fruit always came home untouched. Apples, bananas and oranges weren’t me. Butties weren’t even me at that age. It would be bread off, meat out, quick bite, on with the game. ‘Stevie, you haven’t eaten your butty,’ Mum would say, ‘you’ve only eaten your chocolate.’ Mum didn’t understand. Speed was vital at dinner-time. I ate the packed lunch while playing or wolfed it down running back into class. Same with my tea. If there was a match going on outside Ironside, a game of chase, or my mates were waiting for me, I slipped my food in my pocket, sprinted out the door, threw the food to the neighbour’s dog and raced on to the match. I returned home starving, picking at biscuits, crisps and chocolate.

  Back at St Mick’s, the teachers watched me scribbling away busily in my school-book. Steam almost rose from my pencil I wrote so furiously. The teachers must have thought I was focusing really hard on the lesson. I’m sorry. I wasn’t. Lessons were spent working out the teams for dinner-time. In the back of my school-book, I wrote down the names. When the bell for break rang, I dashed out to organize all the boys – and get the girls off the playground. ‘You can watch,’ I’d tell them generously, ‘but that’s the pitch and you can’t go on it.’ The pitch was marked out with bags and tops for goals. They were right serious battles at St Mick’s. Wembley Cup finals have been less intense. My face still bears the trace of a scar collected in the playground after I collided with a fence, tussling for the ball. Defeat was unthinkable. The winners milked it loudly while the losers got caned for the next lesson.

  Me and Barry Banczyk were the best players at St Mick’s. Barry and I were good mates, but our playground rivalry was something else, real physical. We picked the sides, Barry’s team against mine, always dead competitive. Barry was a decent player. He turned out for Denburn U-13s, a side my dad helped run. Denburn were good: Michael Branch and Tony Hibbert played for them. I turned out for Denburn briefly, helping them win the Edgehill Junior League, until Liverpool stopped me playing. Barry and I were the main men in the school team. One year, we helped St Mick’s win a local cup which gave us a chance of playing at Wembley. First we had to beat sides from different districts in a tournament. The prize was huge. Wembley! Just the thought of the famous old stadium had me lying awake in bed, thinking of what it would be like to step out onto the best-known pitch in all the world. Wembley! What a dream come true that would be! I was certainly up for the tournament. In one match I went in for a slide tackle with my usual determination. I caught my knee on the sharp ring-pull of a Coke can, which sliced open my leg. It was only five stitches but it cost me my chance of joining the team at Wembley. I cried my eyes out. That was typical of my luck. My mates were off to Wembley and I was off to hospital. The scar on my knee faded but the pain of missing that trip to Wembley remains.

  The time came when I had to leave St Mick’s. For secondary school, a difficult choice awaited. Most of my class were going either to Bowring Comprehensive School or Knowsley High. Paul was at Bowring so I wanted to go there, just to be with my brother. Bowring and Knowsley High had serious problems, though: football was not high on the agenda. Everyone knew I was mad keen on football so only a school which improved me as a player would do. My teacher at St Mick’s, Mrs Chadwick, gave me some sound advice. ‘You should go to Cardinal Heenan, Steven,’ she told me. ‘It will be better for your football.’

  Cardinal Heenan Catholic High School was well known to me. It had a really good name for football, probably the best in the area. Mrs Chadwick’s husband, Eric, taught PE at Cardinal Heenan. ‘Have a look at Steven Gerrard,’ she told him. ‘He’s dead good at football. He’d make a great pupil for Cardinal Heenan.’ Some people were not keen on me moving, though. The Bluebell Estate was outside the catchment area and I wasn’t a Catholic. But who cares? Football won. Cardinal Heenan wanted me. Along with a reference from Mrs Chadwick that I was half-decent in class, my ability on the ball carried me through the gates of Cardinal Heenan. My career demanded I go there. Enrolling at Cardinal Heenan brought eligibility for Liverpool Boys rather than Knowsley Boys, and that was key. Liverpool Boys teams were better run. The scouts at Liverpool and Everton knew that and always went talent-spotting at Liverpool Boys games. Cardinal Heenan was the only place for me.

  Having picked my secondary school for footballing reasons, I still had to endure lessons there. Cardinal Heenan was massive – more than 1,300 boys. I didn’t want to go at first, even with the knowledge that the football would be good. Night after night, I cried. The idea of moving among so many strangers horrified me. Cardinal Heenan was three miles from home – another country in my mind. But Mum and Dad persuaded me it would be best for my football. Reluctantly, I went. I needed time to settle, for it to become a familiar scenario in my life.

  By the third year, I was on the back of the bus from the Bluebell with the boys, the whole atmosphere buzzing, loving it. For this was the first time Mum let me go to school on my own. I was thirteen and it was brilliant. Christ, I felt grown up. I left Ironside with my bus money and dinner money jangling in my pocket, feeling like a king, strutting down the Bluebell streets. I’d knock on the door of a couple of mates, Terry Smith and Sean Dillon, and the three of us would head on to the bus-stop, striding along like the top gang in town. Sean was a nightmare, late every day. Terry and me chucked stones at Sean’s bedroom window to get him up at quarter to nine. Sometimes we got so annoyed we threw the stones really hard. A few shards of broken glass around Sean’s bedroom would sort out his lousy time-keeping. When we finally got Sean out of his house, there would be a mad dash to the bus. All three of us, school-bags dangling, legs racing, sprinting down the road, laughing our heads off. Great times. Sean is a bricklayer now, doing well. I see Terry often. He’s a huge Everton fan. So we have some banter.

  When Sean, Terry and I reached Cardinal Heenan, the day revolved around waiting for the two play-times of 25 minutes each and the hour-long dinner-time. I spent all day thinking about football. I loved PE with Mr Chadwick. Unfortunately, we never did football all the time and I used to get a cob on if it was rugby, gymnastics or cricket. I wanted football, indoor or on the field. Or tennis. I was quite warm at tennis. At Cardinal Heenan we played short tennis, with a smaller net and these wooden bats. We decorated our bats with the Nike Swoosh or Adidas stripes to see who had the tastiest bat. But football remained the main subject on my personal curriculum.

  Cardinal Heenan wasn’t rough. Just a few fights in the playground now and again, a few big boys who were the so-called Cocks. I had my own gang and we looked out for each other. The odd fight erupted and I would be in the midst of it, throwing punches, standing my ground. No-one was going to push me around. Older boys, bigger boys, no-one. I suffered the occasional split lip from a punch I failed to dodge, but my uniform tended to be mor
e spattered with mud than blood. I was always throwing myself around on the pitch, covering myself in dirt. I lived for those moments. Lessons were just the dead time between games.

  When it came to class-work, though, I wasn’t thick. All the way through Cardinal Heenan, I was in the middle academically. Different subjects provoked different moods. If I wasn’t doing well at maths, I despised it and hated going to the lesson. But if I was flying in English, and our brilliant lady teacher helped me, I wouldn’t mind it. I enjoyed creative writing, making up stories. I wrote about how one day I’d win the World Cup. I liked messing about with words. Reading, too. My favourite book at school was Of Mice and Men. It’s quite a sad story when you get to know the characters. I read Of Mice and Men from cover to cover so many times the book almost fell apart. We watched the story on video, did a project on it, and an exam on it. When GCSEs arrived I got a C in English, six Ds and two Es.

  But above all this I had only one ambition, one dream, one target – football.

  2

  Growing Up and Toughening Up

  I NEVER BUNKED off school. Never. Dad wouldn’t have any of that. The consequences of bunking off, sneaking a ciggy, or fare-dodging, were unimaginable. Dad gave me a few clips round the ear and bollockings, but nothing too damaging. He never hit me. Dad showed his disappointment in a different way. He had a stare that could break my heart. What stopped me messing about was I feared losing the great relationship we had. Dad didn’t need to use violence or to raise his voice to teach Paul and me right and wrong. Dad would not have his kids disrespecting anyone or doing wrong. He wouldn’t tolerate having police coming round to Ironside. Loads of people banged on the door to complain about Paul and me throwing stones at their windows, but we never had the police round. Never.

  I screwed up once. Just once. I went robbing and got caught. Me and a mate were mucking about in the centre of Liverpool, as eleven-year-olds do, just being stupid in Woolies. We had five quid between us to get home and grab a Maccies or Wimpy at Lime Street on the way. The problem was I needed some stationery for homework, just graph paper and pens – usual school nonsense. The plan was sorted with Woolies the target. We snuck in and went up and down the aisles putting pens in our pockets and paper up my coat. Confidently, we walked towards the exit. The plan seemed to be working. Brilliant. I could feel the money in my pocket for a burger and a Coke at Lime Street. Easy, easy. Step through the door, onto the pavement, turn left, ready to leg it …

  A shout stopped us in our tracks. ‘Oi!’ came a voice that froze our blood. ‘Stop!’ Shit. The Woolies security man was standing there. I couldn’t move, I was so scared. He grabbed us both by the collars. Fuck it. It was the worst day of my life. ‘That’s it,’ I thought, my heart and mind racing. ‘I have blown everything. Liverpool is finished. The club will go crazy. Dad’s going to disown me. Shit.’

  This security guard marched us back into Woolies, into an office, and took the stationery off us. He then gave us a right bollocking. ‘What school are you at?’ he screamed. ‘Where do you live? Give us your phone number now.’

  My head was spinning. ‘We’ve not got a phone,’ I lied.

  The security guy went red in the face. ‘Give me your address then.’

  I couldn’t mention Ironside. Dad would go mental if the bizzies went round. Think. The guard asked again, so I gave the address of my auntie’s house. He wrote that down, gave us another rollicking, and kicked us out of Woolies.

  My head in a mess, I ran to Lime Street. Woolies would phone school, then get hold of Dad, and that would be it, me grounded, no football for ages. Fuck. When I jumped off the train at Huyton, I couldn’t face Ironside. ‘Dad will definitely kill me for robbing,’ I thought. Home was out of the question, so I sprinted round to my auntie Lynn’s. She let me in, sat me down, and listened me out. ‘Will you go and see Dad?’ I pleaded with her. ‘Please? Make sure he’s all right.’

  Auntie Lynn went round to Ironside and explained to Dad how terrible I felt. Too late. Dad already knew about my shoplifting. Bad news travelled fast. Woolies had been on to St Mick’s, who phoned Dad, and he was on the warpath. Dad came round, dragged me back home and slaughtered me, big-time. He looked me in the eye and just massacred me. ‘Why did you do that?’ he shouted. ‘Why go robbing? Why didn’t you pay for it? Why didn’t you ask me or your mum for money? Why? Why? We can’t tolerate stealing in this family. You’ll get another bollocking at school. They’ll want to know why you were nicking things.’

  On the train back from Lime Street, in a rare clear moment, I had thought this bit through. ‘Dad,’ I replied, ‘if the school have a go I will say I needed the stationery for my homework. I was doing it for school. It wasn’t sweets I took. It was graph paper.’

  Dad looked at me and went, ‘I’m not having that.’

  As excuses go, it was pretty feeble. Nothing could save me from the doghouse.

  Dad then hit me with another killer thought: ‘If Liverpool find out, you are in even more trouble, Steven,’ he said. ‘What the hell is Steve Heighway going to think of you? You might have screwed up everything at Liverpool. They could kick you out.’

  Those words smashed into me like a wrecking ball. I felt so small. I love Dad. I hated letting him down. I love Liverpool. The idea of them giving me the elbow horrified me. Football was all I dreamed about. Why had I gone robbing? Jesus, what a mess. Robbing was stupid. I had money, and if I hadn’t, I could have just done without. Our parents always told Paul and me: ‘You don’t have to steal. If you want anything, by hook or crook we will try to get it for you.’ Idiot that I was, I went robbing and now faced the consequences.

  As Dad slated me, Mum stood in the doorway, watching and listening. Mum wanted Dad to stress how serious the situation was, but she was also behind him making sure there were no belts. Me and Paul were mummy’s boys, and she protected us. I could always blag Mum. ‘Oh, Mum! Shut up!’ I’d say, if she were on at me. A smile would flicker across her face as she gave in. Her love for us meant me and Paul got away with murder. Mum was more laid-back than Dad. He was enraged by the Woolies incident, but Mum made sure he didn’t hit me. A lot of kids who got caught smoking or robbing got leathered by their dads. My accomplice in Woolies certainly suffered an almighty hiding when he got home. Dad just sent me to my room and grounded me for three nights. It felt like six months.

  I got no sympathy off Paul. Just the opposite. My brother laughed his head off at me being incarcerated in my room. There’d be a knock on my door and I’d hear Paul whispering, ‘Stevie, I’m going into town. It’s going to be brilliant. Come on.’ Thanks. He wound me up something rotten. ‘The computer’s on downstairs,’ Paul said through the door, ‘do you fancy a game?’ Paul knew I couldn’t come out. It was only banter but it cut me to pieces. I heard Paul running outside and organizing a game of football. He called out to all the other Ironside boys in a really loud voice, ‘Who wants a game? Let’s go.’ It was torture. I heard the game going on, listened almost in tears to the screams of delight, the jokes, the noisy celebrations. I couldn’t escape. My room was in the front. My mates shouted up to my window, ‘Stevie, Stevie, this is a brilliant game, it’s such a pity you can’t join in. You’d love it.’ Cruel laughter followed their words up to my window. My mates! My bloody brother! They knew I could hear. They knew it would kill me. When they stopped calling up, I sneaked a look out the window to watch them enviously. It was my fault. I deserved my spell in solitary confinement.

  Normally, I behaved myself, certainly by the standards of some boys I knocked about with. Mates of mine robbed shops and garages, nicking sweets and drinks, when I was with them. I never got involved, but I was there. I watched friends pull ciggies out of pockets at play-time at school. They’d light up and blow smoke in people’s faces. They didn’t care. A few were on the road to nowhere, but I enjoyed hanging out with them. I could have gone off the rails. Temptations abounded, dangerous ones. Fortunately, Dad kept me straight. Without his guidance, I wou
ldn’t be where I am today.

  Dad was always the boss of No. 10 Ironside. Dad’s word was law, but he was never a dictator. Me and Paul have never been scared of our parents. Sometimes we were spoiled brats wanting more – too much more, given our modest circumstances. But Paul and I had unbelievable respect for our parents. We are a very close family – as close as it gets. We ate breakfast together, tea together, sat in every night, watching telly and chatting. The atmosphere was class. Paul and I couldn’t have asked for more loving, caring parents. Mum is very proud. Hunger never knocked on the door of 10 Ironside. The Gerrards always had enough food on the table. The cupboards were always full. If Paul and I weren’t allowed something, or were short of money, Mum told us, ‘It’s because the cupboards are full. That’s the number one priority. The cupboards must always be full.’ We were free to help ourselves from the biscuit tin. ‘But you are not to go anywhere near that cupboard until you’ve eaten your meal,’ Mum would say.

  Money was tight. Holidays abroad were a distant dream. Every year we went to Butlin’s, in Skegness, or to a holiday park in Devon. My auntie and uncle would come with their kids, Nan and Granddad too. The whole family. What an adventure! The trip dominated my thoughts for months in advance. Mum was always planning, always squirrelling away money throughout the winter to pay for the holiday. She knew how much Skegness meant to the family, and particularly Paul and me. Sometimes, if Paul and I were lucky, a mate was allowed along. I let Paul pick the lucky guest. I would be buzzing to be with them, to hang out and play football with older boys. Skegness was great. ‘Make sure you do the soccer schools,’ Dad told me on the drive to the Lincolnshire coast. As if I needed reminding! Even when we mucked about on the beach, hitting balls around with bats or bombing down the slides in the water park, one thought occupied my mind: when can I get to the soccer school? Even when I was on the go-karts, chasing Paul round the track, I was thinking about getting to the soccer school. ‘Is it time to go now?’ I’d ask Dad. ‘Come on. Must be time.’ Skegness was luxury. Of a night, we would go into the local club where there would be singers on, bands, and karaoke. The next morning, I would wake early and say, ‘When can I get to the soccer school?’ Skegness felt like heaven.