Gerrard: My Autobiography

by Steven Gerrard

  Me, Paul and Dad talked football all the time. Dad was daft about Liverpool. He bought me Liverpool videos and we watched them together, admiring the way Graeme Souness thundered into challenges, Alan Hansen’s coolness and Kenny Dalglish’s class around the box. One day, Dad came home with a massive picture of Dalglish. He climbed the stairs to my room and handed over the picture. ‘Kenny Dalglish is the best player who ever played for Liverpool,’ Dad said. ‘He’s The Man. Get him up on your wall.’ Dalglish’s picture was up on my wall for years. It was like a shrine. I was lucky enough to see King Kenny live at Anfield when I was very young, only about six or seven. I even have one of Kenny’s shirts in my trophy room at home now. Back then, I loved standing on the Kop, bewitched by Kenny, Ian Rush, John Barnes and Steve McMahon. Great players. I saw some amazing championship moments. I was on the Kop in 1989 when Michael Thomas broke Liverpool hearts with that amazing last-minute goal for Arsenal. It denied us the title. I remember the following year when Hansen lifted the title. What a brilliant sight. I set my heart on following Hansen and bringing that trophy back to Anfield again.

  Only when I began training with Liverpool at the age of eight did I become a hard-and-fast Kopite. Before then, I didn’t understand who to support. I would be in the Panini enclosure at Goodison Park one week, singing and swaying on the Kop the next week. My heart was taken by football, not by one tribe. Other people didn’t see it that way. With Dad, you were either Red or Dead. ‘Liverpool, Liverpool, Liverpool,’ he drummed into me, like a religious chant. As with many families on Merseyside, there were mixed loyalties. Mum’s brother, Leslie, was crazy about Everton – season-tickets, scarves, flags, the lot. Leslie was always coming back from games with Everton kit for me, trying to turn me into a Blue.

  A quick search on the Internet will reveal a photo of me as a schoolboy in a full Everton strip. Blue shirt, shorts, socks, the works. When I became big news with Liverpool, some enterprising Everton fanzines discovered the picture and printed it. They must have loved that! The Mirror heard about it, tracked down the picture and published it when I was becoming famous at Liverpool. A huge debate broke out. Was the picture real or not? Many people thought it was a fake. It isn’t. It’s a genuine photograph, taken in 1987. That is me, dressed as an Evertonian, and it wasn’t at a fancy-dress party or for a bet. Leslie took me to Goodison when I was six and I saw some of Everton’s games on the way to their league championship. I won a programme competition to have my picture taken with the league trophy and Charity Shield at Goodison. Uncle Leslie was buzzing. He knew it would send Dad through the roof, and it really did. Dad went ballistic at the thought of his son, all in blue, standing proudly in the Goodison trophy room. ‘He’s not going,’ Dad kept telling Leslie. ‘You’re not going,’ Dad kept telling me. But I did. I was so keen. I was seven by that time, mad about football, not that clued-up in those days about the intense rivalry between Everton and Liverpool. It didn’t seem wrong at the time. Leslie came over to Ironside with a brand-new kit. All excited, I ripped open the wrapping, put the crisp blue strip on and headed off for Goodison with Leslie, leaving an enraged Dad behind. Disowning me must have crossed his mind. Leslie guided me into the trophy room at Goodison, all smiles, and the photographer snapped away. Now that my heart belongs to Liverpool, I look back on the incident and wonder what the hell I was doing. Put it down to the naivety of youth. We all make mistakes.

  Everton, Liverpool or whoever – at the time, just the chance to own a new football kit thrilled me. Collecting different strips became a massive hobby. Every Christmas I got two kits. Every birthday, more kits. I had a face like thunder if I never got replica gear for presents. Mum and Dad were superb. They knew how much shirts from different clubs meant to me. With Granddad’s help, and the money Mum got for looking after Granddad, they saved up to buy the kits. I had Tottenham, Man City and, of course, Liverpool and Everton. Panini sticker books were scoured intensively. Every page checked out, every kit assessed. ‘Mum,’ I’d shout downstairs, ‘I want this new Spurs top. Please?’ Catalogues and sports-shop windows were not the only ways of feeding my addiction. Match of the Day was a catwalk for kit. What a parade! It became an obsession. If Tottenham met Everton on the TV on a Sunday, I would be out on the street after the final whistle, wearing the kit of whoever won, imagining myself to be the hero of the game. I had stars in my eyes, and the star’s shirt on my back.

  That jersey was often Neville Southall’s. His Everton goalie kit was a real favourite. Days went by when I never took it off. I copied Southall perfectly: socks rolled down, so you could see the top of his Sondico shin-guards. Big Nev wore Hi-Tech boots so I badgered Mum and Dad for a pair of those. I loved Southall. When I didn’t fancy playing out, I donned my goalie kit and pretended I was the great Neville Southall, throwing myself around on the grass, diving at my mates’ feet, making brave and athletic saves like the real Everton master. Neville was a real character and I loved his committed approach to football. It was always a special moment when I opened a Panini sticker and found Neville Southall. Fantastic. I would be buzzing for hours. Running around Ironside, holding the sticker aloft like some great trophy.

  Stickers, kits, going to games, playing matches – my life, as I said, revolved around football. And that passion was channelled through Liverpool Football Club.

  3

  Clocking on at the Dream Factory

  JOINING LIVERPOOL WAS like starting a love affair you know will never, ever end. It’s true: You’ll Never Walk Alone at Anfield. Of course, I could have gone to another top club. Loads pursued me: Man United, West Ham, Everton, Spurs, you name it. Nice letters dropped through the letter-box, detailing how much they wanted me and how I would flourish under their care. ‘We’ll make you great,’ they said, ‘rich and famous.’ Flattery got them nowhere. Only one destination beckoned – Anfield. Dad insisted. He was spot-on, as usual. Anfield just felt right, going to the club I adored and being coached by people whose trademark is trust. Good, honest footballing men ran the Liverpool School of Excellence, which eventually became the famous Academy at Kirkby. Meeting Steve Heighway, Dave Shannon and Hughie McAuley for the first time, I instinctively knew they would look after me. Even aged eight, I knew. Steve, Dave and Hughie inspired me from the first handshake and conversation. Steve is a Liverpool legend, a fantastic player from the seventies. Dave was friendly with Ben McIntyre, the manager of my Sunday League team, Whiston Juniors, and it was a simple step from there to Anfield. I carried on with Whiston, and got my first international experience in an U-12 competition against teams from all over the world, but my main focus was Liverpool.

  I couldn’t wait to get started. Come on! Give me the ball! Let me learn. Let me show you what I can do. My dream was gathering pace. Heighway, Shannon and McAuley held these brilliant training sessions down the Vernon Sangster Sports Centre every Tuesday and Thursday – special times of the week. I counted down the hours, minutes and seconds before we burst out into that sports hall – our Anfield, our Wembley. As well as being in good hands, I was also in good company. Michael Owen and Jason Koumas were in my year at Liverpool and we quickly fell in together. Talent attracts.

  The three of us soon realized how to get the best out of the Vernon Sangster. On arrival, we shook hands with the staff, all very respectful – the Liverpool way. Skills, drills and possession work occupied us for an hour. The best bit was yet to come. Michael, Jason and I knew there would be half-an-hour at the end of five-a-side. ‘All those in Liverpool tops this end,’ Dave Shannon would shout, ‘and all the rest put bibs on.’ Kids wore all types of tops. But me, Michael and Jason came prepared: we agreed in advance which strip to wear. Come the five-a-sides we were always in the same team. ‘Right,’ Michael said, ‘let’s all wear the Liverpool away kit next week.’ Jason and I made sure we came in with the right Liverpool top on. If my extensive collection of strips did not contain the proposed outfit, I’d be on Mum and Dad’s case in the car all the way back home. ‘Mum, Dad, I
must have this kit. If I don’t, Jason and Michael will be on a different team. Please?’ Poor Mum and Dad. I pressured them badly. I sat in the back of the car and explained the humiliation if I didn’t have the right kit. Mum and Dad usually relented and got me sorted. Thank God. The thought of letting Michael or Jason down made me almost sick.

  Jason was a good player. Really good. He was always going to make it as a pro. But Michael stood out most. Even aged eight he was obviously special, a star in the making. Everyone knew it. Michael was put on this world to destroy goalkeepers. Those five-a-sides in the Vernon Sangster was the first time I ran into Michael and I was gobsmacked by his unbelievable talent. He played his schoolboy football over the Mersey, ripping up the record-books on Deeside. When he breezed into the Vernon Sangster, it was like a whirlwind visiting. The moment I saw him running at the keeper, killing him with his pace and touch, I appreciated his extraordinary gifts. Michael’s talent didn’t just talk; it shouted. From first glance, I understood his game was goals. A natural. Michael realized I was a good passer, so we quickly teamed up. Everyone thought we wanted to be on the same side because we were best mates and wanted to talk. Rubbish. Michael and I just wanted to win. Simple as that. That’s always been the way with Michael and me. We have a hatred of losing. We chatted after the game, but the main line of communication was footballing: me transferring the ball to Michael in places where he could inflict most damage. Michael and I still joke about our days in Liverpool’s U-12s when we battered teams. Michael always says, ‘Every time Stevie got the ball he would pass to me.’ To which I reply, ‘And every time I did, Michael scored!’

  Back in those days, Liverpool’s first team seemed a far-off dream. At such a young age I just concentrated on developing under Steve and Dave. I was gutted if I wasn’t the best at training. In the car on the way to the Vernon Sangster, Dad drummed into me the need to be disciplined. ‘Make sure you’re ready,’ he stressed, ‘make sure you’re not talking when training starts. Always try your hardest.’ Dad’s support has been unstinting. When I started out, Dad never, ever spoke about Liverpool’s first team. He focused only on the game ahead, or the next training session. One night I was knackered and didn’t fancy training. Dad sat me down in the front room at Ironside. ‘Why don’t you want to go?’ he asked. ‘If you want to give it a miss, I will phone Steve Heighway up and say you have done too much at school today.’ Dad never pressured me. Encouragement was his line of attack. ‘Steven, go to training, it’s good for you,’ he added. ‘You’ll love it, you’re doing well.’ Dad had great belief in me, and in coaches like Steve and Dave. ‘If you keep learning and improving, the coaches will make you a very good player,’ he said. ‘If you miss training, all the other kids are getting an advantage because you are missing out. I won’t pressure you to go. But the more you go, the more you’ll learn and the better you’ll get.’ I went.

  My parents were very aware of the qualities Liverpool sought in a player. One day, I heard Dad tell Mum, ‘Steve Heighway and Dave Shannon are always checking on how their players present themselves. Steven must represent Liverpool well.’ Standards count at Liverpool. Be tidy. Be on time. Mum and Dad wouldn’t let me go to training or do any activity associated with Liverpool Football Club unless my hair glistened, my face shone and my clothes were spotless clean. Sometimes I wanted to go to the Vernon Sangster in my comfy shoes, a pair of trainers full of holes, battle-hardened from games on Ironside. I loved them. ‘You are not going in those,’ Dad would insist. ‘We’ll get you a new pair.’ Mum even ironed my kit for training. Ironed! I watched in amazement as she put creases in the shirt with her iron. Those neat lines in an uncrinkled shirt summed up Mum’s desire for me to look smart always. No-one irons football kits! My mum did. The kit had to be all matching as well. I couldn’t wear a Liverpool home top with away shorts. Or Spurs shorts with a Liverpool shirt. Mum would not let me. ‘You must show respect for Liverpool,’ she said. My parents were so proud their son was involved with Liverpool Football Club. They wanted to make sure I gave it my best shot. I wasn’t turning up Rag-Arse Rovers or giving lip.

  Under the guidance of Steve and Dave, I rose steadily through the Liverpool ranks. Towards the start of every season, I worried whether I would be kept on by Steve. Impatiently, I waited for the letter of confirmation from Liverpool. ‘Tell Steven not to worry,’ Heighway always told Dad. ‘He will be in. Here’s a pair of boots for him.’ I was doing well, building a reputation, enjoying the training. At fourteen, Steve called four of us into his office: me, Michael, Stephen Wright and Neil Murphy. Wrighty eventually played for Liverpool before joining Sunderland. Murphy was a very good right-back who made the reserves and now coaches at the Academy. Steve had big news for the four of us: ‘You’ve all been invited to trials for Lilleshall.’

  Lilleshall! The National School! I couldn’t believe it. Lilleshall was the business, the place to be if you wanted to make it as a footballer. Only the very best got in. Jesus, hellfire, this was serious. Lilleshall meant everything, a springboard to success. The trials would be incredibly competitive, I knew that. Everyone wanted to go to the National School. At the first trial there were hundreds of hopefuls, good players drawn from across England, all dreaming of a place at Lilleshall. A series of trials gradually reduced the numbers and destroyed the ambitions of many. Soon there were only fifty boys left, then thirty, then twenty-four scrapping for recognition. It was brutal. Few survived. Every time I got through a trial, a letter popped through the door at Ironside saying ‘Congratulations … you have been selected for the next trial’. I was flying. Lilleshall beckoned.

  The quality was high, the competition intense. As well as Michael Owen and me, there were good players like Michael Ball, the left-back who did so well at Everton before heading up to Rangers, and Kenny Lunt, the midfielder from that impressive youth set-up at Crewe Alexandra. I still fancied my chances of getting the final call from Lilleshall. I looked around the pitches during the trials and checked out my rival midfielders. No-one was better than me. Honestly, no-one. I never hid in the trials. I was right in there, hard in the tackle, clever in the pass. Lilleshall’s officials must have been impressed. I was my normal self: driven by a will to win so powerful it almost hurt. I had the ability. No doubt. No-one could pass the ball better. Liverpool were my club, and Liverpool took on only the best kids. Lilleshall must pick me. The one nagging doubt in the back of my mind was that my rivals were bigger. I was really small and facing some tall, strong units in my position. Michael Owen was tiny as well, but he had so much pace he made big fellas look like dustbins. Midfield is different.

  It did not seem to matter. I progressed to the penultimate trial and an invitation to Lilleshall seemed inevitable. I thought of the two years there, learning to become an even better player, on the fast-track to fame and fortune. Every morning, I pissed the postman off as I ambushed him outside Ironside. ‘Where is it? Where’s my letter from Lilleshall?’ The final trials were just around the corner, so I knew the letter was imminent. Family life almost stopped as we sweated on this one letter. One morning, it fell through the letter-box. I was upstairs, still in my room. Dad was first to the post. He picked up the letter which he knew from the writing came from the National School. He opened it, knowing how much it meant to me. I could hear him downstairs by the door, shuffling the letter and envelope in his hands. The silence killed me. Why the pause? Bad news? Must be. If I had been accepted, my old fella would have shouted ‘YES!’ by now. Instead, Dad just called up, ‘Post’s here.’ The disappointment in his voice rang like a church-bell at a funeral. As I walked downstairs, I saw him standing in the hall with the letter in his hand, a crushed look on his face. Lilleshall had rejected me.

  I tore straight back upstairs. Tears? Christ, they never stopped. It felt like the end. It was bad. Bad. Dad climbed the stairs slowly. He knew I was beyond consoling. He knew how much I wanted the chance of going to Lilleshall. He walked into my room and saw I had the pillow over my head. I
was completely gone, in floods of tears. My dream of a life in football seemed wrecked. I felt I was not good enough. Me! Captain of Liverpool Boys! Rated by Liverpool Football Club! Big clubs like Manchester United chased me. If those people from Lilleshall had been there in that room, I’d have killed them. How could they do this to me? I knew I was good enough. Never before had someone dared tell me I was not up to scratch. Never. My first setback hurt like hell. I dreaded the news circulating within Liverpool. Michael was a dead cert to go to Lilleshall. Jamie Carragher and another Liverpool kid, Jamie Cassidy, were already there. So was Tommy Culshaw, a midfielder on Liverpool’s books. I just wanted so much to join them.

  Dad attempted to make me feel better. I lifted the pillow from my head, stared at him through the tears, and said, ‘I can’t carry on. That’s me finished with football.’ Dad was superb, as usual. He dried my tears and soothed my pain. ‘Listen, son, you’ve done well to get where you are,’ he told me, sitting on the side of my bed. ‘I watched all the trials and you were as good as anyone there. Maybe Lilleshall turned you down because you lack a bit of height. Maybe they spoke to Cardinal Heenan and think you can’t hack two years away from home. It doesn’t mean you’re not a good footballer. You are good. I know it, you know it, and most importantly Liverpool know it.’ In my devastation, I seized on Dad’s words. Maybe it really was nothing to do with my football. In their letter, the Lilleshall people gave a vague explanation. ‘You are a great player, don’t give up,’ they wrote. ‘Sometimes it is not just on football why we select certain people to go further than you. It’s for other reasons.’ Bloody well tell me then.