At Cardinal Heenan, I never had many mates. Liverpool was different. Everyone was a friend. We all shared this unbelievable passion for football. My partners in crime were known as Boggo, Greggo, Wrighty, Bavo and Cass. John Boggan was a year below me with his own firm, but he soon became a close ally in the wind-up business. Boggo, a real funny character, could talk for England; he’s now training with Accrington Stanley after losing a couple of stone. Neil Gregson was another real character, and like Stephen Wright and Matty Cass, he was always up for some banter. Ian Dunbavin, a Knowsley lad, was also in the group; Bavo now keeps goal for Accrington Stanley and to this day is a really good friend of mine. And of course there was Michael Owen, the Boy Wonder who mucked in brilliantly with us mortals. None of us could believe our luck. After the drudgery of school we were actually getting paid to live the dream of becoming footballers. It wasn’t riches. As an apprentice, I got only £50 a week; Mum was paid £160 a month to feed me. Compared to what I make now it was peanuts, but I felt on top of the world every day. The sun seemed to shine just on us Liverpool apprentices.
Because the new Academy at Kirkby was not ready until my second year on the YTS, we spent the first twelve months at Melwood, seeing all the stars. We heard the banter bubbling around the first-team dressing-room at Melwood, so we copied them. So this was the way to become a Liverpool professional: work hard, train hard, laugh hard. Jesus, did we muck about. Liverpool’s staff slaughtered me for all kinds of minor offences, but it was completely different from being coated by the teacher or Dad. I made amends in the next training session.
Pure madness reigned in the apprentices’ dressing-room. As soon as I came through the door, I started wars simply by flicking the lights off. That would be the signal for all the lads – Greggo, me, Bavo, Wrighty, Cass, Michael and everyone – to batter each other with towels in the dark. That room staged many an ambush. Liverpool had this caretaker called Don; he was in his late forties but the fittest man ever. Don was in the gym all the time, pumping iron. Arm-wrestling was his forte. He would charge into the dressing-room and challenge the bravest apprentice to wrestle him. Elbow on the physio’s table, right hand gripping Don’s, try to muscle him over. I never could. Don was so strong. He could fight us all. Sometimes when Don entered the room, the lads gave each other the nod. Bang, lights off. ‘Let’s get him!’ We’d thrash Don with towels or throw boots at him. One day, Greggo hit Don in the head with a pair of Reebok studs. ‘LIGHTS!’ Don screamed. Nervously, I turned them back on. Jesus, Don was a mess. This huge lump rose above his eye. Don was raging. ‘I’m going to kill you!’ he shouted. He was old enough to be our granddad, and there he was, roaming angrily around Melwood with a black eye and steam coming out of his ears. ‘What have we done now?’ I said to the lads as Don charged out the room. ‘He’s off to get Roy Evans.’ Fortunately, Don didn’t go to the manager. After getting his eye sorted by the doc, Don was ready to sort us out. He rushed back into the dressing-room like a maniac. ‘He’s going to blame me,’ I whispered to Wrighty. I was not in Don’s good books at the time. ‘He’s going to kill me with his bare hands. If he gets into me, Wrighty, you had best help me.’ Luckily, Don just wanted to rant and rave. The storm passed.
Along with torturing innocent caretakers, us YTS boys had another favourite dressing-room game. Again, the lights went off. This time the maulings were verbal not physical: Chinese Whispers. We’d sit around in a gang, the lights extinguished, and the whispers began. I might quietly tell my neighbour, ‘Greggo’s got some shocking gear on.’ Caning people was the aim of the game, and I was a master. Whispers went round the room, everyone trying to remember all the abuse. The last man switched the lights back on and recited every whisper. ‘Tell Stevie to sort his trainers out. Tell Greggo he dresses like a tramp.’ I loved Chinese Whispers. It was a brilliant chance to slaughter someone without them knowing.
No-one was safe. Even tough guys like me were targeted. Whenever I came in with a new pair of trainers on, the other apprentices plotted their demise. The moment I headed off to the showers, the lads would cut right through the laces or tie them in unbelievable knots. One time, it took me an hour to get my trainers back to normal. Frequently, I pulled a sock on and my foot went straight through the end, which my team-mates had kindly cut off. I sat there in the dressing-room, with my toes sticking out the sock, as all the boys fell about laughing. They were so bloody sneaky. I never knew they had planned any skit against me until it was too late.
Revenge was had, though, big-time. I was one of the ring-leaders, inflicting loads of grief on others. Sometimes it stepped over the line. Fights broke out in training through bad tackles, pushes and snarls. The changing-room was no different. If someone couldn’t take the banter or a prank, arguments would erupt. Rucks were part of my daily life. If I ruined someone’s trainers and they weren’t happy, I reacted. Pushing and shouting broke out. ‘Can’t you fucking well take a joke?’ I’d scream at Greggo or Wrighty as they stood there, steaming, holding a pair of wrecked trainers. Emotions ran high at times. Training was so exhausting, I would be knackered, short-tempered, my head gone. A confrontational streak occasionally seized me in the dressing-room, but I never, ever got nasty violent.
Any small room packed with competitive teenage lads will spill over. Sometimes, even the kickabouts in the changing-room got heated. We’d put one footy sock into another, twist it and push it through to make a solid ball, which we’d ping around. Michael and I always played it, belting this sock from one end to the other. Two-a-side matches were always going on, with benches for goals. Michael had the ball once, and gave me the nod that he was going to blast it at someone. His target was Roy Naylor. Michael jumped up, smacked this sock-ball across the room and sat down quickly. For once, Michael missed. Instead of Roy, Michael hit one of the goalies, Adriano Rigoglioso, on the back of the head, almost decapitating him. Michael carried on tying his trainers. Adriano turned around, his face like thunder. Matty Cass started laughing so Adriano went for him. Full-on fight. Blood everywhere. Michael sat there, shitting himself, thinking, ‘I’ve caused murder!’ As soon as we could, Michael and I scarpered. ‘You are going to have to own up,’ I told Michael when we reached somewhere safe and quiet. ‘Adriano will kill Cass.’ The next day, Michael admitted to Adriano that he was the guilty man and it was all forgotten about.
Loyalty was an unbreakable code in Liverpool’s YTS dressing-room. Whatever happened, however ruined your trainers were, nobody complained to the staff. If there was a fight, it would be split up. ‘Shake hands,’ came the order from all the other boys. If two lads wrestled and one got cut, everyone else shouted, ‘So what? Get on with it.’ Adriano was never going to tell on Michael. Everyone respected a team-mate clearly heading for greatness. When Michael first came in, after Lilleshall, people looked up to him because he was so good as a footballer. Michael had his own sponsorship, and soon his own car. All the other apprentices knew it was only a matter of time before he was off with the first team. Michael was a class apart, we all realized that, but he was never aloof. He was one of the lads. He could have said, ‘I’m Michael Owen, fuck all youse.’ But he never did. There were no airs and graces with Michael, none of this England schoolboy superstar crap. All the banter and wind-ups often had Michael bang in the middle of it. He was clever about it, though. Michael hated getting caught. He was just focused on reaching the top.
Greggo and Boggo were different. They were always being cheeky, and being moaned at by the staff. They were just thick, really! All Greggo and Boggo were interested in was getting in the betting shop after training, or playing on the fruit machines. I loved hanging out with Greggo and Boggo. We’d play snooker or go shopping. But when they went gambling, I kept my money in my pocket and just watched them. But I loved their company.
One day, the management announced that us YTS boys were moving to Liverpool University’s grounds, before we eventually settled at the new Academy at Kirkby. Liverpool’s staff almost had to drag us k
icking and screaming from Melwood. We loved it there, but Liverpool decided it would be best if the YTS lads and first-year pros were kept separate from the first team. Shit. I wanted to be at Melwood, showing what I could do in front of the Liverpool management. Melwood was the gateway to Anfield. Instead, we were packed off to some student pitches. I came back from the university on the first day and Dad immediately asked what the set-up was like there. ‘Shite,’ I replied. ‘The pitches and facilities are shite.’ It was only for six months, before Kirkby opened, but I felt like I had stepped on a snake after climbing so many ladders.
The university offered some attractions, though. The pavilion had this dead-long corridor with all the changing-rooms facing each other. One of them Liverpool turned into the physio’s room. Once, maybe twice a week, this hilarious chiropodist called Jeremy visited and held court in the physio’s room. Jeremy was a bit different, to say the least. He was obsessed with purple. His house is purple – front door, walls, carpet, the lot. I know. I’ve been there. I’ve seen Jeremy’s Purple Palace with my own eyes. One day, Jeremy drove up to the university in his purple car and stepped out, head to toe clad in purple gear. He was unbelievable. Jeremy had his own business, but Liverpool paid him good money, and he loved the wit and chitchat.
One day, Jeremy’s banter was so poor the lads decided to lock him up. He was in his special room as normal, gabbling away, goggles on, as he did a mini-operation on someone’s foot. ‘Jeremy’s a tit,’ I told the lads. ‘All that purple is a crime in need of serious punishing. He’s staying in that room all day.’ Imprisoning Jeremy was easy. All the rooms in the corridor could be locked from the outside. So when his patient came out, we turned the key in Jeremy’s door and sprinted away, laughing our heads off. ‘Help,’ Jeremy shouted. Training was almost ruined because we kept smiling at each other, thinking about Jeremy. ‘Help, help.’ No-one could hear his screams. The Liverpool staff were already out on the training pitch, laying out the cones for our arrival.
When we came back in, I rushed down the corridor and jumped up at Jeremy’s door to look through this small gap at the top. Jeremy was inside, going mental. I ran off laughing. All the boys were in hysterics. No-one could keep a straight face as we trooped into the canteen for dinner. We sat down and began eating. The next thing we knew, the doors burst open and Jeremy stormed in. He charged over to the staff table. Steve Heighway, Hughie McAuley and Dave Shannon looked at him in amazement. ‘This gang of bastards locked me in that room for three hours,’ Jeremy said, pointing at us. ‘Why didn’t you come and look for me?’
Steve was the first to say something, probably because Hughie and Dave were struck dumb at Jeremy’s entrance. ‘Sorry, Jeremy,’ he said, ‘we thought you had gone home at ten.’
Jeremy was raging. I have never seen someone so aggressive in my life. His face turned as purple as his shirt. He marched over to my table. Jeremy knew I was heavily involved. My reputation for pranks was well established. ‘Youse have cost me so much money,’ he shouted. ‘I have lost out on six or seven patients in these three hours. Liverpool are going to have to pay.’ He was like a madman, shuttling back and forth between the tables. He raced back across to Steve. ‘The club must compensate me for your players’ locking me up.’ Hughie and Dave couldn’t restrain themselves any longer and burst out laughing.
Jeremy never came back. We had to get a brand-new chiropodist. Steve caned us. He called a meeting of all the YTS boys and read the riot act. But as he was lecturing us, Hughie was behind him, laughing away. That was great. The staff found it funny. Liverpool liked their players to have character.
Jeremy wasn’t finished with football, though. Everton took him on. When Boggo was released by Liverpool, Francis Jeffers got him a trial at Everton where he ran into Jeremy again at their Bellefield training ground. Boggo walked into the treatment room, saw Jeremy and immediately started trying to have some banter with Mr Purple. The treatment room was really quiet, which Boggo didn’t understand. Jeremy had been dead loud at Liverpool. Jeremy quickly took Boggo to one side. ‘These don’t know I am like that,’ said Jeremy, ‘so keep your voice down and quit the banter.’ But there was no chance of Boggo being quiet. He carried on leathering Jeremy in front of the Everton first XI. Apparently the team at Everton all slaughter Jeremy now. It’s important to keep traditions going in football.
All clubs have banter, but people say the atmosphere at Liverpool is unique. When Boggo’s firm came in, we taught them the ropes and they kicked it all off again. The dressing-room games of sock-ball and Chinese Whispers and battering each other with towels was passed down the generations. It was a Liverpool thing. Sadly, that special spirit may be going. I look at the current YTS boys when they come over from the Academy to Melwood and they seem quiet and shy. They don’t have the banter we did. I wish everyone was together, as we were for that first wonderful year at Melwood, Liverpool’s first team and apprentices living side by side.
Back then, Liverpool’s first team were known as the Spice Boys. People used the tag as a derogatory one for the likes of Jamie Redknapp, Robbie Fowler, Steve McManaman, Jason McAteer and David James. I never considered the label offensive. I was steaming to be a Spice Boy. Let me be in your team! Let me be your mate! Every day, I went out of my way to be nice to Redknapp, Fowler, McManaman, McAteer and Jamo. After every encounter, I told myself, ‘Hopefully, I will be in with these one day. Some day, we will be on the same level.’ I am not a Spice Boy type, certainly not flash or obsessed with fashion, but I admired Jamie, Robbie and the rest. The image was false anyway. Nobody used to say, ‘Oh, we’re the Spice Boys. Let’s all go off on modelling assignments.’ No chance. The Spice Boy label was a media creation. Jamo, McManaman and the boys didn’t take any notice of it. Those 1996 FA Cup final suits, where the players looked like ice-cream salesmen, didn’t help, but the perception that the Spice Boys weren’t professional is a myth. During my work experience and YTS, I trained with the Spice Boys and played with some of them in Liverpool’s A and B sides. They worked their bollocks off. None of the Spice Boys took the piss out of training. None of them eased off. It wouldn’t happen.
People claimed Roy Evans wasn’t strong enough, but that’s rubbish. Roy and Ronnie Moran, his assistant, had a relationship with the players where they could have a real go at them. Some managers were stricter than Roy and Ronnie, but the standard of training was really good. John ‘Digger’ Barnes was an absolute joke in training; I couldn’t get the ball off him. It was pointless closing Digger down. Redknapp too. When I was a YTS and invited to train with the seniors, I couldn’t get near any of them. If I gave the ball away, Ronnie or Roy were immediately on my case. ‘Look after the bloody ball!’ Everyone else did. Possession was the Liverpool creed. All the Spice Boys treated the ball as their best friend. They never surrendered it cheaply. When I got bollocked, I just wanted the ground to open up and swallow me. ‘God, this is real pressure,’ I thought as I chased McManaman or Digger around Melwood. It did my head in. I walked off the pitch at the end having looked a fool trying to tackle some of the Spice Boys. They had so much skill. I would sit in the changing-room, heaving with frustration. ‘How am I going to get to this level?’ I would ask myself. ‘Some of these players are fucking frightening.’ Even when our YTS sessions finished, me, Boggo, Greggo, Wrighty and Cass would sit spellbound watching the first team doing shooting or pattern of play. The Spice Boys were so talented. Forget all the bullshit about Jamie and the rest being playboys first, players second. These were proper professionals.
Fowler and McManaman were my main heroes. Part of my YTS duties involved standing outside the first-team dressing-room and getting shirts, balls and pictures signed by the first-team stars. These items were then sent to hospitals, schools or charity auctions. Whenever Fowler and McManaman walked past, I was in awe. They were local heroes. Some banter went on between the YTS and first-teamers, but I made sure I never said the wrong thing or was too cheeky. I was not intimidated, but I looked up t
o Fowler and McManaman so much. I never wanted them to think I was a tit. If they had caned me, I would have been devastated. The sad truth is that they probably were not even aware of me, Steven Gerrard, an unknown kid with a huge desire to copy them.
In contrast to Robbie and Macca, Paul Ince wasn’t dead helpful to the young lads. He ordered us about. ‘Do this, do that.’ Not nasty, but you didn’t let Incey down. One morning I was hanging about on the stairs to the gym at Melwood, knocking about with Wrighty, Cass and Bavo. We were always glued to each other. The first team were coming in and we were getting a few things signed. Incey bounced in, driving his big, boss Audi. He got out, trackies pulled up to his knees, jabbering on the phone. ‘He’s got to get fined,’ I told the lads. Mobiles were banned at Melwood, but Incey couldn’t be arsed. He was so high up. Life under Roy Evans was not that strict.
Incey walked past us, turned around and shouted, ‘Do any of you drive?’
None of us could. I was only just seventeen, one driving lesson to my name. But that was more than the rest combined! Wrighty, Cass and Bavo went, ‘Yeah, Stevie can drive. No problem.’
Incey threw me the keys and a piece of paper, and said, ‘Get down the shops. Get all the things on this list – plus ten ciggies. Don’t miss any or I’ll fucking kill you. Crash the car and I’ll definitely kill the four of you.’ He must have noticed my hesitancy as I looked at the keys. ‘Have you passed the test?’ he asked.
‘Yeah,’ my mates shouted. ‘He can drive.’
I went all red. ‘Fucking hell,’ I thought as I cradled the gleaming Audi keys in my hand. ‘Where do I start here?’
As Incey walked away, he shouted back, ‘Ten minutes. Hurry up.’
Gerrard: My Autobiography Page 6