Gerrard: My Autobiography

by Steven Gerrard

  A month or two after that Spurs game, I got fined for messing about by Dave Shannon. As crimes go, it was a minor offence: not taking my plate back after a meal. Trivial. It was only a fiver, but I had just come off YTS money and it felt a decent sum – plus I was innocent. I was raging. I went in to see Dave, one-on-one. Straight in. Slammed the door.

  ‘What’s the fine for? I’m not happy.’

  ‘You never took your plate back.’

  ‘I did take it back.’ I had. Some of the lads I was with, lazy bastards, left their plates everywhere. Not me. Mum and Dad brought me up to show respect. I was upset Dave didn’t believe me. ‘You are not taking a fiver off me.’

  Dave refused to budge. ‘No, it’s done. You’re fined, and I want it Friday.’

  I knew I’d lost. ‘I’ll take the fine, but you are out of order, Dave.’

  Everyone bantered with Dave. He was a terrific bloke, the one who got the team spirit going. Anyway, while he was screwing that fiver off me, we got talking about football and the season. ‘Dave, do us a favour, give us another fixture list for the reserves and nineteens,’ I asked. ‘Someone has nicked mine.’

  Dave looked at me and smiled. ‘You won’t need those fixtures. You’ll be needing these.’ He put his hand into his bag and pulled out the fixtures for the first team.

  The firsts! I was stunned. I walked out of Dave’s office thinking he would not have given me the first-team list without the coaches considering I had a chance. That gave me the biggest boost I ever needed. My fury over the fiver disappeared immediately.

  Gérard said he came down to watch me training at the university one afternoon, but it wasn’t him. It was his number two, Patrice Bergues, a top fellow. Patrice checked me out before Gérard did. I will never forget that day. In the morning, Steve Heighway pulled me into his office. ‘Steven, we’ve got company today,’ he said. ‘Gérard Houllier, Phil Thompson, Sammy Lee and Patrice Bergues are coming down from Melwood to look at you in training.’ Steve didn’t need to say any more. I knew. This was it. This was my chance to force my way into the first-team squad.

  Before training started, the whisper went round the dressing-room that only two were coming down from Melwood. It didn’t matter to me how many; it just mattered to me that I was being assessed by the management. I must take this chance to impress. I always trained hard, but this session was my ticket to fame. I was itching to get cracking. I sprinted out of the door, onto the pitch, and looked around. No-one there! Shit. Maybe Gérard and his coaches decided they weren’t coming after all. Maybe they felt I wasn’t ready. Sod it. I got on with training.

  After a while, I became aware there was someone walking around. They stayed well back from our pitch, but they were definitely watching us. I looked closer. It was Patrice and Sammy. Brilliant. Time to step up a gear. We trained for an hour and forty-five minutes, doing possession, then had a game. I was everywhere. First to every ball, hardest in the tackle, strongest in the shooting. I treated it as a trial for the first team. I sweated buckets. I could see them looking at me. Sammy did the pointing, and wrote little notes. Patrice just studied me and the other lads.

  When the session ended, Steve introduced us to Sammy and Patrice. We all knew Sammy anyway. He was superb with the young lads. Everyone liked Sammy. Sammy certainly appreciated who I was. ‘Well done,’ he said. I was buzzing to hear those words. As the group broke up, Patrice strolled across. I had never met him before. None of us had. Gérard had only just taken over fully with Patrice. It was a big moment. Patrice shook my hand. ‘You are looking sharp,’ he said. That was it. He strolled away. I walked away on air.

  Another audition needed passing. Gérard had not seen me yet. The story of Gérard ‘discovering’ me came about because a couple of weeks after that training session watched by Patrice and Sammy we had an U-19 game against Man United. It was a November Saturday, and I was dying to play. By then I was starting to push for a reserve-team place full-time, but there were special reasons for wanting to start that U-19 fixture. The opponents were United and I love piling into them, always have done and always will do. It was also my first game back after an injury. I broke my wrist and had been playing with a cast on. I was meant to play in a reserve/YTS match against the first team, but the doc stopped me. He took one look at the cast and said, ‘You’re not ready.’ I was devastated, particularly as the word was that Patrice was going to watch me again. The wrist got better by the time Man U were in town. I couldn’t wait to launch myself into them.

  All my U-19 mates were playing, boys like Boggo and Greggo. A decent crowd gathered, around 200, which is good for an Academy match. Dad was there, giving me the support I prize so highly. All our normal staff were present, too, like Steve and Dave, and I spotted Gérard standing near them. Little did I know then he had initially come down to run the rule over Ritchie Partridge, our Irish winger. I assumed Gérard was there just for me. So I took control. I bossed the game from start to finish, smashing into United players left, right and centre-midfield. I really should have been shown the red card for bad tackles. ‘One more and you’re going off,’ warned the ref. ‘One more and you are coming off,’ warned Steve. I ignored them both. I just wanted to rip Man United to pieces. They were a good team, as well, with players like John O’Shea in their ranks. It felt similar to when the Lilleshall boys swanned into Melwood. I wanted to crush them. We drew 1–1, but I scored, and I knew I had shone. As I walked off the pitch, feeling like a king, I glanced around to check Gérard’s reaction. He’d gone. Shit. But he must have been impressed. When I reached Ironside, Dad was already home.

  ‘The manager was there, you know,’ Dad said.

  ‘I know,’ I replied with a smile. ‘I saw him.’

  Dad’s next comment filled me with pride. ‘You never did yourself any harm there, Steven.’ That was lavish praise from my dad. I went up to bed feeling on top of the world.

  Sunday passed slowly. My impatience for Monday was massive. I wanted to get into training to find out if there had been any word from Gérard. Nothing happened on the Monday. Nor Tuesday. But on the Wednesday, I was walking down a corridor in the Academy and there, coming towards me, were Gérard and Roy Evans. Roy had called time on 12 November, and was going round saying his goodbyes. Typical Liverpool – even dismissals are done in a civilized fashion. Roy stopped me. I didn’t know what to say. I shifted from one foot to the other, slightly embarrassed. Here was Roy Evans leaving as joint-manager standing next to the man who was taking over fully, my new boss whom I’d never met before. Bloody weird, I felt.

  Roy was brilliant. ‘How are you, Steven?’ he asked. ‘Keep going, you’ve got a great chance of making it.’

  Gérard then interrupted. ‘You’ve got a very good chance,’ he said.

  I looked at him, looked at that face that was to become so familiar to me over the next few years.

  ‘Keep doing what you are doing,’ he added. ‘I watched you last week against Manchester United and you were very good.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said to Gérard, and turned back to Roy. ‘Sorry to hear about what happened.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Steven, I’ll be OK. You just make sure you keep doing what you are doing.’

  I felt sorry for Roy. I wanted him to stay manager. He was always first-class with me, and I knew how much he wanted me in the first team. Whenever I saw Roy, he always said, ‘Just get rid of your injuries and you will be with me.’ Now that the French were in charge of Liverpool, I wondered what would happen. Would Gérard really want me in the first team? He didn’t really know who I was. Roy had known me since I was twelve. Roy leaving really felt like a huge blow. I heard from people at Melwood that the French changed everything and that no-one enjoyed training any more. Gérard was really strict. A lot of negative vibes came down from the reserves, too. On first impressions, Gérard seemed a nice guy. But I was shitting myself because of the language. I didn’t know how good his English was. I was scared of him. Definitely. He was the boss, th
e man who could decide whether to keep me or bomb me out. I was just terrified of this French set-up. I wanted it to be English, to be people I knew and understood. It seemed inevitable under Roy that I would progress to the first team. It was a matter of when, not if. But then Roy got shown the door. Now I had to prove myself to a foreigner.

  Two days later, on the Friday, Steve Heighway called me and Wrighty into his office. Dave Shannon was already there. ‘Important news, lads,’ Steve announced. ‘Gérard and Phil want you at Melwood now.’ Wrighty and I looked at each other. Fantastic. This was it, the news we’d craved. ‘You start on Monday,’ Steve added. ‘Gérard wants to put you on a programme, and get you to train with the first team. Go on, lads, this is your big chance to leave us behind.’ Steve paused, and then gave us some really important advice. He knew our Academy days were over. ‘Never forget where you’ve come from,’ he told me and Wrighty. ‘Never forget what we’ve done for you and that we are still here for you. We don’t want you to change as people. Keep your feet on the ground. Blank out all the big-heads. And you are leaving good mates behind, so make sure you come back and see them.’ It was good advice, as usual from Steve, but he need not have worried. I would never have raced out of the Academy, glanced briefly over my shoulder and never again looked back. I know my roots. I know the names of those who guided me along the road to the first team: Steve Heighway, Dave Shannon and Hughie McAuley.

  I drove home, parked up outside Ironside, and nodded to the young lads kicking the ball about, as I used to. My world was spinning fast, faster than even I had dreamed of when it was me playing shootie out there. I walked through the front door, my head still in a daze. Dad was sitting in the front room, flicking through the paper. He looked up and saw the glint in my eye.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m at Melwood now!’ I said.

  Dad was so proud. ‘This is where it starts,’ he said.

  That weekend passed by in a blur. All I could think of was Monday and Melwood. That Sunday night, as the clock ticked towards our move towards the big time, Wrighty stayed at Ironside. The two of us were really close, and spent a lot of time together off the field. We were both buzzing and could hardly sleep. Me and Wrighty just talked and talked. We felt as if we had made it as pros. But before I left the house and embarked on the next stage of my career, Dad pulled me aside. ‘This is the beginning,’ he reminded me. ‘You are going into a room full of England players. Full of internationals. Remember, Steven, you’ve achieved nothing yet. Know your place, but take your chance.’ Dad’s words acted like a wake-up call. I was very focused.

  And fucking nervous. Going into Melwood that day, I was shitting myself. Wrighty and I arrived ridiculously early. Those big steel gates were open, but few cars were inside. We went in, and walked cautiously towards the pavilion. Wrighty and I knew where the dressing-room was, but we stood outside it for a few minutes, plucking up courage. Eventually, I turned the handle and went in. The room was empty. The kit-man had been in, laying out each player’s training stuff. Wrighty and I looked along the pegs to see if there was any spare kit for us. None. Our hearts dropped.

  ‘Fuck it, Wrighty, they don’t know we’re coming,’ I said.

  ‘Shit,’ he said.

  We felt like trespassers.

  I looked at Wrighty and said, ‘The first team are going to come in and say, “What the fuck are youse doing here?”’

  We were just about to make a break for it when the door opened and the stars began rolling in. Robbie, Macca, Jamie. Thank God for friendly faces. Wrighty and I knew them and they had always been brilliant with us.

  ‘You down here for good now?’ said Jamie. ‘Well done.’

  Macca laughed. ‘About bloody time!’

  Robbie joined in. ‘Bit late, aren’t you?’

  Wrighty and I relaxed. Maybe they were expecting us after all. ‘Get your kit, and get in next to me,’ said Jamie. Christ, I’ve arrived, I thought, as I sat down next to one of the country’s most famous footballers. But then one of the coaches came in and signalled for me and Wrighty to sit down at the far end, with all the shite, the fringe players and the old guys. No pegs, hardly any room. We folded our clothes up and bundled them together on the bench. So what? I didn’t care that my spot in the dressing-room was cramped. This was it, lift-off, time to train with the first team. Get on with it. Get out there.

  On the training pitch, Gérard called us all together in a circle. He stood in the middle and pointed at me and Wrighty, the new boys. ‘These lads are here now,’ said Gérard. ‘I have moved them up from the Academy.’ That was it! Introductions over. On with training.

  For all my fears about what training would be like under Gérard, I loved it. It wasn’t as strict as I expected. The pattern-of-play work was enjoyable. The practice games were brilliant. Afterwards, as Jamie, Macca and the others were heading off to the dressing-room, all laughing and shouting, Gérard kept me and Wrighty back. Neither of us had had a proper one-on-one with him yet. This was the first time he had addressed us. ‘You are here now,’ Gérard began. ‘This is where it starts. We are not happy with how you look. We want you bigger and stronger. You are very thin. Look around the first-team dressing-room and they are a lot bigger than you. You must get to their level. We are going to put you on a different training regime from them. Don’t complain. Get on with it. If you are told to stay back, or get in early, make sure you do as you are told. Eat what we tell you. Drink what we tell you. We want you physically ready for the first team. You are not far away.’

  Things moved fast. A dietician spoke to us. He checked me over and ordered me to cut out fast food. My eating habits weren’t too bad before, but I knew I had to get fitter. No more burgers. ‘Live like an athlete’ became my motto. A fitness guy worked hard on me and Wrighty, keeping us in the gym four afternoons a week for two hours of weights. I sweated loads, pushing myself to the limit to inch closer to the first team. Every time I bench-pressed some more iron, I told myself the effort hastened the date of my Liverpool debut. I imagined touching the ‘This Is Anfield’ sign as I ran out to the roar of the Kop. That image made the pain worth it.

  Gérard often put his head around the door to check on my progress. After one afternoon in the gym, I was called into his office. ‘Steven,’ he said, ‘you’ve got a great chance. You have the ability. It is whether you have the mentality. We are going to watch you closely.’ Gérard really cared. ‘I want to have a meal with your mum and dad,’ he added. So we went for a quiet meal, somewhere nice on the Allerton Road. Gérard didn’t talk much about football. He wanted to know my background, so we all just chatted. My parents came away very impressed, pleased that their son was being looked after by a genuine guy.

  Football had suddenly become big-time serious for me. All my banter from the YTS days was gone. Now I was just a little gobshite in the first-team dressing-room. Joining in with the banter was impossible – I was that scared. I would have died if I had got hammered by Robbie, Jamo or any of the established boys. I just looked up to them all and shat myself. Keep quiet, work hard, I told myself. Gérard had introduced so many rules so I had to be on my toes the whole time. There were fines for everything. I was fined a few times for being late, for turning up in the wrong T-shirt through being nervous. I knew from the first day not to piss about with the French regime or with Gérard. He made it very clear that anyone who didn’t abide by the rules would be out. Simple as that. Some players found it hard because Liverpool had been more relaxed under Roy Evans. Some couldn’t adapt. Macca was going on a free to Real Madrid. Phil Babb was training on his own, seeing his contract out. Everyone understood: don’t mess with Gérard.

  Despite my trepidation, I began to win favour with Gérard. On 23 November, Liverpool flew out to Celta Vigo for a UEFA Cup third-round first-leg tie. Wrighty and me were on the plane! We had not been at Melwood a month and there we were, checking in for a flight to Spain with the first team! I was awestruck, travelling with the o
ther players, the coaches and directors. I sat next to Wrighty on the plane and told him, ‘We are just here to help with the kit. We’ll not get a kick.’ Wrighty agreed. The lack of pressure made the trip even more enjoyable. I was just buzzing to be there: sitting with the first team during meals, getting changed with them for training at the stadium that night, mingling with them around the hotel. I was a kid fresh out of the Academy talking to players who had graced World Cups. Awesome.

  When it came to sorting out the hotel rooms, Gérard split me and Wrighty up. I shared with Jamie. ‘Watch him,’ Gérard advised me. ‘Watch how Jamie behaves around the place. How he eats, trains, conducts himself, how he plays. You can learn off him.’ Jamie was, as usual, first class. He treated everyone the same. He talked to me as if he were talking to Jason McAteer, Phil Babb or anyone he had played with for years.

  I still didn’t expect to get closer to the pitch than the stands. But then I walked into the dressing-room and found a shirt with my name and number on, 28. My own shirt. I belonged. I was now part of the fabric of Liverpool FC. It hit me then that I had crossed the threshold into an exclusive new world. Gérard named me and Wrighty as subs. European ties allow seven on the bench, so Wrighty and I had our chance.

  We sat there that night and watched Liverpool being given a lesson in possession. Celta were a useful side with players like Claude Makelele, who went on to prove such a formidable player for Real Madrid and Chelsea, and the clever Russian attackers Valeri Karpin and Alexander Mostovoi. Celta were too good for Liverpool and we lost 3–1. Neither me nor Wrighty made it off the bench. No problem. It was unbelievable simply to experience European combat close up, in a noisy stadium containing 24,600 fans, scarcely a month after playing in an U-19 game at Liverpool University in front of 200 people. Some change.