Gérard stormed into the dressing-room and gave the players a monster caning. I had never seen the manager so incensed. He felt Liverpool’s good name had been dragged through the gutter. He was right. It had. The players let the club down. No question. No excuses. After Gérard’s rant, he pulled me and Wrighty. ‘That’s the reason why you got told you were not going,’ he said. ‘You guys are innocent. But just you learn from the others’ mistake.’ Even though I hadn’t gone to the party, we were all in it together and I felt for the lads. It was unlikely to happen again. Not just because the players all felt so bad, but because all parties were banned by Gérard.
Still, the season seemed like one long celebration for me. Liverpool were not enjoying the best of fortunes but I was loving just being part of the drama, good or bad. I was living the dream, playing against boyhood idols like Paul Gascoigne. I first bumped into Gazza when Middlesbrough visited Anfield in February 1999. More accurately, he bumped into me. There were thirty-six seconds on the clock and Gazza elbowed me. A full-whack right elbow straight in my left eye-socket. Off the ball. Bang. No reason at all. A gift from Gazza, my hero! Thanks, mate. I’d love to know the reason from Gazza. Fucking hell, why? Maybe he heard I was doing all right, that people were talking about me as future England material, and he wanted to put me in my place. Maybe that elbow was a welcome to the big time. Bang. Clobber. My eye was throbbing. Boom, boom. I hadn’t even touched the ball. It was a bit harsh.
‘Right,’ I shouted over at Gazza, ‘is that how you fucking want it?’
The next time he had the ball, I went in hard and fast like a steaming bull. I wanted to send him flying. No chance. I never got near him. He just turned sharply, like a matador, and swept the ball away, leaving me tackling thin air. Chasing Gazza was like trying to catch a ghost. Back I went again, this time winning the ball. Now it was Gazza after me. A game broke out within the game. Gazza closed me down dead quick, and I tried to slip the ball through his legs. What the hell was I playing at? Trying to nutmeg one of the most skilful midfielders ever to play for England? I must be mad. I was so fired up by the challenge of taking on Gazza. ‘Behave!’ Gazza said. ‘What the fuck are you up to?’ Gazza stared at me and then added: ‘You little cunt!’ Gazza was loving it. He knew he had wound me up.
After the game, Gazza strolled over, ruffled my hair and put his arm around me. ‘You are a fucking good player,’ he said. ‘Keep going.’ Unbelievable. I was still no-one at the time, third choice, a young kid fresh from the Academy. And there was Gazza going out of his way to congratulate me! Deep down, I think Gazza was happy with the way I reacted to his elbow. I never complained. I never hid. I just went looking for him. Unfortunately, I couldn’t get near him. Back in the dressing-room, I told the other players about my run-in with Gazza. Like the ref, most hadn’t seen the elbow. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ Jamie said. ‘Gazza probably knew he was going to do that even before the game. You will get more of them off Gazza!’
I wore my black eye from Gazza like a medal won in battle. It meant the world to me to encounter him, however painfully. I wanted another memento, his shirt, but I was that intimidated. Because he elbowed me, I probably thought he would tell me to fuck off. I was terrified of asking him. It must sound strange being in awe of someone you have just spent ninety minutes trying to smash to pieces, but that was the way I was with Gazza. I grew up on his brilliance. I read his book. I bought his England shirt. So did Paul, my brother, who used to look like Gazza. Bit heavy. Chubby cheeks. ‘Hey, Gazza,’ I used to shout at Paul. He went off his cake! We both loved Gazza. His video, Gascoigne’s Glory, was my prized possession. I must have watched it a million times. I used to watch that tape thinking, ‘Oh my life, what a player.’ It was a wonder the tape never wore out. Gazza at Italia 90. Gazza taking on the world. Skill, determination, love of the shirt, cheeky smile. The whole package, the real deal. Gazza summed up everything I worshipped about football. He was the David Beckham of his day. I looked up to him so much. In my early days at Liverpool, people considered me a defensive midfielder, but in training I was always trying to be Gazza. I play more like Gazza today than when I first started. I am nowhere near as skilful as him, but I have things he never had, like endurance.
When we collided at Anfield, I knew his career was on the downward slope. Of course, it was sad to see someone once so special on the decline. But just think about the career. Remember the good things about Gazza, the turns away from his marker, the dribbles and the fantastic goals. That free-kick in the FA Cup semi-final at Wembley in 1991 was like a fucking rocket. His control and finish against Scotland at Euro 96. Gazza was a genius. Everyone said he was a wayward genius. I never used to believe the bad things I read about Gazza because I loved him so much. Black eyes apart, he was so good to me. I was fortunate enough to have some conversations with him when he was at Everton, living nearby, and he was top-class. On the pitch, he was always at it, slyly digging me in the ribs or trying to intimidate me. Off the pitch, Gazza was such a nice fella. He filled me with confidence. He praised bits of my game, and always asked me how things were going. I thought, ‘Let me talk about you! I want to hear about Italia 90, Lazio, Spurs, everything!’ When I was younger, Gazza’s was the only autograph I craved. You see, Gazza lived the life I wanted: fame, fortune and England.
6
England Calling
ENGLAND OBSESSED ME from my earliest days. Running around Ironside in my Gazza shirt, weaving past Huyton lads and sticking the ball between two dustbins, I imagined it was the winning goal in the World Cup final. I pictured all the England fans leaping up, punching the air and screaming my name. ‘Gerrard, Gerrard!’ I saw myself mobbed by my England team-mates, celebrating the goal that brought the World Cup home. Pulling on the white shirt. Looking down and seeing the Three Lions crest over your heart. Walking out into a packed stadium, knowing the eyes of the country are on you. The adrenalin, the noise, the sweat, the glory. All of it. I wanted it big-style.
Countless obstacles were strewn across my path to senior international recognition. I had to fight my way to the top. First up, those idiots at Lilleshall ignored me at U-15 level. England realized their mistake when I tore into the National School at Melwood. The season after that, when the England get-togethers started, I was straight in (no apology, though). I was soon involved with England U-16s, coming off the bench in a 4–0 rout of Denmark on 3 February 1996. That was me finally going, on the road to the England first team.
I will never forget my first U-16 start, seventeen days after that thrashing of Denmark. The stage was Lilleshall, of all places. The opposition, the Republic of Ireland, a good team with future stars like Richard Dunne, a tough defender with Man City, and Stephen McPhail, who made his name at Leeds United. England put out a tidy XI as well. Wes Brown and Michael Ball stood out in defence. My area, midfield, quickly became a battle zone against the Irish. I was up against McPhail, who was streets ahead of me. This was during my teenage years when I started growing fast. I needed to because I was really too small to compete in such daunting midfields. Apart from scoring England’s first, I was awful. McPhail was a class apart. At least we won 2–1, with Phil Jevons netting the second. My first England start was a winning one. I was up and running.
I watched Euro 96 at home on the Bluebell Estate, cheering on Gazza, Alan Shearer and Teddy Sheringham. Wembley looked and sounded fantastic, packed with people waving banners and singing ‘Football’s Coming Home’. England treated the fans to some fabulous football, particularly in the 4–1 defeat of Holland. I so wanted to be there. I had just turned sixteen and I was desperate to reach the top.
I carried on up through the England age-groups, growing physically and developing technically. Come France 98, I sat transfixed in front of the TV at Ironside as my mate Michael took on the world. Go on, Michael! Jesus, what a sight that was. A tireless trainer and relentlessly ambitious, Michael deserved his shot at World Cup glory. There had been a lot of speculation that Glenn Hoddle, th
e then England manager, might take Michael to France. His name was all over the press and on the telly. I was really buzzing for Michael to go. In April, I talked to him about his chances of getting the nod from Hoddle. ‘That’s my aim,’ Michael told me. ‘I would love to go.’ Michael was on the fringe of a few squads. Then he scored against Morocco in Casablanca in one of the warm-up games. Suddenly, everyone talked about him starting. I so wanted him to be picked. Not only because he was a mate, but also because of what it meant for me. I played with Michael for so many years. If he was in with the England big boys, I must have a chance. ‘Look how well Michael is doing,’ Dad said as we sat on the sofa glued to France 98. ‘It might be you the next World Cup.’
Those match nights were magical, extra special when Michael started, against Colombia and, famously, Argentina. I grabbed a bite of dinner and jumped on the sofa in front of the telly. I couldn’t wait for kick-off, I was that excited. The Argentina game in St-Etienne was awesome. When Michael picked the ball up and began accelerating towards Carlos Roa’s goal, pandemonium broke out in our front room. ‘Trouble!’ I shouted. ‘If Michael gets you one-on-one with space behind you, you’re history,’ added Dad, almost as a warning to the Argentina defenders. Jose Chamot and Roberto Ayala had no chance. Too slow, too late. Michael was off and past them, racing into the history books and the hearts of a nation. I leapt up and down, screaming my head off, hugging Dad and Paul. I almost went hoarse shouting Michael’s name. Yes! Get in! Brilliant, Michael!
When the TV replayed the move, Dad said, ‘Paul Scholes looks like he is about to nick it just before Michael shoots.’
‘No chance,’ I replied. ‘There’s absolutely no chance in the whole wide world that Michael was going to leave that ball.’
I fell back in my seat and just tried to imagine how Michael’s world was going to change. I looked across at Dad, who still had this massive smile on his face. He liked and respected Michael. Everyone did. ‘What has Michael just done there?’ I exclaimed. The camera focused on Michael, but he was concentrating on the game, as if he hadn’t just struck one of the greatest goals in the history of football. ‘That’s him finished!’ I laughed. ‘That’s his life changed. It’s over for him now. He won’t be able to do nothing. Imagine what it will be like when he comes back. It will take him days to get out of the airport there will be so many press and fans there.’ I was so happy for my mate.
Michael’s success made me believe even more I could make it. My own journey towards the England shirt I craved was assisted by Howard Wilkinson. During his time as technical director of the Football Association, Wilkinson looked after the U-18s and the U-21s and picked me regularly for both. He had a certain reputation. I knew that. Wilkinson was often slated for some of his management skills. True, he was a bit long-winded in team-talks. We wondered occasionally what the hell he was going on about. He often sounded like a school teacher addressing very young children. Howard also called team meetings when he didn’t really need them. I don’t care. People can snipe at Wilkinson if they want, but he was good to me and knew his football. I liked Wilkinson because he liked me. He always spoke well of me, always included me in his squads, always suggested things to improve my game. He even made me captain of England U-18s – a massive honour. All my family were so proud. We will always thank Howard for that. When I heard he got the U-21 job, I had half an idea that sooner or later the call would come for me to step up.
Throughout 1999 I was steadily making a name for myself in Liverpool’s first team. One day in the late summer, a letter arrived from the FA. Finally calming my shaking hands, I ripped open the envelope. Inside were instructions to report for U-21 duty against Luxembourg on 3 September. Another rung up the ladder! Wilkinson must really have rated me because he started me in midfield. I repaid his faith by scoring after twelve minutes. We won 5–0, and there was a real buzz about the team.
Every English player knew the new season ended with Euro 2000. Every ambitious young player wanted to force himself into the thoughts of Kevin Keegan, the England manager. Whenever Keegan took his seat in the directors’ box of a Premiership ground, all the English players on the pitch were aware of his presence, and determined to parade their abilities. I certainly felt under scrutiny. When Liverpool beat Coventry City 2–0 a week before Christmas, Keegan was there, watching me. When the U-21s then saw off Denmark, Keegan was there again, appraising me. I knew that. Howard marked my card. ‘Do well and Kevin may call you up,’ he told me. I never stopped running against Denmark.
I impressed for Liverpool in 1999/2000, scoring against Sheffield Wednesday and filling in all over the place. Right-back, left-back, right midfield, central midfield – no problem. Every challenge made me a better player. When Liverpool beat Leeds United 3–1 on 5 February, I bust my lungs stifling Harry Kewell, a real tricky winger. A week later I set up Titi Camara’s winner at Highbury – a huge result for Liverpool. Arsenal are a class side, and Freddie Ljungberg almost scored. He rounded our keeper, Sander Westerveld, but I managed to get a tackle in to stop him. Victory came at a cost for me: I damaged my groin and had to walk off for some ice treatment.
About a week after that, Dad called. He could barely speak he was so excited. ‘Get on to Steve Heighway and Gérard Houllier quick,’ he said. ‘They have something to tell you.’
What the hell was going on? I rang Steve immediately. He had big news. ‘Kevin Keegan wants you to go down to England to train with the squad before the game with Argentina,’ Steve said. I couldn’t believe my ears. Training with England? Gérard confirmed the news. England wanted me! ‘Now, Steven, you have not been named in the squad, but you will be working with them,’ warned Gérard. Fuck that. I felt I was in the squad. This was my chance. England! I was going to have a right go in training and convince Keegan to pick me for the friendly against Argentina on 23 February. Wembley. Full house. Argentina. Brilliant! Michael made his name against them, so why not me? Officially in the squad or not, I wasn’t going down to England’s base at Bisham Abbey just to train. I meant business.
The FA contacted Liverpool and offered to chauffeur me down to the team hotel at Burnham Beeches, a few miles from Bisham. But Dad lent me his Honda and I made my own way south because I was that nervous. I was shitting myself big-time on the journey. At one point I thought there was something wrong with the car. I almost got out to check the noise until I realized it was me rattling. Getting so close to something I wanted so much filled me with self-doubt. Was I good enough? Shit. Let’s turn round. Get back to Liverpool. Steve Heighway can call Keegan. Apologize. Gerrard’s too nervous. Not ready. That would save me the embarrassment of looking a dick in training. But I kept going. I had to conquer my insecurity, kill the panic attack. Go on. Drive through the gates of Burnham Beeches. Park the Honda. Don’t hit the smart cars. Into reception. Up to your room.
Made it. Thank God. I sat on the edge of the bed, knowing I had to report downstairs to Kevin in the dining room. The players were all eating. What do I do? I couldn’t face the thought of walking into a room crammed full of my heroes. Alan Shearer, Tony Adams, David Beckham – world-famous names. How could this newcomer at Liverpool stroll calmly into the middle of the England dining room and coolly sit down next to Beckham? Shit. I had another panic attack. I phoned Jamie Redknapp, who was downstairs with the squad. ‘Jamie,’ I pleaded, ‘I’m upstairs shitting myself. Come and get me, please.’ Jamie was brilliant. He quietly left the dining hall and sprinted to my room. ‘Come on,’ Jamie said. ‘Keegan wouldn’t have called you here unless he really rated you. Let’s go.’ The other Liverpool lads also came out, so we were all able to walk in together. Without the support of Jamie, Robbie, Macca and Michael, I would have spun on my heels and raced back north, back home, where I felt safe. With my club-mates by my side, I found the strength to enter the dining-room of Burnham Beeches.
Stepping through that doorway was still one of the most intimidating things I have ever done. Looking around the room, I caught my br
eath. Top players were everywhere; it was an autograph-hunter’s paradise. ‘What the fuck am I doing here?’ I thought. ‘Get me back to my room!’ Somehow, I negotiated my way to the staff table.
Kevin Keegan looked up and smiled. ‘Hi, Steven, welcome to England,’ he said. He shook my hand, then stood up.
Bloody hell. He was only going to address the whole fucking room.
‘Lads, stop eating and talking for a second,’ Keegan said. A host of household names looked up. Keegan pointed at me. ‘This is Steven Gerrard. The kid will be training with us. He’s a player. Don’t be going easy with him because he certainly won’t be going easy with you. He is going to be with you full-time very shortly.’
I squirmed from one foot to the other, my face as red as a Liverpool shirt. Fucking shut up now, Kevin. Let them carry on eating. Forget about me. I’m nothing compared to all these superstars. They know of me, but these are heroes who have played in World Cups and had hundreds of career games. And Kevin Keegan was talking to them about me! I thought, ‘What the fuck is going on here?’ I felt every England player staring at me.
Thankfully, Keegan did stop. I retreated to a table with familiar Liverpool faces and sat down to a fantastic meal, but I couldn’t eat. No chance. My stomach had space only for butterflies. Just the thought of food stirred a nausea inside. All I wanted in that England meal-room was an escape route. At least I was surrounded by club-mates. I heard and read about these cliques with England, how the tables were split up along club lines. Being in that meal-room confirmed it was true: tribal rivalry ruled.
Gerrard: My Autobiography Page 10