Two minutes into the conversation I was sure it was Keegan. It couldn’t be a hoax. This bloke knew too much stuff about the squad and about the FA staff who organize the travel. It had to be Kevin. But even when the caller signed off with a cheery ‘see you at Bisham’, I still wasn’t 100 per cent certain. Fortunately, a couple of hours later someone from Melwood phoned to say they had an FA fax confirming I was in the squad. Until then, I had been waiting for a mate to ring, laughing. ‘Ha, ha, it was a wind-up!’ The next day, I got a text off the England team administrator, Michele Farrer, giving me details about meeting up. Keegan then announced the squad officially. That phone call had been a call-up, not a wind-up.
Stories stating I would start against Ukraine on 31 May kept appearing in the newspapers. ‘Don’t believe none of that,’ Dad urged. ‘Just keep doing what you are doing in training. Until you’re told, keep playing for a starting place.’ On the Monday, two days before the game, Keegan pulled me during training at Bisham. We were doing some shape work, tactical pattern-of-play stuff. ‘Come Wednesday, don’t do that, do this,’ said Keegan, indicating a position he wanted me to keep. His words stopped me in my tracks. Had Keegan just dropped a big hint there that I might be involved? I pretended I never heard it. Me? Starting for England? The possibility still seemed unreal.
I phoned Dad the moment I got back to my room at Burnham. ‘I might be playing some part, Dad, for England!’ I said. ‘The gaffer talked me through a move he wanted me to do on Wednesday!’
Dad got a bit buzzing, but then played it down. ‘Take no notice of it. Keegan might just have slipped up, or not meant it.’
So I got on with training the next day, giving my all.
Distractions blew into Burnham on the Tuesday. It was my twentieth birthday, and I certainly got given the special treatment by the England lads. The day started off nicely. Burnham’s chef did a cake. I got up and blew the candles out as all the lads shouted ‘Speech, speech!’ I went red and sat back down sharpish. It was all really friendly. Afterwards, we all went off to Bisham. With England, you leave your doors open. We have the hotel to ourselves, so no problem. No-one would break in. So I just wandered out of my room and didn’t think twice about locking the door. When I came back from training, I almost died. My room had been trashed good and proper. It looked as if a hundred kids had enjoyed a wild birthday party in there. Toothpaste was everywhere, over the mirror, my bed, the table. ‘Happy birthday – you soft-arse’ was smeared in toothpaste on the wall. When I read that, I began to detect the mischievous hand of Robbie Fowler and Michael Owen.
My bag had gone, too. Shit, this was serious. I ran into the bathroom and found it lying empty on the floor. The entire contents – clothes, kit, everything – had been tipped into the bath and the taps turned on. The bath was overflowing. My blood boiled. I leant down and picked my trainers out of the bath – sodden through. If I had tossed them on the bathroom scales, they would have touched four stone each. I couldn’t believe it. Brand fucking new as well. I wanted to look the part coming down to England so I went to a top clothes shop and bought some really good gear – trainers, shirts, trousers, a whole classy wardrobe. All of it was now soaking or ruined. ‘You big, lanky, stupid tit,’ I screamed at myself. What have I done leaving that door open? Happy fucking birthday. Must be Fowler.
Sadly, no punishment was possible. I couldn’t report to Kevin Keegan that a so-called team-mate unleashed chaos and a ton of Colgate in my room. I cleaned it up myself. No choice. The trainers went out on the window ledge, almost breaking it. They had dried out by the time we went home two days later! I wiped the floor, removed all traces of toothpaste with a towel, and hung up my dripping clothes above the bath. Lunch was about to be served so I had to hurry. I realized I had nothing to wear, apart from the training kit I stood up in. Sod it. It would have to do. If I smelled, the others deserved it. But I had nothing on my feet. I had taken my boots off downstairs and walked up in my socks. Embarrassed, I picked up the phone and rang the England kit-man. I had only met him once or twice before in my life. I was terrified. ‘Listen, I have nothing to wear on my feet,’ I explained. ‘You’ll understand when you come and have a look at my room.’ He came up, gave me a pair of Umbro flip-flops, and walked off down the corridor trying to suppress his laughter.
I dashed down to lunch, turning up late because of the salvage operation. As I walked into the meal-room, I was sick. Gutted. ‘Go along with the banter,’ I told myself. ‘Don’t look as if you have the hump.’ I strolled into lunch and looked around to see if I could work out the offender. Bloody Sherlock Holmes wouldn’t have known. All the players looked up from their meals, nodded at me, and then carried on eating as if nothing had happened. I was livid inside, furious they were all secretly laughing at me. I was late, and still in my sweaty training kit, so they bloody well knew what was up. No-one let on, though. I just encountered a sea of straight faces. More than one had to be involved in the actual crime. Given the mess they made, there was definitely a firm at work in there.
Fowler had to be guilty. It was a classic Fowler stunt. If I were a betting man, I would have put good money on Fowler as the mastermind and Steve McManaman as chief accomplice. When news got out that something had happened to my special trainers, Fowler was asked by the press whether he was responsible. The papers reported that Fowler was the prime suspect but that the only offence on his charge-sheet was cutting the laces on my trainers. Fucking hell! And the rest! They should have seen my room! Anyway, Fowler swore on his daughters’ lives that it wasn’t him. But he never had any daughters at the time! It was definitely him, and not just the trainers. My wrecked room was a Robbie Fowler production. One day, his conscience will get to him and he will confess.
That afternoon, I climbed aboard the bus to training, stood at the front and looked down the aisle. ‘Anyone owning up for this room then?’ I asked. Silence. The players carried on reading their papers, or jabbering on their phones. They pretended they never heard me. I sat down next to Shearer. ‘Alan, do you know anything about it?’ I enquired. He looked at me dismissively. I could read his mind thinking, ‘Shut up, tit. As if I am going to tell you that. Dickhead. Go away.’ Shearer never gives anything away. He’s got a poker face. He definitely knew something about it though. They all did. Everyone on that coach – guilty. I should have cornered Fowler. But I couldn’t. I was just a puppet in the squad then. To this day, I still don’t know for sure who ruined my room. I swear I want someone to own up for it, though, because they absolutely destroyed my clothes. My lovely trainers never recovered. They had a sad burial in the garbage. I will never forgive Fowler!
My twentieth birthday was certainly memorable. After training, Keegan tapped me on the shoulder and said, ‘Are you looking forward to tomorrow night?’
‘Yeah, I can’t wait.’
He then looked me in the eye and said, ‘You’re starting.’
I almost fainted! These were the words I had dreamed of hearing. Starting! For England!
‘Thanks, boss, I won’t let you down.’
Keegan went off to announce the news to the media. They immediately demanded to see me in the big press tent outside Burnham. Interest was massive in the England new boy. I couldn’t escape. I was terrified. I nearly had to put a nappy on to do that interview. We spoke to journalists at Liverpool, but usually local guys we knew and trusted, or a few guys from the national newspapers whom the club felt would not turn us over. England was a different ball-game. A whole media army had set up camp in the grounds of Burnham Beeches. As I went through hotel reception, a few of the England lads shouted, ‘Good luck.’ Christ, that tightened the knot in my stomach even more. I felt like a condemned man as I walked towards the press marquee. I was rattling. Interviews have always scared the shit out of me. Even now, as an established player, I am still not 100 per cent comfy talking to the media. Basically, I just don’t like speaking to people I hardly know. Back then, I was even more tongue-tied.
Burnham
was torture that day. The FA’s press officer, Adrian Bevington, told me not to worry as we headed towards the battery of cameras, microphones and notebooks. Don’t worry? A bit fucking late! ‘They’ll go easy on you,’ said Adrian. It was like being led to the wolves and told to relax because they had already eaten once today. Jesus, I couldn’t believe how many journalists were waiting for me. More than a hundred, I guess, although I didn’t really want to look up and count properly. I sat down and tried to handle the questions as best I could.
‘What are your strengths?’ someone asked.
‘In what position?’ I replied.
Everyone there thought that showed how confident I was, but I was just being factual. Keegan spoke as well, and told the journalists I wasn’t arrogant. ‘His confidence comes from his ability,’ he said. I was full of gratitude to Kevin for being close by in the tent and taking some of the pressure off me. Facing the press was not an experience I enjoyed.
I managed finally to slip out but immediately ran into another ambush, this time by photographers. They swarmed around me, clicking away. Eventually, Bevington imposed some order and me and Keegan posed for a picture with an England cap. My first cap. In fact, I learned later that it had been borrowed for the photo-shoot. The cap actually belonged to Paul Madeley, the old England all-rounder from the seventies. In a way, wearing something of Madeley’s was really appropriate. I just wanted to show everyone, and particularly Kevin, that I could do a job anywhere for England.
I couldn’t wait for the game to start. All the fannying about and official stuff in the build-up to an international pissed me off. I was relieved to get back from the media village. I had only been out of my room for ten minutes but I had ten missed calls and a load of text messages. The word was out. I was starting. Sorting out tickets for family and friends was a nightmare. So many people wanted to come to Wembley. It broke me up having to tell a few I couldn’t get them tickets. ‘Hopefully, there will be another time,’ I said, crossing my fingers. I didn’t want to go over the top, promising there would be another game. And I was too unsure of myself to ask the FA girls for more tickets. ‘Who does he think he is, asking that amount?’ I could imagine them saying. ‘He hasn’t even played a bloody game yet, cheeky sod.’ So I just took the complimentary tickets made available by the FA and those I was able to buy. Some players do trade, but again, I was too scared to badger anyone for tickets. Newcomers can’t walk up to England stars and demand, ‘Are you using your spares?’
Ukraine’s visit was a night match, so the lads killed time before kick-off sleeping in their rooms at Burnham. That shocked me. How could players calmly kip hours before going into battle for England? I sat in my room, rattling, on the phone, trying to pass the time away. Eventually we were on the coach to Wembley, people shouting messages of good luck and sticking their thumbs up as we passed. Christ, this was just a friendly. Just imagine the atmosphere for a full-on World Cup tie. Kick-off was more than two hours away, but the fans were flooding into Wembley, tens of thousands of them. Groups of blokes. Fathers and sons. All chanting ‘England!’ Young boys, eyes shining in anticipation, had their faces painted with the flag of St George. Their exhilaration intensified my own excitement. It was only Ukraine, only a friendly, but the sense of expectation was incredible. England have always mattered to me, and as I looked through the coach window at all the fans, I began to realize how much the England team meant to the nation. These people loved England with a passion. I resolved then never, ever to let them down.
‘Just wait till you get in the dressing-room,’ Michael told me with a smile a week earlier. ‘You’ll love it. It’s awesome. Just watch everyone – and listen.’ Michael’s words didn’t make much sense at the time, but they rang loud and true when I crossed the threshold into the home dressing-room at Wembley. Nothing could have prepared me for the atmosphere inside. Of course, I had experienced the Liverpool dressing-room where determination hung in the air, an emotion so real you could almost stretch out a hand and touch it. But with England, Jesus Christ, I couldn’t believe the atmosphere. The mood stepped up big-time over Anfield. What a special place! Some of Keegan’s players, like Sol Campbell, sat there quietly, undergoing familiar pre-match routines that have served them so well for so long. Others, like Robbie and Macca, were chatting and laughing, behaving as if it were a normal game at Liverpool. For a while it was pretty restrained, just a few words from Keegan and his assistants Derek Fazackerley and Arthur Cox. But as kick-off approached, the players talked louder and louder, the mood rising to fever pitch. Battle-cries began. Each player was made to feel that nothing else in his life would ever matter as much as this. Club affiliations and expectations were irrelevant. Shout after shout. This is England. Our country. Millions watching. Don’t let them down. Don’t miss a tackle. Don’t give the ball away. Every eye is on us. Fucking deliver.
The noise was unbelievable. In the middle of the dressing-room stood Alan Shearer and Tony Adams, whipping up the storm. Changing-rooms are always loud, but Adams and Shearer cranked the volume up to a different level. Shearer was getting everyone going, standing there like a warrior preparing for combat, screaming at his fellow soldiers. Adams was going around the room bawling at players individually. He fixed each of us with a stare and then spat one question in our faces: ‘Are you fucking ready for this?’ Jesus, hellfire. He got closer to me, and soon he stood in front of me. ‘And are you fucking ready?’ A coward would have felt his blood run cold. I returned his gaze, unflinching. ‘You bet I’m fucking well ready.’ And I was. I felt ready for anything. Satisfied, Adams moved on. Behind him, Shearer barked out orders. ‘Get stuck in. Don’t let them settle.’ Keegan had a few words, but the real rallying calls came from Shearer and Adams. It was a shock to me. I was so hyped up I almost couldn’t tie my laces. Fucking let me at Ukraine. Where are they? Bring it on.
Ukraine must have heard us. Christ alive, the racket coming out of the England dressing-room was so loud it could have been heard in Kiev, let alone down the corridor. Even Gareth Southgate, such a calm, cultured individual by day, stirred up the players, sending the decibel level rocketing higher. My admiration for senior pros like Southgate, Adams and Shearer doubled that day. I knew they were great players, but this showed me why they ascended to the pinnacle of their trade. Commitment. Will to win. Teamwork. Men like Adams, Shearer and Southgate boasted all these important qualities. Leaders all. I idolized them even more than before. Martin Keown didn’t play that night but he was another who was incredibly aggressive in the dressing-room, yet constructive with it.
The referee, Lubos Michel, rang the bell to call us to the tunnel. Walking up the Wembley tunnel was special. I saw the light at the end, heard the crowd going crazy, and was almost knocked over by the wall of noise as I emerged onto the pitch. Wembley is the best place I have ever played at. It’s the history that makes it unique. I know they’ve rebuilt the stadium now and demolished landmarks like the Twin Towers, but it will always be Wembley, the Venue of Legends. I have watched so many finals from there on television, and attended many games there. For a lad from Huyton, Wembley was like the promised land. To play at Wembley for Liverpool or England, that is huge. Looking around at the stadium and all the fans, I was just in awe as I lined up for the national anthem. Standing shoulder to shoulder with England team-mates for the first time, I felt so proud singing ‘God Save the Queen’. But there was serious work to do.
The moment Michel blew the whistle for the first time, I immediately learned that international football was a real step up from the Premiership. I sat in midfield with Macca and Scholesy pushing on in a 3–5–2. God, I was busy. Technically, the Ukrainians were a lot better than us. Their strikers, Andrei Shevchenko and Sergei Rebrov, were different class, at the time one of the most potent partnerships in the world. When we watched the tapes before the game, Keegan picked them out as Ukraine’s dangermen. They kept dropping off Southgate, Adams and Campbell so I had to pick them up. Shevchenko and Rebrov were v
ery good, always keeping the ball, particularly Shevchenko. When I got near them, I was dead wary. They had touches and skills that could make a fool of anyone rushing in. But I did all right, and grew in confidence. Applause followed one move I was involved in. Midway through the first half, I dummied a crossfield pass and set off as Southgate picked up possession. I raced past Yuri Dmitrulin and got the ball back from Gareth. Beckham looked for the ball, so I quickly gave it to him, and sprinted back to cover midfield in case Ukraine counter-attacked. It felt fantastic, charging around Wembley, spraying passes to world stars like Beckham and tackling class operators like Shevchenko. My spirits lifted even higher when we took the lead through Robbie, and then Tony added another.
With nine minutes remaining and victory secured, Keegan replaced me with Kieron Dyer. As I walked off, I glanced back and memorized the image of Shevchenko standing there. I had shared a pitch with the great Shevchenko! It was a dream. Mad. Afterwards, a soggy pile of Ukraine shirts were delivered to our dressing-room. I picked out the one belonging to the fella who used to play right-back for Arsenal, Oleg Luzhny. I gave it to my dad. I sent my shirt to the Ukrainians and kept another. I wanted a personal souvenir of my England debut. It’s upstairs at home, on display in a special room.
After the game, I was quickly on the phone, ringing friends and family. I just wanted to talk about the incredible scenes in the dressing-room beforehand. So many positive emotions raced through my mind as I walked out of Wembley that May night. Elation at a 2–0 win. Pride that my parents were watching and listening as the England fans clapped me off. A sense of relief as well. For this was by far the hardest game I had ever experienced.
Gerrard: My Autobiography Page 12