Gerrard: My Autobiography

by Steven Gerrard

  The match flashed by in a blur. Mentally and physically I was shattered. But deeply happy. I knew I had been in a battle where wits and stamina were tested by the very best. And I survived. I knew Keegan was impressed. Euro 2000 beckoned.

  7

  Love and Hate in Spa

  HOMESICKNESS RUINED EURO 2000 for me. Uncertainty crept into my mind shortly after we left home, and it grew during a stop-over in Malta, where England played a warm-up match on 3 June. Valletta seemed a beautiful place with lovely weather, but I was not in the mood to take in the scenery. An Achilles problem had flared up, ruling me out of the game and casting doubt over my fitness for the start of Euro 2000. At the time I didn’t realize my moodiness was actually homesickness; I thought it was frustration over the Achilles. When I was eventually able to resume training, I brightened up a bit.

  I checked into the England hotel near Spa in Belgium eager to get stuck into practice. I was excited at arriving for such a big tournament, no question about that, yet still I couldn’t shake off this depression. What the hell was wrong with me? I was living every man’s dream, competing against the best players in Europe for a fabulous prize. So many huge names were out there: Thierry Henry, Alessandro del Piero, all of the continent’s big guns. Euro 2000 seemed the perfect stage for me to perform on, yet I wanted to fly home to 10 Ironside Road, Huyton, where I felt secure. This tournament was the first occasion I had been away from my family for any amount of time. Holidays and football trips had separated me from my family before, but only for a week. Seven days cut off from my family I could handle; Euro 2000 was different. Even before kicking a ball in anger, England had been away from home for ten days. Five weeks away sounded to me like a prison sentence.

  My stomach was a mess. I desperately wanted to get back to Mum, Dad and Paul. To familiar surroundings. Friends. Neighbours. Relatives. I longed for all that again. Watching Mum get the tea. Talking to Dad and Paul. I hated being away. At home, I felt safe. Within those four walls, I could trust everyone and open up. Fuck it, I missed home. Badly. I sat in a chair in my room in Spa, stared out of the window at that dark forest and wanted to scream for help.

  At first, I couldn’t bring myself to tell Mum and Dad when I rang home every evening. Embarrassment stopped me. ‘Oh yeah, everything’s fine, it’s brilliant out here,’ I would say. And it should have been. I was a professional footballer earning good money and privileged enough to represent my country. I was surrounded by good guys in the squad, players I could share a laugh and a joke with, friends like Michael Owen whom I had known for more than ten years. Kevin Keegan was always brilliant with me. Kevin had taken a gamble in picking a young, untried midfielder for Euro 2000. I was lucky. Everyone back in England would have jumped at the chance to swap places. Homesick? Fucking grow up. Get a grip. But I just couldn’t shake the feeling.

  One night, I confessed all to Mum. ‘I don’t want to be here,’ I told her. ‘I just want to be home with you. I get feelings in my stomach. I can’t sleep. I want to be home.’

  Mum and Dad were obviously concerned. They care so deeply for me and Paul. But they didn’t want me to do anything rash and ruin all I had worked for. Dad came on the line. ‘Steven, you are missing nothing here,’ he said. ‘If you come back for a day or two, you would want to go to Spa. Enjoy it.’

  ‘I am enjoying it, Dad. I’m loving it. I want to be here, but I also want to come home. I don’t know how long for, but I want to come home.’

  ‘Do you want to mention it to the manager?’ Dad asked.

  ‘No,’ I replied firmly. How could I? After one cap, I could hardly go knocking at Kevin’s door, saying, ‘Listen, boss, I’m homesick.’ He might bounce me out for good. Euro 2000 had not even officially started, so I was worried Kevin would replace me with a stand-by player. Persevering was the only answer, and focusing on the tournament.

  Homesickness is a part of me that will never go away. I still feel homesick at times. I endured a bad couple of days at Euro 2004 in Portugal. I’m prone to the blues when I travel. I am a home person. Fact. If I wasn’t a footballer I wouldn’t go away from home for two months. I hate being on my own. Hate it. Even to this day, I loathe rooming on my own with England. If my family were there in my hotel room, I could be away for as long as ever. Put me on my own, and I can’t. I go mad. It’s boredom. Even if I am in the house on my own, after an hour I need to get on the phone. I can’t come home, sit around all day on my own and not speak to anyone. I love company. Love it. Especially family.

  It’s strange, I know. At tournaments, two emotions run through me: happiness and sadness. Even with the shadow of homesickness at Euro 2000, I was still buzzing. Friends called, told me how lucky I was, how made up they were to see me selected for England. For all my gloom, I was still delighted to be in Spa. I was experiencing a world most people aspired to.

  Before we left England, the sense of excitement gripping the country was inescapable. Flags fluttered outside houses and in the back of vans. England stickers appeared everywhere. Newspapers were bursting with page after page of build-up coverage. I was desperate to be part of it. When Keegan named his final squad shortly after the Ukraine game on 31 May, I was blown apart to be included. I thought I had missed too many games. No chance, surely? Yet there was Keegan, reading out my name among real stars such as Alan Shearer, David Beckham, Tony Adams and Paul Scholes. After only eighty-one minutes on the pitch for England, I was off to the European Championship in Holland and Belgium!

  For all my problems, Spa was good. Kevin and the FA made sure we had plenty to occupy ourselves with back at the hotel: there were pool and table tennis tables, an arcade packed with computer games, pitch and putt, eighteen-hole golf, the works. We lacked for nothing. No expense was spared by the FA. Along with all the entertainment laid on by the FA, the players organized race nights, Macca and Robbie strutting about as if they were at Aintree. A card school also formed, sharpish. Kevin joined in with the players at the back of the bus. One newspaper claimed money was involved, but that was bollocks. Games of three-card brag or hearts for cash took place in certain rooms all over the hotel, but never on the bus. The card schools were always easy to find because of the noise; the banter was top-class. Cards are not my bag, but I loved listening in. Press criticism of Kevin for being involved in the card school was ridiculous. His approachability was good management, not a sign of weakness. He opened up to the players, and they opened up back. I prefer a manager to be sociable rather than stand-offish; a cold, distant coach would have intimidated me. Kevin was straight and honest and always open. He acted like a father figure to me during Euro 2000.

  Despite my inhibitions, Kevin’s upbeat personality meant everyone mixed around the camp, and I was slowly drawn into the England family. It wasn’t cliquey at all. I would be walking down the corridor and Gary Neville would pull me in for a game of pool – Liverpool v. United, but with cues, and smiles. I spoke to all the players during the tournament. Initially, I was wary of Dennis Wise, but during the tournament he too opened up with everyone and was good company. No-one, however famous, was offhand with a newcomer like me.

  I was still scared stiff of Shearer. If I came down from my room and England’s celebrated captain was at the dinner table, I would avoid sitting by him. I was that intimidated. During my YTS days, all the talk was of ‘Shearer, Shearer, Shearer’ and ‘Fowler, Fowler, Fowler’. Luckily for me, I worked with Robbie at Liverpool so I knew him; I gradually shed my fear in his company. Shearer was different. He was an idol to me when I arrived at Spa. No-one possessed his aura. When he marched into a room, everyone stopped what they were doing and looked. He just has this phenomenal presence. During Euro 2000, I discovered what a terrific bloke he is, as well as a magnificent centre-forward. No airs or graces. No big ‘I Am’. A typical Geordie, so welcoming and friendly. He kept telling me to sit down for a chat. Eventually I plucked up enough courage to join the great man. ‘Are you all right?’ he enquired. ‘Are you enjoying the trip? Ho
w’s Liverpool?’ Shearer’s public image is of someone hugely competitive on the pitch but quiet off it. On TV, he comes across as a serious person. Meeting him properly surprised me. Shearer was fantastic with me, telling jokes, talking about everything, trying to make me feel at home. Top man.

  Hanging out with Shearer, playing pool with Gary Neville, listening to the craic at the card schools – it seemed a perfect way to relax. Spa should have been paradise, but as I said, it felt like hell at times. As well as the homesickness, I just couldn’t shake off a feeling of insecurity at being surrounded by superstars. I didn’t feel comfortable knocking on the door of a household name who had won titles and cups and saying, ‘Do you fancy a game of table tennis?’ I waited to be asked.

  Thankfully, Aston Villa’s Gareth Barry had made the trip too. Each player had his own room, but mine had a shared living-room. None of the other players wanted it so Kevin allocated it to me and Gareth as the new boys. Our bedrooms opened out into this living-room, and it worked out well. Gareth became a really good mate of mine at Euro 2000, and has been ever since. We just clicked. Like me, Gareth was shy and frightened by the big names in the England squad. He too comes across really quiet, but from rooming with him I know his banter is good. I found him excellent company. We played pool and table tennis, and went down to meals together. It was like we were married! Everyone knows what a terrific player Gareth is. I remember him doing some crosses from the left in training and even the senior England players were saying to each other, ‘That Gareth Barry is class.’ Keegan always checked on the two of us, making sure we were part of the party.

  Kevin’s assistant, Arthur Cox, was also different class with me. So were three of the other guys Kevin called into the camp, Nigel Spackman, Peter Beardsley and Kenny Swain. These three were good football men who understood how newcomers like me and Gareth could be prey to nerves. Without Nigel, Peter and Kenny, my homesickness would have been far worse. They weren’t really part of the coaching staff, so I could open up to them, almost as if they were friends. When we were in the swimming pool or the Jacuzzi, or playing table tennis, I would confess that I was struggling to settle in. Nigel, Peter and Kenny became my confidants; their support was both immense and genuine. ‘Chin up,’ Nigel would say. ‘How you doing?’ Peter would chip in. ‘Fancy some pool?’ Kenny might add. They were like three brothers protecting me. As well as encouragement, these respected former pros pointed out things in my game I needed to improve. Even in our short time together in Spa, Nigel, Peter and Kenny made me a better person and a better player. I’m forever grateful to them.

  Some of Keegan’s other staff pissed me off, though – two coaches in particular. To this day, I have no respect for Les Reed or Derek Fazackerley. I was a young lad who had never been away from home to play football before. I felt that Reed and Fazackerley could have shown more care and sympathy. They were always pushing me, always telling me to buck up my ideas. They didn’t seem to understand that not everyone can climb on board a plane, settle in a strange hotel far from the family they love, and find it easy. In fact, they made me feel like shit. My homesickness worsened whenever I was forced to be in their company.

  Somehow, I pushed the homesickness to the back of my mind. I wanted to give myself a chance of looking forward to the games. I was desperate to force my way into England’s starting eleven, so I really got stuck into training at Spa. One moment that set everyone talking came when Gareth Southgate and I challenged for a loose ball. Gareth was right in front of me, looking for the ball. He is one of those honest defenders who never goes in to hurt an opponent, and he went in as fairly as he usually does. As I had been in only one or two squads by then, Gareth probably expected me to pull out. No fucking chance. I wanted that ball badly. For me, a tackle in training is the same as a tackle in a game. No pulling out. No half measures. No prisoners.

  Bang. As we crunched into each other, this loud noise reverberated around the Belgian forest. Everyone looked up. All the media were there, filming and watching. Some even ducked for cover. The noise sounded like a gun going off, not a tackle going in. Keegan exaggerated the incident afterwards. ‘That showed the commitment of the lads,’ he said. ‘I thought the ball was going to be taken off on a stretcher!’ To me, it was just a tackle. I got on with it straight away, chasing the ball. Privately, though, I smiled to myself. A point had been made. Keegan and the rest of the lads knew there and then that I was up for the challenge of Euro 2000.

  Even though I was making my mark in training, and coming out of my shell a tiny bit more every day, I knew I had no chance of starting England’s first game, against Portugal in Eindhoven on Monday, 12 June. Paul Ince was the man of steel in our midfield. He had a calf problem for the game against the Ukraine, but now he was fit, and he was well established in the side. Whenever he pulled on the Three Lions, Incey was brilliant, shifting up a gear from his Liverpool form. He was my hero. Incey had the job I craved with Liverpool and England: tackle, kill, pass. My ambitions were obvious to him, but he was still as good as gold with me around the England camp. Even when he moaned at me, I felt he was helping me. Anyway, Incey knew he was top dog. Keegan might have rated me, but he wasn’t stupid. He was never going to put an untested kid in against the likes of Luis Figo, Rui Costa and João Pinto ahead of an experienced international like Incey. No chance.

  I was on the pitch before kick-off, warming up with the rest of the England squad. PSV’s stadium was packed out, but I caught a glimpse of Dad in the crowd. The FA had set up a scheme whereby friends and families could fly in and out; the cost was deducted from our match fees, and it was worth every penny to have Dad’s reassuring presence in Eindhoven. Sneaking a look around to check if Keegan or any of the other coaches was looking, I sprinted over dead quick and shook his hand. ‘Good luck,’ he said, in case I came on. I knew I wouldn’t.

  I sat on the bench and watched the game. When Scholesy and Macca put England 2–0 up within twenty minutes, I was buzzing. England were up and running, playing like they owned the tournament. And Portugal were no mugs. Their team was full of class names, but England were taking the piss out of them. I was so excited I was up and out of my seat, geeing Macca, Incey and Michael on. Go on! Go on! Do it! Get the third! Kill them off! I could just imagine the scenes in the dressing-room afterwards, everyone laughing and shaking hands and saying we could win Euro 2000. I thought about the coach journey back to Spa, the singing, the card games, the happy banter of a team after a memorable win. I couldn’t wait to learn Dad’s view before calling home to hear about the celebrations, the parties, people going crazy over England’s glory.

  Then it all turned sour, like a runner leading a race suddenly encountering quicksand. England began to sink. Suddenly, we couldn’t cope with Portugal’s clever passing. Figo was outstanding. What a player! What a leader! The Portuguese refused to give up. They simply would not be led that last step to their execution. So they went for us, turning the tables. I couldn’t believe my eyes. It didn’t make sense. We had the game sewn up. We had the players. Shearer, Owen, Beckham. The belief was there, but it just went. The confidence drained away as if someone had pulled the plug. Even the great Tony Adams, the rock on which England teams had been built for so long, made a mistake. England’s jugular was exposed, and Portugal went for it. Figo and João Pinto made it 2–2 by the break and we knew the second half promised only more torture. The fire had gone out of Keegan’s players. On the hour, Nuno Gomes got the winner, and Portugal’s celebrations sounded like a nail being driven into a coffin. Nightmare.

  Devastated, the players crept back to the dressing-room. Keegan had a little go. ‘You cannot give away the lead, you cannot make defending errors,’ he said. ‘But the tournament’s not over. We can get back into it.’ Kevin couldn’t say too much. No-one could. Everyone was shell-shocked. Players, staff, subs. No-one could absorb any words. Feelings were too raw, minds too clogged with disappointment. I sat in the corner, telling myself how glad I was that I hadn’t pla
yed. That game was a bit too big for me. When a team like Portugal turn on the power, it’s like being run over by a juggernaut. The old doubts came racing back: could I cut it at this level? Good players, stars I had watched and admired week in, week out in the Premiership, were sitting there almost motionless. Just empty. Crushed. Figo and João Pinto had sapped all the life from them. As Keegan finished his brief talk, the only sound I could hear was the laboured breathing of the players – almost sighs of regret. My idols just sat there, heads in hands, occasionally raising them to drink some fluids. This wasn’t a dressing-room, this was a morgue.

  Slowly, life began to pump through those shattered bodies again. Some began to move towards the showers, as if to wash away the trauma. Keegan’s coaches started to go round, Cox and Fazackerley having quiet words with each player individually. It was not a time for lectures or long speeches, just a few words about what the player had done right or wrong. Gary Lewin, the physio, tended to strains and bruises. Nothing, though, could heal the wounds Portugal had just inflicted.

  Becoming invisible seemed the most diplomatic move. I shrank into the corner. I hated intruding on private grief, although it was my pain as well: I was desperate for England to do well at Euro 2000. Nerves were so exposed that I didn’t talk to anyone. I didn’t even offer consoling words to my Liverpool friends, for fear of getting my head bitten off. Witnessing the distress and anger in that Eindhoven dressing-room taught me what football was really all about, how much it meant. Up until then, I had just played a few games. Football, to me, was fun. If I lost, yeah it was bad, but I got on with it. But this England embarrassment was proper serious shit. Defeat is sport’s version of death.

  It was time to leave. We filed out to the coach, resembling a line of captured prisoners as we walked, heads down, to the bus. As we hit the road to Spa, Keegan sat down briefly with me and Gareth Barry. ‘I hope you are learning from all this,’ he said. ‘Watch the opposition. Learn. You will both be involved in this tournament somewhere down the line.’ ‘Yeah,’ I thought, ‘as if.’ I was convinced I was just there to make the numbers up. Still, I would have loved just one minute on the pitch to say I had played in a major tournament for England. The next game was against Germany, the enemy. I prayed Keegan would give me a chance.