The feeling about England’s game with Germany on 17 June in Charleroi was simple: do or die. Our loss to Portugal meant the lads were up for the match even more. All around the hotel, groups of players met and talked about our date with destiny. ‘We need to win this one or we’re history’ was the gist of the conversations. The pressure was on big-time. Tension checked in to our hotel. Players and staff became edgy. Everyone knew what was riding on this: our place in Euro 2000, our reputations even. The whole country would be thrown into depression if we lost to Germany. God, it scared me just thinking about what the mood would be back home if we slipped up. History weighed heavily on this fixture: two world wars, 1966, 1970, Italia 90 and Euro 96. All the players understood this was a fixture like no other, almost a derby match, spiced by events on and off the pitch. ‘We just cannot get beaten by Germany’ became our motto. Bitter rivalry with the Germans is ingrained in every English footballer. I was no different. The thought of piling into a German midfielder, testing his shin-pads and his bottle, was as much a part of my professional existence as breathing.
I never thought Keegan would risk me in Charleroi. The stakes were too high, surely? A must-win game against opponents like Germany was no place for a kid. Keegan put me on the bench again. Before kick-off, I bumped into my Liverpool team-mate Didi Hamann, and we had a chat. He was starting for Germany but still had time for a word of encouragement for me.
‘Is there a chance you can get on?’ he asked me.
‘None,’ I replied.
I settled back to watch the match. Even while I was doing my warm-ups in the first half and during the break, I never thought I would feature. Eight minutes after the break, Shearer scored. Game on! The Euro 2000 dream was back on. England were back in business. But could we hold on? Germany would not go down without a fight. Keegan whispered something to Fazackerley, who turned and shouted at me: ‘Go and get warmed up. Really warmed up.’ This was it. None of the other sub midfielders had been ordered down the touchline. I had to be coming on. Keegan wanted to kill the game off, and that challenge on Southgate in Spa had shown him I loved a tackle.
As a manager, Keegan was not known for his caution, and there he was, pushing at the boundaries of his technical area, screaming at England’s players: ‘Let’s keep the result!’ Kevin could see salvation just thirty minutes away. All the stick he’d received after Eindhoven would be replaced by praise.
I warmed up like a madman, getting every sinew and muscle ready. Then the moment came for Keegan to let me loose. Michael Owen’s number went up – a brave move by the manager. Michael can make a goal out of nothing, but Keegan wanted to sit on the 1–0 lead. I stood on the touchline, flicking up a boot behind me to let the linesman check my studs. Butterflies danced in my stomach. I had played for Keegan only once, in a friendly. What the fuck was he putting me on for in a competitive match as crucial as this? ‘I don’t need this,’ I was thinking. Sensing my unease, Kevin put his arm round me and said, ‘Just do what you do for Liverpool. Be disciplined. Keep the ball for us. Break up Germany’s attacks, because they are starting to come on to us a bit.’ Kevin paused then. His next comment will stay with me for ever: ‘Steven, enjoy it as well.’
Enjoy it? Fuck me! I was about to step into a storm for my competitive debut against the team England loathed most, and Kevin was telling me to treat it like a stroll in the park! Unbelievable. But that was fantastic man-management by Kevin. To tell a nervous kid to enjoy himself in such a serious situation was inspired.
I crossed the white line, into battle, my head spinning with thoughts. Me in central midfield, Shearer up front on his own. Against Germany. Fight to the death. Bring it on. Full house going mental. England fans singing till they were hoarse. Cannot let them down. Cannot let Germany through. Let them fucking have it.
The Germans had a good team, class from back to front. Oliver Kahn – one of the best keepers in the history of football. Defenders of real quality in Markus Babbel, Jens Nowotny and Christian Ziege. Legends like Lothar Matthaus. Big target-man in Carsten Jancker. Tricky play-makers like Mehmet Scholl. ‘Get tight to Scholl,’ Kevin had told me. ‘Stop Scholl.’ I knew all about the Bayern Munich man. I hadn’t been expecting to play, but I’d still watched the tapes to learn who Germany’s dangermen were. Sitting in the team meeting, I’d day-dreamed about how much I would love to test myself against Scholl. Now was the time to put theory into practice. I immediately put a big tackle in on him. He was class, so I tackled him again. And again. No doubt about it, this was an exceptional German side that would not go quietly.
Certainly not with Didi in their midst. I knew Didi too well to believe Germany would surrender tamely. That’s not Didi’s way. He gives everything, and then some more, drawing from a well of resilience few other pros have. When Didi arrived at Liverpool, I was ecstatic. He’s a great player, and I learned off him day in, day out. I have always watched Didi, picking up little tips to improve me and I was gutted when he left Liverpool in 2006. He is the ultimate holding-role player, a clever sentry who allows other midfielders to bomb forward. His qualities were not restricted to the art of tackling and passing. My admiration for him as a man grew during my twenty-nine minutes in opposition to him in Charleroi. After my first few passes, Didi ran past and said, ‘Keep doing what you are doing.’ Unbelievable. I was stunned. We were sworn enemies until the referee’s final whistle, representing rival countries in a vital game with half the world tuned in. Yet here he was, helping me. Incredible. Germany themselves had so much riding on the game. They had drawn their first match, with Romania, and were trailing here. Yet even in the heat of battle, Didi was prepared to think about me, a young club-mate struggling not to sink in unfamiliar international waters. Didi could see in my face that I was sweating, nervous and panicky. When the ball next went out of play, I turned to him.
‘I am shitting myself here, mate,’ I said. ‘I’m fucking terrified.’
Didi looked at me. ‘Relax, Stevie,’ he said. ‘Just do what you do normally.’
Didi’s kindness to an opponent that evening showed he was a real mate. As long as I live, I will never forget our exchange of words in Charleroi.
I still wanted to thrash his team though. No amount of generosity of spirit from Didi could dull my desire to run Germany out of town. A couple of minutes after my chat with Didi, he went past me with the ball. Fucking cheek. That did not even happen in training at Melwood. The Kaiser was stepping it up. Time to raise my game some more. ‘I’m going to have him,’ I thought. ‘Watch out, Didi, I’m after you.’ He was making a dangerous break. I had to bring him down. I chased after Didi and hit him with a full-whack tackle. Bang. Take that. Down you go. Don’t try to fucking go past me. Didi shouted something in German, and I didn’t need to understand his words to realize he was not happy. He was rolling around on the ground, moaning. I lost it. ‘Fucking get up, Didi!’ I screamed at him, standing over him. ‘I didn’t fucking touch you. Get up! I’m going to get a yellow unless you fucking get up now. Two yellows and I miss the quarters.’
After the game, I told the press that Didi had ‘squealed like a girl’. That was naive of me, and totally unnecessary. It was a stupid comment that I regret deeply. All I can say in my defence is that it was uttered shortly after the final whistle when the only thing going through my mind was adrenalin. England had held on for victory, I had played well, and I wasn’t thinking straight. I have so much respect for Didi, particularly after he helped me settle into such a difficult game. I hope he reads this. He has never, ever once mentioned my comment about him squealing like a girl. Too polite. I’ve never really had the chance to apologize, until now. I’m sorry, Didi. You are too much of a man to squeal like a girl.
I treasure the shirt he gave me at the final whistle. It’s upstairs, and when I look at it all the memories of that night in Charleroi come flooding back. The nerves, the tackle, the three points. ‘All the best in your next game,’ said Didi, before heading off to the demoralized German d
ressing-room. Typical Didi. Even then, in what must have been a time of real heartache, he was prepared to think about someone else. My life took a turn for the better the day I met Didi Hamann.
As Didi disappeared, I was engulfed by people. Well done. Brilliant. Congratulations. Well played. Kevin was in tears, hugging me. England’s changing-room was buzzing, players and staff happy. Me? I was on cloud nine. Keegan stood in the middle of the room and said, ‘We’ve got a chance of qualifying now, boys!’ I shook hands with all the lads and congratulated them. But it hadn’t yet sunk in; it was as if I hadn’t played. Me, a hero for England? Impossible. Only when I left the room and had had time to gather my thoughts did I start to appreciate that it really had been me out there, flying into tackles, helping to get England back on track at Euro 2000. It really was me playing a part in England’s famous victory.
As I walked back to the bus, I wanted to share my joy with my family, so I called Dad. He didn’t go over the top in his praise – that’s not Dad’s way – but I could tell from the tone of his voice that he was really happy for me. It was Father’s Day, and Dad said, ‘That performance was a tremendous present, Steven.’ Just to detect that pride in my dad’s voice meant the world.
Back at the hotel, the dining-room felt different. The gloom was gone, dispersed by Shearer’s goal. That night, I actually looked forward to coming down from my room. I knew everyone would be happy. After the Portugal loss five days earlier it had been a case of in for your meal sharp, back to your room sharp. Gareth Barry was made up for me. ‘Brilliant, Stevie, well done,’ he said as we unwound in our sitting-room. Tiredness soon overcame me, and I said goodnight to Gareth.
The moment I shut the door for the night and lay down in bed, I was besieged with all my old nerves. The homesickness kicked in again, bringing me down from my Charleroi high. I almost packed my bags and ran for cover. It was so strange. I should have been on top of the world after the Germany game; instead, I felt like I was staring into a black hole of depression. I just wanted to be at home. God I missed Ironside.
First thing next morning, I rang home. Just hearing my parents’ voices calmed me down. I asked them to read out the headlines in the English papers (we never got the papers straight away at Spa; they were often a day late). ‘Full Steve Ahead: an England Star is Born’ declared one. ‘Move Over Ince, Gerrard is the New Guv’nor’ said another. That cheered me up! Shit! I guess this was my Michael Moment, when it all goes mental and everyone knows your name. When I finally got hold of the papers myself I almost ripped them to pieces, such was my haste in turning the pages. Some of the things I read, about me being ‘England’s future’, I felt I shouldn’t be reading. ‘Ignore those,’ Dad urged me. ‘Don’t believe it. Just focus on doing the same again.’ Good advice, as always with Dad. But I was drawn to those papers. It was fascinating reading about myself. ‘Don’t take any notice of the hype,’ said Gérard Houllier when I spoke to him later that day. Steve Heighway said the same. Foot on the ball; don’t get carried away. Keegan did, though. ‘Steven Gerrard gave a cameo of what England’s future will be,’ said the manager. Didi also spoke well of me in the press. ‘Stevie will be England captain one day,’ he said. ‘I wish Germany had a few players like him.’ Top fella.
One grey cloud filled the sky for England: our fans rioted in Charleroi. Even in our Spa cocoon, we learned what had gone on. The television pictures looked bad. When I saw water cannons sending fans flying and soaking that big town square, it was unbelievable, like an image from a medieval war. England fans are passionate, but it shocks me when it spills over into violence and fighting with police. I wasn’t embarrassed by their behaviour, because most England fans have been brilliant to us, but it wasn’t good to watch. All the players understood that outbreaks of hooliganism meant bad news for the team. We had all heard the rumblings from the big boys at UEFA that England could get kicked out of Euro 2000. ‘Christ,’ I thought, ‘that would be so unjust, a real kick in the teeth.’ We had worked so hard over ninety minutes against Germany to turn our group around. Now a few nutters threatened to ruin it.
It became a hot topic of conversation in the hotel. The players kept talking about the trouble, and the threat from UEFA that we would have to pack our bags and go home if the violence erupted again. FA officials called a meeting with the players in Spa. They were shitting themselves. One of the FA officials, David Davies, was desperate to get a message through to the fans to calm down. ‘Whenever you do any interviews, warn the fans about the gravity of the situation,’ Davies told us. ‘Tell them they are letting the team, and the country, down. We really could get booted out.’ All the players were praying it wouldn’t get to that stage. Luckily, it never did. The trouble subsided.
We want the passion and commitment of the fans, but not the dark side. England supporters are always tremendous in the stadium. They spend all their hard-earned money and give up their time to follow us around the world. It’s unbelievable. Truly, England would be knackered without the fans. It means so much to sit in a dressing-room in some cold foreign stadium and be able to hear the England fans outside. “Come on, England! Come on, England!” It’s reassuring to come out of the tunnel at some inhospitable venue and see all the St George flags. When we are down, the fans lift us. We owe them big-style. The rioting of a minority cannot dent my admiration for the majority.
Back in Spa, we soon forgot our concerns about the fans. We had three days to prepare for our final Group A game, against Romania, who were fighting for their lives with only a point to their name. Again, we were really up for the match. Training was unbelievable, with a real bite to it. I was flying. All the papers were full of my name. Everyone, it seemed, was talking about me. As I walked out to training, Michael was alongside me. We were chatting about everything and nothing, just joshing around. My old mate then turned serious. ‘You played really well against Germany,’ he said. ‘You have to be pushing for a place against Romania.’ Similar encouragement came from Robbie and Macca. ‘You must have a chance,’ they said.
A situation vacant sign did hang in central midfield. Scholesy was too good to drop, but one position was still up for grabs. Wisey could slot in there, but Kevin tended to use him out wide. Incey’s position was the vulnerable one, according to the papers, who said he looked tired in the first two games. But I wasn’t plotting on nicking Ince’s job, I just wanted to impress as much as possible in training and let Kevin make the decision.
I went to work as if my life depended on it. The day before the Romania game, I couldn’t wait to get stuck into my last chance to convince Kevin. Such was my desperate enthusiasm that I charged into a nightmare of my own making. Off the bus, top speed on to the pitch, couldn’t hold back, let’s get cracking, and then I felt it go. My calf. Pulled. No question. Fuck it. Didn’t warm up properly. Shit, shit, shit.
Desperation coloured my subsequent actions. Because of what a few players and papers had said, I thought I had a chance of starting, so I didn’t tell anyone about the calf. Not the physios, and definitely not Kevin. I trained on, running hard to disguise the problem. It hurt, but I knew missing Romania would cause me more pain. I didn’t realize how bad I had pulled it. I’m no bloody doctor. Might just be a bit tight, I told myself, grabbing any strand of comfort; I’ll have a painkiller when I get back to the room and stretch the calf in the bath. I might just get shot of it before kick-off. God, let it just be a bit of tightness, maybe just some slight tension that will disappear overnight. Oh God, don’t let me miss Romania! I couldn’t bear it.
The high of Germany suddenly seemed a world away. I dropped into a depression, sent tumbling there by a simple failure to warm up. How stupid was that? I cursed myself under my breath as I continued to train. ‘Come on, let’s get back to the room, see if we can find an escape from this nightmare,’ I told myself. My heart pumped fast, my mind working overtime with thoughts. Uncertainty about whether or not I was in Keegan’s plans still reigned. He gave no clues in training; we did no
shape work that signalled who might start in midfield. Kevin was obviously going to announce the eleven in that night’s meeting. I had to get my calf right.
Back in the privacy of my room, I hobbled around. Shit. This felt like something more than a bit of tightness. This was serious. ‘I can’t play, but I am going to play,’ I told myself. Somehow. Christ, I’ve just got to.
I left my room early as dinner-time loomed so that no-one would see me walk in slightly stiffly. The other lads soon bounded in and sat down, chattering about Romania. Some of them believed Keegan would start me against Romania. They’d been talking to journalists they knew. ‘You’re playing tomorrow,’ Robbie said to me. A weak smile came to my lips.
After dinner, I snuck down to the physio room to see if Gary Lewin could have a look at it, maybe weave some magic. I opened the door and walked straight into Alan Shearer and Tony Adams, who were enjoying some banter with Gary. Shit. Spinning 180 degrees, I sped back out, terrified at the thought of revealing my injury to Gary in front of England’s two senior players.
Back up in my room, I reconsidered my options. In times of trouble, my first instinct is to call home. Dad answered the phone.
‘Dad, I can’t believe it,’ I said. ‘I’ve done my calf. Badly. In training.’ I was stuttering. Disappointment prevented me from speaking properly. Tears formed in my eyes. ‘Dad, I really think Keegan is going to pick me against Romania. We’ve got a meeting in an hour and I’m sure I’m in the team. But my calf’s a mess. It’s really tight. There’s no way I can play.’
Gerrard: My Autobiography Page 14