When another wise head, Gary McAllister, joined Liverpool, I was not alone in the dressing-room in wondering what the hell Gérard was doing. He seemed an odd buy. OK, he was once a terrific midfielder for Leeds United and Scotland, but McAllister was now thirty-five, his best days surely behind him. His arrival was of particular concern to me. Would he limit my appearances? ‘It’s a bit of a strange signing,’ I remarked to the lads when Gérard wasn’t around. ‘Isn’t McAllister over the hill? I’ve seen him play for Coventry recently and, yeah, he’s good, but why’ve we signed him?’ No-one came up with an answer. The word from above was that McAllister had been brought in as cover. I rang my agent, Struan Marshall, who knew McAllister well. ‘Stru, what’s all this about?’ I asked.
‘Don’t worry, Stevie,’ replied Struan, ‘Gary Mac will be brilliant for Liverpool, and for you as well. Listen to him. Learn from him.’
‘Fuck off, Stru,’ I said. ‘McAllister can fucking well learn off me!’
How wrong I was. Meeting this intelligent Scot was an important moment in my career. As a midfielder and a man, Gary Mac was special. He strolled into the dressing-room at Melwood and immediately went around all the players introducing himself. That was class. We knew who Gary bloody McAllister was, but that gesture showed his modesty. We liked that. He also had the medals, the caps and poise that trigger instant respect. It felt like football royalty breezing into Melwood. Should I bow? Gary was never destined for the ressies. No chance. Almost immediately, he was a fixture in the first team, directing operations like a general at a battle, turning the game Liverpool’s way with his vision and touch. What a player.
And what a teacher. On away trips, I timed my run to the bus so I could sit next to McAllister, absorbing advice. It felt like being on the school bus with the best master next to me. Every journey was like a lesson, with me as the awestruck pupil. Gary Mac definitely helped me, particularly with my passing. Sometimes I hit a long ball when I should have chosen the shorter option. Gérard and Thommo often pulled me on it. ‘Pick your passes better,’ they said. At one point, a bloody debate even broke out in the press about my passing. Jesus! It did gnaw away at me, all this talk about whether I was trying too many Hollywood long passes. So one day I sat next to Gary on the bus, flicking through the papers, reading all this stuff about my passing.
‘How are you?’ Gary asked.
‘Fine, fine,’ I replied.
The bus started moving, and soon I opened up.
‘Macca, why am I choosing to play a long pass instead of a short one, or vice versa? I can’t get my selection right.’
‘Don’t be worrying,’ said Gary. ‘You’re still young. It’ll come. If you give the ball away, keep your next pass short. Only play a long pass if you know it will definitely get there.’
During matches, if I lost possession, Macca would say, ‘Keep the next one.’ He was such a clever man in possession himself, and his opinion was valued by everyone. Macca was one of those players who could stop a session and suggest something and everyone listened, even the coaches. Just watching Gary in training improved me. He was a master-class on legs.
Experienced and stylish, Macca had been there, done that, and bought the designer shirt. His clothes were always the best, still are. His shoes were always spotless. He was a star at Liverpool and he remains a star in my eyes. Still to this day, I’ll phone Macca, even if it’s nothing to do with football. He’s just one of those likeable, popular guys whom anyone would feel proud to know. I trust Gary like family. If I’ve had a shocker, Gary will be on, lifting my spirits, offering advice that is invariably right. I owe him so much.
Gary combined the experience of his thirty-five years with the phenomenal engine of a twenty-five-year-old. He was as fit as anything, but then he always looked after himself. Gary Mac made twenty-one Premiership starts that 2000/01 season, starred in the three cup runs and became an instant legend at Liverpool. Gary’s brilliance in the middle along with Didi Hamann meant I was often shifted out to right midfield. It pissed me off that if I ever had a bad game alongside Didi I was shifted out towards the flank. Gérard never gave me another game to put it right. Macca came flying in and I was left fighting with Danny Murphy and David Thompson for right midfield. Danny, Thommo and I called it the ‘graveyard shift’. ‘Who’s got the fucking graveyard today?’ we’d laugh with each other as Gérard read out the team. The graveyard was well named: anyone playing right midfield for Liverpool that season was guaranteed to have their match killed off early. Whoever was on the Graveyard – me, Danny or Thommo – would start sweating after fifty minutes, knowing the man on the bench was about to signal the end. It became a running joke: ‘Fifty minutes and you’re dead.’ Ha bloody ha.
All three of us were handy players and we did get annoyed. Thommo was a good midfielder, full of energy, and he loved a tackle, but Danny was different class. Danny was my room-mate, almost my soul-mate. A schoolboy Red, Danny was the king of banter, really funny and sharp. We clicked immediately. For a couple of years we scrapped like dogs for the same place yet such intense rivalry never spoiled our friendship. We’d laugh, muck about, wind each other up. Any problems I had in my private life, Danny gave me spot-on advice. I am still gutted to this day Danny is not at Liverpool. It kills me. Really does. He was a top, top player who was never properly appreciated by the management. Danny is good enough to play in Liverpool’s starting XI now. No problem. God, I miss him. I was devastated for Danny when he got shipped out to Charlton Athletic and then Spurs. He didn’t want to leave Anfield. People go on about player power, but Danny was powerless to stop Liverpool selling him and breaking his heart. Danny loved Liverpool. I heard the rumours that Liverpool offloaded Danny because he was a bad influence on the younger players. That was total, utter bullshit. Danny never thought about himself. In truth, Danny deserved Liverpool’s gratitude for helping the younger players. He was always class with me. He’s a lot more clever and mature than people think.
Liverpool were not short of talent in midfield. Patrik Berger suffered with injuries, a few really bad ones, which was tough on him and the team. When I did play with Patrik, he was the best left-footed striker of a ball I have seen. He could place the ball wherever he wanted – a breathtaking skill. As a bloke, Patrik was OK. He was from the Czech Republic, and he kept himself to himself. He was really cliquey with Vladimir Smicer, another Czech. Vladi was sub a lot, blowing hot and cold. When he flew in from the French club Lens for almost £4 million, he was sensational in training. His brilliant touch made things look so easy. But Melwood was one thing, Anfield another, and Vladi rarely transferred his training-ground form to match-day. The difference between what Vladi had and what he delivered disappointed me. The ability was there, but not the impact, although he was unlucky with injuries and Gérard rarely used him in his proper position.
We also had Nicky Barmby in midfield, who shone when he first signed for us from Everton in the summer of 2000. He had some balls crossing Stanley Park. That was brave. At the time Barmby was Everton’s main man, yet he jumped ship. Fair enough. If you play for Everton, and Liverpool come knocking, it is tempting. Anyway, the argument that raged about his move was stupid. Barmby had to leave Goodison for Anfield. He wanted success. End of debate.
Along with Barmby, Gary Mac, Didi and the rest, my job was to shift the ball forward to Michael, Robbie and Emile Heskey. Everyone knew about Michael’s class, his deadly eye for goal. Same with Robbie. Emile was different. He had much to prove after leaving a smaller club, Leicester City, in March 2000 for as big a destination as Anfield. Emile was great to play with because he offered midfielders options. His speed meant I could ping the ball over the top for him to chase, but he also dropped short and held the ball up. I then bombed on and had a pop at goal. Perfect. Emile was a truly versatile target-man who enjoyed a great first full season, smashing in twenty-two goals. Unfortunately for Emile, that tally set a benchmark which everyone judged him by. For years afterwards, everyone expected Em
ile to rattle in twenty goals a season. The stick aimed at Emile is only because he never delivered the goals he should. Confidence is key to Emile. If he felt appreciated, he’d fly. Sadly, he was held back by niggles and tactics. But up front for Liverpool in his first full season, Emile was unstoppable. He loved that role, working alongside Michael. When Gérard shifted Emile out to the right or the left, that was unfair. Poor Emile. He was under so much pressure, so much in the public eye; the last thing he needed was to be pushed out of position. I felt for him.
In January 2001, Liverpool’s strike-force was strengthened further. From the moment I saw Jari Litmanen at Melwood, I was bewitched. This skilful Finn was different gravy in training, running the small-sided games with his touch and clever movement. Jari was like a chess grandmaster, always anticipating three or four moves ahead. He was certainly on my wavelength. Every pass I tried, he read. Few footballers worked that space between defence and midfield better. The very first time I drilled a ball in to Jari, I immediately understood this was a forward who’d spent his career alongside top players at Ajax and Barcelona. Jari knew how to receive a ball, how to turn an average pass into a good one. I sensed instinctively that he was a class act in his day. He was still useful, more than useful, but we were getting Jari as the curtain began to fall on a wonderful career. He never really had the legs for the Premiership, but he had the ability, cunning and awareness. In big games, Gérard liked playing compact, which didn’t suit Jari. Someone schooled at Ajax and once resident at Camp Nou preferred a much more expansive game.
Litmanen arrived only after our run in the League Cup was well underway. The trophy was then known as the Worthington Cup, and I missed the first two rounds. Injury ruled me out of the extra-time victory over Chelsea, and then Gérard rested me against Stoke City. The boys hardly missed me. They thrashed Stoke 8–0. I watched the tie at home, laughing my head off. Not at Stoke – they ran their hearts out. No, the tears chasing each other down my face were because of Pegguy Arphexad, our keeper standing in for Sander. Pegguy, a top lad who never got many games, tried to control the ball, their fella took it off him, and hit the post. I almost fell off the sofa pissing myself.
I returned for our fifth-round tie against Fulham on 13 December, which we won 3–0 in extra time. There was more London opposition in the semi-finals. Crystal Palace are a decent club, but back then they had a complete prick of a centre-forward. Clinton Morrison fancied himself so much he should have married a mirror. Before the game, he gave it all the big shit in the papers about how good he was. Clinton is one of those players who gets a buzz off seeing himself in the press. If the bookies had offered a bet on Clinton Morrison talking himself up before our games, I would have had my mortgage on it. We arrived at Selhurst Park having heard and read about all these things Clinton was going to do to us. Big scary Clinton. Hoping for an upset, TV showed the first leg live. Liverpool were all over Palace. If this had been a boxing bout, the referee would have stopped it to prevent Palace suffering further. We pulverized them. Their goal led a charmed life. Michael was so unlucky. He could easily have got a hat-trick; 7–2 wouldn’t have flattered Liverpool, honestly. Unbelievably, Palace won 2–1.
We were smarting at the injustice, desperate to get Palace back to Anfield to put them and Clinton in their proper place. I wished the second leg had been the next night; waiting a fortnight for revenge felt far too long. Stupidly forgetting there was a second leg, Clinton mouthed off again. How thick was that? I couldn’t believe what I was reading in the papers. None of the Liverpool players could. It did our heads in, those Morrison quotes, like, ‘I would have scored the chances Owen had.’ Michael just laughed. England’s hero of St-Etienne was not going to worry about the hollow jibes of some second-string striker. ‘Whatever!’ shrugged Michael, smiling. Clinton angered me more than he upset Michael. His comments showed a lack of respect. If you want a really sound laugh, compare the respective goalscoring records of Michael Owen and Clinton Morrison. European Footballer of the Year v. Mr Average. Clinton could talk for Ireland, but could he back his words with goals at Anfield? With everyone’s eyes on him? With an angry Kop slaughtering him? No fucking way.
When we walked into the Anfield dressing-room, there on the wall were all Morrison’s offending articles, like a list of crimes pinned up outside a court-room. ‘“I’m going to score at Anfield in front of the Kop,” says Big Clint.’ Oh, yeah? There it was, in black and white, Clinton’s boast. Any time anyone dared criticize Liverpool, Phil Thompson would stick it up on the notice-board. Bang. Read that. Sort him out. Personally, I’m not a great fan of that. Cheap talk shouldn’t stir big responses. No footballer needs extra motivation. I certainly don’t. But seeing all those headlines on the Anfield dressing-room wall, and knowing Cocky Clinton was in the room down the corridor, certainly fired our players up that night.
Poor Palace. We absolutely destroyed them. We were 3–0 up in twenty minutes, smashing them all over Anfield, and eventually won 5–0. Take that, Clinton. He got booed all game by Kopites at their merciless best. Clinton was trapped in a nightmare he’d scripted. At one point, he tried to do an overhead kick and almost broke his back. Liverpool fans pissed themselves laughing. By the final whistle, Clinton was like a little sheep walking off the pitch with his tail between his legs. That’s why you don’t come out and say stupid things. Learn your lesson, Clinton.
Leaving Clinton by the wayside, Liverpool were through to the final at the Millennium Stadium. Our opponents were Birmingham, then living in the Football League, a rung below us, but still a decent, hard-working side who deserved our respect. Sensing a first trophy in six years, our fans poured excitedly into Cardiff on 25 February. Everyone wanted to be there. So did I, although I lacked sharpness because I’d been carrying an injury. Aware there might be a problem, Gérard pulled me on the eve of the final.
‘Are you fit?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ I lied.
What other reply could I give? It was a cup final, a chance for medals and memories. Professionals dream of these moments: the buzz of expectation as the coach nears the ground, weaving through the throng of fans; then the walk out into the packed arena, and the first crunching tackle to test your opponents’ bottle. I love finals. Big stage. Big stakes. I couldn’t miss the Millennium. My injury felt OK, I just wasn’t match-fit.
‘If you are fit, you’ll play,’ said Gérard.
‘I am,’ I insisted.
I wasn’t. My sharpness wasn’t there. I had a good run on goal early on, until their centre-half Michael Johnson clipped my ankles. Gérard took me off after seventy-eight minutes, putting on Gary Mac, with the game seemingly won.
Robbie’s great goal in the first half vindicated Gérard’s decision to start him ahead of Michael up front with Emile. The sight of Michael being relegated to the bench shocked all of us. ‘I can pick only two out of three,’ Gérard explained of his dilemma. He did, after all, have three England strikers. Michael took it professionally, with his usual dignity, but inside he was fuming. A man for the big occasion, Michael hated rotting on the sidelines. I never understood why Gérard didn’t partner Michael and Robbie. All the pundits claimed they would duplicate each other’s movements and strengths, but that wasn’t true. Michael is right-footed, Robbie left. Robbie could come short, Michael go long, and vice versa. The presence of both would have guaranteed the team a goal threat. Gérard disagreed. Strange.
At Cardiff, his plan worked until the ninetieth minute, when Birmingham equalized through Darren Purse’s penalty. More spot-kicks decided the day. The shootout was dead funny. I saw the penalty-takers getting assembled by Gérard, and the shout came over that Carra was taking the fifth kick. ‘Oh no!’ I cried. ‘Carra’s got some front!’ A strapping defender taking a pressure penalty in a final? That took bottle. Carragher had only ever scored two goals for Liverpool, and about three own-goals, so the joke was that Carra was on minus one. ‘Christ,’ I thought, ‘our first four takers better be on the mark.’
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The kicks were taken down at the Liverpool fans’ end, which helped. Martin Grainger missed for Birmingham, Didi failed for us, so up stepped Carra. He put the ball on the spot, turned round and started walking – and walking and walking. Carra’s run-up was so long they should have put an athletics track there. It looked about a hundred metres! I didn’t want to watch because I was worried a good friend would stick the ball in the stand. But I had to. It was hilarious. ‘Carra, what are you doing?’ I said out loud. He had me in stitches. I tried desperately to keep a straight face because if Carra screwed up and somebody took a snap of me laughing, I’d be in serious trouble. With his socks down around his ankles like Johan Cruyff, Carra’s run-up and kick lacked the grace of a total footballer; it was more giraffe than gazelle. But up he came, like a runaway train, and smacked the ball in the top corner. Brilliant! Players and fans went crazy, particularly when Andy Johnson missed to give us the Cup. Carra, the penalty king! He’s impossible now. He’ll never let us forget it. When we have pens in training, Carra is unbelievable. ‘Let me through,’ he says. ‘I have a 100 per cent record for Liverpool. I’m the best penalty-taker at the club.’
Carra was unstoppable that day. When the karaoke started at the party back in the hotel, we couldn’t get him off. That’s Carra. First on the karaoke mike. First on the dance-floor. No shame! He loves it. He actually moves better on the dance-floor than on the pitch! I steered well clear of the karaoke. You’d never catch me on that, making a fool of myself. I can’t dance, and I definitely can’t sing. Anyway, I was just loving watching all the players and their relatives having fun. Liverpool won together and lost together. We celebrated together and commiserated together. The Liverpool way. Liverpool’s family feel is essential to someone like me who works best in a strong, caring environment. No club in the country can rival Anfield’s sense of community.
Gerrard: My Autobiography Page 16