Coming into the dressing-room at half-time, we thought we’d won. Liverpool’s fans were shouting about the Treble. Some players whispered it. The staff even mentioned that if we kept doing what we were doing, the Treble was ours. I was not alone in that Liverpool dressing-room in thinking that the Treble was done. Alaves never showed anything in the first half to worry us. That’s why we returned to the fray far too casual. Alaves punished us, Javi Moreno netting twice. Unbelievable. Gérard sent Robbie on, and within seven minutes he had put Liverpool back in front with a fantastic shot. That seemed to be it. Alaves’ resilience finally appeared broken. But we had one weakness. Sander suffered some dodgy moments during the season, and he screwed up again here, missing a cross which Jordi Cruyff dumped into our net. It was 4–4, and extra-time. It had to be Jordi, ex-Manchester United.
Gérard switched me to right-back for the additional period, where I immediately began worrying about penalties. ‘If Gérard asks, I’ll take one,’ I told myself. To refuse would be to let the team down. I’d never let Liverpool down. I was still thinking about penalties when Macca put that free-kick in and Delfi Geli headed an own-goal. Gérard had spoken about golden goals, but I’m not a good listener in meetings. I didn’t realize the game was over and we’d won. I was waiting for the restart. ‘Fuck me, that’s it!’ I eventually shouted, and I started leaping about in celebration. What a weird way to decide a final, and how harsh that it was an own-goal. At least it finished in open play and not with penalties.
So that was it. The Treble was completed, and the singing began. All the fans were chanting ‘Houllier, Houllier’. Liverpool supporters will always respect Gérard, because when he arrived at Anfield he promised trophies, and he delivered. He never got the main one, the Premiership, but to collect three cups in one season was phenomenal. But, once again, he would not let us celebrate properly. Shit. I was dying for a session. But we couldn’t. We had a match at Charlton Athletic three days later laden with significance. The Treble was good, but to beat Charlton to qualify for the Champions League was more important financially for Liverpool.
Throughout the season, we had worked hard to stay in contention for third place and had even won at Old Trafford for the first time in ten years. The memory of this match on 17 December 2000 will never leave me. The press built up the game as a clash between me and Roy Keane. ‘Are you scared?’ people asked me. No fucking chance. I couldn’t wait. I felt I might lose a fight with Keane, but I wouldn’t lose many tackles. At the time, Keane possessed all the qualities that make a top midfielder. Obviously, I hated watching Manchester United, but I loved watching Keane. I wanted his aura, his ability to be everywhere on the pitch, tackling hard and passing well. Keane was impressive on television but simply awesome in the flesh. On telly, you don’t see the runs he makes, the covering positions he takes up and the orders he gives. I lay in bed the night before the game, unable to get the image of Keane the leader out of my mind. ‘Everyone is talking about Keane, so stand up to him, don’t be bullied,’ I told myself. ‘And if Keane wants to mix it, fucking well mix it.’
Over breakfast, I flicked through the papers which all had page after page on the game. Ferguson even spoke about me. The biggest, and probably only, compliment someone from Manchester United ever paid me came from the United manager in the papers that day. I couldn’t believe my eyes as I read his view of me. ‘Gerrard’s physically and technically precocious, a good engine, remarkable energy, reads the game and passes quickly,’ said Fergie. ‘I would hate to think Liverpool have someone as good as Roy Keane.’ Fuck me. I knew how much Keane meant to the United fans, and to Ferguson. For Ferguson to compare me with his captain was some accolade. Still, his admiration was no secret to me. The United lads told me at an England get-together. After reading Ferguson’s comments, I just wanted to go and prove him right, to let him know Liverpool did have a Roy Keane of their own.
Visiting Old Trafford is like negotiating an assault course as it rains vitriol. That 2000 trip was no different. Driving behind enemy lines triggered the usual stick. Liverpool’s coach was belted, the United fans jumping up at the windows, their faces contorted by sheer hatred. We got the full welcome: V signs, wanker signs, knife signs. ‘Fuck off, scum!’ they’d shout. ‘We’ll fucking kill you!’ ‘In your Liverpool slum …’ they sang. The poison dripping from the United fans never ceases to shock me. Shit, they really loathe us. Bang. A window splintered and a brick nearly bounced off my head. Jesus Christ. Here we go again. I ran for the gate leading to the dressing-rooms.
Of course I knew what Liverpool–Manchester United games were all about from my YTS days. I had some right kicking matches then with Wes Brown and Richie Wellens, who plays for Oldham now. Two men and a dog watched those YTS meetings, but we approached them the same way, do or die. And during ninety minutes of football, I want United to die. I have never known hatred like United’s. Everton fans have grown to despise me because I score against them so regularly, and because I keep saying I love beating Everton. They loathe me when I play against them, but I think they respect me as a player. At Old Trafford, it’s different. Everyone there just hates me because I’m Liverpool. That winter’s day in 2000 was no different. I almost couldn’t hear the first whistle because of the booing. ‘Fuck me,’ I thought, ‘this is show time. Get on my game or get fucked.’
For ten minutes, United gave an exhibition of possession. All of Fergie’s players, not just Keane, kept the ball well. I had played against decent sides and players before, but United were on a different level. I didn’t get a kick for ages. I had been warned. In the dressing-room, Gérard and Thommo said, ‘Press them, choke them, stick together, be compact. And whatever you do, don’t lose the ball.’ Why? Because Keane will kill you. Because United’s fans will piss themselves. Giving away possession at Old Trafford is close to suicide. I lost a few passes, Keane got the better of me a few times, and I had 60,000 Mancs laughing at me. Shit. No-one is welcome at Old Trafford, particularly not neighbours from along the East Lancs Road, and that is why United have been so successful. They have a great team housed in a stadium that scares the shit out of visitors.
We held firm, and when Danny scored the free-kick to settle the game it was just an amazing moment. We had only a few thousand fans there at Old Trafford, but it was like winning a cup final. Playing against Keane felt like a ninety-minute lesson which improved me. He shook hands, said ‘well done’, and that was it. I was too intimidated to ask for his shirt. I would like one of Keane’s Ireland shirts, but I would never take a Man United top home. United shirts are banned in my house.
That victory kept us on course for the Champions League, but the real push was accelerated by an astonishing 3–2 win at Goodison on 16 April, when Macca won it for us with a forty-yard free-kick. Qualification rested on that final game at Charlton, and we won it 4–0. We won all our final games that amazing Treble season.
On the back of my contribution to the Treble, Liverpool sought me out over a contract extension. Struan rang to say that Rick Parry, Liverpool’s chief executive, had been constantly on the phone. Liverpool sounded desperate. ‘Stru, they are steaming for me to re-sign,’ I said. I scored ten goals that season, played well and was doing all right for England. ‘We are offering Stevie a six-year deal,’ Rick told Struan. ‘I think that’s too long,’ Struan said to me. ‘Six years is a massive commitment. Four years would be better. That gives some freedom for movement later on.’ I agreed. Struan was always brilliant with my finances. The deal was done and dusted sharpish. Maybe Liverpool were worried that someone would come in for me. Rick agreed to the four years and put me on really, really good money – £50,000 a week. Players who rise through the ranks rarely get top wages, but Liverpool were different class with me. It was a massive jump up financially, and Liverpool certainly made sure I knew that.
After I signed, Rick, Gérard and Thommo talked to me about the future.
‘We are giving you a big contract because we rate you so highly,
’ said Gérard. ‘We don’t want you to change. Carry on training and playing the way you have been. We’re really happy with your behaviour. Don’t change.’
I was buzzing. The money was great, but my life had been comfortable before the new deal. For someone like me, a kid from Huyton, I was doing well. I had my own apartment. I sorted out Mum and Dad for a few quid. But money wasn’t an issue. What really delighted me was the fact that Liverpool were anxious for me to stay. Brilliant. My love affair with Liverpool was continuing.
9
Tackling a Problem
PLAYING ABROAD DOESN’T appeal to me for one dead simple reason: I love the blood and thunder of English football too much. Our league and cup competitions have an intensity and honesty that cannot be found anywhere else in the world. The physical nature of the Premiership suits my style. Tackle and be tackled. Get up and get on with it, mate. Don’t roll around pretending you’re hurt. This is England. Piss off to Spain or Italy, where they niggle, dive, and pull shirts. I can’t stand that. Switching from the Premiership to the Champions League is like speaking a different language. Over time, I’ve learned to adapt in Europe. Whenever I step onto a continental pitch, I’m very careful because opponents exaggerate the force of even harmless challenges. I hate that. Take the physical out of football and the game will be destroyed as a spectacle. For me, nothing beats a wet pitch, sliding into tackles, and going for the ball – brilliant. Nothing stirs me more than hearing passionate fans screaming ‘Get stuck in!’ That’s me. I was put on this earth to steam into tackles. When I finally bow out of the game I love so much, I want to be remembered as hard but fair.
For most professionals, tackling is a technique. For me, it’s an adrenalin rush. It’s a chance to beat an opponent one-on-one, win the ball and then launch an attack. The sight of the other team with the ball makes me sick. If it’s Everton, Man United, Arsenal, Chelsea, or whoever, I have to claim it back. It’s my ball, and I’m going for it. Tackling is a collision which sorts out the cowards from the brave. I never hold back in a tackle. I can’t. I put my heart and soul into it, as well as my body.
Down the years, that approach has sometimes got me into trouble. Even back in my YTS and reserve days at Liverpool, I was desperate to make my mark and occasionally did so literally. I’d see someone with the ball and that was it. Bang. I flew in, got the ball and left him in a heap. My boots were not guided by malice as they crashed in. He had the ball; I wanted it – end of story. Liverpool’s coaches always warned me against it. Sod that. Restraint was not a word I understood. In one training session, Steve Heighway ran down the wing, taking the piss really, so I belted him against the wall. Straight through, crash, smashed against the wall. ‘What are you playing at?’ Steve shouted when he got up. He was livid. ‘You’ve got to cut out those sort of tackles.’ All the staff had a go at me.
Liverpool actually like a bit of devil in their players. They were always trying to toughen us up. Our five-a-side YTS games were often invaded by two pros, Steve Harkness and Eddie Turkington. Some of the tackles going in were ridiculous. Harkness booted all the YTS boys, even elbowed us. My blood boiled. ‘He’s not doing that to me, no fucking chance,’ I told myself once as I saw him line up on the other side. ‘You’re not coming over here, kicking me.’ I was ready for him. Steve was a decent player who could look after himself, but I went right through him. Bang. More than once. Bang bang. Don’t mess with me. Turkington as well. He was meant to be this big hard-case in the ressies, I reminded myself. Let’s find out. Right into Turkington, hit him, belt him. Eventually, Heighway called Dad in. ‘What’s up with Steven?’ Heighway asked. ‘Has he got a problem at home? He comes in so angry. He wants to kill people in training.’ Steve looked at Dad, waiting to make sure the seriousness of the situation was sinking in. ‘We don’t want to take away Steven’s aggression, because that’s one of his strengths,’ Steve continued, ‘but he’s going through tackles wanting to really do damage. Please have a word with him. He’ll either break someone’s leg or injure himself.’ Dad pulled me at home. ‘You must calm down,’ he said. Even Ronnie Moran paused from working with the first team to give me some advice about the big tackles. ‘Stop them,’ he told me. I couldn’t.
At sixteen, I saw a sports psychologist about the tackling. Bill Beswick is well respected in the game and worked a lot with Steve McClaren at Middlesbrough and also with the Man United boys. Howard Wilkinson introduced me to Bill when I represented England U-18s. ‘This guy is brilliant,’ Howard said. ‘Listen to him.’ Bill talked to me about my tackling. ‘Imagine a set of traffic lights,’ Bill said. The idea was to know when to go for the ball, and when to stop. Bill advised me on how to approach games. ‘Fire in your belly but ice in your head’ was one of his favourite sayings. ‘It will work perfectly with you, Steven, because we don’t want to take aggression out of your game but we do want you on the pitch. That’s where everyone wants you.’ Bill even came to Melwood to chat to the Liverpool lads. My confidence was boosted by Bill. I would never consult him personally now, but at the time he helped me. But even with all this good guidance, from Bill, Steve, Ronnie and my dad, I still crunched into tackles as a youth-team player. Even when I made Liverpool’s first XI I was a liability at times. Growing up as a player sometimes proved painful. A feeling of shame fills me when I recall the moments that scarred the early stages of my career.
The first came on 27 September 1999 at Anfield. We were up against the enemy, Everton. I was aching to play. In the team meeting, Gérard Houllier read out the eleven starters: ‘Sander; Veggard, Sami, Carra, Stan; Vladi, Didi, Jamie, Patrik; Michael and Robbie.’ Not me. Gutted. Big lump in the throat. I deserved to start but got bombed. Why? My head was a mess. I sat on the bench in a huge sulk, seething at the injustice.
On the pitch, it was all soon kicking off. Franny Jeffers and Sander Westerveld tangled and got sent off. I wanted to be in there, sorting Everton out, showing everyone I should have started. ‘If you get on,’ I said to myself, ‘just belt one of them. Fucking belt a Bluenose. Let Gérard know he is not dropping me for another derby. Ever.’ I was a red card waiting to happen the moment Gérard sent me on. My fuse was short and burning fast. Bang. I went in high and late on Kevin Campbell. No mercy, no excuses: straight red. I escaped the pitch as quickly as possible. I sprinted down the tunnel and bumped into Franny, who was laughing his big-eared head off. ‘Ha, ha, ha,’ went Franny. ‘Thanks, Stevie! You took the pressure off me!’
As the red mist cleared, I realized how much I’d screwed up. ‘Little selfish bastard,’ I told myself as I stood in the showers. Liverpool’s players would be fuming. We were only 1–0 down, still with a chance of getting back into the derby. But then I nailed Campbell, and the lads faced mission impossible. Shit. I’d let them down badly. I expected stick off the players, off everyone.
When I switched my phone on, the first text was from Dad. He got straight to the point: ‘What are you doing, you knobhead?’ I knew exactly what he meant. A crazy tackle and a three-game ban was not the best way to convince people I could be trusted with a place in Liverpool’s starting XI.
When I arrived at Melwood the next day, I was ordered to Gérard’s office. The boss laid into me. ‘Your head wasn’t right from the moment I told you that you weren’t playing,’ he said. ‘We could see you were sulking. You have got to sulk for ten seconds and then forget about it.’ Gérard banged on and on. ‘Think about the team, not yourself, Steven. Stop doing tackles like that because we need you on the pitch. We brought you on to change the game and you let us down.’
I’d heard enough. My natural defiant streak kicked in. ‘I was expecting to play,’ I answered back. ‘You just dropped me in the derby. I was desperate to play.’
As I was about to add that Liverpool wouldn’t have been 1–0 down if he had started me, I saw the look on Phil Thompson’s face. Thommo was standing behind Gérard, glaring like a madman and ready to pounce if I dared have a pop back. That was Thommo to a T. ‘Take
it,’ I thought. Arguing the toss was pointless. I knew I was out of order.
When I drove out of Melwood that day, I stopped to sign some autographs for a few fans and they were buzzing for me. ‘Dead right, well done, at least you cared,’ they said. They were wrong. I shouldn’t have done it.
A few weeks later, I had a meal at Est Est Est in Albert Dock and somebody told me Sami Hyypia was next door in the Blue Bar. I nipped in to see him. We had a drink and soon I needed a piss. I went through the door of the toilets and, bloody hell, who was there at the urinal? Kevin Campbell. We stood there, side by side, having a piss. The last time I saw him he was lying on the ground at Anfield with the Everton physio sticking him back together.
‘All right?’ Campbell said.
Christ, I felt embarrassed. ‘Listen, Kev, sorry about that tackle, my head had gone.’
Campbell laughed. ‘Forget about it, Stevie. But I did have some stud-marks on my thigh!’
Gerrard: My Autobiography Page 18