Gerrard: My Autobiography

by Steven Gerrard

  He was very forgiving, but I wasn’t taking any chances. Kevin’s a bit of a unit, built like a heavyweight. I feared he might take his revenge right there and then in the Blue Bar toilets. I got out sharpish.

  Fast forward a year, to 1 October 2000, and Liverpool were getting soundly whipped by Chelsea at Stamford Bridge. I’d just had enough. I hate losing. Frustration squeezed all sense out of my mind and I went for Dennis Wise, belting him. Dennis grabbed me by the neck, and we were pushing and shoving, scuffling away. As fights go it was handbag stuff, and I thought people would quickly forget about it. Fat chance. A couple of days later, England met up at Burnham Beeches to prepare for a vital World Cup qualifier against Germany, the last international at Wembley before the bulldozers rolled in. Wisey was in the squad. So was I. Robbie Fowler and Steve McManaman dropped by my new place in Whiston to pick me up. The three of us all drove down to Burnham together and they were merciless all the way. Macca and Robbie had me by the balls.

  ‘Wisey won’t be happy with you,’ laughed Macca, winding me up.

  ‘Tough bugger, him,’ Robbie chipped in. ‘Crazy Gang and all that.’

  ‘Fuck him,’ I replied. ‘If he wants some, I’ll give it to him.’

  Would Wisey really pull me for a one-on-one? What would the other England players think if Wisey and me started battering each other again? I wasn’t scared of Wisey; I was just thinking I was a little shitty-arsed kid and Wisey was an established international.

  ‘Be on your toes, Stevie,’ Robbie warned me as we drove into Burnham. ‘Wisey’s waiting for you.’

  My heart pumped madly as I walked into the hotel, braced for an ambush by the little Chelsea man. I kept expecting Wisey to jump out and shout, ‘Oi, Gerrard, what’s your fucking game?’ I was ready. If he wanted another war, I wouldn’t disappoint. He could have another scrap, big-style. But Wisey wasn’t in reception. ‘Maybe he’s waiting for you in the meal-room,’ Robbie said helpfully. Slightly nervously, I entered the meal-room. Wisey was there, big grin on his face. He walked across. ‘This is it,’ I thought. ‘Action stations.’ My fists clenched. Wisey’s right hand came out sharpish, stretching towards me. But he only wanted to shake my hand. ‘’Ow are yer?’ he said, and rubbed my head. And that was it. No war, nothing. Top man.

  Liverpool against Leeds United is another lively old fixture. And on 13 April 2001, at Anfield, it was a top-of-the-table clash. I was up for it and was soon piling into tackles. I picked up a caution early on, for clipping Alan Smith. Nothing nasty. Hardly a yellow. Just doing my job, chasing the ball. Soon I was closing down David Batty, going in cleanly to win the ball. Batty stitched me up big-time. He dived. I never touched him. My heart fell as the referee reached for his notebook again. That was me off, for two nothing tackles. Ridiculous. ‘Don’t send him off, ref,’ said Batty, trying to plead my case. Clever lad, Batty. I was already on my way. The ref was never going to change his mind. But there was Batty coming over all innocent, even pretending to be my mate. Bollocks. Batty wanted me out of the game. That was why he went down so easily. I have met Batty since and he seems a decent enough guy, but that sending-off stank. It was a stitch-up.

  The next time I remember my blood really heating up was on 8 September 2001 during a match with Aston Villa, again at Anfield. We were struggling. I equalized just after half-time, but the match was turning into a nightmare. George Boateng was running midfield, out-muscling me time and again. Frustration took over. Suddenly there was Boateng in front of me, in my sights, and I just launched myself. It was a coward’s tackle. I admit that now. I lunged with both feet and caught him with one, my studs thudding in high up on his leg. He went down and just lay there. No wonder. It was a filthy challenge, one I deeply regret to this day. Television occasionally replays the tackle, and I always wince. How could I inflict such a vicious challenge on a fellow pro? It was unforgivable, and I knew it. The ref knew it too, because he waved the red card. And my team-mates certainly knew it. ‘Out of order,’ Gary McAllister told me. Other lads slated me as well. ‘Sorry,’ I replied. What else could I say? Gérard marched in and harangued me, which was fair enough. I felt terrible, miserable. My head was close to exploding. Dad called, and his words echoed Gary Mac’s: ‘You were out of order.’ Then my agent, Struan Marshall, phoned. ‘Go home, and get your head together,’ he said. ‘I want to speak to you tomorrow.’

  Home should have offered some sanctuary, but sleep was impossible. I lay in bed, thinking, ‘I could have broken Boateng’s leg.’ Fortunately, George was a strong, tough type. In the morning, the papers were brutal towards me – understandably so. The picture of me diving in was shocking. Struan called. ‘You must change your tackling or you are going to be remembered for it,’ he said. ‘Rather than being remembered as a good player, you will be tarnished as a dog. Still be aggressive, but just time your tackles better. Don’t get frustrated.’ Struan’s words hit home hard. He was right. I loathed the thought of being remembered for hurting other players.

  ‘Can you get me Boateng’s number?’ I asked Struan.

  ‘Give me a couple of minutes,’ Struan replied, and rang off.

  I was just about to give Gareth Barry, the one Villa player I knew well, a call when Struan rang back with Boateng’s mobile number. As I punched in the digits, I thought, ‘I never, ever want to be in this situation again.’

  Boateng answered.

  ‘George, it’s Steven Gerrard. I’m phoning to apologize. It was a bad tackle.’

  I paused, expecting him to have a rant back.

  ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘You are a fucking good player. Just get that out of your game and you’ll be all right. I’m OK. But you’re lucky you never hurt me. I accept your apology.’

  Relieved, I said goodbye and pressed the end-call button. Thank God that was over.

  I was banned for three games. No complaints. The banishment should really have been longer. Gary Mac was so concerned about my tackling that he spoke to Struan, and then confronted me. ‘Calm yourself down,’ Gary said. ‘You are going into tackles wanting to kill people. You are going to end up doing yourself in. Take it from me, I’ve had some bad injuries. Tackling is not just about throwing everything into it, there’s an art to it. Learn when to tackle, how to tackle, how hard.’ Ever since breaking into the Liverpool team, I have always listened to the older players I respected, like Fowler, Redknapp, Staunton, McAllister, Carragher, even Michael. Gary Mac’s advice on tackling made sense, but altering something so ingrained would take time. ‘I’m not changing my tackling for anyone,’ I told myself when the lectures were over. ‘Tackling is part of my game.’

  The Community Shield is supposedly an exhibition match to kick the season off, and it certainly did kick off in August the following year. Meetings between Liverpool and Arsenal are always hugely competitive. Patrick Vieira and I have had some bruising run-ins, and this was definitely one of them. Patrick, remember, bossed me in the 2001 FA Cup final in Cardiff. Wanting to stamp my authority on the game early on, I deliberately hit him with a hard tackle after five minutes. Vieira made the most of it, writhing around and whingeing. ‘Shut up, and be a man,’ I thought. I got booked. So what? Liverpool needed to show they were not scared of Arsenal and all their big names.

  Arsenal’s post-match reaction pissed me off. Arsène Wenger slaughtered me in the press. He said I was a hatchet-man and my challenge was a leg-breaker; he said I was reckless and should have been red-carded. Rubbish. When Vieira stopped rolling around, he got up and carried on for the rest of the game. A young kid tackles Wenger’s captain, as I did, and Wenger protests. If Patrick had gone through me, I’d have got on with it. Hypocrisy rules with Arsenal. Whenever I come up against one of Wenger’s teams, I know I am in for a physical test. Fair enough. Martin Keown and Tony Adams have come through the back of me. Vieira has done me. Dennis Bergkamp could give you an elbow or stamp on you. Unlike Arsenal, I don’t complain.

  There was more mayhem on 22 December 2002 in the derby at Anfi
eld. Avoiding controversy against Everton has never been easy for me. Being nice to the neighbours is not in my nature. Derbies agitate something in my blood. In this game, I challenged for a loose ball with Everton’s full-back, Gary Naysmith. I thought he was going to do me, so I got my retaliation in first. I’m not proud of my reaction as Naysmith came in. I left the ground with both feet and lunged for the ball. In mid-air, I knew it would hurt Naysmith, but there was no stopping. I had to land somewhere. I hurtled into his legs, opening a gash and splashing blood on his white shorts.

  Pandemonium erupted. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw this rampaging ox charging at me. It was Wayne Rooney – a real headache that day. At full tilt, he shoved me and then grabbed me round the neck. He almost took my head off. So this is the famous Wayne Rooney. Everton’s wonder-kid needed little introduction. I watched him in the FA Youth Cup and knew all about his talent. He was brilliant against us that day in 2002, a whirlwind in blue. As well as bundling into me, Rooney smashed into our keeper, Chris Kirkland, and then hit the bar. What a class act! Even in the warm-up, Everton’s fans sang ‘Rooney’s going to get you’. How right they were! Me and Wazza laugh now over our scuffle. Whenever I see the picture of him piling into me, I just crack up. It’s hilarious. ‘I’d have done the same to you, Wazza,’ I tell him. Sorting out whoever topped my team-mate is the way I am. Wayne too. We share an aggressive streak. It’s part of life in Huyton and Croxteth. And Rooney had every right to wade in. The kid was just defending Naysmith. Fair dos.

  What incensed me was the reaction of Everton’s senior players, David Weir and Alan Stubbs. They hurried across, like busybodies on a mission, and tried to get me sent off. Weir and Stubbs are always at it. Always trying to get players dismissed. They tried to get Michael Owen booked and sent off once. I watch Weir all the time. Any little incident and Weir is over to the ref sharpish, badgering him to wave a red. When Stubbs moved briefly to Sunderland he took his bad habits with him. When Liverpool played Sunderland in the 2005/06 season, Stubbs tried to get me sent off again. Fortunately, the efforts of Stubbs and Weir to persuade Graham Poll to give me my marching orders failed at Anfield. Poll was looking the other way when I went into Naysmith. The ref knew something bad had gone on, but he couldn’t punish me for something he hadn’t seen. Straight away, I tried to explain to Poll: ‘Listen, I caught him, but I didn’t mean to hurt him.’

  Things calmed down a bit, the game finished 0–0, and I immediately went to apologize to Naysmith. In the corridor near the dressing-rooms, I spotted David Moyes, Everton’s manager, being interviewed by Sky. After he finished, I approached him.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I know the tackle looks bad, but I didn’t mean to do him. Is Gary about for me to apologize?’

  David said, ‘I will send your apologies on to him.’

  I don’t think Moyes wanted me going in Everton’s dressing-room. I might not have got out again.

  Poll saw the tackle again on television and highlighted the incident in his report. The FA summoned me to a disciplinary hearing at the Reebok, Bolton Wanderers’ stadium. I felt fairly confident. Naysmith was going to nail me, so I’d had to tackle that way. It was defensive. During the hearing, the suits from the FA said they understood. ‘In mid-air, you wanted to pull out but couldn’t.’ Exactly. ‘But we have to think of the other player and your previous tackles.’ Shit. That was me done for. The FA took past challenges into account so I had no chance of a fair trial. They recalled my tackle on Boateng, and gave me a three-game ban for the Naysmith incident. Talk about being harshly treated. The FA should have judged me just on one incident, not raked up past offences.

  At the end of the season, I booked a flight to Portugal, where I own a house. I was late heading for the gate, so late that the airline put out a message on the Tannoy: ‘Will passenger Gerrard please report to gate six as the flight to Faro is ready to depart.’ Shit. I rushed to the gate, made it in time, got on the plane and looked down the aisle. It was one of those low-budget jobs where you sit anywhere. All these punters were pulling faces, going, ‘Cheeky bugger – you’ve had us waiting here.’ My eyes searched out a spare seat. The plane was completely packed, but there had to be one seat left. I finally saw it. I moved down the aisle, and as I neared the seat, a feeling of horror rushed through my body. The empty seat was next to, of all people, Gary Naysmith and his missus! Escape was not an option.

  ‘All right, Gary?’ I ventured as I took my seat, trying not to blush.

  ‘Yeah, Steven, I’m fine,’ Naysmith replied. ‘You all right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I sneaked a look out of the corner of my eye, and Gary’s missus was giving him the hard elbow. Amazingly, he never mentioned the tackle. He was quiet on the flight. We hardly talked. I was scared to fall asleep in case I got an elbow!

  Graeme Le Saux was the next player to feel the full force of my frustration. On 11 May 2003 we were battling Chelsea at Stamford Bridge for the final Champions League position. So much was at stake. People bang on about the dosh for the club, but it’s more than money. For players, the Champions League is the only place to be. It’s where the big teams and big players live. So everyone was flying into tackles that afternoon. Chelsea were too good for us. My pre-match fears were coming true. Our record at the Bridge was never the best, and Chelsea had some class players: Frank Lampard and Eidur Gudjohnsen started, and Gianfranco Zola came on. Sami Hyypia scored with a header early on, but Marcel Desailly equalized, and then Jesper Gronkjaer bent one in. Half an hour gone and we trailed 2–1. The Chelsea fans were crowing about them heading for the Champions League while we were destined for the UEFA Cup. Liverpool had spent all season slaving to get in the Champions League. Now the dream was dying.

  With a minute remaining, I couldn’t stand it any more. Anger swept through my brain, breaking all the restraint mechanisms. Chelsea’s full-back was nearest to me, and he received a good old-fashioned clattering. Some people thought it was something personal against Le Saux. It wasn’t. Graeme’s a likeable bloke who was always fine with me when we crossed paths with England. He was just the closest when I flipped. Bang. Second yellow, straight off, season over.

  I sat in the dressing-room, livid about the way the season ended. Gérard was outside, talking me up. ‘If we had ten more like Steven Gerrard, we would be in the Champions League,’ the gaffer said. Nice sentiments, but nothing could console me. Missing out on the Champions League was a disaster. The atmosphere, quality, excitement and interest levels of the UEFA Cup are far below those of the Champions League, which is closer to playing for England. No wonder I lost my cool at the Bridge.

  Come 3 August, we found ourselves playing Galatasaray at the Amsterdam ArenA. There was no chance of this being a gentle pre-season work-out. Tensions between England and Turkey were running high at club and international level. A few months earlier, in a Euro 2004 qualifier, England had beaten Turkey at Sunderland’s Stadium of Light, and it was a real battle. In two months’ time, England were heading to Istanbul, so everything was being built up, every little fire stoked into an inferno. In Amsterdam, Galatasaray targeted Liverpool’s English players. No question. Fucking blatant. I was on the bench, watching the Turks laying into Michael and Emile. I was steaming to get on, because there was so much going off out there. ‘Put me on, put me on!’ I kept telling Gérard.

  With half an hour left, the boss relented. Harry Kewell got hooked, and I stormed on, looking for trouble. It was like a scene from a Wild West film. A fight raged between the two sides, and I needed to make up for lost time. Galatasaray’s players were putting in nasty little tackles, pulling shirts and spitting at us. Hakan Sukur was right in the middle of it. All the Galatasaray players were. Hakan Unsal, Umit, the lot. What sly bastards. Suddenly an elbow jabbed into my face. My eye watered up, my lip thickened, my anger intensified. I went looking for Sukur and Unsal. I hit Unsal with a tackle, and the Dutch ref, Rene Temmink, booked me. Now the Turks were really after me. Another elbow. Bang. I
was taking so many blows to the head, I felt like a bloody boxer. Chaos reigned. Neil Mellor, our young striker, was goaded badly. He tackled Gabriel Tamas, a nothing challenge, but Temmink sent him off. Shocker. Now I was really on the warpath, chasing around, hunting Turks, kicking anything that moved. Temmink gave a silly free-kick against me, for a foul on Unsal, and all the Turks immediately surrounded us. Their spit ran down my face. I wiped it off, and tried to walk away. Sukur pinched me. It was the old Turkish game of provocation, and I fell for a classic stitch-up. Wound up by the Turks, I was maddened by Temmink’s decision, convinced he had been conned by them.

  ‘You fat cheating cunt,’ I told him.

  ‘What?’ he said. ‘Come here.’

  Bang, second yellow, red, off. Bollocks. The Turks were all smug, knowing their cheating had paid off and they were cruising to a 2–1 win.

  I couldn’t believe Temmink would understand. He was foreign. I knew that because he was speaking foreign in the tunnel on the way out. But he knew English, or certainly the words I directed at him. ‘You know that counts for the season?’ said Gérard. It suddenly dawned on me: this red card could affect me in the UEFA Cup. Shit. Joe Corrigan, Liverpool’s goalkeeping coach, also had a go at me. So did Thommo. I was fuming with myself, and with Temmink. Gérard went to see the ref and had a quiet word – a plea, really. The gaffer then returned with a quiet smile on his face. ‘I talked to the ref, and Temmink said, “I am not putting it in my report. Gerrard was aggressive, but he didn’t use foul and abusive language.”’ Result! Fair play to Temmink – I’d turned the air blue!

  Temmink’s mercy still didn’t erase the bad memory of being dismissed. Red cards are humiliating. No indignity matches the despair of sitting in an empty dressing-room, listening to the shouts of the crowd outside and knowing your team-mates are struggling without you. Letting the lads down is a cardinal sin in football. I’ve played in teams when somebody has been sent off and it’s pure graft, extra running, with little chance of getting anything from the match. I had to change, because I was becoming a liability to Liverpool. It was around this time that I really started responding to the advice of people like Struan and Gary Mac. I altered my tackling technique, going in with one foot, not two. The red mist still lingers, especially in derbies. After a silly booking for kicking the ball away against Everton in the 2005–06 season, I got another yellow for a late tackle on Kevin Kilbane and was sent off, so I’ve not eradicated the problem yet. I still love the thud of a good tackle. That’s why I enjoy watching England play rugby. Big hits and bloody battles are my idea of sport!