Gerrard: My Autobiography

by Steven Gerrard

  In the tunnel, the Germans were yelling stuff. They, too, desperately wanted to beat us. I saw Didi, a friend for life but an enemy tonight. We nodded at each other, but this was no time for pleasantries. Anyway, Didi knew how much I respected him. He also knew how ready England were for Germany.

  Not that anyone could tell from the first ten minutes. Germany were all over us. It was a miracle they led only through Carsten Jancker’s goal. Sebastian Deisler had a great chance. Germany were good, full of belief. Jancker dominated the air. Ballack ran the game on the deck. Must get close to them. Can’t. Shit. Doubts filled me. Away from home, the odds looked stacked against us. The German crowd began crowing: ‘Olé, olé!’ Fuck them. Come on! Big Dave made a magnificent save. Thank God – 2–0 and it would all have been over. Just believe. Long way to go. Trust in your team-mates. Trust Michael to give us hope. Michael always does.

  When he equalized, the whole mood spun round. Now let’s go and win this. Suddenly, Eriksson’s tactics looked spot on. We played 4–4–2, deep and compact, hitting on the break because we had burning pace up front in Michael and Emile. In all our team meetings, Eriksson instructed us to smack diagonal passes behind Germany’s wing-backs. Hit Emile. Get Michael behind them. Now deliver. We had the passers to release them. In midfield, Becks was on the right and Nicky Barmby on the left, both working overtime. In the middle, Scholesy played more defensive than normal. My job was to break everything up, smash the Germans before they got going. Thanks! I’d prefer to be more attack-minded, but this was still good, banging into Germans.

  England were now playing it around, getting on top. Just before half-time we got a corner. A goal now would go through Germany’s nerves like a wrecking ball through an old wall. Their walk to the dressing-room at half-time would be a funeral march. Here goes. Beckham, eager as ever to keep things moving, sprinted over to the flag, placed the ball and swept it over. Panic filled German eyes. All speed and flight, Becks’s corners are a nightmare to deal with for defenders. I wasn’t in the box. In our set-piece practice the day before, Eriksson had me lurking on the edge of the area, looking to pick up the pieces and any nod-downs. I never got a touch in training. No clearances came my way. Nothing. I was a spectator. Match-day proved different. As 63,000 fans watched, Beckham’s corner flew across, German heads straining to reach it. Rio was magnificent, timing his leap well. ‘Set!’ I screamed at Rio. ‘Set!’ I was perfectly placed. If Rio set me up, I knew I’d score. Nailed-on goal. Would Rio hear and see me? Most defenders are daft as brushes. They don’t listen. They get frightened and head the ball anywhere. Not Rio, the king of composure. His awareness was brilliant. Jumping with other players, Rio somehow managed to see me. He met the ball superbly, heading it down to me. Great flick, perfect set. All yours, Stevie. Don’t screw up.

  As the ball came down, I knew there was no margin for error. People think it’s a dead good position, hanging around on the edge of the box, waiting for a loose ball to ram back in. The risks are huge, though. If England got hit on the counter, it was so dangerous. Beware their pressure. Shoot quickly. Don’t let the Germans nick it. Good touch and hit the target. Luckily enough, I caught an absolute worldie. The ball flew into the bottom left-hand corner. Take that, Kahn. He was nowhere. That’s for all your comments about us.

  The German keeper was well beaten. Afterwards, everyone banged on about my accuracy, but I never intended to place it there. I just meant to hit the target with power. Bang. Get in! Not a bad time to score my first England goal! I couldn’t believe it. I took off in celebration. Seeing the England fans in the corner, I sprinted towards them. Get close to them. Share the moment with them. I began to run out of pitch, so I dived full length, screaming with joy as I slid on the Munich turf. Dad was among the fans going crazy. I pointed towards them. ‘That’s for you, Dad,’ I thought. ‘You backed me all the way. You made this possible.’ Emotion overcame me. All the hard work, the years of training and dreaming, had paid off.

  Racing down the Munich tunnel at the break, 2–1 up, I knew what our dressing-room would be like. Buzzing. We can kill Germany off now. The lads were flying so much they even wound me up big-time. Each player walked over to Barmbs and patted him on the head. ‘Well done, Barmbs, great goal. Fantastic reaction to Stevie’s pass!’ Robbie, typically, came across and pretended to console me.

  ‘I bet you’re gutted, aren’t you?’ he said.

  ‘Why, Robbie?’

  ‘Well, Barmbs just told Sky the goal was his.’

  My head went. ‘Fuck off, all of youse. It’s my fucking goal.’ I was steaming.

  Fowler then burst out laughing. So did the others. I’d been done. Nicky was smiling. Fair play to him, Barmbs did well to get out of the way of my shot. He actually helped, because Kahn was unsighted. And I put some bend on it!

  Eriksson was his usual self at half-time. Calm. Composed. His message was simple. ‘You played really well for the last twenty-five minutes of the half,’ he told us. ‘Keep doing what you are doing. The next goal is important. If we get the next goal, we have won the game.’ This was it. Let’s finish the Germans off. No mercy. Kill them.

  Amazingly, the Germans had nothing left. Their hearts and legs had gone, drained like a boxer who had taken one too many punches. They were on the ropes, and we spent the second half battering them. With their wing-backs high and centre-halves slow, Michael’s runs down the channels into all that lovely space on such a big pitch destroyed Germany. Becks and Scholesy kept picking him out, and his pace, touch and eye for goal did the rest. Michael was Michael in Munich: quiet, then bang, bang, bang. Three goals, thank you, and auf wiedersehen, pet. Michael and England were unstoppable. At one point, we put together a twenty-pass move, including a drag-back from me around Didi. People thought I was taking the piss. Bollocks. Didi closed me down dead quick, so I flicked the ball around him. My aim was to keep the ball from Didi, not humiliate him. The press made a meal of that moment, and even suggested I gestured to Rudi Völler, Germany’s coach, to hook Didi. Rubbish. I signalled to our bench that I was cramping up. Eriksson sent on Owen Hargreaves, and I spent the last twelve minutes sitting on the bench, just smiling at the carnage Michael caused.

  The atmosphere in the dressing-room afterwards was different gravy. Everyone was shouting, punching the air, shaking hands and laughing. Eriksson said little; he just sat there smiling. Go on, you old Swede, let yourself go! Scream and shout and get into the party! No chance. Eriksson was too restrained, but he must have been bursting with pride inside. We all were. England sent out a message to the world that night. We are fearless. We don’t give up. We have players like Michael Owen who can demolish any defence. After that victory and performance in Munich, we genuinely believed we could go anywhere, however inhospitable, and succeed.

  England still faced a huge obstacle before qualifying for Korea and Japan. Greece came to Old Trafford a month later and we had to match Germany’s result against Finland to keep top spot. A massive game, no doubt. The build-up to the match on Saturday, 6 October, was very intense, particularly for me. The Sunday before, I was knocking about my apartment in Southport when some mates called, asking if I fancied a night out.

  ‘Yeah, good shout, but I’ve got to make sure I’m in my bed quite handy,’ I said.

  ‘OK,’ they promised.

  There seemed no problem in going out. Eriksson told us to report to the Worsley Marriott outside Manchester on Monday. A couple of beers wouldn’t hurt. Greece was six days away, so I felt I could unwind. I’d earned it.

  I was enjoying myself in the bar in Southport, relaxing nicely, when this Everton fan walked over.

  ‘Flash cunt,’ he shouted at me.

  ‘What?’ I replied.

  ‘You’ve only played a few games, so what are you doing fucking driving around in a flash car?’

  ‘If that’s what you think, that’s what you think,’ I said to him. I had a nice Merc, but nothing fancy. ‘Anyway, what’s wrong with having a nice car?’
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  ‘You shouldn’t fucking have one,’ he said. ‘Who the fuck do you think you are?’

  Dickhead. I decided to keep the peace. ‘Fine, fair enough,’ I said to him, and turned back to my friends.

  The lad disappeared, so I thought that was the end of it. The following day, I headed off to the Worsley, having forgotten what went on. Then Struan phoned. ‘Stevie, there’s a piece going in the Daily Mail tomorrow about you,’ he said.

  ‘What the hell about?’

  ‘Some kid tipped the paper off that you were drinking in a bar with a big England game coming up.’

  Shit. It was that cocky Everton lad.

  With a heavy heart, I checked into the England hotel, went training, and then had to do a press conference. Nothing sinister in that; it was just my turn. I still shat myself in case any of the reporters mentioned it, but only the Mail knew. The next day, I got down early to look at the papers. There it was: news pages and back page. ‘England Star Out Drinking’. So fucking what? I was twenty-one and entitled to a bit of fun now and then. This was ridiculous. I was harshly done by. If I had been out on the town in Southport, rotten stinking drunk until five in the morning, I could understand the problem. But I wasn’t. The truth was that I went out, had two beers and a couple of glasses of Coke, and was back in my flat at 12.30. I was out trying to pull a few birds, not trying to get drunk. I lived on my own, a single lad, and I had a right to relax occasionally. The next day, I had a lie-in before driving over to Worsley for 12.30. No hangover, no nothing. I had four days’ serious training ahead of me before the game with Greece. What the hell was the fuss about?

  The situation got totally out of hand. In the press, people slaughtered me left, right and centre. Debating player behaviour was all the rage at the time. Eriksson had just left Frank Lampard out of the squad after an incident involving some Americans after 9/11. Footballers were in the public eye like never before. Me? I was being used for target practice. Struan phoned again, and we talked through the mess. ‘I’ll go and speak to the manager and tell him exactly what I did,’ I told Struan. Eriksson was superb. ‘Just learn from it,’ he said. ‘You’re young. People want you to sit in the house and live like a monk. Don’t worry about it, concentrate on the game. Just be more careful when it’s coming up to a game.’ I was relieved. I really appreciated Eriksson’s stance. Sven showed a real human side. No bollocking, just advice. ‘Thanks, boss, and I’m sorry for what happened,’ I said.

  The FA released details that I had apologized. I said I had done wrong, but I hadn’t. My only real crime was the time I went to sleep. Yet half-midnight is not a hanging offence. I was gutted by the press reaction. Why me? Like Sven, the other players were dead sympathetic. Robbie said, ‘I was out with Macca!’ ‘Yeah,’ said Macca. ‘We had a couple of beers, but no-one knew!’ I appreciated Macca and Robbie trying to lift my spirits, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the furore. My head was bursting. ‘Forget about it,’ Macca said. ‘You haven’t done any harm.’ I wished I could be as laid-back as them about these things. I hated being caned in the press. Becks sought me out as well. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said. Becks behaved like a captain and a friend. ‘If you need to talk, I’m there for you,’ he added. ‘What the papers are doing is out of order. You’ve done nothing wrong. It happens to all of us. You get good press and then bad.’ Dad was devastated. ‘Next time, Steven, just stay in,’ he said. ‘The main thing now is to get it out of your mind. You’ve got a massive match on Saturday. Concentrate on that.’

  All the people who really cared for me rallied around. Gérard called, and I told him the truth. Gérard was first class. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘It’s normal behaviour for someone your age. Just be careful because you are high profile now. Limit the times you go out. If you socialize, go to the right places. Your career is so short, Steven. You have so much ability. Make the most of it.’ A father figure to many of the young lads at Liverpool, Gérard was always full of good advice. One of his favourite sayings was, ‘Why go to a nightclub now when you can own one at the end of your career?’ Fair point. Like Sven, Gérard drilled into me that I needed to be on my toes. ‘Because you are well known, everything you do and say, whoever you speak to, you are in the spotlight,’ said Gérard. Yet the gaffer also understood that pros are humans.

  I was twenty-one. I wanted to go out with my mates, have some fun, nick a bird. Usual lad stuff. The problem then was that those friends didn’t realize I had to be in bed at a sensible time. Living on my own, young, free and single, buzzing because I was in Liverpool’s first team, I fancied nights out. And yeah, perhaps I was out on the town too regularly. I just wanted to celebrate a Liverpool win with mates who had been at the match. The alternative was sitting in my flat, watching the telly, screwing up a pasta recipe, and doing my head in. Sometimes when the phone rang, I said, ‘No, guys, I’m stopping in.’ This image of me being a party animal is bollocks. After my Liverpool debut, I never touched alcohol for six months. I have never been out twice in a week in my life. Even back then, when most twenty-one-year-olds are on the lash all the time, I hit a bar two or three times a month, maximum. I drink even less now. I’m practically a monk! My mates now appreciate the strict demands of my profession. They come round, drink tea, coffee or water, and we just chat. I’ll still have the occasional night out, of course, and why not? I’m twenty-six. If I want a night out, I will go wherever I want. The majority of footballers go out after a game if they don’t have a match until the following weekend. Timing is the key. Back then with the Southport bar incident, I just picked the wrong place at the wrong time and suddenly newspapers questioned my lifestyle. Oh, here’s another mad, piss-head footballer, they said. Bollocks. The people who wrote the story didn’t know me. They heard about one incident and blew it out of all proportion. It proved a useful, if painful, lesson. Maybe if that hadn’t happened, something worse would have hit me. I might have got involved in a fight. All that negative press, the apology and feelings of anger made me determined to avoid bad publicity again. After that, when I went out I kept a low profile. Once bitten, twice shy.

  Michael is spot on when he describes Liverpool as a ‘rumour city’. One quiet beer gets exaggerated into a wild session. I’m idolized by many people around here, but the interest is not always positive. Liverpool is strange like that. Many people want to see me fail, and would love to tell a bad story about me, or sell a rubbish story about me to the press. That sort of jealousy and greed disgusts me. Before I started doing well at football and making good money, I admired those who did well and wished them luck. When Fowler scored, I jumped all over the Kop. When Michael was shooting towards stardom, I was so made up for him. I don’t understand envy. When young English players like Wayne Rooney break through, I’m happy for them. The negative mentality of that little tit in Southport sickens me.

  One night out in Southport never affected my performance for England against Greece. The hysterical reaction did. Every time I got on the ball at Old Trafford, I knew the papers were watching, waiting to leap on any mistake as confirmation I left my form and fitness in a bar. Jesus, I was so nervous. The ball felt like a hand-grenade coming at me. Normally, adrenalin flows through my veins. Here, it was pure fear. I was scared stiff. Couldn’t focus, couldn’t get rid of dark thoughts. I played shite. Going into the last minute, England were 2–1 down and automatic qualification for the World Cup was going up in smoke. The play-off lottery beckoned. I knew where the blame would be laid. Against me. As the seconds drained away, I imagined the vicious headlines coming my way like runaway trains. All that ‘Stevie Blunder’ shite. Pens were being sharpened to stick into me. I was going to get it big-time. No question. No escape, surely?

  I was shaken from my nightmare by a roar sweeping around Old Trafford. Becks and Teddy Sheringham were lining up a free-kick outside Greece’s penalty area. Teddy wanted it. He’s terrific at dead-ball situations, and Becks had already missed with six. It was a key decision. The twenty-five yards
between them and the net could mean England travelling halfway around the world. Who would take it? Becks was captain, and he was confident of his ability with his free-kicks. ‘It’s mine,’ he told Teddy. Becks’s courage has never been in doubt, but this was a real pressure moment. I wanted him to take it. After six attempts, he was getting his range and technique right. It made sense for him to carry on. I watch David in training, and when he takes ten free-kicks, he usually scores two or three, top corners, often more. Go on, David. Put this one in.

  Old Trafford went quiet. I could feel my heart beating loudly. Becks didn’t let us down. The ball flew in and Old Trafford went crazy. What a worldie goal from Captain Marvel! In fact, Becks was brilliant all afternoon. England didn’t play well, but Becks was everywhere, dragging us to the World Cup almost single-handedly. When England desperately needed someone to take the game by the scruff of the neck, he stood up to be counted. He was man of the match by a million miles. Top man.

  Becks’s dynamic performance amazed everyone, but not me. His energy levels down the right for United were always frightening. Up and back, up and back, non-stop. Moving to Real Madrid hasn’t altered his allaction style. He’s the same with England, always shuttling up and down the right. Becks is great to play with, defensively and going forward. Obsessed with football, he contributes so much. In a way, that’s his downfall. People have such high expectations of Becks because of displays like Greece. But it’s madness thinking he can perform like that every time. He’d have to be Superman. Opponents are so good, they just won’t let Becks run the show each week. I can’t deliver every match either. Opposing managers analyse my contributions, and Becks’s, and set their players up to stop us. Yet if I’m not an eight out of ten, I get coated. If David isn’t a nine out of ten for England, he gets slaughtered. Fortunately, Becks put in an eleven out of ten performance against Greece.