Gérard Houllier was a well-liked manager, a player’s manager, and very human. He is one of life’s good guys. So is Thommo. Like Gérard, everything Thommo did was for the good of Liverpool Football Club. He was a Scouser like me, and I respected him because he lifted the European Cup for Liverpool. He was always honest with me, always told me when I was not training or playing well enough. I liked him. Still do. The perception of Thommo as not the cleverest is wrong. He knows his football and he did a good job as caretaker.
Of course, we fell out at times. Thommo’s a fiery character, and I’ll not hold back. On one occasion, before Thommo became caretaker, we flew back from a European tie into Manchester airport. Gary Mac asked Thommo if he could leave the group at Manchester and make his own way home, rather than catch the bus back to Melwood. ‘No problem, Macca,’ said Thommo. I overheard this. My nan was in hospital at the time, so I was keen to get to her sharpish. ‘Can I make my way home from the airport?’ I asked Thommo. I never mentioned nan was ill, because I didn’t want to make a fuss. Besides, Thommo told Gary Mac he could go, so why not me? ‘Yeah, yeah, Steven,’ said Thommo. He was taking the piss, but I didn’t realize.
I left the team at Manchester airport, got picked up by my mate Bavo and raced to the hospital. I jumped out and ran in, leaving my phone and other stuff with Ian. While I was inside, it rang. Bavo answered.
‘Hello?’
‘Who the fuck’s that?’ came the reply. It was Thommo, raging. ‘Hey, put Steven on the phone. I know he’s there, next to you.’
‘He’s not, Thommo, honest,’ said Bavo, scared shitless.
‘Liar,’ screamed Thommo.
‘I’m not lying. Stevie’s not here.’
‘Tell him he’d better call me dead quick. No-one gave him permission to leave us at the airport. He’s in deep shit.’
Poor Bavo! When I reached the car, he was still shaking, all red and shocked.
‘What’s up?’ I asked.
‘Phil Thompson just caned me for nothing,’ Ian said. ‘You weren’t allowed to go home from the airport. He said you were out of order.’
I wasn’t having this, bollocking my friend when neither of us had done anything wrong. I grabbed the phone and punched in Thommo’s number. Before I could explain, he just roared at me. Cheek. I ripped into Thommo, calling him every name under the sun. Swore blind at him. ‘Don’t fucking lay into my mate!’ I shouted at him. ‘It’s nothing to do with him. You told me I could go home from the airport.’
‘No I didn’t.’
‘Yes you bloody did.’
‘You’re taking the piss, Steven. Why are you different from everyone else?’
‘Fuck off, Thommo.’
It was a right old slanging match.
‘That’s it, Steven, see me tomorrow,’ shouted Thommo.
I rang off. A minute or two later, Gérard was on. ‘Steven, you’re getting a fine.’
‘All right, I’ll pay the fine, but let me explain the situation.’
‘No, you listen, Steven. Phil says you put the phone down on him. We’re fining you five grand. We’ll talk tomorrow when you have calmed down.’
Calmed down? Me? I’d had enough. I switched the phone off on the boss. Bang. Enough. Bloody Thommo. He’d obviously just been straight on to Gérard. I was steaming. I rang Struan. ‘You won’t believe this, Stru. I’ve just been to see my nan in hospital and it’s cost me five grand. I’ve had Thommo and Gérard on, fining me, caning me. What a joke.’
Struan was full of good sense, as usual. ‘Relax, Stevie. Just see them in the morning and explain everything. They’ll understand.’
I wasn’t sure Thommo would.
On arriving at Melwood the next day, I found Gérard all smiles. Struan had been on and told him the real story. Thommo was there, standing just behind Gérard. I was still seething about him having a go at Ian.
‘Don’t call my mate a liar,’ I said to Thommo. ‘And I genuinely thought you said I could go. If you didn’t, I apologize.’
‘I’m sorry as well,’ said Thommo.
Peace broke out. But they still fined me.
I can live with the club dipping into my pocket for five grand. Big sums like that go to charity. Everyday fines for being a couple of minutes late, or using your mobile, are thrown into a players’ pool; at the end of the season, the staff and players go out for a meal with the wives and girlfriends. My fine meant nothing; it was more the principle at stake. Trust is so important to me. After Phil and I apologized to each other, it actually brought us closer together. Whenever we’ve had little run-ins since, we’ve always been man enough to patch things up afterwards. We both want what is best for Liverpool. I didn’t always say sorry, though.
If Thommo and I rucked in training, we just forgot about it, but some players couldn’t bring themselves to apologize to Thommo. Robbie once had an unbelievable spat with Thommo at Melwood. The pair never got on, but this was mad, absolute mayhem. It kicked off because Gérard always drilled into us not to muck about with balls in the middle of sessions. ‘You should be focusing on what we are doing,’ Gérard warned. ‘Do some stretching, have some water, but don’t mess about.’ I agree, but footballers are going to kick balls, aren’t they? If I see a loose ball in training, I’ll hammer it at goal. I love kicking balls as far as I can. Hard not to. It’s what my body is programmed to do. It sends the staff crazy, because I should be concentrating on whatever pattern-of-play stuff they are going through. And some poor sod has to go round collecting the balls.
Anyway, Thommo was lifting the net one day, kicking the balls out as we got ready for the next session, and Robbie pings this penalty into the top corner, nearly knocking the stanchion off. Right by Thommo! He shat himself. We pissed ourselves laughing. Thommo went ballistic. ‘Robbie!’ he screamed, convinced it was deliberate. They went head to head, tearing into each other. I sprinted across to pull them apart. ‘What the fuck are you getting involved for?’ shouted Thommo. ‘Fuck off!’ I left them to finish their argument.
‘You fucking meant that, Robbie!’ yelled Thommo.
‘Fuck off!’ replied Robbie.
Both were out of order. Robbie didn’t kick the ball meaning to hit Phil, and Phil shouldn’t have overreacted. Eventually they stopped, but the tension remained for a couple of weeks.
When Thommo was named caretaker during Gérard’s illness, it felt strange, but no-one could question how much effort he put in. But we missed our leader. When Gérard eventually reappeared at Melwood five months later, in March 2002, while Thommo was preparing us for a big European game against Roma, we were all overjoyed, but I was shocked how pale he looked. He’d lost a lot of weight, and wasn’t sharp at all. But he still knew how every game had gone, how each of us had done. Typical Gérard. Even while recuperating, he was obsessed with Liverpool. ‘I want to be on the bench tomorrow – if the doctor lets me!’ he told us. Well, that just made training even sharper. Everyone was flying to know the boss would be back watching us. The atmosphere at Anfield is always special on European nights, but that evening was unbelievable. Word spread fast that Gérard was in the ground. The Kop went crazy, chanting his name. The whole place was buzzing. We needed to win 2–0, and we knew we would. Our manager was back. All was well in the world.
Gérard’s return kept us rolling on, riding high in the Premiership and in Europe. Just before our Champions League quarter-final at Bayer Leverkusen on 9 April, Gérard declared, ‘Liverpool are ten games from greatness.’ Everyone seized on the boss’s comment, debating whether this Liverpool side really could win the Premiership and the Champions League. Personally, I didn’t take any notice. I was too busy focusing on Leverkusen, a decent side with a brilliant player in Michael Ballack, a German with a massive point to prove after the 5–1 England game in Munich. Still, having won 1–0 at Anfield the week before, we were confident heading to Germany.
Leverkusen went 1–0 up when I stupidly jumped in on Ballack, who turned me and scored from the edge of the
box. Gérard caned me for that, quite rightly. Ballack played well, scoring another with a header in the top corner. Before long the score was 3–2 to Leverkusen and we were going through on away goals. The German side kept pressurizing us, and we needed all our experienced players to keep them at bay. Gérard took off Didi – a decision he probably now regrets. Didi was doing a brilliant job for us in the middle, holding things together, reminding the Germans of his capabilities. We lost control when Didi went off. Gérard got a lot of stick for that. Lucio, the Brazilian defender, snuck in for the winner. Liverpool were on their way out. Nightmare. Leverkusen’s fans were all triumphant, singing ‘Football’s Coming Home’. Revenge for Munich, I suppose. I was gutted. If we had gone to Leverkusen, played crap and been battered, then fair enough. But we were in such a great position to go into the last four of the European Cup. We screwed up.
In sight of both finishing lines, we faltered: last eight in Europe, runners-up in the Premiership. Arsenal deserved to win the league. They were a great team, better than Liverpool, but we got eighty points. Such a total would have won the Premiership in another season. After the Treble, and then coming second, I felt the title was only just around the corner. If Liverpool strengthened in the right areas for the 2002/03 season, the Premiership dream could become real.
Before the start of every season, Gérard handed around pieces of paper and told us to write down our ambitions for the year. When Gérard’s back was turned, most of the lads complained, saying, ‘What are we doing this for? It’s bollocks.’ Usual footballer cynicism. After coming second in 2002, one of the boys wrote, ‘Finish in the top six.’ What a piss-take! Gérard was unimpressed. He just wanted to know how confident we were. I usually scribbled, ‘Improve league position and try and win a cup.’ In August 2002, I wrote, ‘We’ll win the title.’ But then Gérard signed El-Hadji Diouf, Salif Diao and Bruno Cheyrou for nearly £18 million. Those three were meant to be the signings that took Liverpool to the next level, to the Premiership title and Champions League glory. That was the plan. But after a promising start, Liverpool slid downhill fast.
I respect Gérard immensely for what he did at Liverpool. He brought me six trophies, and I still keep in touch with him, but managers are judged on signings. The players Gérard bought in the summer of 2002 let him down. They were bad buys. You don’t have to be a rocket scientist to work that out. With Salif, I knew after a week in training that he wasn’t going to be good enough. Everyone goes under the microscope at Melwood. All flaws are exposed. I read in the papers that Diao was the ‘new Patrick Vieira’, and I saw him do quite well at the World Cup for Senegal. Diao’s a good player, but not Liverpool class. That was £4 million not well spent. Cheyrou, who cost slightly less, was a great French lad with loads of ability, but he lacked pace and suffered with injuries. When he was fit, he also found it difficult to get into his preferred position, central midfield. Didi and I were already there. I wasn’t moving. No chance. I was on fire after my operation and Didi was one of the first names on the team-sheet. We weren’t shifting for Cheyrou.
Diouf arrived with the most potential, and he ended up causing the most aggravation. As soon as Gérard started playing him on the right, I knew he was a poor signing. Everyone banged on about the Senegal centre-forward being the man to bring more goals to Liverpool. So what was Gérard doing sticking him out on the wing? It was strange, particularly as Diouf had been brought in to replace Nicolas Anelka, a real centre-forward. ‘We’ve decided not to keep Anelka,’ Gérard said in a pre-season meeting with Liverpool’s experienced pros – me, Carra, Michael, Didi and Sami. ‘We’ve decided to bring El-Hadji Diouf in. We feel he’s a better player, got a better attitude, and will be a better signing for the club. Nicolas is a good player, but we are not sure how he will react if we make his loan deal permanent.’ I was gobsmacked. I wanted us to keep Anelka. All the players did. I didn’t say anything to Gerard, but I came out of the meeting gutted. Who was this Diouf anyway? Anelka had done well for Liverpool and seemed an all right guy. Anelka actually surprised me. He had a reputation for being trouble, for being moody, but I liked him. He was dead quiet, and he just got on with things. He was a star at the time, a far bigger star than me. I was buzzing to have him at Anfield. When Paul Joyce from the Express sent me a text saying ‘You’ve got Anelka’, I was made up. Michael had all the pressure on him to score, so Anelka’s arrival midway through the season really helped. We had one game, against Newcastle United, when he was just awesome, running the Geordies ragged. Everyone expected Liverpool to keep Anelka, but not the man who mattered, Gérard Houllier. We finished second in 2002 with Anelka and fifth in 2003 with Diouf. Draw your own conclusions.
I wasn’t El-Hadji Diouf’s number one fan. Being around Melwood and Anfield, I knew which players were hungry, which players had Liverpool at heart. To my mind, Diouf was just interested in himself. His attitude was all wrong. I felt he wasn’t really arsed about putting his body on the line to get Liverpool back to the top. He was out on the town a lot, wasting his energies. Diouf wasn’t desperate for success like the rest of us. Some of the crazy clothes he wore and the way he behaved seemed designed to make the following statement: ‘I am the best player in the world’. He wasn’t, by a million miles. For him to do so well at a World Cup, there must have been a half-decent player in Diouf somewhere, but Liverpool rarely saw him. He was nicknamed ‘Serial Killer’ in Senegal for his goals, but he only got three for us in the league that season. Maybe Gérard rushed through the deal because of how well Diouf did at the World Cup. Danger always lies that way. Clubs should spend £10 million on a player only when they have watched him for years, on and off the field. They need to check if he is a party animal. Patrice Bergues, Gérard’s old assistant at Liverpool, was Diouf’s coach at Lens and he obviously talked to Gérard. He trusted Patrice’s advice 100 per cent, so he signed Diouf. Gérard didn’t let Liverpool down by signing Diouf; Diouf let Gérard down by not caring. He even spat at a Celtic fan in a UEFA Cup tie at Parkhead. He hit the kid in the face with not just a bit of phlegm, but a real hoik. All the Liverpool lads were livid with him. Spitting is disgusting. English players are drilled not to spit. Most players would rather be butted than to have to wipe someone’s saliva from their eyes.
Before Liverpool got shut of Diouf to Bolton, he did give us a belter of a game, the Worthington Cup final win over Manchester United on 2 March 2003. Diouf always played well against United. Maybe he raised his game because it was a big occasion against famous opposition. In the Millennium Stadium, Diouf gave Mikael Silvestre nightmares, and always showed for the ball. He was a constant threat. He could be a good outlet on the right, holding the ball up and allowing others to get into space, but that season he never really delivered. At least that trip to Cardiff gave us some silverware for 2002/03. My shot hit Becks and deflected in over Fabien Barthez, United’s keeper. No matter how lucky the goal was, it felt brilliant to score against the old enemy. Michael, as usual, also found the mark as Liverpool ran out 2–0 winners. The League Cup is not the most respected trophy in the world, but United were definitely up for it, and so were we. Fergie put Keane and Juan Sebastian Verón up against me, and Didi and me had a right old scrap with them. What was especially good was that Jerzy Dudek played a blinder. He had been slaughtered for a mistake that allowed Diego Forlan to score when we met United earlier in the season. Football always gives you a chance to make amends. Down in Cardiff, Jerzy paid us back for his Forlan howler.
That was the high point of a season that descended into disappointment. Fifth was nowhere. No Champions League for 2003/04 was a killer. Liverpool were in decline, and Gérard came under mounting pressure. Snipers in the press and on the phone-ins targeted him. Liverpool were trapped down a cul-de-sac with no obvious means of getting out. I began thinking about my future. ‘I’m worried, Stru,’ I told my agent. ‘Playing in the Champions League helps get me in the England squad. Sven always watches Champions League games. People look down on the UEFA Cup
.’ I knew I could survive one season out of the Champions League, but two would harm my career. Struan took a few phone calls from agents representing clubs in Europe, enquiring about the situation with my contract. Barcelona, Roma and Inter Milan were apparently interested. I was flattered to read pieces saying Real Madrid were chasing me, but I wasn’t tempted. Liverpool’s season had been shite, but I didn’t want to leave the club I love.
12
Darkness in Basle
THE MOST DEPRESSING point in my relationship with Gérard Houllier came in the pretty Swiss town of Basle on 12 November 2002. Everyone in Liverpool’s colours needed all their energy and focus for this massive Champions League tie, the most important game of the season, but my head wasn’t right. For some time, I’d been a moody bastard. Tension between me and Gérard built and built. When the boss took me off against Spurs at Anfield on 26 October, I snapped. Straight down the tunnel, no acknowledgement. Straight into the dressing-room, door slamming, boots flying, absolutely steaming. I hate being hooked, however rubbish I’m playing. For Christ’s sake, not in front of the Kop, where my mates are watching. When the fourth official holds up my number it feels like a judge passing a sentence. Game over. I have no control; I have to leave the pitch, and everyone stares. Not good enough today, Stevie lad. The humiliation kills me.
Storming past Gérard at Anfield pissed him off big-time. The boss immediately sent Doc Waller to come and get me. ‘No chance,’ I told the doc. ‘I’m staying here.’ Doc Waller caught the fury in my eyes and knew he would need an army to budge me. I was selfish, I knew that, but I just want to do my best for Liverpool and I can’t if the manager subs me. I stayed in the dressing-room, alone with my anger. Gérard went mental and fined me. Even an apology couldn’t repair the damage. He put me on the bench against West Ham, and then subbed me at Middlesbrough. What a mess. As we flew out to Basle, Gérard wasn’t in my good books, and I wasn’t in his.
Gerrard: My Autobiography Page 23