More speeches. More debate. Then Becks and Gary organized a ballot over whether to support Rio, with the understanding that could mean not going to Istanbul. A strike! Just mention of the word makes me shudder. It would be a hugely controversial call, a decision that would live with us for the rest of our lives. Abandon England? Christ. What were we getting ourselves into? I wanted Rio back in the squad, and I wanted to show my support, but the thought of striking scared me. Could I really follow Gary Neville and turn my back on England when it counted? My team. My dream. Istanbul was not just any old match; if we got a point we reached Euro 2004. I’d missed the 2002 World Cup and was desperate to play. I felt Gary was too strong in calling for a strike. He possibly should have taken more time to consider the consequences, not just for him but for all the players, particularly the young ones. They sat around as senior pros argued for a strike which would blacken everyone’s names in the eyes of the public and press. I didn’t want to be slaughtered for not playing for my country. England fans would be outraged. But I couldn’t bring myself to voice my concerns. I took a back seat and listened. It was a horrible meeting to be in. We’re footballers, not politicians. I wanted to be out there training, not sitting around taking a vote.
Fortunately, David James spoke out, calling for clear heads before we considered striking. ‘We’ve got to think about the fans,’ said Jamo. ‘With all due respect to Rio, and I want him back in the squad as much as anyone, there are going to be more problems than we all think if we go on strike.’ People say goalkeepers are mad, but Jamo always talked sense. I really admired him for what he did and said at Sopwell. Jamo made everyone realize the dangers of a strike, that it wasn’t going to benefit any of us. Gary put forward one argument, and Jamo just looked at the situation from the point of view of a few others at the meeting, the ones like me who never said anything. After Jamo spoke, I felt better. The consequences of not going to Turkey were obvious. ‘If we support Rio 100 per cent and don’t go to Istanbul, we’ll all have to take the flak,’ said Jamo. Fucking hell, I thought, this is so serious. My heart beat fast.
We can’t go on strike, but we must stick together. Send out a message to the FA: don’t mess with us. The best sides are those where the players stand shoulder to shoulder, like soldiers in a war. We were all in it together, even those with reservations. Eventually, I decided to follow the experienced players like Becks and Gary. So did the rest of the squad. We all agreed the FA had to bring Rio back or face the consequences. Whatever the reservations of players like myself, we were united. One out, all out. Though I prayed we wouldn’t have to go through with the strike. Gary and Becks knocked up a statement from the England squad which read: ‘It is our opinion that the organization we represent has not only let down one of our team-mates but the whole of the England squad and its manager. We feel they have failed us badly. They have made the team weaker.’ We gave the statement to the FA and sat back to see their reaction.
Becks quickly told Sven. He wanted the dispute settled sharpish, but he backed us all the way. On the Wednesday, as the controversy intensified, Sven told all the cameras at Sopwell that he was behind us. God knows what Palios thought of that! Every England player really respected Sven for that. He could have ducked the issue, or sided with the FA because they pay his wages. Sven didn’t. When the team needed the support of the manager most, Sven stuck up for us. It was a horrible day, though. Whenever I flicked Sky on in my room, people were criticizing us for talking about striking. We were getting unbelievable stick. I felt we’d made our point by publicly backing Rio and it was time to move on, to get back to football. I was not enjoying the caning. None of the players were. A sombre mood fell over Sopwell.
That evening, the players held another meeting. ‘Right, we’ve made our point,’ said Becks. ‘We’ve shown the FA that they cannot mess about one of our players.’ We all agreed we should now go to Istanbul.
Just as well. As Jamo predicted, and I privately suspected, the newspapers slaughtered us for even thinking of striking. The story had spread from the back pages to the front. It became a huge national issue. At breakfast on the Thursday, I picked up the Daily Mirror, which had the story of the proposed strike on the front and the back. Photographs of every player were printed on the front underneath the words ‘Who the hell do they think they are?’ Jesus, if that was a warning of the coverage we would receive if we went on strike, thank God we pulled out. Chaos was just a ballot away. No-one wants to be battered from pillar to post in the press. It’s a brutal experience. All my friends and family called, wondering what the hell was going on. Thank heaven it was sorted and the media wave of criticism could subside. Rio sent us a message saying how much he appreciated our support, stressing that he didn’t want us to go on strike. We’d done the right thing to stand by Rio and then fly out to Istanbul.
As the plane hurtled across Europe, my mind finally turned to what sort of reception the Turks would lay on for us. Our home game, at Sunderland on 2 April 2003, had been quick, intense and nasty. The Turks were up to all their old tricks at the Stadium of Light, leaving the foot in, pulling shirts, the usual sly stunts, anything to break up our flow. Even players who have spent time in the Premiership, like Tugay, an opponent I respect, tried to provoke us. That’s the Turkish mentality. Bulent scratched my face, drawing blood. Turks don’t care how they win, as long as they do. Turks will try to con their way to victory. But cheats never prosper. When Tugay and his mates arrived at Sunderland, they ran into Wayne Rooney. Turkey didn’t know what hit them. Rooney was brilliant in that 2–0 victory, all muscle and touch.
In those few days up in the north-east of England, I realized exactly how special Rooney was. One day, in training at Slaley Hall, Rooney announced to the whole England squad the massive size of his talent. We were playing a practice match towards the end of training when Rooney picked up the ball, dribbled past a few players and chipped Jamo. Astonishing. Silence reigned for a split-second, as if everyone was trying to take in exactly what we had just seen. Then we all burst into applause, everyone, even established stars like Becks and Owen. We all glanced at each other, as if to say, ‘This boy can play.’ Only seventeen, and already heading for greatness. I knew Wazza was talented because I had seen the goals he scored for Everton, I’d watched him on the telly, and I’d read all the press coverage. But that day at Slaley Hall made me realize quite how brilliant he was. I needed to train alongside him, watch him close up, to appreciate the quality of his first touch. His self-belief too. Most players would be cautious during the build-up to their first start. Not Wazza. He charged into Slaley Hall, trying all sorts of skills. Nothing fazes Wazza. It’s a Scouse trait. No wonder we hit it off immediately.
By the time we landed in Istanbul, Wazza and I were good mates. What I love about Rooney is, however big the occasion, he’s relaxed. England’s journey to Fenerbahce’s home ground would have unsettled even the toughest customer. Not Rooney. Wazza just smiled out the window at all these Turks throwing bottles at us, giving us the finger, screaming abuse. When Rooney was ready, he just ran out of the tunnel into this wall of noise and laughed. Is that your best? Try harder, shout louder, because I ain’t bothered. That’s Wazza. He went towards one goal and started banging balls around. Scholesy was the same. Out the tunnel, pinging balls around, no warm-up. I don’t know how Scholesy and Rooney get away with it. If I had not done some stretching first, working on my hamstrings and calf, I’d have pulled every muscle in my legs. Not Rooney. Rooney’s talent was shaped on the streets of Croxteth, and he has not lost that street-player’s streak. Out the front door, bang, into a game. No warm-up, no tension, let’s get cracking, lads. No worries. In Istanbul, he almost looked bored as he warmed up. Chewing gum and smiling – just a kid belting balls around. He kept wellying the ball high up in the air while the rest of us were working on our stretches. How his hamstrings survived I don’t know.
Before kick-off, Becks gathered us together and reminded us what would happen if we scre
wed up. The fuss over the threatened strike would return with a vengeance. Doubled. Imagine the headlines, lads. We had to get that point. Qualify for the Euros, and we’d go from zeros to heroes in the fans’ eyes again. All teams visiting Turkey need strong bonds between players, and the Rio controversy bolted all the players even closer. All that off-the-pitch unity now needed to be shown in the teeth of a Turkish hurricane.
The atmosphere in Istanbul was crazy. There were 42,000 Turks screaming blue murder at us. Love it. All that hostility turns me on. When I went near the crowd, to pick up the ball for a throwin, Turkish fans drew fingers across their necks, making as if they wanted to slash our throats. Bring it on. At half-time, it all kicked off between the players in the tunnel. I was one of the last to arrive, because I was on the other side of the pitch when the whistle went. It was typical Turks, ambushing opponents. There was shouting, spitting, pushing and kicking. Alpay, the Aston Villa centre-half, was right in the thick of it. Someone spat at Ashley Cole. By the time I got there, Rooney was sorting out a few Turks. Fortunately, Pierluigi Collina was there to calm tempers. The sight of Rooney, Ashley, Emile and the rest all standing up for each other showed England’s togetherness. Even when Becks missed a penalty, which was given after Tugay tripped me, no-one blamed him. He slipped. Penalty-taking is a lottery anyway, so no-one was going to dig Becks out. How many times has he got England out of trouble? Countless. We are a family at England, and we look after each other like brothers.
The goalless draw was enough to give us what we’d gone to Turkey for: a place at Euro 2004 in Portugal the following summer. I fancied England’s chances. Good squad, great spirit, and everyone up for it.
14
Pleasure and Pain in Portugal
WE LANDED IN Lisbon among the favourites. Our team was settled, with Wayne now established alongside Michael, and the midfield situation sorted following two warm-up games at the City of Manchester Stadium. In the first, against Japan on 1 June, Sven shifted me out to the left of a diamond – a decision that disappointed me. I’ll play anywhere for England, of course. No-one doubts my commitment to my country, but my strengths lie in central midfield. No question. Confronting the enemy head on, getting the ball, bombing on, finishing moves off – that’s me. I envied Scholesy his position at the tip of the diamond against Japan, a real attacking role. I’d have caused chaos there.
Before kick-off, I was presented with a trophy for England Player of the Year – a fantastic gesture from the supporters. I’ve had awards from journalists and players, but this honour was different: it came from England fans who spend their life, and their hard-earned cash, travelling around watching us. My heart swelled with pride. England Player of the Year! Sounded good. Time to show it was deserved.
Cutting in from the flank, I helped set up Michael’s goal against Japan, but I hated life on the left. I love the centre-stage, not playing out on the fringe. Being moved around was wrong. Sven often used me in different positions, sometimes telling me only hours before a game or changing my role during a match. As a footballer and as a human being, I must feel settled before I can be happy and deliver. I crave the nod days before, so I can work on the role, eradicate mistakes in training, and talk the assignment through with Sven, the coaches and other players. Even good footballers find it difficult to adapt if told their role only twenty-four hours before a massive game. But whinging is not my style. I never raised my unease in public after the Japan game. I just read with interest the debate raging on the sports pages over where I should play for England. No debate, guys. I’m best in the middle. End of story. I do have the legs to play out there, but I’m not John Barnes, beating three and getting crosses in.
Fortunately, diamonds are not for ever. Four days later, Sven restored me to England’s heart against Iceland. We thrashed them 6–1, and I was there to stay. Thank God. By then, Frank Lampard had edged out Butty, so England flew into Portugal with a midfield of me and Lamps in the centre, Scholesy on the left and Becks right. It looked good. ‘This is my midfield for Portugal,’ Sven told us. My sigh of relief was long and loud, although I felt sorry for Scholesy, who got the graveyard shift. I wanted Scholesy to shine on the left at Euro 2004 so Sven wouldn’t banish me out there.
As we checked into our Lisbon base, the Solplay, everything appeared perfect. The hotel boasted all the five-star trimmings. The weather was magnificent, so in our spare time we gathered round the pool to relax, or nipped out for a knock of golf. Every camp needs a joker and we had Jamo, a bubbly character, brilliant at getting the spirit going. In the hours after training or between matches, Jamo always lightened the mood with his dry humour. Spending weeks abroad can trouble players. Boredom and homesickness gets to people. Not at Euro 2004. Anyone feeling down would immediately be lifted by Jamo’s banter. I like Jamo being around. From the outside he can come across as a strange character, but with England he’s like an experienced father-figure, good for advice and a laugh.
Gary Neville is more serious than Jamo, but is just as important to the squad. Always focused, always professional, Gary is the ideal team-mate with England. People think of Gary being Red Nev, a union leader on a mission, but he just stands up for the rights of the England squad. Gary is fiercely protective of the young players, always helping them. He fights for the team, on and off the pitch. At Liverpool, Steve Finnan reaches towards Gary’s level, but in terms of consistency over the years, Gary is the best right-back I’ve played with. Captain of Manchester United, Gary’s a leader, a winner. Sitting around the Solplay, some had doubts whether we would do well at Euro 2004. Not Gary. ‘We can win this,’ he kept saying.
But, inside, we all knew it would be difficult. We weren’t firing on all cylinders. Euro 2004 was do-able, but we needed to raise our game, individually and collectively. People had high expectations of me, particularly now I was back where I belonged, in central midfield. I was in the holding role, but at least I was central. Having a nation’s eyes on me was not a problem. My club form had been good. But England faced a stiff start, against France, the champions, the team of Thierry Henry, Zinedine Zidane and Patrick Vieira – a familiar opponent from Premiership war zones.
Everyone made England underdogs for this opening Group B game at the Stadium of Light on 13 June. Everyone tipped France to thrash us. France’s team-sheet was pinned up in our dressing-room. Michael and I looked at the names. ‘Fucking hell,’ I said. ‘These are top players. I’ll have to be right on my game.’ I sat down, put my kit on, and as I tied my laces tight I reminded myself of an old saying in football: ‘Respect them, but don’t fear them.’ Spot on. Zidane was class, but we had top players as well. ‘I’m not fucking having this,’ I said out loud. ‘Let’s show everyone what we can do.’ We had Michael. We had Wayne. Wayne! I looked across at him. Not a care in the world. Relaxed, confident, ready for any opposition, however good. He just banged a ball against the wall, first time, bang. Back it came. Bang. Back it went. Back and forth, almost hypnotically. Wayne was just messing about with the ball, as if he were going out for a Sunday League match. He stopped as Sven gave us some last-minute orders. When Sven finished, Wayne also had some instructions. ‘Just give me the ball,’ he told everyone. ‘Give me the ball. I will do it. I want it.’ Wayne wasn’t being big-headed. He knows what he can do. Everything! We had a chance against France. Wayne would breeze through them.
The atmosphere in the dressing-room ripped into life. Jamo, standing tall in the middle of the room, screamed encouragement. Becks, Gary Nev, Sol – all shouting. Sol is amazing. A great player for Spurs and Arsenal, he really comes to life at tournaments. The moment he stepped into the dressing-room before the French game, he became a different person. A leader, a warrior. So serene around the hotel, England’s Colossus was fired up to face the French. His voice and presence filled the dressing-room. Shouts were now coming from all corners of the room. No-one was quiet. No-one was scared. This was it. France. Vieira. Fucking come on! Door open, into the tunnel, out into the stadi
um.
Nothing prepared me for the sights and sounds that greeted me. The Stadium of Light held 62,487 that night, and they all seemed to be English. White flags waved everywhere. Even in the French corner, I saw hundreds of England supporters, faces painted with the Cross of St George, singing ‘Three Lions’, not giving a monkey’s they were in the French section. Our supporters are truly fanatical. They launched into the national anthem so loudly the hairs stood to attention on the back of my neck. Controlling my emotions was a struggle. Focus, focus. But the adrenalin was pumping, racing even quicker as I poured my heart into the anthem. Amazing moments. The singing and formalities completed, I sprinted into the middle. This was it. Into battle. Come on, Vieira.
England settled the quicker. All the predictions were being turned on their head. We passed the ball around well, even taking the lead. One of Lamps’ main strengths is raiding into the box, getting goals. At Euro 2004 he got off to a flier with a fantastic header past Fabien Barthez. Pick that out. That goal was the making of Lamps, filling him with confidence. His first game at his first tournament, and he’d just scored against France. Not bad. I was delighted for him as a midfield colleague, and as one of the nicest blokes I’ve ever met. Good company, good banter. I spent some very enjoyable hours at the Solplay chatting away with Frank, about the tournament and about what was happening at Chelsea and at Liverpool.
Gerrard: My Autobiography Page 25