Gerrard: My Autobiography

by Steven Gerrard

  France were caught out, sent reeling by the intensity of England’s football. I got stuck into Vieira and Zidane. Frank raced forward. Rooney stretched France, pulling Lilian Thuram and Mikael Silvestre all over the Stadium of Light. France were totally unprepared for this one-man tornado from Croxteth called Wayne Rooney. He battered them. Wayne never looks scared in matches, never hides from the ball. He could be back on the street in Merseyside. We all knew how special he was; that night at the Stadium of Light was the moment the whole world realized England boasted an extraordinarily gifted teenager. A star was born in Lisbon. Since then, Wayne has become the key man for England. He’s such a character and joker around the hotel. He is always up to something. I didn’t know Gazza too well, but I heard all the stories about Gazza’s antics lifting team spirit. Wazza is the same – always smiling, always happy. He’ll wind anyone up. At the Solplay, all the players marvelled at his confidence for someone so young. Rooney knows he is the main man. When he passed twenty caps, I mentioned to Michael, ‘It’s like he’s got eighty, he’s so settled and relaxed in the squad.’ Tactically, people wondered whether Michael and Wayne could play together. Neither is a natural target-man centre-forward in the old Alan Shearer mould, I know that. But Wayne and Michael are the perfect partnership, a model for the modern era. They actually complement each other superbly. Michael runs in behind defenders, poaching goals – an option if I want to launch it long. Wayne is brilliant between the opposition defence and midfield, always there, always looking for the quick ball to feet, a joy to link with. Wayne can run at players, beat them and set goals up. One of his many runs against France panicked Silvestre into giving away a penalty. Becks missed, but we still felt in control.

  Sensibly, Sven sent Emile on for Wayne to see the match out and keep our new strike threat fresh for England’s next game. Our fans were singing, celebrating, generally going wild. We were up and running at Euro 2004, three points surely in the bag. Surely? It still sickens me to record what then occurred at the Stadium of Light. Emile fouled Claude Makelele, Zidane bent in the free-kick, and the life went out of us. Having led for so long, Zidane’s goal was a crushing blow. Heads down. Play for time. Cling to the draw. Keep the point. No more mistakes. Almost there. In injury time, I received possession quite deep in our half and I knew instinctively what to do. Run the clock down, waste time, play it safe. Pass back to Jamo. Shit. Thierry Henry. The great French striker was lurking behind one of our central defenders, and if you are going to hide behind anyone, hide behind big Sol. Once I played the ball back and realized there was a Frenchman there, I prayed to God it was anyone but Thierry. He’s lethal. I have passed accidentally to Henry since, at Highbury, and when he picks the ball up it can lead only to a goal. Jamo sprinted out, fouled Henry, and Zidane swept in the penalty. From 1–0 up to 2–1 down in the space of two minutes. Nightmare.

  A feeling of utter desolation closed in around me. My mistake made me feel so wretched I thought I would be physically sick. I could hardly look at the other England players, or our supporters, as I raced back to the dressing-room. Some of the French players intercepted me, offering consolations. I shook hands and disappeared as quick as I could. I never even swapped a shirt. I couldn’t. I felt ashamed, devastated. I let everyone down. Trying to be clever, trying to hold on to a point, I’d thrown it away. Shit. In the dressing-room, I sat there with my head in my hands. Michael, Becks and the lads tried to comfort me. ‘Don’t worry about it. It’s gone now. Forget about it,’ they kept saying. Kind words. Appreciated. But just leave me to my misery.

  From down the corridor came the sound of French celebrations. Their players were singing, trumpeting their victory. Sven made sure the door stayed open so we could hear them. ‘Listen to them,’ someone said. ‘We’ll prove them wrong.’ French crowing spurred the squad on, making us doubly determined to recover from this setback.

  As the other players got dressed, I stood in the shower, trying to wash away the frustration, the guilt. Why didn’t I look? England had played so well. My own performance, apart from the backpass, was satisfying, but the backpass made the headlines. ‘Be strong,’ I told myself. ‘Adversity will not kill you. Fight back.’ I phoned Struan, and Dad. ‘Keep your head up,’ they said. I didn’t switch my phone off, or hide from the fact that I screwed up.

  The next day’s papers did not make pleasant reading. There was nothing for it but to make amends in England’s next game, against Switzerland in Coimbra on 17 June.

  The night before the match, Steve McClaren called a meeting with the midfielders. ‘Get the French result out of your system, because we have another important game tomorrow,’ Steve told me, Lamps, Becks and Scholesy. We had tried two formations out in training, the diamond and the flat four, and Steve asked us which we preferred. There had been talk of England using a diamond against Switzerland because Hakan Yakin could cause problems in the hole. If we had a diamond, the sitting midfielder would look after Yakin. ‘I prefer the flat four,’ I told Steve. Lamps and Becks agreed. Understandably – that was the way they played with their clubs. Scholesy would rather have had the diamond, because he was getting frustrated out on the left, but he went with the flow. The meeting was cordial, and Steve promised to raise our concerns with Sven. In the papers the next morning, it said we had summoned McClaren to a meeting and told him which system we wanted. The normal accusations of ‘player power’ were levelled at the team. Nonsense. Steve listened to us and, in the end, we went with the flat four that suited us best. That was good management by Sven and Steve.

  Sven kept faith with the same players, apart from John Terry returning from injury in place of Ledley King. Spurs’ strong centre-half had done well against France, but JT is a formidable competitor. He had to start. No-one knew it, but I was a doubt for the game. Against France, I had put the wrong padding on a blister. Sweat loosened the padding, rubbed the blister raw and opened up a hole on the ball of my foot. The doc gave me an injection to numb the pain for a couple of hours, simply to get me through the game. Needles don’t worry me. I’ll do anything to get on the pitch. I couldn’t let the team down, especially after my cock-up against France.

  Sven was good before the match. ‘Just play like you did for eighty-nine minutes against France,’ he said. ‘Build on that.’ Wayne certainly did. He was unstoppable, his confidence boosted by positive headlines about him after the French game. He charged out and destroyed the Swiss, scoring after twenty-three minutes. I was amazed how he kept sprinting about in the heat. I have never endured hotter conditions. At 48ºC in the shade, breathing became difficult, let alone sprinting. After ten minutes I wondered whether I would survive. My head was pounding, heart racing and legs slowing. ‘Keep the ball,’ I shouted to the other players. We couldn’t afford to give away cheap possession, or go chasing shadows. Every break in play, the staff threw us water-bottles. At half-time, there were ice-baths in the dressing-room. ‘It will cool your muscles down,’ said Gary Lewin, the physio. I stripped off and leapt in. I almost froze my balls off!

  Refreshed, we tore into the Swiss after the break, Wayne adding another. Inevitably, tiredness began taking its toll, so Sven sent Owen Hargreaves on for Scholesy, and moved me to the left. With eight minutes left, we broke down the right, and I had enough legs to get into the box and finish the move off. Three goals, three points and a big win, particularly for me. I sweated my French mistake out of my system against Switzerland.

  Victory was made the sweeter by the disgraceful behaviour of the Swiss striker, Alexander Frei. After colliding at a corner, we exchanged a few short, sharp words of disagreement, and as Frei turned away he spat at me. He missed, but I knew. I saw his neck muscles clench, his lips open and this stream of phlegm coming past my face. I never reacted; I concentrated more on the corner. After that, I got on with the game. Unluckily for Frei, his gobbing was spotted by television.

  As I changed after the match, an FA official said, ‘Frei has been caught on camera spitting at you. What do you
want to say about it?’

  ‘I don’t want to say anything about it,’ I replied. ‘I’d rather forget about it.’

  The next day, I was asked again. UEFA, the tournament organizers, were in touch and were adamant I commented on the incident. ‘Did Frei spit at you?’ they asked.

  ‘Yes,’ I replied.

  I prefer things to remain on the pitch, but I could hardly lie. Frei deserved his ban. Anyway, I was furious. Spitting’s degrading. I would rather be butted than spat at. Tosser.

  We were really firing by now, and Croatia stood no chance at the Stadium of Light on 21 June. Wazza, England’s new super-hero, struck twice as we took them apart 4–2. Our French mess forgotten, we kept piling forward, committing too many bodies to attack at times. Sometimes it was just the four defenders and me left behind to deal with the Croatian counters. It was crazy, pell-mell football, end to end, probably fantastic to watch, yet back in the dressing-room the coaching staff were concerned about the goals we conceded. ‘We were overrun at times,’ said McClaren. It was worrying. Against better finishers than Croatia, we would get caught out. Concern tempered our celebrations at qualifying for the quarter-finals. Three days to recover. Barely enough time to feel the life seep back into my legs. Exhaustion stalked me.

  Portugal blocked the road to the semis. Some road-block: the hosts, the only team with bigger support than England, the team of Cristiano Ronaldo and Luis Figo. Ronaldo was all slick skill at speed, the king of step-overs, really loving his time in the limelight. He overdoes the tricks at times, but he’s a nightmare to deal with because of the way he races through the gears. Figo was a different animal, slower, stealthier, but similarly capable of opening up any defence. I thought I knew everything about the great Figo – technique, pure class on the ball – but I didn’t realize how strong he was. My impression of him was formed largely by the telly: I felt he was a top-of-the-range showboater who got fouled a lot and wasn’t that tough. When I tried to hound him around the Stadium of Light, I quickly learned he is physically strong, a hard man to dispossess. Whack Figo, he comes back for more. Whack him again, he gets up and runs back at you. Figo possesses the quality I call moral courage. Even when he’s battered and bruised, he has the heart to keep going. What a legend. We knew we had to nail Figo and Ronaldo. If England stopped Portugal’s creative forces, we had enough attacking threat of our own to hurt them. We had Rooney. We had Owen.

  By the end of the Croatia match, me and a few others were trying to set up Michael, because he still hadn’t scored, which was surprising. When Michael notched one, I knew he would net a dozen. When Michael is off and running with goals, his confidence soars; he would give us the goals to win the tournament. What impressed all the lads about Michael is that he was never down. Not Michael. Never. Even if he’s suffering a bit of a drought, Michael always believes a goal is a second away, a corner away, a loose ball away. Less than three minutes after kick-off in the Portugal match, Michael scored. Brilliant. Great for him, and for us. That, surely, was the catalyst for England to go on and win the game. The last four beckoned. This was it, I felt; nothing could stop us now. A winner’s medal glinted on the horizon.

  Suddenly, bang, the wind was ripped from our sails. Chasing the ball with typical hunger, Wayne ended up with a broken metatarsal. As he limped away, I swore out loud. ‘Shit!’ Losing Wayne was a massive blow. And when I saw Sven sending on Darius Vassell to take Wayne’s place, I was surprised, bordering on shocked. There is no question that Darius is a good striker, but he is far too similar to Michael. Nippy ball-chasers, Michael and Darius both like to sprint in behind defenders. ‘They’ll make identical runs,’ I thought to myself. ‘We are seriously up against it here.’ Sven should have gone for big Emile, who blends well with Michael, giving us more of a balanced front-line. Portugal were always going to be lifted by the sight of Wazza going off, so they were bound to come strong and pressurize us. We desperately needed an out ball. Emile could have done that. He is a great target-man for us. The ball can be pumped long to Emile, who can hold it up and give us time to get out. I don’t know whether Emile’s costly challenge against France was held against him by Sven. One thing I do know is that England would have been stronger had Emile come on rather than Darius. No offence to Darius, it is just that this was a job screaming out for Emile.

  Portugal gained in confidence and possession. Ronaldo kept getting the ball. Ashley Cole kept tackling him or sending him down blind alleys. Manchester United versus Arsenal – a game within a game, a top battle. Lightning-quick wingers like Ronaldo can destroy full-backs. Not Ashley. I have never got to know Ashley too well because he sticks with his own group of people around the England hotel, but I can see he has every quality a world-class full-back needs. His touch is good, he’s brilliant going forward, and he’s really aggressive for his size. Because he naturally plays as a left-winger, Ashley is perfect for England. He allows the left midfielder to move inside, which was a relief for Scholesy. It was no surprise Ashley did so well at Euro 2004. He didn’t give Ronaldo a yard. Maybe he was stirred up because Ronaldo plays for United, and Arsenal and United loathe each other. For me, this was the night when Ashley became the best left-back in the world.

  Portugal tried other attacking avenues. I was tiring fast, chasing Figo and Deco around, putting out fires, sweat pouring from me. Cramp ram-raided my body. My muscles just locked, seized up. No more. No movement. Three games in quick succession caught up with me. My fitness wasn’t tip-top, I’ll admit now. Those blisters prevented me training fully. With nine minutes remaining of normal time, I hobbled off, replaced by Owen Hargreaves. Two minutes later, Helder Postiga headed an equalizer. Yet England still could have won it in normal time. Sol rose for a corner, and headed the ball in. ‘Goal!’ we all screamed on the bench, leaping up in celebration. Then Urs Meier, the Swiss ref, blew for a foul, apparently for JT on Portugal’s keeper Ricardo.

  Bollocks. I shouted at the TV boys who were nearby, ‘Was it a goal?’

  ‘Yes,’ they replied. ‘Nothing wrong with that.’

  The ITV and BBC lads had the monitor. They could see JT hadn’t impeded Ricardo. What the hell was Meier thinking? I felt cheated. All the England players felt cheated. Meier screwed up big-time. A proper ref like Collina would have given it. He understands that contact is inevitable in a crowded goalmouth. Meier didn’t. Poor Sol, who was also denied a similar goal at France 98. Poor England, too. Extra time beckoned. Rui Costa and Frank exchanged goals and it was off to penalties.

  Watching from the bench, I felt confident. I looked at the two keepers, Jamo and Ricardo, and felt we had the edge. First up for us was Becks. Dead cert, I thought. This will fly in. No problem. In training, Becks is frighteningly accurate. He stepped up. Disaster. Becks slipped as he went in, the turf coming away as he planted down his left foot before he hit the ball with his right. Off-balance, he never made the right connection and missed. It is a risk Becks takes with his penalties. He goes in at an angle with his left foot so he can get full power and whip with his right. No blame could be attached to Becks. He just lost his footing. The Stadium of Light pitch was really greasy, and if the turf moves you are in serious trouble. No wonder they relaid the penalty spot after the game.

  But we were still in it. Michael, Frank, JT and Hargreaves stuck their pens away, and Rui Costa obligingly missed his. When JT came back, he said, ‘Lucky! I mishit it!’ The tension intensified.

  Sudden death arrived. Volunteers were needed. Sven already had the names of his remaining takers, some of them, I suspect, unwilling candidates. Ashley took responsibility, and stepped up to score. Postiga made it 5–5. The pressure was unbearable. Sven had asked Darius, ‘Do you want a penalty?’ Darius had declined. Fair enough. I could see he had no confidence in himself to take a penalty. Sven was looking round for anyone to take a kick. Anyone? Sol, Gary Neville and Phil Neville were available, but it needed a striker, someone who knew where the net was. It had to be Darius.

  Poor kid. He w
as a bag of nerves, clearly dreading the thought of walking up with the eyes of the world on him. He missed, and no wonder. Psychologically, he was a mess. Advantage Portugal. They, too, were running out of players, but no-one expected them to send Ricardo into action. A keeper! ‘What the fuck are they doing?’ I said. We couldn’t believe it. I didn’t fancy his chances. A keeper, taking a penalty, against Jamo? ‘Cocky twats,’ I said. Ricardo, carrying the expectations of all Portugal, turned, calmly ran in, and swept the ball past Jamo. Great pen.

  My heart immediately went out to Darius. Shootouts always produce scapegoats, but we couldn’t blame Darius for England going out of Euro 2004. ‘It wasn’t your fault, Darius,’ I told him. ‘We just didn’t do enough in the ninety minutes or extra time.’ None of the players pointed the finger at Darius. If Meier had been a decent ref and not bottled a big decision in front of the hosts’ fans, England would have been through to the semis. Our defeat was Meier’s fault more than Darius’s or Becks’s. The press snipers had a pop at Becks. Typical. But Becks cannot rescue England every time. Sven got some stick too, with the usual hail of criticism of ‘Why don’t England practise penalties?’ None of us expected the match to go the distance. Sven’s decision not to order practice sessions didn’t surprise me. A player can convert ten out of ten pens in an empty training ground and then fall to pieces walking towards the spot in a packed stadium. The goal goes smaller, the keeper grows bigger.

  England failed. We let the fans down. I let the fans down. They spent shed-loads travelling to Portugal, forking out fortunes to acquire match tickets, and they expected England to go further than the last eight. I’m sorry. We should have done better. The truth was that England were knackered at Euro 2004. ‘If only we had got through,’ I told Michael, ‘we would have had a good rest before the semis.’ Everyone was tired. A long, hard season took a terrible toll.