Chelsea’s pursuit quickened. The vibes I got off all the Chelsea lads at the Solplay was that Mourinho wanted me big-time. ‘Jose really likes you,’ they kept saying with a smile whenever I saw them. John Terry also told me, ‘Claudio Ranieri wanted you before.’ Now Mourinho had replaced Ranieri and their interest seemed even stronger. Chelsea definitely excited me. I cannot deny that. Mourinho is special, a top manager. Chelsea also boasted class players like Lamps and JT. They were going places. No question. The massive wages they were supposedly offering wasn’t the issue for me. Silverware, not cash, sets my adrenalin going. Dazzled by the idea of trophies, I looked long and jealously at Chelsea. I envied Lamps going for the Premiership. I wanted a bit of that.
I rang Struan. ‘How serious are Chelsea?’ I asked him.
Struan checked out and reported back. ‘You were top of a short-list under Ranieri, and you are top of it under Mourinho,’ he said.
The papers claimed I talked to Mourinho and Chelsea’s chief executive, Peter Kenyon, but that was bullshit. What was true was that things were moving fast. Kenyon faxed Parry a bid for £20 million, adding that it was in everyone’s interest to get the deal over with quickly. Mourinho said, ‘I will wait for Stevie with open arms.’ I didn’t have a clue what was happening. Chelsea made their offer because they suspected Liverpool were short of cash. A new manager would need funds to bring in his players, so Chelsea hoped Liverpool would be tempted to sell me and give the money to Rafa. Chelsea knew I had not been happy at Liverpool. I had gone public a few times about the fact that Liverpool must challenge for major honours, and we weren’t. A club of Liverpool’s standing and history should not be scrabbling around nicking points in the last week of the season to scrape into the Champions League. The situation was far from satisfactory. Chelsea wanted to test Liverpool. Would Rick crack? Did Rafa want the money? Throughout Euro 2004, I was waiting for my phone to ring and to hear Struan say, ‘Liverpool have accepted a bid for you.’
The speculation worsened. One paper claimed I sent a text to Mourinho after we lost to Portugal in the quarters, saying I was looking forward to joining Chelsea. Bullshit. Another paper said my family received death threats from Liverpool fans incensed I was even thinking of moving to Chelsea. Bullshit, again. No texts, no death threats, just a lot of soul-searching and talks with my family. My dad, a passionate Liverpool fan, said, ‘Steven, you are not going anywhere. I don’t want you to go.’ Paul agreed. ‘Stay,’ said my brother. ‘Benitez will sort it out.’ Both Dad and Paul understood my frustration at finishing thirty points off the Premiership leaders, and off the pace in Europe, but I listened to them and to my heart and came to one conclusion: I couldn’t leave Liverpool. My roots went too deep.
On 28 June, I rang Rick. ‘I’m definitely staying,’ I told him, ‘but I need signs we are strengthening and improving.’
‘We will be,’ Rick promised.
16
The Long and Winding Road to Istanbul
RICK WAS TRUE to his word. Liverpool chased Xabi Alonso, who I knew was a decent player. Real Madrid were also pursuing Real Sociedad’s playmaking midfielder, but he wanted to work with Benitez. Within twenty minutes of Xabi’s first training session at Melwood, I thought to myself, ‘Top signing. Pure class. Touch, vision, the creative works.’ I looked forward to playing alongside him.
Another arrival was Djibril Cissé, from Auxerre, a signing put in motion by Gérard Houllier. I was still on my break, recovering after the Euros, when my phone shook to a text from Danny Murphy: ‘You should have seen Cissé in training today. Unbelievable. Never seen anything like it. Frightening. He scored this spectacular overhead kick.’ When I raced back into Melwood, the players were still banging on about the goal. Excitement was in the air, and I breathed it in deeply, big lungfuls of optimism. ‘I’m up for this season,’ I thought. Then I watched Cissé in training. Problem.
Cissé is a decent finisher, but more of a powerful striker than a poacher. He is nowhere near as prolific as Michael. He’s different in many ways to Michael. Cissé looks a bit weird because he changes his appearance every two minutes, but inside he’s a really nice bloke. Liverpool gave him the number 9 shirt, so as I was number 8 we sat next to each other in the dressing-room. I got to know him. The main thing about Cissé is that to do well, he needs encouragement. Now and then, a captain like me has to put his arm around players like Cissé to pick their confidence up, particularly when they are left out of the team. Cissé gets down a lot.
Our new Frenchman must have known he could never replace Michael. Before our Champions League qualifier at Graz in Austria on 10 August 2004, I noticed Michael was quiet, distracted. ‘That’s unlike Michael,’ I thought to myself. ‘He’s usually buzzing with banter.’ What the hell was up with my mate? All the papers carried stories about Michael’s future, but it was surely just the routine, page-filling speculation. No way would Liverpool sell Michael, one of our top players. No chance would they let him go. Michael was as much a part of Liverpool as the Kop and the Shankly Gates. This Is Anfield; this is where Michael Owen works. For ever. Something was definitely up, though. Michael seemed lost in his own thoughts, so I never pried. The alarm bells really began ringing when I noticed Benitez dragging Michael into a corner before the Graz game. They spoke, and the next thing I know Michael is on the bloody bench. That’s it. He’s definitely off. If Michael played, he would be ineligible for any other side in Europe that season. Benitez protected Michael’s market value. The next moment, Real Madrid called and Michael was off to the Bernabeu. Bang, bang – just like that.
I was heartbroken. For me, Michael was the best striker in the history of Liverpool Football Club. Goals, work-rate, stamina, speed, intelligent movement and toughness – Michael possessed all the qualities that define the world’s leading forwards. Now he was gone. Shit. My career had been so intertwined with Michael’s. I’d lost a fantastic team-mate, a striker whose runs I could pick out in my sleep. When Michael left Anfield, a part of me left with him. Michael is a friend, a man who always gives me honest advice, and I still miss him badly.
For all my frustration, though, I understood the situation. If Michael had been unwilling to go, I would have felt let down by Liverpool. Michael went because he was offered a fabulous opportunity. Real Madrid! The all-white strip. The Galacticos. Ninety thousand fans. The history. The challenge of another league. Some temptation! We’d talked in the past, and he’d often told me, ‘Stevie, I dream of playing abroad.’ When Real announced Michael was joining them, I sent him a text: ‘I’m really happy you got the move you wanted. All the best.’ I hid how gutted I was. But I was dying to add a couple of lines at the bottom of the text, saying, ‘You prick! What are you going off for?’ When I then flicked on the TV and saw Michael run out all in white, playing for another team, racing on to another midfielder’s passes, I felt slightly betrayed. But I wished him luck.
Another top team-mate and friend soon disappeared: Danny Murphy. A new manager had come in to Anfield and I was losing all my mates! I never blamed Liverpool nor Benitez for Michael going. Real Madrid were too big a lure for Michael. But I was surprised they let Danny go. Why? On our pre-season tour in America, Liverpool’s press officer Ian Cotton showed me some cuttings of the British papers and Benitez was talking up Danny, saying how well he had played and what an intelligent player he was to have in the squad. No hint of a sale there. The next minute Danny was gone, sold to Charlton Athletic. Another blow to me. Danny and I shared a room on trips, so I took his departure really personally. I enjoyed chatting to Danny. He was one of the many reasons why life at Liverpool was so special. Now he was out the building. My good mate Michael was gone; my best mate Danny was gone. What the fuck was happening?
I rang Struan. ‘I seriously wonder how we are going to cope without Michael and Danny, Stru,’ I said. ‘Danny scored eight goals last season, Michael got nineteen. Where are our goals going to come from?’
As usual, Struan calmed me down, telling me
to be patient. ‘Benitez is building,’ he explained. ‘Give him time.’
Liverpool made a lot of money from selling Michael and Danny, so that would help Benitez bring in some talent. And my belief in Benitez was strong. ‘Come on,’ I told myself, ‘quit fretting and get on with the season.’
I still had Carra, Didi and John Arne Riise in my group. Didi is a German Scouser, spot-on, a top friend. Riise is another I get on really well with. Yet soon after arriving, Benitez set about breaking up the cliques. Our new Spanish leader called us together at Melwood and said, ‘From now on, you must change your table every time you eat. Get to know people you don’t know or you will be out. And when we travel, your room-mate will change every trip.’ I saw where Benitez was coming from: having everyone eating at the same table and rotating rooms was good for team spirit. But life was difficult under Benitez at first. Back then, his English wasn’t great. As his grip on our language improved, so did my relationship with him. For a while, though, communication between staff and players at Liverpool was poor. The atmosphere changed, hardened in a way from Gérard’s days.
Benitez was very different to Gérard – chalk and cheese. Gérard was really close to his players; at times, it felt like having a father overseeing training. He was a kind character, more of a man-manager than Benitez. Our new boss just focused on training, preparing us for games. Benitez is friendly, but I am not sure he is that interested in players as people. He rarely communicates with us on a personal basis. We are cogs in a machine for Benitez. Fair enough, I’ve no problem with that. We’re all professionals. Benitez’s task is to win games, not popularity contests. Someone once asked me, ‘Is Benitez a warm person?’ ‘No,’ I replied. ‘Definitely not.’ All that matters to Benitez is football. To Benitez, I am Steven Gerrard, footballer and LFC employee, not Steven Gerrard, flesh and blood, thoughts and emotions. The boss is obsessed with football. Any conversation with Benitez is football, football, football. Matches, tactics, players. He rarely passes me in the corridor at Melwood and enquires, ‘How’s the family? How’s the new house?’ For Benitez, my life revolves around only Anfield and Melwood. Not home. Not my family. This is not a criticism of him. However much I may prefer the human touch, I cannot question the success of Benitez’s methods.
At Graz, after Benitez finished talking to Michael, he called me across to explain a few things. Here we go, he’s going to fill me in on what’s up with Michael. But nothing. Just tactics. Was it not my business that Michael could be off? Apparently not. The gaffer just wanted to talk about my role against Graz. ‘Steven, I want you to get into the box all the time,’ said Benitez. ‘That’s how I want you to play all season. Box, box, box. We have Didi in who is really defensive. I’m bringing Xabi in, who likes to get on the ball and play. I want you to get up and link with the forwards.’
In all the uncertainty, Liverpool needed me to deliver. After my flirtation with Chelsea in the summer, I knew when I ran out against Graz that Liverpool’s fans would be watching me like hawks, checking my body language closely. Is Stevie G committed? Is he still distracted by all the speculation that ruined his Euro 2004? Many questions needed answering in the Schwarzenegger Stadium that night. So I launched into an allaction performance to stress how much I wanted to wear that Liverpool shirt. I ripped into Graz, scoring midway through the first half. Rafa’s plan was working: I bombed on, linked up with Cissé and caused real damage. With twenty-five minutes to go, Rafa signalled for me to push further up, playing just off Cissé. Never before had I done a striking job for Liverpool. Loved it. Brilliant. I netted another. I actually scored three goals, but one was disallowed – ridiculously in my eyes. I was absolutely devastated. Cissé tried an overhead kick just as I completed my hat-trick, and the referee gave a foul. What a joke. I wasn’t happy. Denied my first hat-trick!
Liverpool lost the second leg 1–0 at Anfield, but so what? We were up and running, qualified for the Champions League group stage, back with the big boys again. Istanbul, the venue for the final, seemed a million miles away, though. The Turkish city was never in our thoughts in the autumn of 2004. Nor in our dreams. No-one thought it could be Liverpool’s year. Pundits and bookmakers ignored us. ‘Let’s just get in the groups and see what happens,’ I told Carra. ‘Let’s get up against some great sides. That’s when the serious stuff starts.’ And the smiles. I watched the draw with a massive grin on my face. The Champions League is like an exclusive club, and Liverpool were members again. Bring it on. Group A pitted Liverpool against three decent sides, teams I respected. Monaco boasted attackers like Javier Saviola and Emanuel Adebayor. Olympiakos had Rivaldo and Giovanni. Juan Valerón and Diego Tristán still lurked at Deportivo La Coruña. Liverpool stumbled through the group, managing only victories over Monaco at home and La Coruña away, with a point against the Spanish at Anfield. No fluency. No real finishing edge. People continued to write us off.
Our final Group A tie against Olympiakos on 8 December was effectively a play-off. We needed to win 1–0, or by two clear goals. Inevitably, Anfield crackled with atmosphere at kick-off. Kopites were in good voice, and good heart. Even when other supporters give up, Liverpool fans always believe. Like those of us preparing for battle in the dressing-room, the Kop knew we couldn’t afford any mistakes. ‘We cannot give away a goal,’ I said to Carra before we went out. ‘If we slip up once, we’ll have a mountain to climb.’ The quality of the Champions League is so good, it’s difficult to score one, let alone three. Logic suggests such comebacks don’t happen. For Liverpool, though, this was the year of mocking logic, of classic comebacks.
Sure enough, Rivaldo scored, setting us a daunting mission. The Brazilian had not seemed a massive threat. He was in the twilight of a glittering career, going through the motions. This was not the Rivaldo whom I’d tried to mark when Barcelona beat us 3–1 at Anfield three years earlier. Rivaldo was frightening that night. Now, playing for Olympiakos, he wasn’t on the ball so much. His body language spoke of a man scratching around for motivation, his famous creative strengths clearly fading. The Brazilian certainly should never have scored. His free-kick went over our wall and sailed into the middle of our goal. Our keeper, Chris Kirkland, came sprinting out and blamed the wall. Bollocks. I was in that wall, and if a ball goes in the middle of the goal, it’s the bloody keeper’s fault. Fact. Frustration got the better of me and I was cautioned for kicking out after the ball had gone. Fuck. I’m out of the next game, I realized. Stupid yellow. Stupid goal. I get on really well with Kirky, but it was time for a bollocking. ‘Your mistake,’ I pointed out to him at the break. Then I cooled down. ‘We must stick together if we are going to turn this mess around,’ I told myself. There was no point in shredding the confidence of a young keeper. ‘Forget about it, Kirky,’ I said. ‘We’ll get the goals back.’
That season in Europe, Liverpool encountered a few crisis points, and Olympiakos was certainly one of them. The fact that our problems came in the first half at least gave us the opportunity to regroup at the break, clear the air, fill our lungs, and let the boss organize the great escape. After I had my say with Kirky, Benitez took control. He was calm. Straight away, the tactics board came out. He stood there, detailing the changes, making us more attacking. His half-time messages are always simple, always easily understood. ‘No mistakes at the back,’ Benitez stressed on this occasion. ‘Let’s have a go. We have forty-five minutes to stay in Europe. Go and show me how much you want to stay in Europe. Go and show the fans. Olympiakos are not the best side. Chances will come. If we don’t make another mistake at the back, we can win.’
Benitez’s substitutions changed the game. One of the gaffer’s many strengths is that he genuinely has a magic touch with subs. ‘Djimi off, Florent on,’ he said. Three at the back – brave! Pongolle’s impact was immediate. Released by Kewell, Pongolle poached a close-ranger after two minutes and spent the rest of the match terrorizing the Greeks, stretching them and opening space for the rest of us. Pongolle’s a super-sub. When this Fre
nch kid started, he never produced the goods, but unleash him from the bench and he is transformed into a far more effective weapon. His energy and pace hurt teams, particularly when he runs in behind them.
Pongolle’s goal changed the atmosphere. After Rivaldo scored, the mood went flat. Certain parts of Anfield had presumed that was that – game over. Pongolle’s goal brought hope. The fans were right behind us, screaming as we chased every ball, every chance. People who have been around Anfield for many years described it as the best atmosphere since Liverpool beat St-Etienne in 1977. With the Kop at fever pitch, we laid siege to Olympiakos. Still we couldn’t break through. With twelve minutes left, Benitez waved his wand again. He hooked Milan Baros, sent on Neil Mellor, and told us to bombard the Greeks. Like Pongolle, Mellor made his mark sharpish. He was buzzing around, full of confidence, determined to batter Olympiakos’s defence. Within three minutes, he made it 2–1 with a typical goal, a loose ball lashed in from close range. No finesse, just raw power in the finish. Mellor doesn’t do much in and around the box, but he scores goals. He’s done it for the reserves for years. Two goals from two subs! When I look back on that amazing season in Europe, I never forget the contribution of Pongolle and Mellor that night against the Greeks. They grafted hard, making us play with a higher tempo. Olympiakos couldn’t control us.
Gerrard: My Autobiography Page 28