Gerrard: My Autobiography

by Steven Gerrard

  I spoke to my family and to Struan, just to see if they could throw up a clue over why Liverpool were going cold after months of being warm to me. No-one could understand it. Was it just part of their negotiating tactics? Liverpool sounded positive in public. On 19 June, Rafa was all over the papers, announcing, ‘I am not in favour of selling Steven Gerrard.’ Five days later, I picked up the papers to read Rick saying, ‘We want Steven to stay. There is no delay on his contract.’

  The speculation revved up again. Real Madrid were heavily tipped to buy me. Swap deals were mentioned – me for Guti, plus money. Guti is a Real midfielder admired by Rafa, understandably so because he’s good. I read the piece. No smoke without fire. By chance, I’d met Guti on a beach in Spain that summer. I was on holiday, saw him and strolled over to say hello out of respect. A picture was taken, it ended up in the papers, and people speculated I was off to Real. Crap. That photograph meant nothing to any intelligent football watcher. It was just two footballers saying ‘hi’.

  The Real stories persisted. I considered the Boss’s links with Real Madrid, where he had been youth coach, and I began wondering. Spanish papers were crammed with stories about Real’s interest. Bernabeu’s president at the time, Florentino Perez, talked about me being Real’s new ‘galactico’. Flattering. What angered me was one story in Madrid claiming I had already told Rafa I fancied a move to the Bernabeu. Bullshit. Complete bullshit. Truth was the first casualty in the feeding frenzy among newspapers in Spain and England.

  My mind went into complete meltdown when Rafa was quoted in the Spanish papers saying, ‘I don’t want star names. I want to sell.’ I snapped. I fronted up the Boss on what was being said in the Spanish press. Man to man, face to face. Come on, talk.

  ‘Listen, do you want to sell me?’ I asked him.

  ‘No,’ Rafa replied. ‘Do you want to go?’

  I looked at Rafa in astonishment. How could the Boss say that after what we’d been through in Istanbul?

  I walked out and called Struan. ‘Jesus, Struan, is Rafa waiting for me to push off? Does he want me to say I want to go? What the fuck are Liverpool playing at?’

  Paranoia kicked in. Liverpool were broke, they needed the dosh, they wanted me out to fund Rafa’s rebuilding. I couldn’t think straight. More stories from Madrid. ‘Real ready to swoop.’ Once again, I challenged the Boss over all the noises in the Spanish media. ‘It’s your agent leaking things,’ Rafa claimed. He blamed Struan for the pieces in the English press, but all the stories in the English media came from Spain. Someone in Liverpool was helping the Spanish papers, whose headlines were then re-run over here. Too many bloody games were going on over my future. I was livid.

  Amid all the chaos, on Monday, 27 June, just over one month after Istanbul, Struan and Rick arranged to meet. At last. Surely now we’d come to an agreement. Surely now all the speculation would end. Struan walked into the meeting expecting an improved offer. After all, Liverpool had had enough time to draw up a deal. I waited at home, full of relief that the wheels were finally in motion. I gripped my mobile in my hand, poised to answer at any moment a call from a delighted Struan. I could already hear him talking me through how committed Liverpool were to me and how an agreement had been reached. Just a signature, and on we go. Bliss.

  I waited and waited. When Struan finally phoned, his voice was studded with frustration. ‘There’s no deal on the table,’ Struan said. ‘Liverpool first want to know what we are after.’

  Bollocks. It was up to Liverpool to make the first move.

  The following day, Tuesday, Rafa called me into his office at Melwood and put a blank piece of A4 paper in front of me. ‘There you are, Steven,’ he said. ‘Write down on there what you want.’

  I was shocked. A quickfire exchange took place.

  ‘No,’ I replied.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You want me to say what I want? That’s why I have an agent.’

  Rafa looked at me coldly. ‘I don’t like agents.’

  ‘But you have an agent, Boss. Did you do your own contract with Rick, or did your agent do it?’

  ‘My agent.’

  ‘With all due respect, Boss, that’s what I have got an agent for, too. I just want to concentrate on my football. I have never talked to a manager about my contract before. That’s my agent’s job.’ I felt it was unprofessional of the Boss. I was pretty steamed up. ‘You are putting me on the spot, Boss. My agent knows exactly what we are after. We thought you would have an improved offer for us.’

  Rafa didn’t reply immediately. After leaving a long pause hanging heavily between us, he finally said, ‘We’ll have to wait and see.’

  That week, the tension between me and Liverpool doubled by the day. Throughout the week I read more headlines like ‘Benitez Might Want to Cash In on Gerrard’, and more speculation about what Chelsea would pay me – £110,000 a week, £120,000. I just wanted to sign a decent deal at Liverpool and stay. Sensing my darkening mood, Struan was keen to break the deadlock. On 29 June, he contacted Liverpool again and indicated what we were looking for in terms of wages. ‘It’s very reasonable,’ Struan pointed out to Rick. ‘There are only twenty top players in the world and they get somewhere between these two figures.’ The figures usually spoken about are between £90,000 and £120,000 a week. ‘Stevie and I are asking towards the bottom figure,’ Struan continued. ‘If we went somewhere else, we’d ask for the higher figure.’ It seemed fair. I was not holding the club I love to ransom. In fact, staying at Liverpool wouldn’t have meant a massive difference to the wages I was already on. As all the papers reported, I was already making between £70,000 and £80,000 a week, depending on appearances, and now I was looking for £100,000. I had helped Liverpool win the European Cup, which gave us a chance of playing in the competition the following season, and that was worth a fortune to Liverpool. Anyway, other clubs were apparently going to offer me a stack more.

  Rick acknowledged that our parameters for a top player’s wages were fair. He also agreed that what I was looking for was towards the bottom end of the top players’ scale. ‘Give me a couple of days,’ he replied. ‘I will go and speak to the chairman and the board.’

  ‘Good,’ I told Struan. ‘Surely Liverpool will sort it out now? Surely they will offer close to that figure and I can sign and the mess will end?’

  Any minute I expected a call from Struan to tell me that Rick had been on, everything was sorted, deal done, and all it required was my signature. Sadly, silence reigned again. Each day I went into Melwood and told Rafa, ‘You can put a stop to all this shit. I am not enjoying it. I will stay if you give me the contract.’ I wasn’t confrontational. I admit my relationship with Benitez for that week was strained, but it never got out of hand or aggressive. Stories of a fall-out were bollocks. No slanging matches stained our relationship. A few discussions between me and the boss got heated, but not bitter. For all our differences over this contract, I respected the Boss immensely. He was frustrated as well.

  ‘Steven, I am not enjoying picking up the papers and reading all this speculation,’ he told me. ‘It’s Real Madrid. They are trying to stir it. They want you.’

  ‘To be honest, Boss, if Liverpool want me, tell Rick to call Struan sharpish. I’m not interested in what gets said in the Spanish papers. What interests me is getting my future sorted out, one way or the other.’

  ‘If this delay by Liverpool goes on any longer,’ I thought, ‘I may have to leave.’ The prospect hit me like a hammer-blow. Leave Liverpool? Yes, it was possible. The door out of Anfield was opened by Liverpool’s hesitation: I inched towards the door. On 1 July, Struan called Rick. ‘Stevie wants to go,’ Struan said. ‘I need a few more days,’ Rick replied.

  Carra’s wedding was later that Friday. I went, and was dead pleased to see how happy Carra looked. A good party, all his mates, and not a care in the world. I felt like I had the cares of the world on my shoulders. All the lads came up and asked me what was going on with Liverpool. ‘It’s
all in the board’s hands now,’ I replied.

  We still didn’t have an answer from Liverpool by the weekend. Nothing. I was at breaking point. On the Saturday, I went into Melwood to see Rafa. As positive meetings go, this was a two out of ten.

  ‘I’m not greedy, Boss,’ I told Benitez when he queried my wage demands. ‘I just want to be paid what other top midfielders are across Europe. It’s the going rate, Boss.’

  ‘Steven, I want to keep you,’ he said. ‘You can be one of the top players in the world. But you have got bad people advising you. Your friends, family, whoever is advising you is wrong.’

  I resented that because I trust Struan with my life, let alone my finances. ‘Come on, Boss, you can phone Rick now and ask, “Are we giving Steven Gerrard a new contract or not?”’

  No response.

  I’d had enough. As the weekend wore on with no word from Liverpool, Struan and I decided to break off contract negotiations. We were getting nowhere. Struan took a call from an agent asking if I had resigned. ‘The answer is no,’ he replied. Chelsea took that as enough of a signal for them to have a go. On the Monday, with all the papers full of me heading out of Anfield, Chelsea made their move, faxing Liverpool an offer for me.

  My head was in turmoil. On television, I listened to Benitez talking at a press conference to announce the signing of Bolo Zenden. All the questions were about me. ‘I’d like Steven to keep playing for us for the next eight years, and there could be a role for him beyond that,’ Rafa told the cameras. ‘He could perhaps become manager after I leave.’ I didn’t believe that bit about me becoming boss, but I was impressed with Rafa’s sincerity when he said he wanted me to stay. ‘Maybe the boss does want to keep me after all,’ I thought. But really, I just didn’t know what to think. I was in that bad a state – worried, stressed, head all over the place.

  A ray of light then appeared. Liverpool’s brilliant chairman, David Moores, called a meeting at Melwood on that Monday afternoon. I know how much the chairman cares for me as a person, and as a footballer. Mr Moores had become concerned by the stand-off between Liverpool’s captain and the club. So he decided to intervene. The chairman, me, Struan, Rafa and Rick sat around the table and talked through the situation. Nothing was agreed, but I came out feeling better. As I got into the car, I said to Struan: ‘Maybe they do want to keep me’. I began blaming myself about the way I had been thinking. I felt guilty. I thought Liverpool wanted me out, but this meeting in Melwood gave me a different impression of the club’s intentions. I still wasn’t sure.

  A momentum had built up, though. It became madder. The papers went crazy over Chelsea’s interest. ‘£32 million!’ screamed Tuesday’s headlines. When it all kicked off, Rick hurriedly called Struan and said, ‘That offer is still there. Sorry it took so long. It’s there.’

  Were they for real? I just didn’t know any more with Liverpool. Were Liverpool talking about a new contract just to keep the fans onside while they flogged me to Chelsea? I had to know, so I decided to force their hand. I rang Struan. ‘Struan, I’m going to find out whether they want to sell me. Put in a transfer request.’ Struan phoned Liverpool. ‘Take this call as a transfer request,’ Struan told them. ‘We will back it up in writing if you need us to. But this is it.’ Bang. In went the transfer request, a hand-grenade rolled into the Liverpool boardroom.

  That Tuesday, 5 July, was mental, the longest, hardest, most emotional day of my life. Action was required. I was sick of all the speculation in the papers, sick of getting pulled into Benitez’s office, sick of waiting on Liverpool for an answer on the new contract. I was annoyed with Liverpool for waiting so long after I told them in Istanbul I wanted to stay. I remembered all the confusion at Euro 2004. Not going through any more of that. A transfer request will shake Liverpool into life.

  It was supposed to sort things out, but Liverpool immediately made my request public. Rick had to. He had to be fair to the fans. Madness broke out. I sat at home, my phone in one hand and the TV remote control in the other, staring transfixed as the drama played itself out on Sky. I was the main actor, yet there I was, sitting dazed at home, watching all these people and pundits debating me and my future. When I saw fans burning an old GERRARD number 17 shirt by the Shankly Gates, it did my head in. Fuck off. Show some respect. Don’t you know how this is tearing me apart? My phone melted under the calls. ‘Don’t worry,’ someone said. ‘They’re only doing it because the Sky cameras are there.’ That was the rumour. Anything was possible now. The world was going mad.

  I called Dad and Paul. ‘Can you get over here, please?’ I pleaded. They raced round. We went into my bedroom and talked for twenty minutes.

  ‘Steven, don’t go,’ Dad begged.

  ‘But Dad, look at the TV. Fans are burning my shirt at Anfield. The club aren’t stopping them. Liverpool don’t want me any more.’

  Dad and Paul couldn’t believe that.

  ‘Don’t walk away,’ said Dad. ‘Don’t leave the club you love.’

  After Dad and Paul left, I talked to Alex. She isn’t a footballing person, she doesn’t understand the game, but she was brilliant. ‘Stevie, you have to decide,’ she said, ‘but whatever you choose, I’ll support you. I will come to Chelsea, Madrid, wherever. I’ll be by your side. Don’t worry. If you leave, I’m with you. If you stay, I’m with you.’ Alex was just worried about me. She knew I hadn’t been the same person for almost a month. It was reassuring to feel her love was unwavering, wherever I chose to go. As we talked, our beautiful daughter, Lilly-Ella, ran around without a care in the world. If only my life was that simple.

  Struan came flying through the door, trying to calm me. He saw I was standing on the precipice, a step away from oblivion. I stared at the rolling news through flowing tears. I was suffocated by stress. My energy had gone, lost during all those frustrating trips in and out of Benitez’s office. My head was banging. I was eating Paracetamol like Smarties. Why had it got so bad? I looked at Struan. ‘A month ago, I’m lifting the European Cup in front of the whole fucking world, Stru,’ I said. ‘Then I’m touring the city in front of half a million people. I’m celebrating the biggest cup with fans of a club where I have been since I was eight. Now I’m watching my fucking shirt being burned live on television. How the hell has it come to this?’ It was the lowest point of my career.

  I broke down. Panic breakdown, complete mess. Some force raced around my body turning off the lights, closing me down, plunging me into darkness. I was burning up, pulse racing off the scale. I poured Paracetamol down my throat but nothing could fight the headache. I managed to call Doc Waller. A friend, a doctor, a man I trusted with my life. ‘Doc, I’m a mess,’ I told him. He was straight round, and he calmed me down. Doc Waller has always done so much for me. I rely on him greatly. All the players do.

  The sight of Liverpool’s doctor looking after me made me realize that people at Anfield do care about me. ‘Stevie, lad,’ I told myself, ‘remember Mr Moores calling that meeting at Melwood to show the club’s love for you?’ I began to think about what I was in danger of throwing away. All that love, all that history between us, the years dreaming of wearing the Liverpool shirt. Could I hand in that Liverpool armband? Could I turn my back on Liverpool, the club and the city that raised and shaped me? Could I let down my dad and my brother? They were mad Liverpool fans; leaving would seem like betrayal in their eyes. Could I look the dad I adore in the eye again? Could I look myself in the mirror again? Christ, so many fucking questions. Could I let the Kop down? Forget that little shite who burned my shirt for the cameras at the Shankly Gates. Liverpool fans always looked after their own. Could I really put on a Chelsea shirt and face Liverpool in front of the Kop? Just think, Stevie. Think hard. I had to get this decision right. Could I really leave? Could I really take that step over the edge, leap into the unknown and leave?

  No. No. No. I couldn’t jump over the edge of the cliff. I could see the great possibilities of Chelsea, but my heart wouldn’t let me leave Liverpool. My b
eautiful little daughter wouldn’t let me leave. Did I want to build another life in Madrid or London with a brand-new family? Lilly-Ella was happy here, with her cousins, her friends in playschool, buzzing around the house she loved. Was it fair on Alex to drag her away from her friends and family, from the environment where she was happiest? I couldn’t do it. I was scared to leave what I had at Liverpool. I couldn’t cut my roots. The clouds of doubts and questions began clearing. Chelsea had ambition, but I had ambitions for Liverpool. I was the club captain. We’d just won the European Cup. Rafa could take us forward, make us even more successful, as he’s the best coach I have ever worked with.

  Finally, my mind was made up. I’d walked through the storm. At eleven p.m., I called Struan. ‘Tell Rick I want to sign,’ I told him. ‘I want to stay.’

  Struan contacted Rick. ‘Is that offer still available?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Stevie will sign it.’

  Thank God it was over. My heart stopped racing, and I relaxed. I put the Paracetamol away. I awoke on the morning of Wednesday, 6 July, with a smile on my face for the first time in weeks. On my way to Melwood to see Rafa, I stopped at the chairman’s house, in Halsall. My respect for Mr Moores runs deep. The chairman is a man who loves Liverpool with the same passion as me, and he was gutted by the whole saga. ‘I can’t believe it got this far,’ he said. He was devastated the club had delayed the contract. ‘Why didn’t you phone me much earlier?’ he asked. ‘I hate seeing you down, Steven.’ Just talking to Mr Moores reminded me how right I was to stay at Anfield.

  I got back in my car and sped into Melwood.

  ‘Look, I’m made up I’m staying, but I’ll hand over the captaincy if you think it’s best,’ I told Rafa.

  ‘Keep the armband,’ he said.

  Thank God. Giving up the captaincy would have broken my heart, but I had to make the offer. I apologized to Liverpool, to Rick and to Rafa, for all the mess, and they said sorry as well. But as I stepped back from the precipice I still felt really pissed off with how Liverpool pushed me to the brink. The blame lay fifty-fifty, I know that, and I hold my hands up to contributing to the mess, but Liverpool could have handled it better. They so nearly drove me out of Anfield. I still received a couple of nasty letters from Liverpool fans, but overall they were good to me. Most of those on the Kop knew how torn I was. Liverpool fans understand how emotionally I feel about the club. When I got round to signing the contract on Friday, 8 July, I said to Rick: ‘Take out the escape clause. I never, ever want to leave Liverpool.’ My previous contract had contained a clause so that if Liverpool were not doing so well, I could move on. I didn’t need an escape clause in my new contract. When I put pen to paper that Friday, it was like signing a love letter. I was so glad my brief flirtation with Chelsea was over.