Gerrard: My Autobiography

by Steven Gerrard

  19

  Three Lionesses: Alex, Lilly-Ella and Lexie

  THE CHELSEA SAGA reminded me just how deeply I was in love with Alex Curran. An amazing girl, Alex has been spot-on with me from day one. I’ve always opened up to her. Alex is never nosey, although she always knows when something’s on my mind. She gives me space, and time, and waits for me to speak. She never, ever gets involved in football. That’s my world. The only time I ever talked to Alex about football was over Chelsea. I had to. When I was on my own, it would have been my decision. But in the summer of 2005 I had been with Alex for four years, we were engaged, and we had a beautiful little girl, Lilly-Ella. I couldn’t be selfish. I had responsibilities, family commitments.

  Alex fills my life and shapes my future. I see situations through her eyes, as well as mine. Of course, Alex is interested in how well I’m doing with Liverpool and England, but her knowledge of the sport is not good enough for her to get involved in a football conversation. Alex is actually scared to mention football, in case I say something to her. But that’s part of Alex’s attractiveness. I don’t one-on-one with a girl who says, ‘You’re giving four balls away out of six. You’re not hitting the target enough.’ I don’t want to take shit like that; it does my head in. Before Alex, I went out on a few dates with busy birds who were Liverpool fans. They were always fishing for titbits about players. ‘What’s Michael like?’ ‘What’s Carra like?’ Piss off. None of your business. I erased them. Not for me, thank you. Delete number. Back to the drawing board. Alex isn’t arsed about football. She’s watched me for four years and still doesn’t know what the rules are. She comes to Anfield to enjoy the atmosphere, and to see the other girls. When I get home, she never mentions the match. Alex understands that football is my domain, although I know she is not happy with me having the football on 24/7 at home.

  The moment I first saw Alex out in Liverpool, my heart quickened and my life changed. It was one of those sledgehammer moments. Bang, knocked back on my heels, stunned. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t talk. We were out with different sets of mates, but never talked. Just eye contact. I was spellbound. I had to see this woman again. Properly. For a date. I couldn’t think of anything else apart from meeting her, and finding out everything about her. Just me and Alex. One-on-one. ‘She’s fantastic,’ I told Danny Murphy. ‘I really like her.’

  The wheels were put in motion. A mate phoned Alex. ‘Steven Gerrard wants your number. He wants to take you out on a date.’

  ‘Well,’ said Alex, ‘if Steven Gerrard wants to speak to me, he can phone me. I’m not going out on a date with someone through someone else. Goodbye.’

  So I sat down at home, calmed my nerves, drew a deep breath and dialled her number.

  ‘Hello, Alex, it’s Steven Gerrard. I saw you the other day.’

  ‘Oh, hi.’

  I was so nervous. My throat was dry, my stomach invaded by butterflies. Do it! Here goes.

  ‘Do you fancy going out for a date?’ I asked.

  ‘No,’ Alex replied. ‘I don’t know you and I don’t go out with people I don’t know.’

  Bang. Phone down. Silence. That was it. But I wouldn’t give up. No chance. Maybe she was just shy, just embarrassed talking on the phone. I’ll give her a couple of days to think about it and then have another crack.

  When the dust settled, I phoned Alex again. Take two.

  ‘Alex, it’s Stevie. I know you don’t know me, but if you come for a drink you’ll get to know me. Come on.’

  Alex sounded a bit more friendly this time, so I did a few moves, got a bit of banter going and tried to win her over.

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ she said.

  I called her again the next day and we got on brilliantly, the ice really broken. ‘OK, I’ll go on a date with you,’ she finally agreed. Happy days. I saved her number in my mobile. Stevie, lad, you are going to need this number now! I had to be careful, though. If any of the Liverpool lads went through my phone, as they often do when I’m in the shower, they would send Alex a naughty text. Guaranteed. I couldn’t store the number under ‘Alex Curran’. I thought about putting it under ‘Alan Cork’, but it ended up under ‘AC’.

  I texted Danny. ‘Got AC’s number! Taking her out on a date! I’m fucking buzzing!’ I pressed send, and sat back to wait for Danny’s reply. Danny would be made up for me. But as I pulled my thumb back from the send button, I had this horrible feeling that in my excitement I might have sent the text to Alex, not Danny. Cancel it quick. Hit the red button. Again, again, again. Too late. It’s gone. History.

  I sat there, sweating. Danny, text me back. Please. Tell me you received it, not Alex. No text from Danny. Nothing. I couldn’t bear it. So I rang Danny.

  ‘Did I just text you?’ I asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Five minutes ago, you must have got a text off me?’

  ‘Stevie, I haven’t had a text off you since yesterday.’

  Oh no, you bastard. I phoned Alex.

  ‘Have you just had a text off me?’ I asked, praying she hadn’t.

  ‘Yes!’ she laughed. ‘You knobhead!’

  Oh no! Nightmare. Actually, it helped. When Alex and I went out for our first date, she was dead shy, and so was I. But the moment she mentioned the text, we both opened up and laughed about it for five hours. It was a brilliant evening: good meal, few glasses of wine, and non-stop laughter. That was me hooked completely on Alex Curran. Of course, Danny went and told all the lads about the text, and I got caned mercilessly. But I didn’t care. I was smitten.

  Girls have always fascinated me. I would have liked to have had a sister. Until I met Alex, my life revolved around hanging about places where nice girls went and trying to get them back to my place. Through school and up until the age of twenty-one I had loads of dates, but nothing really serious. I was waiting for the right girl. I was twenty-one when I met Alex and ready to calm down. I also wanted kids. I so admire Alex for what she has been through for me. She was twenty-two, really young herself, when I told her I wanted to get on with having a family. We’d been together a couple of years, and I was desperate to be a dad. It was my decision. I felt becoming a father would be good for my career, to get me even more settled. And I wanted to be a young dad, rather than wait to the end of my career to start having kids. Alex was brilliant. She agreed we should start a family, even though she was so young.

  Before Lilly-Ella was born, I was really scared. I arrived at the Liverpool Women’s Hospital not knowing what to expect. People tell you this and that, but nothing prepares you for the emotion of watching the girl you love go through all that agony. Everyone told Alex how painful it would be, so she was worried. I held her hand during the birth, but made sure I was down the Kop end. Someone advised me to stay at the Kop end because it gets terribly messy down the Anfield Road end! When Lilly-Ella appeared, I’d never felt such pride, elation and relief. My career has brought me many highs, but nothing has matched the sight of those tiny hands and feet, that sweet face, that little body entering the world.

  Before England left for the World Cup in Germany, I experienced the same wonderful sensation when Lexie was born. Again I was choked up, a huge lump in my throat. A lot of men cry when they see their children born. I certainly could have, I was that emotional. I counted all the fingers and toes, and checked the babies were healthy. Always nagging away in the back of my mind was that something might go wrong. But Lilly-Ella and Lexie were perfect. Each time, though, there was work to do. Alex held my hand so tight during delivery that when she finally let go I had to get some feeling back into it. I rubbed it hard to get the circulation going again. I was so proud of Alex. Women in labour are so brave. They go through so much. My love for Alex deepened when she brought Lilly-Ella and Lexie into our lives.

  People often ask Alex and me how we chose the names. Simple. I liked Lilly for a girl and Alex liked Ella, so we put them together. If Lilly-Ella had been a boy we would have named him Georgie. My middle name is George and it
’s my granddad’s name. Second time round, we looked for something linked to Alex’s name. We thought about Alexa and Alexandra, and settled on Lexie. With Lexie, Alex was suffering so much pain I didn’t know what sex the baby was until a minute or two after she was born. I never looked. I was busy down the Kop end, making sure Alex was OK. Then the midwife said, ‘Look at that gorgeous little thing. Isn’t she beautiful?’ She! I knew then I had another girl, which was great because I wanted a girl for Lilly to play with.

  Before Alex gave birth to Lexie, I kept bumping into Robbie Fowler at the hospital. His wife, Kerry, was having Jacob just down the corridor. Robbie and I texted each other as we waited for our women to give birth. I got one text from Robbie which read: ‘Wish she’d hurry up and stop messing around!’ I’d text him back and get him out in the corridor for a chat about football. ‘Can I borrow your camera?’ I texted Robbie just before Lexie popped out. ‘I’ve left mine at home.’ We met in the corridor quickly, he handed over his camera, and we ran back into the delivery rooms. Lexie arrived at 9.33 a.m., and Jacob at five p.m. At 5.10 I got a text off Robbie: ‘Jacob is after Lexie’s number.’ I pissed myself laughing. I can just picture my girls at fourteen, fifteen, with their blonde hair, and Fowler’s little lad chasing them. If Jacob gets Kerry’s looks he has a chance; if he gets Robbie’s looks, he’s not coming near Lilly-Ella or Lexie!

  Alex is a brilliant mum to Lilly-Ella and Lexie, and always supportive to me. When Mum and Dad broke up, Alex was a rock. She never pried into the pain I endured, she was just there for me, letting me know how much she cared. All the boxes are ticked for me with Alex. She might not be everyone’s cup of tea, I don’t know, but I wouldn’t change her for anyone. I love her. She doesn’t get involved in my career and I don’t get involved in hers.

  Alex’s media career took off because she was getting a bit of stick in the papers about how she dressed. That’s such bollocks, that. For me, Alex has always dressed well. And as if someone can be judged solely on what they wear. Alex is a wonderful human being. Anyway, she got fed up with the sniping so we decided to take action. Initially, the idea behind her writing a column in the Daily Mirror was to turn her image around; it was an opportunity for people to appreciate the real Alex, to realize that she is a good mum, and a normal person. People think she goes shopping every day. Rubbish. Most of the time it’s the same photographs being re-used, or she’s taking clothes back for me. I buy a lot of suits and shirts for matches. Now, we have created an image where everyone knows Alex is a nice, normal girl, a Scouser. That column and the little photo-shoots are a small career for her, though I wouldn’t describe her as a model. Alex enjoys bits and bobs of work when she gets some free time, but her main priority is to be a mum. And she does a great job. Alex is more into the celebrity world than me. I’m not one for premieres or photo-shoots. My priority is football. If I wasn’t playing well, I wouldn’t get the attention I do get off the pitch. My number one concern is delivering for Liverpool and England.

  When I was younger, I went out golfing, and I hung around snooker halls, and with my mates. A lot of the Liverpool lads were gamblers. Training finished and, bang, straight down the bookies. But for me, betting is pointless. My dad was always interested in the horses, and I used to be fuming with him because he had the racing on the telly, day in, day out. I hated it. Dad loves a little flutter on the horses. He’ll say, ‘I’ve got a tip, do you want a little go?’ I’ll put a couple of hundred quid on it, but I am not a gambler who bets thousands. I can’t watch a horse race. It doesn’t interest me. If the racing is on the TV when I come in, it is bang off. At Melwood, I see players studying the racing pages, and I think to myself, ‘What are they doing?’ I wouldn’t know where to start. Maybe that’s a good thing, because betting can be a dangerous road to go down. Some players go racing after training, or do all that online gambling. Now, the first thing for me after training is race home, get to the girls.

  I walk in through the door of our new house in Formby and Lilly-Ella races across the hall into my arms. We have a pool, so I take the girls swimming. I love those girls. I miss them so bad, even when I go away for one night. I pace around my hotel room, holding a photograph of Alex and the girls, thinking of the moment when I’ll be back with them, holding them. The family. Together. It means everything to me. I dream of having a little boy as well some time in the future, a son I can take to the park and enjoy kickabouts with. If I do have a son, I would love him to play for Liverpool one day. I want to get a Gerrard dynasty going at Anfield.

  20

  Millennium Magic

  THE THIRTEENTH OF May 2006 was a good day at the office, a day to tell my children about as they grow older. ‘This is our FA Cup final,’ I told myself as Liverpool’s coach inched through the raucous crowd and into the fantastic Millennium Stadium in Cardiff. ‘This is our moment.’ I was Liverpool’s leader, settled at the club I love. I was in the prime of my life, settled with the woman I love. I had the respect of my peers, having just been named the Professional Footballers’ Association Player of the Year – an unbelievable honour. Christ, I was ready for the 125th FA Cup final. My stage, my time. In the build-up to the clash with West Ham United, I played the match through in my head at least three times. I used up a lot of energy thinking about every possibility, reminding myself constantly of the need to take responsibility, to seize the moment. Liverpool expected me to deliver. So did I. As I laced my boots, I looked at the names stitched into the tongues: Lilly-Ella on one and Lexie on the other. Come on, this final’s for them. Let’s go to work.

  I led Liverpool out onto the pitch and into an unbelievable scene. All the fans, from Liverpool and West Ham, were magnificent, cheering twenty-two players as we lined up. We were favourites, a strange sensation. In all our other cup finals, Birmingham apart, Liverpool had been underdogs. Even against Alaves we weren’t overwhelming favourites because we weren’t flying in the Premiership. In massive Champions League games, against heavyweights like Chelsea or Juventus, Liverpool were never given much hope. I liked that. Going into a game knowing the pressure was on the opposition was fine by me. But this was different. Everybody thought we would steamroller West Ham. I certainly never underestimated the Hammers. They have a terrific manager in Alan Pardew, a good captain in Nigel Reo-Coker, and other decent players.

  West Ham were up for this final, all right, as I quickly discovered. Paul Konchesky and Carl Fletcher both clattered me early on. Straight through. Whack. Hide the pain, Stevie, don’t complain. Get on with it. I picked myself up, raised also by Liverpool fans singing the stirring ‘Fields of Anfield Road’, and hurled myself back into the fray. Get stuck in. Had to. West Ham meant business. We knew all about the Hammers but we didn’t expect them to be so good on the day, or so dangerous on the counter-attack. Early on we tried to dominate, but we got caught on the break because Pardew had packed his side with pace.

  Within twenty-one minutes, we were behind. Carra couldn’t do much about the own-goal, diverted in from Lionel Scaloni’s cross. Carra had to go for it, because Marlon Harewood was lurking behind him and would have stuck it away. I was gutted for Carra. I knew how much the own-goal would hurt him. Carra’s dead proud. If Liverpool had lost that FA Cup final 1–0, he wouldn’t have been able to live with it. Defeat would have killed him for years and years. He’s such a competitor. In terms of goals scored at either end, Carra’s about one goal down overall. Whenever the Liverpool lads wind him up about his goals record, Carra shouts, ‘I’m about 350 up if you look at the goals I’ve stopped.’ Carra has an answer for everything. He’s right though. No-one could ever point the finger at him because he has been a rock for Liverpool.

  We had to pull Carra out of the mess, had to fight back. But West Ham were on fire, and when they scored again, through Dean Ashton, a fear kicked in that I was not going to get my hands on the FA Cup. Ashton’s goal was a bad mistake by Pepe Reina, who spilled Matthew Etherington’s shot into the striker’s path, but none of us Liverpo
ol lads would dream of blaming Pepe. Our Spanish keeper saved us so many times that season. But two mistakes meant we were 2–0 down. Come on, lads! Let’s get going!

  The players lifted themselves. As we started to play a bit better, inspiring thoughts of Istanbul crept in. Time for another great escape. Pulling one back just before half-time was crucial. I spotted Djibril’s run into the box. Have to hit him. Can’t waste this golden chance. I took aim and whipped the ball into the box, where Djibril’s finish was sensational. He didn’t get much credit that season, but he deserves massive praise for that volley, because it got us back into the FA Cup. He had a rough year, playing out of position, and I know he didn’t get on with Rafa too well; it was no surprise when he moved to Marseille. Djibril’s a bit different. Some of his decisions to do with clothes, cars, tattoos and hair have me shaking my head in disbelief, but as a person Djibril’s a great lad, and really caring. He’ll do anything for you. I won’t miss his colourful clothes, but I will miss his bright personality. I hope he enjoys better luck at Marseille than he had at Liverpool. He will always be remembered at Anfield for that Cardiff belter.