Gerrard: My Autobiography

by Steven Gerrard

  21

  Frustration in Germany – the 2006 World Cup

  WINNING’S AN ADDICTION. As I gently placed my FA Cup medal in the trophy room at the top of our new house in Formby, another burning ambition confronted me. Space was set aside in the room for an even more precious medal.

  Three weeks after Cardiff, England landed in Germany as one of the favourites for the greatest prize on earth. This was meant to be England’s World Cup, the moment when the so-called Golden Generation ended forty years of hurt and brought the trophy home. Me and Becks, JT and Lamps, Michael and Ashley: England’s players were better than at Euro 2004, more experienced and more determined. We arrived in Germany convinced we could win. England expects.

  Everything seemed in place for a successful tournament. As the coach from Baden-Baden airport wound its way up through the Black Forest hills towards our hotel, I turned to Carra and said, ‘Jesus, it’s isolated.’ The coach kept zigzagging up these bendy roads. Soon there were no houses, no traffic. Where the hell were we going? Eventually, the bus pulled up outside a castle called Buhlerhohe, our secluded base, with magnificent views over the Rhine Valley. No-one for miles, no-one to bother us. Good. I prefer peace and quiet. Let’s leave the noise until match-days. Me and Carra walked to our rooms, which were next to each other. I went into mine and flicked on the TV. We had English telly, and the news bulletins were astonishing. Five days before the big kick-off against Paraguay in Frankfurt, our fans were already flooding into Germany in their thousands. England’s unbelievable support reminded the players how much each game means to the nation whose colours we proudly wear. But for now, up at Buhlerhohe, it was good to be away from all the clamour.

  Buhlerhohe was perfect. The Football Association had done us proud. They’d even got longer beds in for lanky lads like me, Rio and Crouchy. The food was outstanding, the kit ideal. Nothing was left to chance. When we drove down to the training pitch at Mittelberg the following morning, we found a surface better than any of the World Cup pitches. Determined to give us the very best, the FA borrowed Wembley’s top groundsman, Steve Welch, to put in a fantastic new pitch. It was watered every morning, so no wonder our passing was good in training. That Tuesday, 6 June, I glanced around Mittelberg and all the players looked terrific. No excuses, no regrets. Everything was geared up for England to deliver.

  We just needed Wayne Rooney fit after his metatarsal break. ‘Give us Wayne,’ I thought, ‘and we’ll give you the World Cup.’ Manchester United’s manager, Sir Alex Ferguson, kept saying England must be careful with Wayne. But England weren’t rushing him, he was just healing quickly. I couldn’t help thinking that if Fergie had been English, he might have played it differently. Wazza and I are big mates and I talked to him all the time at Buhlerhohe. ‘I’m ready,’ he kept telling me. ‘I’m ready for Paraguay.’ Paraguay! That was our first game, on 10 June. Whenever Wayne saw Sven at Mittelberg or around Buhlerhohe, he told the coach, ‘Pick me against Paraguay. I’m flying.’ That’s what I love about Wayne: he’s always so positive. He was just desperate to get back playing.

  Speculation about his return was crazy. Every day, Wayne was on the back pages. Will he? Won’t he? The saga wasn’t fair to Wayne or the other England players, but that’s the country we live in. We know what our newspapers, radio and TV are like. Mad at times. Wayne is England’s most important player so the attention was bound to be on him, but it was a distraction. Every time we went to dinner, turned on the TV or picked up a paper, there was Wayne. We did lose some of our focus.

  Sven was right to take a gamble on the fitness of someone as special as Wazza. If England were to bring back the World Cup, we needed Wayne Rooney. The mistake Sven made was that he should have picked five forwards in his World Cup twenty-three – Wayne plus four others. For a tournament as big and demanding as the World Cup, every team needs five strikers. Minimum. I wanted to be landing in Germany with five forwards, not four. I wanted to be sending this message to the world: we are England, packed with attackers, and we fear no-one. Sven talked about midfielders operating further forward, but that’s too specialized. I was gutted when I walked in the Old Trafford dressing-room before the World Cup warm-up against Hungary on 30 May and saw the number 9 shirt hanging on my peg. Number 9? Talk about pressure! That’s a recipe for me being destroyed. Get real. I’m an attacking midfielder, not an emergency striker. England required real strikers, footballers comfortable with number 9 on their back, like Wazza, Michael and Crouchy. Sven named them in the squad, but it was his fourth striking choice that stunned me. Not only were England embarking on an arduous World Cup campaign with only four forwards, one of them was Theo Walcott. I almost fell over when I heard.

  Now, let’s get a few things right about Theo. He’s a really nice kid and one day he will mature into a very, very good player. Theo’s potential was obvious in training. But as the 2006 World Cup dawned, he represented England’s future, not the present. Theo Walcott had no right to be in Germany. None at all. I was gobsmacked to find him on the plane. My faith in Sven has always been strong, but to select a kid who hasn’t played any part in a Premiership game, or a competitive international, was clearly a massive gamble.

  Could Sven throw him into a World Cup game? No chance. Theo was still a baby. When I was seventeen, I hadn’t even played three reserve games. Asking him to come to the World Cup was unfair on Theo. There was no possible way the kid was ready to perform on such a difficult stage. Seventeen-year-olds should never be taken to World Cups, unless they are one-offs like Wayne Rooney or Lionel Messi.

  I did warm to Theo. Difficult not to. Initially the Arsenal kid was very quiet around the senior players. That’s normal. As the World Cup wore on, though, he came out of his shell and joined in the banter a bit. He worked hard every day in training and was a top professional. But what a bloody gamble! OK, if it had been a World Cup qualifier and England had been killed by injuries to strikers, then take a gamble on a kid. But not the World Cup itself. We were not tourists in Germany, doing a spot of sight-seeing. We were there on business. Theo was not Michael Owen or Pele, teenagers who graced World Cups but had shown their class with their clubs first. Even now, as I get stuck into the new 2006/07 season and the World Cup summer fades away, my mind remains confused as to Sven’s thinking. Theo was just not ready. Even if the seven leading English strikers had been injured, it would still have been a risk to take him to the World Cup.

  I felt sorry for Theo, but more so for Jermain Defoe and Darren Bent. Jermain and Darren worked hard all season to go to a World Cup, then a kid comes out of nowhere and takes the place they were after. It didn’t look right. Darren stayed at home, but at least Jermain came to Germany on stand-by, just in case Wayne didn’t recover. Defoe was unbelievable. From the moment England joined up, he was probably one of the best in training. His finishing was sharp. His attitude was spot-on. He never once mentioned any grievance over a kid like Theo being in the twenty-three. When Wayne was confirmed in the squad after flying back for that final scan, Jermain hid his heartache well. Before heading for the airport and a flight back to England, he shook hands with all of us and wished us all the best. Top man. He must have been boiling inside. On the surface, though, he was fantastically professional. Good for him. Jermain went up massively in my estimation as a bloke and a player.

  Still, I was punching the air with delight that Wazza was cleared for action. As poor Jermain was upstairs packing his bags that Wednesday, 7 June, Wazza marched back into the Buhlerhohe, stood in reception and declared, ‘The Big Man’s back!’ Typical Wazza! He wasn’t being cocky. Wayne just has so much belief in himself. Even before his scan he knew he would be all right. The overhead kicks in training were a statement of intent. The scan was simply a doctor’s note confirming what all the players and Wayne knew. He was welcomed back into training on Thursday like a returning hero. But he was still prevented from playing against Paraguay, and it almost killed him to watch it. Football is to Wayne Rooney what oxygen is t
o everyone else.

  Along with all the talk about Wazza, other issues occupied my thoughts. I was just hours away from my World Cup debut, my supreme test. I was desperate to take my Liverpool form into an England game. Everybody was watching. Could I cut it? Could I do in the World Cup what I had done in the FA Cup and European Cup? Questions crowded in on me. Climbing on board the plane out of Lisbon after Euro 2004, I carried a kit-bag full of regrets. Flying into Germany, I kept telling myself, ‘No regrets this time, Stevie.’ I cranked up the pressure on myself. I paced around my room at Buhlerhohe, saying out loud, ‘First World Cup game – make sure it goes well. Remember France at Euro 2004: you were OK until the last five minutes. Have a solid game this time. Ninety minutes, no mistakes.’ No mistakes.

  I couldn’t really sleep that week. My mind was jumping with too many concerns to close down for an hour or two. And another worrying distraction soon affected my preparations. On the day Wayne was jetting in and out of Manchester, I went into a tackle with Joe Cole at Mittelberg. Whack. Joe’s elbow banged into my hip, and my back went into a spasm. Shit. All the old fears tumbled back into my present. ‘That’s me out of the group games,’ I thought. ‘That’s another tournament screwed.’ Thank God I was in good hands. England’s physio, Gary Lewin, examined my back and said, ‘It will settle down quite quickly.’ Fingers crossed. Touch wood. The doc, Leif Sward, agreed. The next morning an osteopath called Carl Todd arrived from England, and he manipulated my back four times that day. ‘You’ll make the Paraguay game,’ Carl insisted, filling me with belief. But I carried a back problem for the rest of England’s stay in Germany.

  All that mattered was that the medical lads got me on the field against Paraguay. My instructions were simple in Frankfurt: to hold back when England bombed on. Sven had us playing 4–4–2 without a holding midfielder, so someone had to take responsibility in case Paraguay broke away. ‘You are a little bit more defensive than Frank,’ Sven told me, ‘so don’t go up as much as him. Be more cautious.’ That sacrificed one of my strengths – storming forward. I craved to play my Liverpool role for England. Just let me loose, like Liverpool do. No dice. Frank Lampard had the attacking licence. But that was OK. Lamps was worth his place in the World Cup starting eleven. In fact he was one of the main reasons England reached Germany: he’d been immense in qualifying. I had no complaints. Just get on with it, Stevie lad. Frankfurt was my first World Cup match and I was aching to play. Right-back, left-back, anywhere – just let me taste the World Cup atmosphere. I’m twenty-six, it’s been too long, let me out there.

  The mood in the dressing-room before the game was good. Everyone was up for it. Shouts ripped through the corridors underneath the stadium. Come on! As usual, Paul Robinson didn’t shut up from the first minute he marched into the dressing-room until we charged through the door just before kick-off. Everyone buzzed with anticipation. This was it. The World Cup. Our time.

  When we walked out of the tunnel, the home of Eintracht Frankfurt belonged to England. What a sight! England flags everywhere. Our fans everywhere. The ticketing problems never affected England. Our boys were out there in force. I wasn’t surprised. England fans are unbelievable; I knew they’d pack out the ground. I’d switched on the TV the night before and seen them partying all over Frankfurt, all over Germany really. I’d opened my hotel window in Frankfurt and heard them running through their songbook. Football’s Coming Home! Us players now had to make sure it did come home.

  We started well. Becks forced an own-goal from Carlos Gamarra early on and we should have made it three or four, but the heat seemed to come straight from the Sahara. My mouth felt like it was lined with sandpaper. Yet the sweltering conditions affected us only towards the end. Eintracht’s pitch was the real reason we never played well. On our beautiful Mittelberg surface, our football was quick. Not here. Frankfurt’s pitch was too dry, the grass too long. England tired after the break and Paraguay kept the ball better than us. Yet apart from an unfair booking, I was really, really happy with my individual performance. Collectively, though, we all knew we’d face criticism for our second-half display. But so what? Three points meant one thing: England were up and running.

  Next up were Trinidad and Tobago in Nuremberg on 15 June. ‘England should win this no problem,’ I told myself. Again we failed to impress. In the second half, particularly, I got really frustrated and some of my passing went astray. England did not have the look of potential world champions. For eighty-three minutes, the so-called Golden Generation were held by a team of players from Wrexham, Port Vale and Coventry. We could not break through, until Peter headed in. At last we led. We could relax, and I could take a few more risks. Go on. Push on. Get a few shots in. Back at Melwood I work on my left foot all the time, so when I created a chance in the ninetieth minute I did not hesitate to use my left. I caught the ball really sweet and knew it was destined for the net. In it went. Unstoppable. The feeling of scoring in a World Cup was magical. There was relief, too. People see me hitting the target for Liverpool week in, week out. I felt under a lot of pressure to score for England, so seeing that ball flash past Shaka Hislop was wonderful. As it flew in, all the frustration over missing the 2002 World Cup finally disappeared as well.

  Two games, six points, Wayne now back in action – it should have been all sunshine and smiles for England, but the clouds of concern persisted. This time, the press slagged us off for too many long balls. Rubbish. We tried to build up through midfield. The critics just look at Peter Crouch and assume we automatically hit it long. That’s unfair on Peter and the rest of the lads. England were not a long-ball side at the World Cup. Sven’s tactics were not the problem. It was us, the players, simply not performing as we should do against lesser opposition. Deep down the players accepted that. We talked about it back in Baden-Baden. ‘We must play better if we are to win the World Cup,’ I said. ‘We must take our chances.’

  Some tension began to creep into the England camp, partly because we could not spend proper time with our families after each match. The paparazzi and reporters who dogged us in Baden-Baden were a disgrace. So much rubbish was written about the WAGs, as the players’ wives and girlfriends became known. People claimed they got more attention than the team. Well, whose fault was that? The bloody paparazzi and the papers for printing the pictures. Why didn’t they leave the WAGs alone? Why did they wait around the WAGs’ hotel, the Brenners Park, and then stalk the families? I tried once to go for a walk around Baden-Baden with Alex, Lilly-Ella and Lexie. Fucking pointless. Photographers everywhere, following our every step, our every move. Piss off! Even when we tried to relax in the Brenners gardens, the photographers set up camp in a public park opposite and took pictures. Brenners was like a fortress. When I did visit Alex, we had to stay in our room. It was the only place where we could escape the intrusive photographers. Unfortunately, being in a hotel room with two kids bursting to get out and have a play is hardly relaxing. Even if Lilly-Ella and Lexie had been old enough to understand, how do you explain that no, actually, we can’t go to that lovely park outside because there are paparazzi lurking behind every tree? I was livid. Photographers don’t stop to think whether they have the right to take pics of me playing with my kids. They just think, ‘This will help pay the mortgage.’ Snap, snap, snap.

  It seemed like a competition for them – ‘Let’s see who can earn the most money out of Coleen, Posh and Alex’. The WAGs took the kids to a local theme park one day, and the staff there said they had never seen so many photographers, not even when the German national team dropped by. It was crazy. Did the Italian players have their families over in Germany? Yes. Did their media follow their wives and girlfriends? No. So why were the English papers obsessed with the players’ families? If I am with my family the night before a massive Champions League game at Anfield, is it an issue? No. I’m left in peace. And some of the stories in the newspapers about the WAGs were ridiculous. Alex went out with the girls one night in Baden-Baden and the bill for the lot of them c
ame to 800 euros – hardly extravagant. In the papers, that bill was inflated to 4,000 euros. The story claimed the WAGs drank sixteen bottles of really expensive champagne. Alex had one glass. The behaviour of the English media during the World Cup was unbelievable. My mum kept getting phone calls from GMTV asking whether she wanted to come on telly. What? Come on!

  It really was mad. Newspapers criticized England for allowing the WAGs out to the World Cup, then filled their front pages with pictures of Coleen, Posh and Alex. The WAGs had every right to be in Baden-Baden. Some of the younger players might have become homesick without family and friends about. I remember how lonely I felt at Euro 2000. Why should a seventeen-year-old like Theo not be allowed to see his girlfriend or Mum and Dad for seven weeks? Why can’t Becks, Frank, Carra and me see our kids for a couple of days during a tournament? It makes us feel better, train better and play better. Lexie actually fell ill in Germany with a viral infection. Now, exactly how would I have felt if Lexie was back in England and poorly? Shit. I would have been tempted to run for the airport, to go back to help Alex look after our precious new baby. Sven was brilliant. The day I learned Lexie was ill was a day when the players were not allowed down into Baden-Baden. I knocked on his door. ‘Lexie’s struggling. Can I sprint down to Brenners?’ I asked Sven. ‘Of course,’ he replied. ‘I understand completely.’ I went down and helped out. If Lexie had been a thousand miles away, I would have been a mess with worry.