If the WAGs had been left at home completely, it would have damaged the squad’s morale. Having said that, I did feel they didn’t need to be in Germany all the time. Events down in Baden-Baden became a permanent, high-profile sideshow to the real England drama. All the talk about the WAGs and the paparazzi was a distraction. Really, the FA should have flown the WAGs in and out. There has to be a happy medium. Before the next tournament, us players need to sit down with the FA and discuss how the family side of things could be organized better. One option is for the WAGs to come out between games. If the WAGs can’t go to the match, so what? They can see it on telly back home. Girls don’t watch football anyway; they watch their individual fella. At least they have seen their boyfriends two days before a game or two days after. At least we have seen our kids. Probably the best solution is to let the WAGs fly out on the morning of the match, and we see them afterwards. For forty-eight hours after a game, we don’t do anything apart from some light stretching. Let the WAGs visit us then. No clever columnist can complain about that.
A lesser frustration surfaced as we prepared for our final Group B match, against Sweden in Cologne on 20 June. One afternoon, after training at Mittelberg, Sven pulled me aside. ‘Keep doing what you are doing, Steven,’ he began. ‘You are doing really well. But I’d like to rest you against Sweden. We’re already through. You have a yellow card, and I can’t afford not to have you in the last sixteen. What do you think? I think it’s for the good of the team that you are on the bench.’
On the bench! God, how I hate those words. ‘Yeah, I sort of understand,’ I replied, ‘but I want to play.’
‘I knew you would say that, Steven,’ said Sven. ‘I appreciate how much you want to play, but I have to make the right decision for the team. Let me have a think about it for another day.’
‘OK, boss. If you decide not to play me I’ll understand, but I want you to go away thinking I want to play. I’ve missed enough World Cup games. I want to play in them all.’
I returned to my room and thought hard about the situation. My hunger for involvement against Sweden was immense. Christ, why did that bloody ref book me for nothing against Paraguay? Without that I would be starting against Sweden. I knocked on Carra’s door and explained the problem.
‘What do you think?’ I asked him. ‘I have a feeling Sven’s going to rest me. I don’t want to be on the bench.’
Carra quickly got to the heart of the matter. ‘But what if you get a yellow?’ he said. ‘Just think of the last sixteen, don’t think of Sweden. If you get booked again and it goes wrong for England in the last sixteen without you, what will you think then? You’ll think, “Why didn’t Sven rest me against Sweden?”’
I was torn, so I decided to wait and see what Sven had to say the next day. The boss came straight to the point. ‘I’m resting you, Steven. I can’t risk losing you for the last sixteen. I know how much you want to play, but I have no choice. We want to finish top of the group. If we need to use you to make sure we get that point, we will.’
‘OK,’ I said. ‘I’m fine with that. Let’s go and top the group.’
Sven then added, ‘I know Frank’s on a booking too, but he hasn’t scored in the first two games. I want to give him another chance to get a goal.’
I understood completely. Sven’s concern over my booking was really a compliment to me.
Reluctantly, I took my place on the bench in Cologne and watched team-mates like Michael Owen line up. Michael had been subjected to some flak for his first two performances, so he was right up for Sweden. A feeling swept through me that Michael would score. Definitely. I caught that determined glint in my mate’s eye. Been here before, seen it before: Michael means business tonight. I thought back to the Euros where there’d been similar pressure on Michael and he hit back with that great finish against Portugal. He looked focused, sharp and ready to remind everyone of his class.
But then he smashed up his knee barely seconds after the first whistle. I was devastated for Michael, as a friend and also as a player. I felt for his family who were in the stadium, watching their loved one being carried away on a stretcher, his tournament over. Sitting on the bench, I also thought, ‘Sven will get hell for this.’ Michael’s accident exposed the boss’s crazy decision to take only four strikers. If only England had travelled to Germany with five forwards, Sven would not have been slated.
England’s fans clearly wanted Theo on. Sven was having none of that. His sole aim was to top the group so he couldn’t risk anything. There was no possible way the kid from Arsenal was ready. Crouchy came on, and England looked good for a while. Joe Cole gave us the lead with an absolute worldie, definitely a contender for goal of the tournament. At last England were playing good football, living up to our billing as one of the World Cup favourites. Thoughts of Berlin and the final filled my mind. The medal, the parade, the glory.
My day-dreaming was suddenly interrupted when Sweden equalized, through Markus Allback, and we were under real pressure. Sitting along from me was Sven, wearing a worried look. How would he react? England must hang on to the draw to guarantee an easier last-sixteen game.
Sven turned to me. ‘Are you ready?’ he asked.
Bloody hell. What was all that about not wanting to risk another yellow? ‘Yeah,’ I replied. ‘Of course I’m ready.’
As I stood on the touchline, thinking how brilliant it was to get another cap, I heard a shout behind me. ‘Oi, you, post on set-pieces.’ It was Steve McClaren, Sven’s number two, barking out a final instruction. His order stuck in my head. When Sweden got a corner a minute or so later, I went straight to the post. Thank God Steve reminded me. My first kick was a clearance off the line from Kim Kallstrom.
We had to re-impose ourselves. Come on, Stevie lad, get busy. With Owen Hargreaves buzzing around in midfield, I roamed forward. Look for a goal, look for the win. With five minutes remaining, Joe Cole cut into the area on the right and I made a diagonal run into the box. ‘Just find me,’ I kept saying, ‘just find me.’ If the ball came over the last defender, I’d have a chance on goal. Joe read my mind. His cross was perfect, lifted over on time and right on the money. Heading is not my strongest point, but I made great contact with Coley’s cross. The ball flew in. Yes! At last, England seemed destined for a first win over Sweden in thirty-eight years. Now we were really on the move in Germany. Just watch us go now!
Then, stupidly, we conceded a very un-English goal. A bloody set-piece. We failed to cut out a long throwin, Henrik Larsson pounced, and victory was snatched away. Bollocks. In the dressing-room, Steve McClaren was livid with us. He’d spent hours organizing the players for set-pieces. Every session he’d drummed into us the importance of concentration, and we’d dozed off for a split-second in Cologne and been punished. ‘If we defend like that again at set-pieces we will be out of the tournament before we know it,’ Steve told us. I felt the mistake was a one-off; we’d actually defended well at set-pieces during the World Cup. Losing Rio to an injury hadn’t helped, because he’s a big presence at set-pieces. Come on. Be positive. Yes, it was disappointing not to finish the group with a third victory, but we had booked a last-sixteen place against Ecuador rather than in-form Germany. The quarter-finals beckoned.
The following night, Wednesday, 21 June, I was down at Brenners watching Argentina against Holland on the big screen when my text went. The message was from Paul Joyce, the football reporter I trust, from the Daily Express. ‘What’s this about you having a fight with Becks?’ asked Joycey. ‘There’s a rumour going round that Becks decked you!’ Bloody hell! News to me!
I immediately called Joycey. ‘What the fuck’s going on?’ I said. ‘I never had a slap off Becks or nothing!’ Joycey explained that one newspaper was running a story about Becks whacking me in training. I laughed. ‘Where do they get these stories from? It’s bollocks.’ It came as no surprise to learn which paper it was in. The Sun.
The moment I put the phone down, my text went again. Becks! He’d obviously b
een tipped off as well. ‘I’m not sure you are aware, mate, but there’s a story going around that me and you’ve had a bust-up. It’s a load of shit. Just ignore it. You get these stories in big tournaments.’ I texted him back. ‘Unbelievable! But who won? I’m not having it that you beat me!’ Becks and I swapped a few more texts and just made a complete joke out of it. When I got back to Buhlerhohe, I bumped into Becks and we had another laugh about it.
At breakfast the next day, the FA’s press guy, Adrian Bevington, came over to the two of us. ‘I’ll deal with it,’ he said. The FA issued a statement saying the Sun story was utter bollocks. Nothing happened between me and Becks. And even if the story were true, why would our own media try to stir up trouble like that in the camp? I know what the reporter would get out of a story like that: a pat on the back off his boss and a ‘well done’. Even if it damaged England. And something else bugged me. This was the third time there’d been a ludicrous report about me having a bust-up with a team-mate, and I’d lost every fight! According to one rubbish story, I’d also clashed with Carra twice. My Liverpool team-mate obviously won the re-match as well!
Knockout rounds now awaited England. As the FA were sorting out ‘the bust-up’, me, Becks and the rest were back at Mittelberg, preparing for our bout with Ecuador. All the players knew we must raise our game. We spoke about that in team meetings with Sven and also among ourselves. During the group stage we showed only in flashes how good we were: first half against Paraguay, last twenty minutes against Trinidad and Tobago, and first half against Sweden. For all the criticism, we still believed we’d go all the way to Berlin.
Stuttgart was the next stop, and Sven gave us a new shape. After starting three games with 4–4–2, England now switched to 4–5–1. It was a big leap. Me and the other players arrived in Germany thinking we would play 4–4–2 all the way through, but after Michael’s injury we went 4–5–1. Even though we’d prepared for 4–5–1 we were still not familiar enough with such a different system. Other World Cup teams stuck with one formation they spent ages fine-tuning. Not us. England changed for the knockout stage of a World Cup, and you cannot expect it to work immediately. Players need time to adapt from 4–4–2 to 4–5–1. England should have practised with a holding midfielder for months before arriving at the World Cup. Come on! The biggest stage of all is no place for bloody rehearsals. I agreed we needed the insurance of an extra man in midfield, though. Most top teams operate with three in the middle, so our 4–4–2 would have been outnumbered in the centre. But we should have changed our system to 4–5–1 before the World Cup, not during it. People argue that 4–5–1 seems negative, but it’s 4–3–3 when we have the ball. As a midfielder, I should have three forwards to aim at. The reason why 4–5–1 never worked for England was because when we had the ball, sometimes Wayne came deep, or Joe and David came deep out wide, so we never had any forwards going long. Sometimes I played too far forward in David’s position, which meant that David had to cover for me. We were all guilty – me, David, Frank, Wayne and Joe – of 4–5–1 not working.
We were still too good for Ecuador, though. Becks whipped in one of those trademark free-kicks on the hour to see England into the quarter-finals. Thank God for David. He had been slaughtered in the media, many critics questioning his right to a place, but that goal in Stuttgart showed why David must start. Becks’s set-pieces are brilliant, and he offers much more than that. He is so gifted technically, and so competitive, that he can change a game’s fortunes in a split-second. Without his stunning free-kick we were destined for extra time and pens. I admire Becks. It’s good to play alongside someone who ignores all the criticism and just gets on with helping the team he loves to victory. Other players would collapse under that weight of pressure or simply hide. Not Becks. No chance. He thrives on it. All the players were surprised and disappointed that David got stick at the World Cup. Show me the evidence that Bex under-achieved. Against Paraguay, he forced the own-goal. He played the last pass for the two goals against Trinidad and Tobago. He scored a fantastic winner against Ecuador. ‘What else can he do?’ I thought. Even in the warm-up matches at Old Trafford, against Hungary in particular, Becks was sensational. Sven and Steve worked on Becks to stay out wide, and he kept delivering frightening crosses at some pace. Becks doesn’t need to get behind a full-back to ping in a dangerous ball. Yet still the newspaper snipers accused him of being too static. When Aaron Lennon came on and did so well, pushing opposing defenders back, Becks was slated even more. The press would have loved Sven to drop David for Aaron. Big story! With that, all the journalists could get their pats on the back from their bosses. Fuck off. None of the players wanted Becks out of the team. We love him, and respect him. Ecuador confirmed Becks’s importance. We need experienced players out there, particularly those like Becks with such an amazing desire to deliver.
I wasn’t aware he’d thrown up in Stuttgart until afterwards, in the dressing-room, when he told me. He was sick with dehydration. Christ, it was hot. We needed water constantly. The conditions in Germany were the hardest I have ever played in. We’d met only Paraguay, Trinidad, Sweden and Ecuador, so people said to me, ‘You’re mad! How can they be the hardest games you have played in? You’ve played against AC Milan!’ But with the high temperatures, and even higher expectations, those World Cup games were definitely the most gruelling. Of the four we played in reaching the last eight, the Sweden match was probably the easiest, because the temperature dropped, the pitch was moist and we could play at a high tempo for a while.
When we knew we had Portugal in the quarter-finals, all the players thought, ‘Last four. We’re on our way.’ Of course we were worried that we weren’t yet firing, but our confidence never dipped. Portugal were nothing special. They’d hardly set the World Cup alight. ‘We can beat them,’ I told the guys up at Buhlerhohe. Portugal had lost Costinha and Deco to suspension, and those two were big players for them. ‘I wouldn’t swap any of their players for ours,’ I told Carra. ‘Why can’t we go and beat Portugal?’ We had more time to work on 4–5–1 down at Mittelberg, too, and slowly the new system was getting better.
As we kicked off in Gelsenkirchen on Saturday, 1 July, all the lads were convinced the evening would end with England in the World Cup semi-finals. But almost immediately we had a reality check. Portugal surprised me how well they kept the ball. They seemed to glow with a belief in their tactics, and their touch. Even without Costinha and Deco, they looked a really settled team. Each player knew his role under Luiz Felipe Scolari. Facing Cristiano Ronaldo and Luis Figo was a nightmare: they were so elusive, so quick at picking up very clever positions. Now you see them, now you don’t. It was like chasing ghosts. But Ronaldo didn’t hurt us with the ball; he only played in flashes. I looked at Ronaldo and thought, ‘There’s a kid trying too hard.’ I could just imagine what the Manchester United winger was thinking: ‘I must be the main man against the English. I play in the Premiership. I must prove how good I am.’ So he showed off. Every time Ronaldo got the ball, he tried to beat three or four of us. ‘If that’s what you want, mate,’ I thought, ‘that suits us fine. We know how to handle boys like you.’ Early on, I chased Ronaldo back and slid in to clear. Everyone raved about the tackle, but it was simple. I knew when to commit because I had watched this Portuguese kid so many times. Once Ronaldo’s head is down and he’s running, he is not going to release the ball. So I don’t have to rush my tackle. Bide your time, Stevie. Wait. Wait. Watch the ball. Now go. Strike. Get the ball. I did that to Ronaldo. He stood there stunned, like a schoolboy who’d had his ice-cream nicked.
Sadly, a dark side stains Ronaldo’s game. His part in Wayne’s dismissal in Gelsenkirchen was a fucking disgrace. All the Portuguese players should hang their heads in shame for their ambush on Wayne midway through the second half. It was clinical how Portugal set up England’s best player. Yeah, let’s get Rooney sent off. Aren’t we clever? I hate them. When I saw the incident, I thought, ‘Well, that’s a free-kick for us.’ The Port
uguese were obviously fouling Wayne. Blatant. Wayne came deep to collect the ball and they were pulling his shirt, pushing him, banging into his ankles from behind. If Wayne had acted like most foreigners and fallen over at the slightest contact, England would have got the free-kick. But we’re England. We don’t cheat. We take the knocks. We ignore opponents tugging our shirts. Because we don’t complain or pull stunts like foreigners, refs just seem to let it go. In the end, Wayne was punished for being too honest. Wazza’s strong, and he always tries to stay on his feet, even if defenders like Ricardo Carvalho are fouling him 24/7. It’s not in Wayne’s nature to go down.
Then I saw Carvalho writhing around on the ground as if his life was coming to a sudden and brutal end. What the hell was going on? The referee, Horacio Elizondo, had blown his whistle. Commotion raged around the Argentinian official. I saw the red card raised. Christ, he’s sent one of the Portuguese off. Good. About time. They’ve been fouling Wazza all game. Tiago even kicked Wayne in the face in the first half. Elizondo had clearly had enough. Brilliant. Last four, here we come. Then, to my horror, I realized it was Wayne walking slowly off. What? The Portuguese were noisily claiming that Wayne had stamped on Carvalho. Utter rubbish. I know Wayne very well. However frustrated he may have been by Carvalho’s sly marking, Wayne would never deliberately harm an opponent. Never. It’s just not in his nature. He told me afterwards it was an accident, and I believe him. Elizondo screwed up. I hope one day this ref realizes that special talents like Wayne should be protected, not penalized. Players like Ricardo Carvalho are damaging football, not Wayne Rooney. FIFA are always banging on about fair play, but the English are the only ones behaving properly. The world’s governing body want footballers to stay on their feet. Wayne did. Yet he’s the one who got sent off in Gelsenkirchen. It’s bollocks.
Of course Wayne had become frustrated. Up front on his own, he hadn’t received the service he expected. He was desperate to score in the World Cup. But the real frustration was having Carvalho and his partners in crime constantly pulling and pushing him. FIFA should be embarrassed about what the Portuguese did to Wayne. Crowding round Elizondo, trying to influence him, calling for a card against an opponent. The behaviour of Scolari’s players in Gelsenkirchen was sickening. This synchronized gamesmanship is a foreign disease, and I saw it seven or eight times in Germany. It’s disgusting, but it pays off. ‘Shall England start doing that?’ I thought to myself. ‘Shall we start learning how to go down more easily and getting round the referee, conning him into a decision? Or shall I, Wazza and the rest of the England players stay the way we are – honest? Maybe if we can’t beat them we’ll have to join the cheats.’
Gerrard: My Autobiography Page 38