For all the efforts of Jermaine and the other players, we couldn’t break through. Milan took a flukey lead on the edge of half-time, the ball catching Filippo Inzaghi and sending Pepe the wrong way. How unlucky was that? I couldn’t believe it. In the second half, I expected some subs sharpish. We were trailing 1–0 and failing to create real chances. I trust Rafa. The manager clearly had belief in the players who were on, but I was surprised Crouchy didn’t come on a bit earlier. Not just Crouchy, any sub. We needed something different.
I partly blame myself. Early in the second half, I missed a chance which I’m still gutted about. Cutting in from the left, and through on Dida, only one thought hammered through my mind: don’t waste the opportunity. Few chances had come to us, so I didn’t want to shoot with my left foot and regret it. I must use my right, my stronger foot. So I opened up my body to try to pass the ball around Dida with my right. Sadly, I never made a good enough connection. Dida saved. Maybe I should have gone with my left.
When Inzaghi added another, I felt the spirit of Istanbul desert us for good, even when Dirk Kuyt made it 2–1 a minute before the end. The final whistle blew through me like a vicious wind. Frustration ate away at me because Milan were there for the taking. They were. We should have beaten them. I looked around at my devastated Liverpool team-mates, and at our wonderful fans who sang to the end and beyond, and my heart broke in two. Even now, recalling events in Athens, my mind is numb with grief. The pain remains.
Even amid my heartache at the final whistle, I knew I had to show dignity in defeat. A lot was made in the build-up to the final about my criticism of Gattuso in Istanbul, and I didn’t want anyone to feel I disrespect opponents. That’s not in my nature. I milk it when I win, but I want people to appreciate that I take defeat well. I saw Gattuso and stretched out a hand.
‘Congratulations,’ I said.
He was good. No gloating. Just a few kind words. ‘Thanks very much. You were unlucky.’
I nodded, and moved away.
However much losing kills me, I always honour the victors. I hate people who go off celebrating and ignore the beaten team. Show some class. Better footballers than me do it, so why shouldn’t I? One good thing coming into football now is that most players are starting to take defeat on the chin and not be bad losers. That’s good for the game.
Having congratulated Gattuso, Paolo Maldini and the rest of the Milan team, I retreated to the dressing-room. God, it was grim in there. The players were shattered, emotionally and physically. I had to behave as a captain, not as a heartbroken player. ‘Listen, lads, we did OK,’ I told my grieving team-mates. ‘We gave a good account of ourselves. We have not been blown away.’ I meant it. In 2005, Liverpool got blown away by Milan in Istanbul. Completely. Although we came back and won on the night, there was only one good team in Istanbul, and it was not Liverpool. ‘We can be proud of ourselves,’ I told the players in Athens. ‘Don’t be down and disheartened. Look to the future. Are we moving forward or at a standstill? We all know this team is moving forward.’
I believe Liverpool are heading in the right direction. I’ve definitely got another European Cup final in me. Absolutely no question about it. I will be desperately disappointed if I don’t win it again. I have to. There’s a huge difference between owning one European Cup winners’ medal and two. Many players possess one; few have two. My failure to collect another European Cup medal in Athens is a hurt I must live with – until I win it again. Maybe I’m just being greedy. When I was a young lad knocking about on Ironside, if someone had said, ‘You’ll play in two European Cup finals, winning one and losing the other – do you fancy it?’ my reaction would have been to shake their hand so strongly it would have fallen off. Putting all the agony of Athens to one side for a moment, the reality is that Liverpool reached two finals in three years, which is terrific. When our unspectacular domestic form is taken into account, we have been punching above our weight. In truth, Liverpool are still quite a few players away from getting involved in the Premiership race, and continuing to do well in Europe. The future looks bright for the club, though: we’ve got a good team, an outstanding manager in Rafa, a new stadium being designed, and brilliant new owners. If the Americans hand Rafa the financial backing to strengthen a good team, we can become a great team. Then we can erase the memory of Athens.
Athens left a bad taste in the mouth. The moment I turned my mobile back on, calls and texts came thudding through from family and friends who were at the Olympic Stadium and were horrified by the behaviour of the Greek police. What I heard shocked me. My family and friends were caught up in minor incidents trying to get into the stadium; they were pushed, shoved and tear-gassed. What the hell happened? This was the European Cup final, the pinnacle of club football. Organization should have been miles better. OK, a minority of fans let themselves down, but they might not even have been genuine Liverpool fans. For all I know, they could have been people jumping on the bandwagon pretending to be Liverpool fans, pulling any stunt to get into the European Cup final. I find it hard to believe any real Liverpool fan would snatch a ticket off another Liverpool fan. I have travelled around Europe for years, and our supporters’ behaviour has always been spot-on.
The blame game soon began. For me, the people who should look at themselves most closely are the organizers. The Olympic Stadium in Athens was too small and too poorly prepared for clubs the size of Liverpool and Milan. Just think. Champions League finals are only going to be contested by two massive clubs, so why not stage the final in bigger stadiums? If Liverpool had played Manchester United in Athens – which was a possibility until United lost to Milan – I would have been really concerned for both sets of fans. There would have been a bloodbath. UEFA must sit down and discuss the issue of the right venue. A showpiece game such as the European Cup final must be in a larger arena than Athens, with fairer and bigger ticket allocations, proper turnstiles, and double the security.
Frustration became a constant companion for a while. Seeing Steve Heighway leave his post as Liverpool Academy director was particularly disappointing. It still upsets me. If anyone comes in and does a better job, I will be surprised. Watch this space. It won’t happen. Steve is impossible to replace. Liverpool can search this country, or any other country, and they will struggle to find anyone good enough to fill Steve Heighway’s boots. No-one works better with kids from eight to eighteen. No-one. I will put my life on that. Steve cares for his players, and he’s a top judge of a player as well. When I was ten, he looked my parents in the eye and said, ‘Your lad will play for Liverpool’s first team, if looked after properly.’ When Michael Owen was thirteen, Steve told me, ‘Michael will get in Liverpool’s first team.’ Of course, I am biased towards Steve because he helped me. But I just can’t understand why he has gone. Over the years he had a bit of criticism, people saying that Liverpool have hardly had any young players coming through since me. But hold on. Tell me which clubs are developing players. All the top sides spend big money on them. Manchester United’s best young player is Wayne Rooney, and they spent £27 million on him. Chelsea are buying kids for £5 million. Liverpool Football Club, and me personally, will miss Steve Heighway.
Disappointment dogged me during 2006/07, for country as well as club. England enjoyed a good start under Steve McClaren, but we soon ran into some stormy weather. By the time England came away from Israel on 24 March with a 0–0 draw, we were beginning to feel the anger of England’s supporters. Such a point, away from home, would have been considered a decent result if we had been in a better position in our qualifying group for Euro 2008. But we remained in mid-table, and the fans were livid. As we left the field in Tel Aviv, England’s fans showed their frustration, giving us a taste of the treatment in store in Barcelona four days later for the tie with Andorra. The main focus of their fury was the manager. McClaren was getting it in the neck big-style.
Guilt gripped me. Questions raced through my mind. Was it just McClaren’s fault? No. Can I do more for Engl
and? Yes. Players must take responsibility. We cannot hide while the manager dodges the bullets. As we settled into our Barcelona base, Steve told the experienced players to stand up and be counted. He warned us what was in store.
The build-up to Andorra was unforgiving. On the Tuesday, the day before the game, I did a press conference with John Terry and the questions were really, really difficult. Were the players behind McClaren? Had the team let England’s fans down? I was running down snipers’ alley. The mood was dark and against us. I knew if England didn’t score against Andorra in the first five minutes at the Montjuic Stadium, an absolute nightmare awaited. England’s fans were waiting to turn. Understandably so. They were following the so-called best players in the country, paying good money and watching shite. A revolt was on the cards.
Stepping out in the Montjuic against Andorra felt like climbing into a pressure cooker. As we struggled to break down Andorra, the abuse was incredible. I was shocked because I hadn’t experienced such derision before. It got really personal towards the manager, and the players. ‘You’re not fit to wear the shirt!’ the fans chanted at England’s players. That hurt. Footballers often claim they cannot hear such abuse. We can. At the Montjuic, it was inescapable. It grew louder and louder.
I looked around. England’s young players were badly affected. There they were, all proud to represent their country, and the team was getting slaughtered by the fans. With all the anarchy in the stands, I found it hard to concentrate on the game, and I had played in more than fifty internationals. God knows how the youngsters were coping. I tried to reassure them, encouraging them to get on the ball. ‘You’re playing because you are the best in England,’ I shouted. ‘Go and show it.’ I felt for them. At twenty years of age, I would definitely have gone into my shell.
Only a goal would silence our detractors, but Andorra were adding to our embarrassment. No matter how bad a team is – and Andorra were really bad – if they don’t move out of position, it’s difficult to break them down. Andorra really pissed me off. They were staying down, killing time, stopping our momentum building. I tried to quicken the play, and ended up forcing passes. Be patient, I told myself. Look for the opening. It will come. But it is hard not to hurry attacks and risk things when your own fans are abusing you. I tried to seize the game by the scruff of the neck, make things happen, stop the cruel chants. I struggle to remember playing in a more difficult game against such weak opposition.
With every scoreless minute, the boos worsened. At half-time, England needed inspiration. Badly. As the catcalls pursued us down the corridors of the Montjuic to the dressing-room, Steve let us regain our breath and then went to work on us. ‘Try to raise the tempo,’ he told us. ‘We need more pace on the pass to move them out of position.’ Steve was really good at half-time. He wasn’t angry, just stayed calm. He used his experience to help the young players. ‘Ignore the atmosphere,’ he told them, ‘concentrate on the football.’ That was good management. The senior players also made little speeches. ‘Keep going, don’t hide,’ I told the team. ‘Be patient, blank the noise out.’
Action was needed to match my words. I had to make something happen myself, so I drove into Andorra in the second half, scoring twice and taking the sting out of the fans’ venom. For my first goal, set up by Wazza, I made good contact with a half-volley. The moment the ball hit the grass I knew it was in, because the surface was soaking wet and it fair flew into the net. That was a good individual goal. Relief seeped into our bodies. But the dull throb of pain caused by the fans’ boos continued. England needed another goal. I played a one-two with Stewart Downing and then Jermain Defoe, and produced a good finish. David Nugent’s late goal made it 3–0, and the storm subsided. Thank God. I never want to endure such abuse again.
As we left behind a stadium soaked in rain and the fans’ bile, it felt like a watershed for Steve McClaren’s England. That had to be the low point. Steve will have learned from that experience. I certainly did. After surviving that, the only way was up for England.
England’s next Euro 2008 qualifier came in Estonia on 6 June. Another potential banana skin. Another chance for fans to voice their concerns. Again, pressure mounted on McClaren and the players, but England had too much for Estonia. Joe Cole scored the first and Becks then created finishes for Crouchy and Michael.
Becks’ return lifted us. He handled his exile with real dignity, which hardly surprised me. I expected him to behave with a touch of class. He never moaned. He took Steve’s initial decision on the chin and worked hard at Real Madrid to make him change his mind. Becks’ performance in Tallinn showed why Steve was right to bring him in from the cold. I was pleased to see him back. Definitely. He still has a lot to offer the team. He looks after himself. He puts quality balls into the box. He’s a danger at set-pieces. He works as hard as anyone. People question his age, but Becks is as fit as anyone. When Steve left him out of the squad after the 2006 World Cup, I personally felt he still had something to offer England. The decision was too hasty. At the very least, I believed Becks was a useful squad option. In Tallinn, Becks proved he’s a more than useful first-eleven member. He hadn’t changed. He strolled back into the dressing-room and immediately resumed his work, helping out the young players, showing everyone his will to win. Becks is a professional. He conducts himself really well. He has achieved so much in life, and in his career, that everyone should look up to him and learn from him. I do.
I did get one medal while on England duty that season: an MBE off the Queen. From where I come from, a housing estate in Huyton, I never, ever dreamed of picking up an accolade like that. I never thought I would be walking up to Buckingham Palace to meet the Queen to get an MBE. I was really flattered and shocked to be invited. Alex came with me, and so did Struan. The ceremony was during England week, so I asked Steve McClaren’s permission for the morning off.
Nerves rarely feature in my life now that I am an established England international and European champion. I can handle most situations. But I must admit to feeling nervous stepping through the gates of Buckingham Palace. I had to be on my best behaviour, really polite. Right clothes, right words. Was I going to make a mistake? Was I going to say the wrong thing? Was I going to embarrass myself? Luckily enough, it went perfectly. I bowed in front of the Queen. ‘All the best with England,’ she said. Fair play to her, she’d done her homework. She knew I was with England and that we had a game coming up. A sense of pride filled me.
I’m not really into the royal family, but I understand the significance of these accolades. At the palace, I met soldiers who had faced unimaginable horror in Iraq, policemen who had been tackling crime for fifty years, and firemen who had fought blaze after blaze. All around me were stories of astonishing bravery. We all gathered in a room for tea before meeting the Queen, and I listened in amazement to all these heroes. Being in the presence of so many special people was pretty humbling. I whispered to myself, ‘I must have done quite well at my job to be in this company.’ Whenever the pressure of football gets to me, I compare my job to other people’s and realize how lucky and privileged I am.
Afterwards, I got a picture of me and Alex outside Buckingham Palace. It was a great day, particularly for Alex. I am not one for all this attention, but I’d do anything for her. Alex has helped me mature over the last five years, and contributed to the success I have had on the pitch. She has given me two beautiful daughters, the most important people in my life. We got married on 16 June, a magical day, and it felt so right. It wasn’t a reward for Alex’s loyalty, it was just that the time was right. Alex deserved the wedding, because I love her. I hope marriage will now make our relationship even better, taking it to a new level. We are both happy, delighted with the two girls.
Alex is a close friend. I trust her with my life. I lean on her, share everything with her. I’m in love with her. I’m in love with Liverpool. The future looks bright. There are more chapters to be written in my life-story because I’ve not finished yet. No chance.
Digging for victory Here I am, aged two and a half, playing with my brother Paul, five.
First team bib Me at six months
Blond ambition I loved being in Paul’s company.
Smart lad Me in my school uniform, aged seven.
In the middle of it Dave Shannon (back left) was there from the beginning, I’m right at the centre of the middle row. Frank Skelly from the Academy is on the far right.
On the ball Training at Melwood was a dream come true.
Raising the bar Dave Shannon made me want to be the best.
Surrounded by class Steve Heighway (on the left) with Michael Owen, Dave Shannon (with me in the middle) and Hughie McAuley (on the right) took care of the Melwood lads.
That winning feeling When the older lads were winning Dave Shannon (left) and Hughie McAuley (right) let me and Michael Owen soak up the atmosphere.
Young dreams Me and Michael Owen, looking good in our England Under-15 blazers.
Holding role Here’s me cradling Lilly-Ella on the day she was born.
My Two Loves, Family and Liverpool Lilly-Ella meets the Anfield crowd in 2004.
Gerrard: My Autobiography Page 41