Carra: My Autobiography
Page 16
By this stage, the Gérard Houllier in front of me was a pale imitation of the man who'd strolled into Melwood and taken on the most powerful player in the club. He'd seek the opinions of Stevie and Michael to reassure him his team selections were right. He knew he needed their support if he was going to survive. Mo was asked to write out what he considered to be Liverpool's strongest eleven. Houllier was shocked when it was so different to his, mainly because Vladimir Smicer wasn't in Michael's line-up.
Just as his clash with Ince after that FA Cup game in January 1999 demonstrated Houllier's power, an encounter with Stevie and Mo prior to a massive game at Old Trafford in April 2004 underlined his weakness. He told them his team included Cheyrou and Baros rather than Murphy and Heskey. Stevie and Mo were asked their opinion on the selection, and they said they didn't agree. Houllier changed his mind, included Murphy, and dropped Cheyrou and Baros. Danny scored the winner a day later. It was a great victory which effectively secured our Champions League spot for 2004–05, but I had a hollow feeling inside. I knew the manager had to go. This wasn't the Houllier I knew. This was not the man who'd taken on Ince so impressively in that team meeting. In 1999 he'd never have put the opinion of any player above his own. He was no longer speaking my or anyone else's language. The man needed a break, and the end, when it came, was unavoidable.
A few days after the final League game of the 2003–04 season, against Newcastle, the rumours began to gather pace. I suspected he'd gone, but public confirmation wasn't immediate.
'What do you think is happening?' Phil Thompson asked me.
'The silence is deafening,' I replied.
Rick Parry, our chief executive, told us an announcement would be made shortly, and it was clear what that meant. Houllier was sacked five days after the end of the season.
I sent him a text message thanking him and wishing him success in the future. Only the English players in the squad bothered to get in touch. The French players didn't care as much as we did about Houllier losing his job.
It was the end for Thommo, too. He was keen to stay, but the new manager, Rafa Benitez, wanted his own backroom team. The link with the famous Anfield bootroom was being cut.
My emotions were mixed. I was personally sorry for Houllier, but I knew it was the right decision. The club needed a fresh start. The supporters now perceived Houllier as a manager who bought poor players and talked rubbish. Their view of him had been contaminated by his final two seasons. For me, he'll always be the boss who did everything except win the title at Anfield. I'd rather think about the good times than dwell on his mistakes. I'd rather remember the medals we won together, and none was more satisfying than the bundle we picked up in 2001.
6
The Treble
'Go out there and make yourselves fucking legends.'
Phil Thompson's plea bounced off the dressing-room walls as we headed into the Westfalenstadion in Dortmund.
The UEFA Cup Final of 2001 was the climax of our sublime trinity. The League Cup and FA Cup were already rubbing ears in the trophy cabinet. Now we were ready to complete the set. In doing so, we knew we'd achieve what Liverpool had never done before: play every game possible in a season and win every knockout competition entered.
After 120 minutes in Germany during which we contrived to drop the cup four times but grabbed it five times, we returned to the changing room clutching our winners medals and reflecting on the uniqueness of our deeds. Mentally, physically and emotionally we were too drained to celebrate. I threw off my kit, kicked off my boots, dipped myself into a bath that was bigger than a swimming pool and stared blankly at my team-mates, breaking the surprisingly restrained atmosphere with a few mutters about what had happened. The pace with which each triumph had overlapped the next meant none of us had had a chance to pause to absorb the scale of our accomplishment. There was no evidence of the ecstasy you'd expect in the winners' quarters. The party had been left on the pitch and was heading into extra time on the streets outside; sober consideration was the dominant vibe in the dressing room. Cloud nine wasn't all it was cracked up to be. We were too exhausted and bewildered to appreciate the view.
We'd achieved what had seemed impossible so soon into Gérard Houllier's reign. It remains my triumph above all triumphs, the one I recall with most fondness, even though time hasn't been generous in its appraisal of our efforts. Ask Liverpudlians to list the most iconic moments at Anfield and they'll need reminding about this peculiar season as they plough through the various other accolades on the honours list. Fans hail the great Shankly teams of the 1960s, Paisley's European Cup trio of the 1970s and 1980s, Kenny Dalglish's double winners, or his 1988 title-winning team. Istanbul leapfrogged many of these. Club historians will eventually recognize how unlucky Houllier was to find himself at a venue that could afford to be blasé about this exceptional campaign. If he'd done this anywhere but Liverpool, Arsenal or Manchester United, he'd have been given a new ten-year contract on the spot and the freedom of the city, and had a statue immediately erected in his honour. Instead, he finds himself sandwiched between an era of unprecedented regular success and a season that ended in the most extraordinary Champions League Final of all time. Regardless of what we won under him, his period at Anfield is still perceived as a bleak spell. The three years that followed the treble led to a re-evaluation of his work, and then Rafa came along and stole everyone's hearts by eclipsing him within twelve months.
Shankly, Paisley, Fagan and Dalglish never found themselves in a situation where such a high was followed by underachiev-ement. Shankly left as manager having won the FA Cup. Paisley was a League title holder on his retirement day. Fagan was only the boss for two years, but won a treble of his own and reached consecutive European Cup Finals. Dalglish left Liverpool as champions. These managers peaked early and sustained their success. All were able to bow out with their reputations intact. Houllier initially upheld this tradition, but then broke with it. He was damaged goods when he was sacked. That corrupted fans' memories of what had gone before as they lingered on the sense of what might have been in the immediate aftermath of 2001.
With every year that passes I feel more sympathy for Gérard for the way his reign has been tarnished. The medal haul in my house, and the collection of cup final wins on DVD, underlines his bad luck. For all the traumas of frustrating Premier League campaigns, the glory years have never stopped for me at Liverpool. Houllier not only triggered the revival of our good fortunes, he activated the beginning of mine. I've won every honour except one, and I've not given up on the League title yet. I've had more ups and downs than a trapeze artist during my time in a red shirt, but there's been nothing unrewarding about my Liverpool treasure hunt. Trophies have arrived with the same regularity as they did for my illustrious predecessors, and at certain times with greater frequency.
The 2001 treble topped the lot. Istanbul was my finest hour, but 2001 was the result of a whole season's work, making it more satisfying and more worthy. For all the pleasure holding aloft the European Cup brought, I didn't join an exclusive group in winning it. Every May, new sets of players join the club saying they've won the Champions League. To this day, only the few of us who contributed to every minute of the three cup finals in 2001 can say we achieved something rare. This particular treble had never been done before by an English side, and may never be done again. I doubt any feat has been overlooked and underestimated more at Anfield. Lifting the UEFA Cup, FA Cup and Carling Cup within the space of a few months would be enough to merit reunion dinners every summer at most clubs. At Liverpool, it's the underplayed 'forgotten treble'. It's packaged up and left on the shelf as one of numerous jubilant campaigns the club has enjoyed. Few would rank it as a peak now.
You start each season with the aim of winning one trophy. The fixture list arrives pre-season and you imagine gaps appearing after a cup exit or two. To look back after nine months and realize every weekend and midweek slot has been filled – that's special. We didn't just win three back-to-back
trophies, we emerged victorious from the ultimate test of football endurance. As now, we didn't appreciate it as much as we should have at the time. The sweat was still dripping from my brow in Dortmund when supporters and journalists were asking us about the League title the following season. Even as we were parading all three trophies around the city centre in May 2001, our thoughts were drifting towards the seasons to come.
The obsession with pursuing the Premier League can sometimes blur a player's sense of the present. I now know the value of savouring a triumph rather than thinking too much about the consequences down the line. My advice to any footballer or fan is this: the hour of glory itself should be enough; relish it while it lasts. You must always strive for more and plan ahead, but too often recently I've heard Liverpool supporters redefine our greatest nights and victories because they didn't lead to the League title later on. But a cup final win is in itself a pinnacle. Those trophies had no less value because they were the zenith of our achievement under Houllier. When we were dancing and singing around the Millennium Stadium and the Dortmund pitch with those cups it didn't feel possible he'd be so scarred by future events. On those glorious days when we beat Arsenal and Alaves, it should have been all about living for the moment. Houllier had led Liverpool back to where they belong, among the cream of Europe.
I was involved in fifty-eight of our sixty-three fixtures in 2000–01, the last ten stretching my stamina to its absolute limit. Had those fans who turned up at Anfield on 19 August for our first League game been told what was to come, they'd have reacted with disbelief and excitement. When I took my place on the substitutes' bench that day, I too could never have imagined I'd be so involved in a career-defining campaign: German fullbacks Markus Babbel and Christian Ziege had signed from Bayern Munich and Middlesbrough, prompting fears I faced a prolonged spell learning the full definition of a rather undesirable new phrase that had invaded the English language – 'rotation policy'.
That first match at home, to Bradford, when I spent most of the game on the touchline warming up, did nothing to ease my concerns. Fortunately for me, it needed only one nippy run from the opposing right-winger to expose how Ziege was a more accomplished attacker than defender. He was uncomfortable in 4–4–2. Our left flank became leaky, so he was swiftly moved into a midfield role.
Ziege arrived with an unblemished reputation, but before he joined it was well known he was a left wing-back rather than an out-and-out defender. Houllier rarely played three at the back, so it was a strange signing. To be blunt, Ziege couldn't defend. I wondered what our scouts had been up to recommending that Houllier sign him, and I later heard many had advised him not to, especially given the controversy surrounding his so-called 'tapping up' (Liverpool were fined for an illegal approach). Ultimately, it worked in my favour. If he'd been that good, I wouldn't have been in the team as much as I was in 2000–01.
With Ziege not up to it at the back, after a brief return to central midfield, Houllier shifted me to the role I'd make my own for the next few years – left-back. We were away at Newcastle in November and hit with injuries when the decision was taken. On the eve of the match, Steven Gerrard and I agreed one of us would be the square peg filling the round hole. I got the nod and played well enough to earn a second chance, even though we lost 2–1. I stayed in the side for an 8–0 midweek demolition of Stoke City in the League Cup. This triggered a run of ten games where we had eight clean sheets. It was enough for Houllier to recognize he'd stumbled upon a winning formula in defence. I was staying put.
Houllier's much-respected and clever assistant Patrice Bergues spent extra time on the training pitch with me to guide me through the perils of my new role. It was invaluable advice, and pretty soon no one was questioning my right to stay there. I had a lot to work on in an attacking sense, but we were rock solid where it mattered.
I'd been everywhere but in goal now, but I wasn't complaining. Securing a place in that team was tough, and having already spent my brief career reinventing myself, it was no hardship. The 2001 side remains the best I've played in at Anfield. You had to scrap to get into it, and it was even harder to stay in. There was plenty of talk at the time, as there has been ever since, of the manager changing players too much, but Houllier's selections were largely consistent in the key areas. The back four never changed, unless there was an injury or suspension. Continuity in defence was the foundation for our success.
We weren't a flamboyant side, but you had to play out of your skin and battle to beat us. We had that elusive quality I've emphasized so often – character. We were a team in tune with my Marsh Lane principles: resilient, honest and uncompromising. I glanced around the dressing room before a game and knew I was standing alongside players I could trust. We were powerful, experienced, hungry for success, and expertly organized. I can't remember a fixture during that season where each of us didn't go out comfortable with what we had to do. I was always confident we'd deliver a performance. The bottom line is that across all areas of the pitch we had players who believed we would produce the goods.
To one side I had big Sami and Stéphane Henchoz, who'd drip blood for a clean sheet. Babbel played sixty-one games that season, which may have contributed to the exhaustion he suffered later. His career was cut short by a freak illness in the summer of 2001, which was a devastating blow to the squad given his outstanding contribution until then. Upfront we had Mo, who you could always depend on to grab a goal when you most needed it. Emile Heskey had the season of his life, scoring over twenty goals and forever promising to get the best out of his formidable talent. Steven Gerrard was maturing into the worldclass midfielder he's become, Danny Murphy, Nick Barmby and Patrik Berger were a constant goal threat from midfield, and Houllier's masterstroke was to add the nous and experience of Gary McAllister to guide the younger players and provide an extra creative spark in the middle.
The lynchpin of the midfield was Didi Hamann, who'd glide effortlessly across the area protecting the back four, destroying enemy probes. He came to the fore and became an integral part of our success, finding his form at precisely the right time, because Houllier was seriously considering selling him. At the end of 2000 he added Igor Biscan to the ranks amid suspicions he'd lost faith in Hamann. Didi instantly raised his game and sustained a level of performance over the next six years to qualify for legendary status.
In the summer of 1999 Houllier thought he was signing the ultimate professional who lived like a monk off the pitch.
'Look at Didi,' he'd say. 'I never see him without a bottle of water in his hand.'
We'd walk away laughing. 'That's because he's dehydrated,' we'd say to one another. 'When we're on a night out we never see him without a pint in his hand.'
There are some players who can enjoy a night out on a Friday and give a man of the match performance on a Saturday. Didi comes into that category. It's a quality that endears him to fellow players and supporters, but it never helped his cause with managers. If ever a player defied your expectations of German footballers, it's Didi. Houllier and later Rafa Benitez couldn't cope with him because he's the opposite of the kind of robotic, characterless ideal modern coaches want. He'd be awful on the training pitch, but he'd consistently give eight, nine or ten out of ten performances when it mattered most.
We knew we'd signed a guy with charisma the day he joined the club. We took him out for a night in the city centre, expecting to be out with a quiet, shy German bloke. By the end of the evening such preconceptions were well and truly quashed. As we left a club, Didi announced he knew the perfect way to get us a taxi. We watched in horror as our £9 million midfielder lay in the middle of Liverpool's lively Castle Street in the hope or expectation a motorist would slam on the brakes rather than kill him.
Thankfully, a bemused driver obliged.
'I'll give you forty pounds to take me home,' Didi said to the shocked target.
'Where do you live?'
'I haven't got a clue,' Didi replied. 'I've only just arrived here.'
An altogether different influence, but equally inspirational on our treble run, was Gary McAllister. Unlike Didi, Gary Mac was a manager's dream. There was uncertainty when Liverpool signed him at the age of thirty-six, and no one was more surprised than me. There were no clues from Houllier as to his intentions. The previous season, when Liverpool played Coventry, Houllier had even singled out Gary as a potential weak link in their line-up. He pitched me against him in centre midfield, saying, 'You're running on petrol, he's running on diesel.' Six months later Gary was signing for the club. It proved to be one of the most astute purchases Houllier made. There couldn't have been a finer role model for any young player. Some older heads when they offer advice can sound too preachy and make you want to switch off rather than listen. Gary Mac wasn't like that. When he had something to tell you, it always made sense. I'm sure the two years many of us spent working with him had a huge influence on all our careers.