Carra: My Autobiography

by Jamie Carragher

  Maybe this was a sign of my growing confidence. As a youngster you pursue the opportunity to be one to eleven, but it was a trivial matter now. I may have been in the team for a while by then, but it underlines how that was the year I truly felt I'd arrived, established myself, provided all the confirmation I needed to of how good I was. I'd proved myself domestically, but now I'd gone to the Nou Camp and won man of the match. I'd gone boot to boot with Rivaldo, Totti and Deco and never flinched or looked out of my depth. I'd spent years knowing who the best players in Europe were, and now a few of them would remember me when our paths next crossed.

  Many of the lads had taken souvenirs of our foreign conquests, swapping shirts with those great names. I never bothered. I've always kept my own jersey, unless specifically asked by an opponent, as I've never felt obliged to show a rival how much I respect them. I'd never want anyone I was facing to think I was somehow in awe of their talent. To me, it's a contradiction. I spend ninety minutes committing myself to beating them into submission. Win or lose, I don't want their shirt afterwards. I'd feel too embarrassed to ask. Perhaps this was another indication of how I'd matured as a player.

  Breaking into the Liverpool side had forced me to step up a level. The arrival of Houllier and regular European football pushed me to take another jump in class in order to survive. I could never guarantee my long-term future at a club of Liverpool's stature, but now I was confident enough to believe there weren't many out there worthy of joining and taking my place. I felt I belonged on those big stages.

  Those three winners medals aren't simply a souvenir of an astonishing few months. They represent the season when we reserved our place in Anfield folklore, and when I began to carve out my career as a one-club man.

  'Make yourselves fucking legends,' Phil Thompson had said.

  Do you know what, Thommo? I think some of us must have been listening to you.

  7

  England

  Sitting on the England coach as it prepared to drive us away from the World Cup in Germany, I received a text message.

  'Fuck it. It's only England.'

  I'd just missed a penalty in the quarter-final shoot-out against Portugal. Around me were the tear-stained faces of underperforming superstars. England's so-called golden generation had failed. Again.

  An eerie depression escorted us on the short trip back to the hotel, but as I stared at my phone and considered the implications of the comforting note, I didn't feel the same emptiness I sensed in others.

  There's no such concept as 'only England' to most footballers, including many of my best friends. Representing your country is the ultimate honour, especially in the World Cup. Not to me. Did I care we'd gone out of the tournament? Of course I did. Passionately. Did I feel upset about my part in the defeat? Yes. I was devastated to miss a penalty of such importance. Had I really given my all for my country? Without question. I've never given less than 100 per cent in any game.

  Despite this, whenever I returned home from disappointing England experiences one unshakeable overriding thought pushed itself to the forefront of my mind, no matter how much the rest of the nation mourned.

  'At least it wasn't Liverpool,' I'd repeat to myself, over and over.

  I confess. Defeats while wearing an England shirt never hurt me in the same way as losing with my club. I wasn't uncaring or indifferent, I simply didn't put England's fortunes at the top of my priority list. Losing felt like a disappointment rather than a calamity.

  The Liver Bird mauled the three lions in the fight for my loyalties.

  I'm not saying that's right or wrong, it's just how it is. You can't make yourself feel more passionate if the feelings aren't there. That doesn't make me feel guilty. If people want to condemn me and say I'm unpatriotic, so be it. I played for England because it was my country of birth, I was eligible for selection, and a series of managers thought I was good enough for the squad. It was another chance to compete on the international stage. Playing for Liverpool has been a full-time commitment. What followed with England was an extra honour, but not the be all and end all of my purpose in the game. I saw wearing a white shirt as a chance to represent my city and district as much as my country.

  We all hear about the importance of 1966 to the country. For my family, the most important event at Wembley that year was Everton winning the FA Cup. If anyone referred to the glorious images of 1966 in my house, they weren't talking about Geoff Hurst scoring a hat-trick or Nobby Stiles dancing along the touchline with the Jules Rimet trophy, they were recalling Eddie Cavanagh running on the pitch, Mike Trebilcock's two goals against Sheffield Wednesday, and Derek Temple's winner. 'Yes, 1966 was a great year for English football all right,' I'd be told. 'We came from 2–0 down to win the FA Cup. You can't get much better than that. England? Oh yeah, they won the World Cup as well.' Liverpudlians feel the same way about the season as Bill Shankly won his second League title at Anfield. That year's Charity Shield saw players from both clubs parade the World Cup before kick-off, but it was their own silverware that meant more to the fans. That's how we've been brought up to feel, and playing for my country didn't change it.

  There was nothing nationalistic about my pursuit of caps. I'd never bellow out the anthem before a game. I don't know what message it's trying to send out. 'God Save the Queen' doesn't get my blood pumping. We sing 'You'll Never Walk Alone' at Anfield, and everyone understands it. It's a rallying cry for standing by one another through thick and thin, wind and rain. Football, or any team sport for that matter, is about togetherness once you cross that white line.

  Our nation is divided, not only in terms of prosperity but by different regional outlooks. For some of us, civic pride overpowers nationality. A lot of people in Liverpool feel the same way. I'd stand side by side with supposed rival Mancunians Paul Scholes and Gary Neville in the England line-up, keeping our lips tightly shut as the camera glided along, poking the lens in our faces to see who knew the words to the anthem. I don't know if they felt the same as I did, but a lot of their fans do. For all our differences, this is one area where most Liverpool and Manchester United supporters agree.

  Whenever I wore an England shirt, I was colliding with a different culture. There's a split between followers of successful northern clubs such as Liverpool and Manchester United, and the London lads I've played with over the years. If you're born near Wembley, it's a more natural aspiration to play there. It's bred into you. On the streets of Liverpool we have a different view. The clubs represent the lottery numbers and the country is the bonus ball. Playing at Goodison and Anfield was the objective of the lads I grew up with.

  I'm sure there are a whole range of social reasons for this. During the 1970s and 1980s, Merseysiders became increasingly alienated from the rest of the country. The 'us' and 'them' syndrome developed, and it's still going strong. I've heard The Kop sing 'We're not English, we are Scouse'. There's no affinity with the national team. While Liverpool as a city suffered economically during the eighties – unemployment was a major issue – our football clubs were the best in Europe. It was the one area where Margaret Thatcher's Conservative government couldn't hurt us. Football was our way of showing the southerners we wouldn't be trampled on. The identity of our clubs is connected to the reputation of our city, so Liverpool and Everton always came first. We were revelling in our region's glory, not sharing it with the rest of the country.

  I identified subtle but confusing differences between international and club football as I was growing up. As an Evertonian I was certain I was watching the best players in Europe week in, week out, but international honours seemed unevenly distributed. That didn't just apply to England. It puzzled me how Peter Reid, Paul Bracewell and Trevor Steven weren't acclaimed in this country, but I was equally baffled that Graeme Sharp wasn't Scotland's number one striker. And why wasn't Kevin Sheedy regarded as one of the Republic of Ireland's greatest players? If I could see as a seven-year-old how much better the Everton midfield was, why couldn't the international
managers?

  Only after Ray Wilkins was sent off during the 1986 World Cup, the first major international tournament I remember, did Reid break into the England team, and they started to play well. My support was for the player rather than the team. I celebrated when Everton's Gary Lineker scored, but when Diego Maradona knocked England out in Mexico, ten minutes later I was outside playing with my mates copying the handball goal. If it had been Everton losing an FA Cup quarter-final, I wouldn't have wanted to speak to anyone for the rest of the day.

  Going to Wembley to watch England was unheard of in Bootle. The thought never occurred to us. I considered England in the same way I did Arsenal or Spurs, as a London club for southern football fans. Wembley might have been the stadium we went to for cup finals, but it still seemed a distant, foreign place, inhabited by a different type of supporter.

  I discovered this to be correct when I started playing for England. Although I never had the opportunity to play at Wembley before its redevelopment, even stadiums such as Old Trafford or Villa Park felt unfamiliar on international night. You get this strange, largely subdued atmosphere that only comes alive when England score or attack. There's always a slightly sinister edge, too: you know the mood can shift from euphoric to vicious within the space of a few minutes. If England win, some players still get booed. Over the years, top-class performers such as John Barnes, Frank Lampard and many Manchester United players, all tremendous servants for their country, have suffered, even when the team was comfortably ahead. I dread to think what reaction I'd get from the 'loyal' Wembley faithful if I reversed my controversial decision to retire from international football and answered an SOS.

  England internationals are a magnet for fans who are a bit inexperienced, dare I say clueless, when it comes to top-class football. For followers of teams with limited success, particularly in the lower divisions, the national team matters more than for supporters of the top Premier League sides. It's their only chance to travel to Europe and see the best players in action in major competitions. They feel empowered by their opportunity to tell the stars what they really think of them. There's probably an element of club rivalry in the stands too. When Lampard was booed, it was more than likely West Ham supporters, still upset over his move to Chelsea, leading the jeers. 'You'll Never Walk Alone' could never be sung at Wembley during England games because it would be a contradiction. Many top-class England players must have felt lonesome in front of an intolerant eighty thousand crowd.

  A superiority complex has also developed. It's presumed England should go close to winning every World Cup and European Championship; failure to live up to this inevitably generates more criticism. But there's no historical justification for it. England's sole success in over a century of international competition is the World Cup in 1966. That was a tremendous achievement inspired by world-class players like Bobby Moore, Geoff Hurst, Gordon Banks and Bobby Charlton, but for all their efforts we're not the only country to win as hosts. Without demeaning their justly legendary status, home advantage was clearly a major factor.

  Since 1966, every time we've played a quality side at the business end of a tournament, we've lost. There isn't one team England has beaten in the knockout stages of a World Cup or European Championship we shouldn't have beaten. More relevantly, there isn't a game where the odds were stacked against us when we defied expectations. Go through the record books and it's there in black and white. In the World Cup, England lost to Germany in 1970, to Argentina in 1986, to Germany in 1990, to Argentina in 1998, to Brazil in 2002, and to Portugal in 2006. There's no shame in those defeats, but where are the upsets? Where are the kind of results we've seen our rugby union side achieve at World Cups, when they turn over the likes of Australia when everyone anticipates defeat? It remains the case for those World Cups when the side's efforts were acclaimed: in 1990, only the 'mighty' Cameroon and Belgium had to be beaten to reach the semi-final. England's European Championship record makes for even grimmer reading. Since a third place in 1968 (that World Cup-winning squad again), in those finals we actually qualified for we've only won one solitary knockout match, against Spain in 1996 – on home soil, and on penalties.

  Our overall record places England in a third tier of world football, and that will only change with the help of a radical mental rethink. We'll never be as technically gifted as the South Americans, who learn their football on the streets of Rio and Buenos Aires, yet there are those who still believe we should aspire to play in their style. We're also behind the French, the Italians and the Germans, whose greater nous means they consistently produce in the major events, where it really matters.

  France have benefited in recent years from the number of African immigrants who arrived in their country as youngsters, and whose natural athletic gifts they've been able to develop in their academies. Italy and Germany are the countries we should be emulating; their success has more in common with the kind of football I've played at club level, especially in Europe. The will to win at all costs, in players and fans alike, is worth an extra 10 per cent in knockout football. This game is as much about 'knowing' how to win as it is about natural ability.

  On the surface, there's no reason why England can't match Italy and Germany. Our league is superior, and no one is going to convince me the Italian side that won the World Cup in 2006 was technically better than ours. We've never mastered the methodical, tactically disciplined approach that is the foundation of their achievements. Crucially, we lack the shrewdness of our European neighbours. I've noticed throughout my career how, in general, the top foreign players think much more deeply about the tactical side of the game. They can see how a game is progressing and instinctively recognize the right time to drop the tempo for a spell, often to walking pace, to keep possession. Then they'll speed it up and go for the throat when the time is right. With England, there's a demand to play in one robust 100 mph style. We're always looking for the killer pass, and there have been occasions when no matter how much the manager tells players it's important just to keep the ball, even if it means the game goes through a quiet patch, the supporters demand it goes forward as quickly as possible, which usually means we give it away. At international level, you can't be successful unless you vary your style, usually in the same match. It's the ultimate test of playing with your brain as much as your feet, and we've failed too often to do so.

  I could also be controversial and say the foreign lads know how to cheat better than us, but that makes it sound like a negative. What some call 'gamesmanship', others call 'cunning'. I've seen Liverpool teams adopt the 'winning is the only thing' attitude in Europe, just as the Italians and Germans do so expertly in World Cups, but I've never seen it in an England team. We're not cute enough upstairs, and some of our players and coaches are probably terrified of changing our ways. If one of our players hits the deck when he's only been slightly touched and wins a penalty, or gets another player booked or sent off, we declare a state of national emergency and instigate a witch hunt. I can remember Glenn Hoddle being castigated prior to the 1998 World Cup for daring to suggest our players need to go down more. He was spot on.

  We consistently suffer from such antics. Remember Beckham against Argentina in 1998, and Rooney against Portugal in 2006? Both saw red because of minor altercations. Their opponents overreacted, our players took the blame. Had the roles been reversed and we'd gone on to beat ten men, I'm not sure the conduct of our lads would have been applauded in the same way. Diego Simeone and Cristiano Ronaldo were heroes in their homeland, where the boundaries between what some call dishonesty and others applaud as craftiness are blurred. Our players are damned either way.

  We'd have more chance of winning if we took the same cynical approach, but every fixture is accompanied by this irrational belief the country has a divine right to be the best in the world by playing 'the English way', whatever that is. We're supposed to behave like 'gentlemen' on and off the park. That's a worthy principle if you can get the rest of the world to follow suit. In the ab
sence of such a fantasy, I'd much prefer us to become more ruthless, collect some medals and let the arguments about the morality of our methods be discussed after our post-final celebrations.

  The psychology of our international game is wrong. England ought to be embracing the idea of being the underdog on the world stage, ready to do everything and anything to win. We should be revelling in the image of the plucky outsider trying to unbalance the superpowers of Argentina and Brazil, while matching the French, Germans and Italians. Rather than booing players, the fans should be recognizing how creating a vibrant, supportive atmosphere can bestir a flawed team. The greatest nights of my Liverpool career have been spent upsetting the odds. In recent years we've beaten Juventus, Chelsea, Barcelona and AC Milan in the Champions League, despite having inferior players. What we did possess was the desire and wit needed to get a result, no matter what it took.