Disillusionment began to shadow me around the time of Euro 2004. By then I was fully established as one of the country's top defenders. When England had problems at centre-half, I was confident enough to presume I should be in the side. In the warm-up games before we headed to Portugal, I replaced John Terry and played well. I was led to believe I'd be in the team for our opening game with France. As the fixture approached, there was a sudden backing in the newspapers for Ledley King. All the vibes I was getting from journalists I knew indicated King would play. The final training sessions before kick-off confirmed I was going to be overlooked.
My head spun with mystification. It wasn't the fact King was picked that upset me, but the process that put him in the side. I'll always believe that Eriksson changed his mind under pressure from the media. One essential question bugged me: if I wasn't his initial choice to face France, why did I play in the warm-up games ahead of King? Eriksson told me he preferred King's pace against France's Thierry Henry. I didn't buy that. My response was to ask if the manager had realized Henry was a bit nippy only when he got to Portugal. The draw had been made months earlier. We knew we'd be facing Henry when we played the warm-up fixtures. If this was Eriksson's plan, why wasn't King playing centre-back earlier? What kind of preparation was this for a young defender, pitched into such an important game?
It turned out King had a blinder, fully justifying his selection. There's no reason why he shouldn't have been picked. He's a great defender. But this was one of several occasions when indecision surrounded Eriksson's selections. His reign was particularly tainted by his inability to mould Steven Gerrard and Frank Lampard into a well-balanced midfield partnership. Eriksson's solution was to call his midfielders and captain for a meeting and ask their opinions on resolving the problem. He wanted a volunteer for the holding role in midfield. Neither Stevie nor Frank wanted the job. Both are at their best when free to get forward. David Beckham offered his services. Eriksson agreed, so arguably the best crosser of the ball in the world was switched to an unfamiliar defensive midfield role. The experiment lasted a couple of games, against Wales and Northern Ireland, and inevitably failed.
I was stunned when I heard how this decision was reached. Who was being paid to manage this team? Eriksson needed to be stronger. He needed to have the courage of his convictions, but there were times I wondered what his opinion was. Perhaps he didn't know himself.
The Gerrard–Lampard debate lasted for years; it should have been nipped in the bud. The obvious solution was for the manager to order Stevie to play the holding role to make the partnership work. If the balance still wasn't right, one would have to sit on the bench. Obviously, I'd say there's no way that could be Stevie. The difference between the two is this: Frank Lampard became a world-class player, Steven Gerrard was born one.
Eriksson gave the impression he relied too much on the guidance of others. In particular, his close relationship with Beckham became detrimental. Beckham was world class. Put aside all the hype and celebrity and judge him on his footballing talent and he's up there with Luis Figo as the finest right midfielder of his generation. At his peak, it's no wonder he had so much power. Unfortunately, there are times when every player needs to be dropped or subbed for the good of the team, and you need a manager wise enough to see it, and firm enough to act appropriately. By the time of the World Cup in 2006 Beckham was in a more vulnerable position, but Eriksson stuck by him. There were occasions when he should have been subbed or started on the bench, coming on later in the game so he had more time and space to have an influence.
Eriksson's decisions were increasingly unpredictable and criticized. The holding midfielder experiment placed me back in the middle during a few warm-up games. I did as well as I could given my six-year absence from the position, but the idea was soon abandoned. To this day I have no idea why I played there or what more I could have done to impress the manager in the role. Then we were all dumbfounded when Arsenal's Theo Walcott was included in the World Cup squad for Germany ahead of Jermaine Defoe and Darren Bent. At seventeen he was nowhere near ready. Not only was it bad for the squad, it was unfair on the player. He's got to live up to his reputation as a wonderkid now. The profession is hard enough without that kind of unnecessary pressure.
England undoubtedly underperformed throughout that World Cup. I can't recall a game where we played to our potential, but a quarter-final place was no disgrace. We played our best football down to ten men against Portugal, when the preoccupation with tactics, systems and formations had to be abandoned and we showed old-fashioned English qualities of grit and determination. I don't believe the manager was a failure, as was suggested. I'd have preferred different players in the squad, but even if we'd played to our maximum I doubt we'd have gone much further given the injuries we had. The squad wasn't as good as the players, media and supporters made out before the tournament. The usual English disease of over-hype and overexpectation tripped us up again.
Everyone looked for a scapegoat. Eriksson took the blame, but for a while the investigation even focused on me. Eriksson's assistant, Tord Grip, highlighted my penalty miss as a chief factor in our demise. When asked why I was one of those involved in the shoot-out against the Portuguese, he explained, 'He took one really well for Liverpool in the Champions League Final.'
I've watched our penalty shoot-out win in Istanbul a thousand times since 2005. I've relived the magical moment of victory more times than this. To this day I still can't recall taking a penalty, and neither can the millions of others around the world who watched the game. I'm not imagining it, then. I definitely didn't take a penalty in the Champions League Final in 2005. The only people who seem to think I was one of Liverpool's takers that night are Grip and the journalist who wrote the story. It's frightening to think England's assistant manager could be so ill-informed.
Having said that, I'd fancied my chances against Portugal that night and readily agreed when asked to take one because my record in training was superb. I was screwed, because I buried my first attempt only to be ordered to retake it for shooting too early. I should have blasted the second, but I picked my spot and missed.
The text messages of consolation I received on the coach heading back to the hotel included one from Kenny Dalglish.
'I wud rather miss for England than LFC,' I wrote back.
'Don't worry, u will never be asked,' Kenny replied, cheekily.
'I can't remember u ever taking one,' I continued the argument. 'Didn't u have the bottle?'
It took Kenny another twenty-four hours to think up a reply to that one.
'I took 1 in a pre-season once and missed,' he belatedly admitted.
Regardless of the penalty, I never played well in that World Cup, partially because I was shattered. I played more games than anyone in Europe that season. Officially, there were sixty-eight in all, because of Liverpool's three rounds of Champions League qualifiers, the Super Cup Final and our involvement in the World Club Championship in Japan. Including pre-season games I was over the seventy mark.
My versatility had become a disadvantage. In my early twenties, moving from midfield or central defence to full-back wasn't a problem. After four years during which all my games for Liverpool were at centre-half, the switch back to right-back was uncomfortable because at that stage of the season I no longer had the legs for the role, and the mid-afternoon summer heat was exhausting. I knew Sven wouldn't pick me at centre-half, so when he named the team and I wasn't picked at all it started to feel like a relief. In fact I was starting to realize that if I wasn't in the squad exclusively as a centre-half, I'd rather not be there.
When I was subbed during our second game, against Trinidad and Tobago, my friends and family started to get upset on my behalf. 'Fuck off Eriksson, you shithouse,' was my dad's response to the decision. If he'd known he was sitting next to Sven's son at the time he might have been more restrained.
In the final game against Portugal, I thought my chance to play in the middle would finally c
ome when John Terry picked up an early injury. Eriksson turned towards the bench and gave the call.
'Sol, get ready.'
The seeds of imminent international retirement were planted.
For my family, it was going to take more than the minor inconvenience of England's mediocre performances to stop the entertainment at that World Cup. The motto of the Gallacher family from the TV show Shameless might as well have been amended and daubed in graffiti on the hotel walls of Baden-Baden during the 2006 World Cup: 'The Carraghers understand one of the most vital necessities in life. They know how to throw a party.'
In their honour, English journalists dubbed the temporary home of the players' families 'The House of Scouse'. My guests were the only England fans who were smiling whatever the results. It's a wonder I ever concentrated on my football as I was taking phone calls from the FA following the latest 'incident' involving the WAGs and the FAFs, which is what my 'crew' called themselves. Friends and family. I don't know what friends and girlfriends would have been called.
I was still emptying my suitcase prior to the tournament when the first call from the FA arrived.
'Jamie, I'm afraid there's been a problem in one of the rooms booked under your name. It appears someone was keeping awake all the residents by singing anti-German songs.'
Four weeks later I was packing my bags and wondering how I'd missed my pen when the final bulletin was handed to me.
'Jamie, I'm afraid there's been another problem in one of the rooms booked under your name. Someone has thrown a bucket of water out of the window directly on the heads of some journalists who were sitting below.'
By now, I had only one response.
'Thank fuck this World Cup is over.'
The families, especially mine, had all the fun. While England's players laboured their way past Trinidad and Tobago and Ecuador, I often felt I was in the wrong hotel. I'd head down there as much as possible, usually armed with the latest discarded training strips which I'd swiped from the team's base. Our kit men would dump all our used gear in a room on my floor, so I'd pop in every morning with a few carrier bags and fill them up. The FA staff must have been bemused by the sight of all the families walking around town with official England training tops on, some of them with the initials JC, DB, MO and SGE.
The WAGs were hilarious. Their unofficial queen, Posh Spice, adopted my dad as her bodyguard. What a pair they made. My dad first met Victoria Beckham in Portugal in 2004. He admitted being struck by blind panic as she walked towards him in the hotel lobby. He was on his way to the laundry room and got so flustered as Posh approached, he dropped all his dirty washing. He found himself on all fours desperately trying to retrieve his smelly underpants as Posh strutted past in her designer outfit and high heels. By the time of the 2006 World Cup Posh had enlisted his help to protect her from journalists. When she needed someone to give the paparazzi a threatening scowl, she'd find him in the bar.
Neville Neville, Gary and Phil's dad, was my dad's drinking partner. In fact, it was he who introduced Posh's dad to mine.
'This is Mr Adams,' said Neville.
My dad started talking about the Arsenal team of the late eighties and early nineties until it was pointed out it wasn't Tony's dad.
'I thought he looked a bit young,' my dad said.
Some of the girlfriends lapped up the publicity. I know a few of them were tipping off the photographers about where they'd be eating or drinking of an evening. I'm glad to say my Nicola has never sought the limelight like that.
'Are you going shopping again?' the paparazzi would ask her as she left the hotel.
'No, I'm taking my kids to McDonald's for their tea,' she'd shout back.
Even that would make Granada Reports, the local TV news show.
Everyone wanted a night out with the Carraghers, and there were many funny exchanges, as my family had to do little to confirm predictable Scouse stereotypes. When my brother Paul was discussing the hotel set-up with Paul Robinson's mum, he was hit by one.
'It's an amazing place,' Paul said to her. 'The way we've got security guards on every floor is brilliant.'
Robinson's mum gave Paul a cheeky grin and joked, 'I thought you'd be used to that, coming from Liverpool.'
There was a suggestion the presence of our families was a distraction. It's a daft theory. If having your wife and children near you before and after a big game can make you lose focus, I'd like to know why so many of us have performed so well for our clubs in Europe over many years. I slept in my own house the night before some of the biggest home games I've played with Liverpool, and it didn't seem to do any harm. As excuses go for our poor performances, blaming it on the fact we could see our wives and girlfriends in between games has to be one of the lamest.
Apart from the WAGs and FAFs, a few JAGs (journalists and gobshites) shared the hotel. Although many players distrust the press, it made a refreshing change. Apart from a few minor altercations it was a success to mix the families with the journalists. A lot of clubs and countries would consider this a huge no-no, but if you put a barrier between players and reporters it creates unnecessary tension and gives certain writers the freedom to go overboard. Reporters will take a more sensible, less sensationalist attitude in their writing if they know they've got to have breakfast with the wife or parents of a player the next day. Criticism of the England team is part of the job, it's the personal stuff that's avoidable, and 90 per cent of the journalists covering the national team didn't overstep the mark, even though the team's performances weren't very good. At a World Cup, it's also important for everyone to be able to differentiate between those who are reporting solely on the football and those who are there for other purposes, like the paparazzi or showbiz reporters. Most of the families appreciated the chance to get things off their chest, and even left Germany respecting reporters they thought they'd hate.
My dad had an issue with Matt Lawton from the Daily Mail. Lawton had referred to one of my poor early England performances in order to criticize me in one of his articles. 'Why are you still going on about a game that was four months ago? Don't be putting shit in the paper about my lad,' my dad warned him, though not so politely. By the time of the World Cup they were able to shake hands and resolve their differences.
Most reporters I know are passionate supporters who want the best for their team, but at times they can go a bit too far, particularly with England. I've had few problems with the media throughout my career. The only gripe I have is the 'marks out of ten' syndrome. It's utterly pointless, annoying, and can definitely impact on a player's confidence. I've heard players seem less concerned about the manager's opinion and more worried about what mark they've been given in a Sunday paper. If all sports editors could grant me one wish, it would be to get rid of this stupid marking system.
Disturbingly for us, the biggest story of the 2006 World Cup was almost the journey home on the plane, which nearly didn't land. Players from Liverpool and United took a connecting flight to Manchester from Heathrow, but the stormy conditions were atrocious. As the plane dipped from side to side there was a moment when all of us genuinely feared we weren't going to make it. On the plus side, the plane was rerouted to Liverpool John Lennon Airport. I tried to remain calm to reassure my children James and Mia, but most of the women and children were screaming.
'Try and keep quiet,' I shouted. 'The kids are getting terrified.'
There was someone screeching in terror towards the back of the plane. I'd never heard howling like it before. Even my two-year-old daughter had never created such a noise.
'Whose child is that?' I asked Nicola.
When I looked myself, I noticed it wasn't an infant. Head in his hands, ducked into the safety position, was an inconsolable England and Manchester United superstar. It was Wayne Rooney.
Thoughts of international retirement grew as soon as I returned to Liverpool. Only two things stopped me there and then.
First, Steve McClaren's appointment excited me more than others
. I figured an Englishman might recognize and trust my qualities more than another 'outsider'. If I'd felt I'd have to prove myself again, I wouldn't have bothered. I'd enjoyed working with McClaren when he was assistant manager. His training sessions were similar to those of Taylor with the Under-21s, full of fresh ideas.
Carra: My Autobiography Page 21