The advice I received from Gérard Houllier was right. Any emerging player who wants to add five or six years on to his career at the highest level should find a girl and settle down. Your priorities start to shift, but it enhances rather than diminishes every aspect of your life.
I'm very fortunate to be in a position where I can support my family, but it's never been the case those closest to me have relied on or asked for my financial help. My brothers Paul and John still work full-time. Of course I've helped them out by ensuring they have good houses and a high standard of living, but no one has ever wanted my charity.
John is an electrician and Paul is a ceiling fitter. Like me, their surname has advantages and disadvantages. I often think how much harder it is for my family than it is for me. I chose a life of notoriety by pushing myself to be a famous footballer, but it's been thrust upon my brothers and parents by default. Whether they like it or not, my fortunes impact on them. If Liverpool win, they'll get the congratulations; if there's flak flying, they can find themselves a target. As soon as anyone hears who they're related to, they'll find themselves engaged in a conversation about the club for the next thirty minutes. If they're involved in any bother, or they achieve success in their own right, people will refer to them as Jamie Carragher's brother, or dad, or mum. It must be a bit like having all the hassle of being a footballer without getting all the rewards.
Given my success at Liverpool, though, I think the benefits have outmuscled any negative consequences of being related to me. I know John is one of those who's milked those benefits. He needed to be signed off work sick a few years ago, but when he gave his name and details to the doctor he saw in Bootle, instead of having a check-up he spent an hour discussing the situation at Anfield. The doctor ended the conversation asking how long John needed off.
'Don't you want to check if there's anything wrong with me first?' asked John.
I'm surprised he reminded him. His nickname among his colleagues is 'Gone' Carragher because he has a reputation as a bit of a skiver.
The flip side of the coin is the malicious rumours they've had to put up with over the years. I've not suffered too much, but there are plentiful examples of how things can get out of hand.
My brother Paul went for a haircut in Liverpool city centre just after I'd broken into the side. No sooner had he asked for a short back and sides than he was hearing a detailed conversation about a stranger's weekend of passion. Not knowing who Paul was, the barber had asked the lad alongside him what he'd been up to the last few days.
'Ah, mate, I had a great weekend,' he said. 'You know that Jamie Carragher? I was shagging his bird.'
Paul gave a knowing glance, and I spent the next few days wondering who the mystery woman was. I didn't have a girlfriend at the time. It's just as well. This may sound trivial, but it wouldn't have been had I been with someone. The Evertonians probably would have started singing songs about it. It shows you how quickly fairy stories are spread in Liverpool. No doubt everyone who had their hair chopped that day and for a few weeks later was hearing how my non-existent other half was putting it about.
Whatever characters me and my brothers are, it's fair to say we're often overshadowed by my dad. No matter what peak I've enjoyed on the pitch, Philly Carragher has ensured himself a comical supporting role off it. English journalists have become increasingly aware of my dad's shenanigans. You won't see him on the official trips to Liverpool games, or sitting with all the VIPs. He's still organizing coach trips from Marsh Lane for our away matches, and he'll take pride of place with the hardcore fans.
Many reporters fondly remember my reaction following an England friendly against Holland at Villa Park in 2005. I was asked what Sven-Göran Eriksson had said to me in the dressing room immediately after the game. 'Your dad's just been arrested,' was my response. As usual, he'd found himself in a scrape because he thought he was helping out one of his mates.
Whenever I have a match away from home, be it for England or Liverpool, the Marsh Lane routine remains intact. My dad arranges a minibus for twelve of his mates and I supply as many tickets as I can. On this occasion an extra body joined the trip, leaving the party a ticket short. My dad decided to give his away, reckoning he could get himself sorted for a ticket nearer kick-off by ringing me and getting more spares. When this failed, his last resort was to try to get into the ground by playing the 'I'm Jamie Carragher's dad' card. Since he'd been drinking, the police in Birmingham neither recognized, believed nor cared who he was. As my dad became more intent on getting in, a scuffle ensued. He spent the night in a cell, ended up in court and was cautioned, fined and banned from away matches for a while.
It's fair to say this wasn't his first brush with the law.
In 2000, while I was celebrating being named Liverpool captain for the first time, my dad was coming to terms with a twelve-month jail sentence for tax fraud. He fiddled the Inland Revenue with the help of one of their own employees to earn tax rebates. I felt no sense of shame – he's always cut corners, my dad – but it was strange having to fit visits to Walton or Kirkham jail around our treble season.
No matter what he'd done, I stood by him as proudly as I've always done. His influence on my career is there to see throughout every chapter of this book. He brought me up to be a winner, and he's been alongside me every step I've taken on the path to success as a footballer. If I was ever going through a tough time, the first person who'd stand up on my behalf is my dad, so it's the same the other way round. I've been taught family and friends are the most important things in your life. Whatever happens, you stand by them. This was a hard period for us, but we got through it.
I don't think my dad looks back at his stretch as a great hardship. His mates were kept together, and I suspect the regular supply of signed footballs and match tickets kept the screws on his side. The incident even earned him a new nickname. The people in Marsh Lane started calling him Ken Dodd.
I have to admit, having my dad trip up on the wrong side of the law wasn't entirely surprising as he grew up trying to outwit the police. When my mum had a brush with the law, I was a bit more concerned.
The demolition of the famous Moat House Hotel in Liverpool was to blame for this. On the final night it was open, my mum, my Auntie Mary and their mates decided to stay and join the party to wish it goodbye. There were six middle-aged women sharing a twin room and during the course of the night they noticed how furniture and paintings were being cleared away. They presumed it was all heading to the skip and, in all innocence, thought they'd be helping out the staff by taking some souvenirs of their own. Before checking out, then, a few of them decided the pictures in the bedroom could be packed away rather than go to waste before the bulldozers arrived. Unfortunately, as they stuffed their bags they were spotted by a cleaner and were met at reception by the police.
I'm pleased to say my mum wasn't one of those who'd filled her boots and bags, which was a big relief as she was asked to empty her belongings. The poor women left behind were put in a police car and lined up for mug shots at the nearest station. The thought still makes my mum crease up laughing. She can't get the image of her friends having their photos taken out of her mind. You can imagine that film The Usual Suspects, with fifty-five-year-old women from Bootle worried about where their handbags have gone as the policeman tells them to look right and left.
When asked why they'd taken the pictures, one of my mum's mates replied, 'Because I thought they'd look lovely in our hall.'
I'd have been far more upset had my mum ended up in the papers over such a minor incident. She's always kept out of the limelight and has made sure my success has had as little effect on her life as possible.
There are, of course, times when my status in the city has unavoidable consequences on my home life. When I was still living with my mum, my car was vandalized in the early hours of the morning, graffiti and paint thrown all over it. I could hear a commotion outside, and when I looked out of the window there was Paula Carragher, at
three a.m., furiously cleaning it all off before any of the neighbours spotted it in the daylight.
There were other occasions when, in her innocence and naivety about the game, I almost got myself fined by the club. I'd jump out of bed every morning, eager to be one of the first at the training ground to show my enthusiasm, but on one particular day my alarm – otherwise known as my mum – didn't summon me for breakfast. It was a Bank Holiday Monday, and I was enjoying a lie-in of teenage proportions when I was woken up by some familiar voices. 'Is Jamie ready?' my mum was being asked. My youth team-mates Dave Clegg, Andy Harris and Dom Morley were making their routine stop at our house. As we all lived in the Crosby or Bootle areas of Merseyside and only one of us could drive, we'd share a car to training.
I could hear the conversation downstairs progressing with growing confusion.
'What are you doing here today?' my mum was asking the lads. 'Don't you know it's a bank holiday? There won't be any training today, will there?'
It doesn't bother me that my mum steers clear of the football. I know how proud she is of my achievements, and she knows they wouldn't have been possible without her. I don't need her cheering me at the stadium every week to see that. My mum's only ever been to Anfield twice, for the Youth Cup win in 1996 and the Champions League semi-final against Chelsea in April 2008. Her only other matches were the Carling Cup Final in 2002 and the Champions League Final in Athens in 2007.
Since I was a lad, she's seen football as male territory. Following her split from my dad, she was happy to take a back seat and allow him to take me to the matches and not intrude into this area. That's never changed. The rest of the family headed off to Dortmund, Istanbul and Cardiff, but she'd stay in Liverpool and watch on the television. Physically she wasn't part of the post-match celebrations, but spiritually and emotionally she was with us. I imagined her toasting those successes, quietly registering her approval.
Every television show, newspaper or magazine that has mentioned or featured me over the years, she's kept on tape or as a cutting. And no matter where I am in the world, or how I've played, I can always depend on the text message either congratulating me or commiserating with me. She won't go seeking any thanks for her role in making me the person I am, but deep down she'll know the way she brought me up was a job well done.
The Kop sings 'We all dream of a team of Carraghers' because the fans are showing their respect to me. When I hear it, I think it's the perfect tribute to my entire family.
11
Spanish Steps
I was speechless. Rarely, if ever, have I been left feeling in such a state of numb shock.
I stood in front of Rafa, listening attentively to what he had to say, assessing if the words coming from his mouth were a joke or some kind of test. It was the summer of 2005, I'd just played what I believed to be my finest games in a Liverpool shirt, and I'd performed a major role in winning our fifth European Cup. Now, I was hearing this.
He wanted to give me a new contract, but there would be no pay rise. I'd given my all to create history for Liverpool, and the best he could come up with was two extra years and a pat on the back. That was the deal.
Had I heard him right? Did he really say I wouldn't be rewarded for my efforts against Juventus, Chelsea and AC Milan?
I kept staring at him as he spoke, soaking up the news, sussing out if it was serious, desperately trying to think of the correct response but failing to do so. Usually I'd have my wits about me and be able to react with such strong arguments he'd be the one struggling to get a word in, but I wasn't prepared for this.
I'd gone into the manager's office on the first day of pre-season training believing we'd be talking football, or about new signings and our ambitions for the year ahead. But as Rafa made me a contract offer unlike any I'd ever received before, I was fighting off feelings of disbelief. I had no response because I was so taken aback by his remarks. A bit like our Champions League win, I hadn't seen this coming.
I should make it absolutely clear that money was only part of the issue. It was the manner of the offer which staggered me most. My previous four contracts had always been negotiated with the minimum of fuss. My agent, Struan Marshall, whom I've trusted since I was twenty-one, would meet Rick Parry, tell him what I was looking for and then ring me to advise me I'd been offered a good deal. I'd agree and sign. No bother, no delay, no speculation. I hardly got involved other than to put my signature on the contract. Unlike the long-drawn-out negotiations you often read about, I liked sorting it quickly, as did the club. I wanted to stay, I usually felt I was worth a reasonable rather than spectacular pay rise, the club would duly reward me, and that was that.
I was always baffled to read newspaper reports about players in 'talks' for a new deal. 'Talk' was the right word where I was concerned. One conversation, quick agreement, sign the contract. Get on with the football. Simple.
Rafa decided to take a different approach. He put me on the spot, reminding me of the club's ongoing financial problems, which meant they couldn't afford lucrative salary increases. The proposal he made was, in my view, disrespectful. I was offered a four-year contract (a two-year extension) on the same wage, the only 'rise' as such coming through bonuses if I played a certain number of games or won trophies. I liked the bonus aspect of it. It was a new addition Rafa introduced as a way of preserving the players' motivation and keeping everyone on their toes if they weren't in the side. The other terms left me disheartened.
He believed he was looking after the best interests of the club by trying to juggle the figures to ensure he could afford new players. I could see it from his point of view. He'd inherited a squad where a lot of players were on excessive deals that far outweighed their contribution. Rafa was determined not to repeat those mistakes, but I didn't believe he'd put me in the same category as those he'd failed to offload because they were big earners. I wasn't expecting preferential treatment, but I thought he'd know I'd be more clued up about his intentions than he seemed to give me credit for. In the aftermath of Istanbul I was aware of my value. Now it felt an assumption had been made I'd never leave, so there was no need to offer me any significant reward for my efforts.
At first I thought it was cheeky, but then I concluded I was being badly treated, as though the manager wanted to ignore the usual protocol to save Liverpool money. I know the kind of figures I'm talking about are beyond what my mates or most working-class lads would sympathize with, but in any job up and down the country you judge yourself against those in your line of work. Harry Kewell had recently concluded a high-profile libel action against Gary Lineker following remarks in a newspaper column during which his salary was publicly revealed. There was a significant gap between his earnings and mine. I did not begrudge him being paid so much – 'Good luck to him,' I thought – but given my service and dedication to the club, it was staggering Rafa couldn't understand how hurt I would be by the deal he was suggesting.
I was now vice-captain at Liverpool. That didn't mean I should be the second highest paid, but I was worth more than Rafa was talking in that meeting. To put it into perspective, Rafa was proposing I remain on the salary I'd been given when Houllier gave me a new contract two years earlier, while I was recovering from a broken leg. Surely I'd progressed into a more important player since then? Sometimes working your way through the ranks and pledging the best years of your career to one club can act against you, and this was an example of that. I've never wanted to leave Liverpool, but I was entitled to believe my salary should reflect the level of player I'd become.
Only in the hours that followed did I think of the questions I wished I'd asked in the meeting. 'Do you really think that's what I'm worth?' I should have screamed at Rafa. I wasn't looking to be put in the same bracket as Steven Gerrard, I just wanted the going rate for someone of my status. 'I'm not asking for the wages John Terry earns at Chelsea, but I'm as important to this team as he is to them,' I told myself, again wishing I'd made the point a few hours earlier. I knew players
like Terry and Rio Ferdinand were on six-figure sums per week at their clubs. I was looking for around half that, which sounds astronomical to most people, but it reflected my reputation. They were at clubs that could afford to pay them so much. I knew we couldn't do the same at Liverpool, which is why, relatively speaking, my expectations weren't excessive.
The more I considered the incident, the more it festered and annoyed me. It wasn't even the terms of the offer that were irritating me in the end, but how they had been put to me, as though a deal could be sneaked through the back door without involving my agent. The first Rick knew about our discussion was when Struan, having realized how upset I was, called him to ask what was going on.
Carra: My Autobiography Page 31