There was nothing I could do but take a deep breath and get on with it. I said my piece, wanting to make sure that nobody reading or listening would be in any doubt as to how I’d been made to feel by what had gone on, and then did my best to put those feelings to one side. We had a major tournament to prepare for, after all. And where we were – and the company we were in – was a very good place to start. Sardinia was like Dubai had been before the World Cup in 2002, only better. We worked hard in short bursts to get up towards the right levels of fitness. In between, we could relax together with our families around us. Victoria had a great time, too. I remember her saying, one evening before bed:
‘This is different, you know. It doesn’t feel for a minute like we’re all away here together because we have to be. It’s like being away with really good friends. The rest of the players and their wives are all people you’d actually choose to be here with.’
The rest of that week in Sardinia, the training afterwards and the pre-tournament friendlies against Japan and Iceland were all designed to get us ready for the tournament in Portugal. The games at Old Trafford were especially important. Sven had experimented with playing a diamond formation in midfield – and we played it against the Japanese – because he thought we needed to have a Plan B. After the first game in Manchester, I think he made up his mind that a straight 4–4–2 was what we’d be most comfortable with going into Euro 2004. When he asked me and the other players who’d be involved in midfield what we thought, we agreed: it’s the system most of are used to playing in our club football. As a build-up to the tournament, though, that game and everything else only seemed to narrow the focus even more. Everybody – players and fans – had been excited about our opening fixture since the draw had been made. Getting ready for Euro 2004? It felt more like we were just getting ready for the game against France.
Usually, in the days leading up to a big game, players can’t help but talk about the opposition amongst themselves, about the team and about individuals. In the run up to that Sunday night, 13 June, though, apart from during work we did on the training ground with Sven and Steve McClaren, I don’t remember anybody mentioning the French. I think it said everything about how confident we felt, never mind that we were playing the reigning champions and tournament favourites. Before we left the dressing room at the Estadio Da Luz, I could see it on the face of every England player: Nobody expects us to, but this is a game we’re going to win.
The support for us in the stadium that night was like it was right through the tournament: thousands of England fans made it feel like a home game. Nobody in the world has got a crowd to touch ours. We were confident before the game and I think, once the game started, that spread round the ground. Westarted really well, closed the French down whenever they had the ball and looked more likely than they did to make chances to score. About five minutes before half-time, we did. I knocked in a free-kick from out on the right and Frank Lampard nicked in at the near post and headed it past Fabien Barthez. We’d played well enough to deserve that goal. We played well enough all night to deserve more than we got.
France came out and had more of the ball in the early part of the second half but without ever looking like they were going to get an equaliser. Then Wayne Rooney picked up the ball just inside our half and went charging off, a bit like Ryan Giggs had at Villa Park in the FA Cup semi-final replay the year United did the Treble. He got himself past three defenders and into the area: it was a goal all the way. Just as he was getting ready to shoot, though, Mikael Silvestre slid into Wayne and knocked him over from behind. It was as clear a penalty as you’ll ever see and I didn’t think for a moment I’d do anything but score.
Maybe I was half conscious of what had happened in Istanbul and, in fact, my standing foot did slide away from me a little that night in Lisbon too. But I made really good contact and, as I hit it, I was sure it was on its way in. Fabien Barthez got a lot of stick from the English media and opposing supporters while he was playing for United. People forget he’s won a World Cup and a European Championship: he’s a great keeper and very strong mentally, which means he loves the kind of one-on-one situation we found ourselves facing in Portugal. I hit the penalty pretty well but his guess which way to go was better.
Looking back, I can’t avoid thinking that Fabien’s save cost us getting something out of the game. At the time, though, despite us being under pressure, I never imagined – until the dying moments – that we weren’t going to win. France had almost all of the possession as it got nearer and nearer to full-time but they weren’t really unsettling us. We’ve got nothing to be afraid of here. Almost without being aware of it, though – it certainly hadn’t been the plan – we were getting pushed back deeper and deeper towards our own goal. Ninety minutes came and went. We gave away a free-kick just outside the area. Get this away and we’re there.
I’ve played alongside him at Real for a season now and there’s no question: Zinedine Zidane is the most talented player I’ve ever worked with. Now, he was standing over the ball, maybe twenty yards out. David James was organising the wall. I was on the end and shouted:
‘Do you want Ashley on the post?’
At first, he said yes and Ashley started retreating. Then David decided he didn’t need him there after all. Ashley came back towards the 18 yard line just as Zizou stepped up towards the ball. Did we, for whatever reason, let our concentration drop for a split second? If we did, it cost us. I’d say, though, that that equaliser was all about the quality of the bloke who took it. Never mind anything we were doing or not doing. It was a perfect free-kick.
There must just have been seconds to go. I remember trying to catch my breath:
‘Well, at least we’re going to come away with a draw.’
But then, in the blink of an eye, Thierry Henry was through for the first time all night. Down he went and France had a penalty. I looked around the team and couldn’t see anyone who looked like they understood what had happened. Then I walked towards the edge of our area. Looking across, I saw Zidane bend over and bow his head before he stepped back to take the spot-kick: What’s that coming out of his mouth? Where did he get water from?
Zizou was actually being sick. Was he nervous? He didn’t look it when he glanced down at the ball before putting the penalty away as calmly as he had his free-kick moments earlier. From winning the game 1–0 at full-time, time added on had been long enough for the game to be snatched away from us. The French players celebrated but surely even they knew, deep down, that we’d deserved something from the game. The one player who wasn’t clapping and dancing in front of their fans was the bloke who’d won the game for them. Zidane just turned and headed straight down the tunnel. I saw him afterwards in the dressing rooms.
‘Don’t worry about the penalty, David. Good luck in the other games. See you soon.’
I’m not sure if he meant ‘soon’ in the tournament – the group draw meant an England–France final was a possibility – or ‘soon’ back in Madrid. We swapped shirts and shook hands and he left me to get on with it.
At the final whistle, I’d gone round trying to lift some of the other players. We’d played well and those last couple of minutes had been tough on us. And, of course, nothing had been decided by the result. We still had every chance of qualifying for the quarter-finals. Even so, on my own in the dressing room, I did dwell on what had turned out to be a moment that had maybe decided the game. When Fabien had saved my penalty, I’d been convinced it would make no difference to the result. We seemed that strong in the game to me. And, who knows? Even if we’d gone 2–0 up, France might still have had time to turn things upside down. Maybe that night in Lisbon I’d had a little taste of how Bayern must have felt after the Champions League Final at the Nou Camp back in 1999.
After losing to us in Barcelona, Bayern came back strong and won the Champions League soon afterwards. I was pretty sure England would react in the right way now, too. We had to travel north for our next game against Swit
zerland, to Coimbra, and knew we’d have to play it in the heat of the afternoon instead of the evening as well. And it was hot. Not quite like Shizuoka in the World Cup quarter-final two summers before, but not far off it. We weren’t looking forward to the conditions but there wasn’t time to be worrying about the temperature. After the Sunday night in Lisbon, Thursday had turned into a game we knew we had to win.
The first twenty minutes were pretty uncomfortable. We were a little unsure of ourselves: still shocked by what had happened four days before, perhaps, and aware now of what a mistake might mean. The Swiss, who we’d been expecting to defend, came at us and tried to force us to play our football too quickly. They made a couple of decent chances too. We’d just started to get ourselves into the game when Stevie Gerrard won the ball in their half and pushed the ball wide to me. Michael Owen’s been playing international football for a long time now and that experience shows. He saw Wayne Rooney heading for the six yard box and dropped off at the far post so I could lift the ball over the last defender to him. Michael had a chance to score himself but, instead, he just floated a cross back in and Wayne nodded the goal.
Once we’d got to 1–0, even though we hadn’t played as well as we’d have wanted to, we were never going to let the Swiss back into it like we had the French. They had a player sent off, Wayne scored again just afterwards and then Stevie got onto Gary Neville’s cross for 3–0. We played four games at Euro 2004 and had wonderful support from the fans at all of them. That game in Coimbra, though, was a little different. It was the one time I got the feeling our supporters weren’t satisfied with what they were seeing. We’d beaten Switzerland and were back in the tournament but the impression I got from our supporters was: Well, what do you expect? We should beat teams like that every time.
I can see their point. If we want England to be one of Europe’s top teams then we have to be sure we don’t slip up against teams like Switzerland. I felt good after the game, though. Better than I had for some time. A couple of months before the end of the season in Madrid, I’d been aware that, since Christmas, I hadn’t been at the physical level I’d been at before it. At Manchester United, we’d always done a lot of conditioning and fitness work right through the season. In fact, over Christmas back home, I’d got used to what amounted to another little pre-season burst in training. At Real, that didn’t happen: once we were into the La Liga campaign, we were much more focussed on technical work and practising game situations.
I knew before I came to Spain that things would be different at a new club and, when you think about how successful Real have been down the years, it didn’t seem it was my place to be questioning the way we prepared. If I felt I was struggling a bit, it was down to me to sort myself out. I joined a gym in Madrid and got into the habit of going there and working with weights every afternoon after I’d trained and had lunch. I worked very hard and the sweat told me I must be doing myself some good.
In fact, I found out later that all those bench presses and the rest were the last thing I needed. While I was working out in the gym, I put on nearly a stone in muscle but all of it in my upper body. I’m not built to be a boxer – I’m not exactly Wayne Rooney, am I? – and my body’s just not designed to carry that kind of extra weight around. My natural shape is like a distance runner’s. Now, as I put the weight on in muscle, I was losing it elsewhere and my aerobic capacity – the ability to run and keep running – suffered as a result.
Towards the end of the season in Madrid, nothing felt right. I had a lot on my mind and assumed, at the time, that was the reason why. But I’ve learnt now there was a physical explanation, too, for why I was struggling ten minutes into games, short of breath, heavy-legged and feeling aches and pains, it seemed, from every injury I’d ever had. Stamina is a large part of what my game’s all about and I seemed short of it for the first time in my career. Doubts about myself crept in and, because of that, the rest of what I was doing suffered too.
Perhaps the heat in Coimbra slowed the game down a bit. I know I felt better physically. The pass to Michael for our first goal and some other things I did during the game pleased me too. I came off tired and hot like everybody else but feeling confident that I still had time in the tournament to get back to something like myself. More importantly for the team, we’d got ourselves back into a position where we were favourites to go through to the knockout stages.
Anyone who watched Euro 2004 knows we played our best football of the tournament against Croatia. The Estadio Da Luz was heaving with England supporters for another ‘home’ game in Lisbon. We just needed a draw to go through. Even though the manager never prepares us for anything but winning football matches, knowing that all you have to do is not get beaten can still make you cautious. You’re tempted to take the simple option and try to make sure you avoid making any mistakes. That night, 21 June, against Croatia, we got off to the worst possible start but, in hindsight, that maybe did us a favour.
Croatia scored after five minutes when we didn’t get a free-kick away but the goal made up our minds for us. We didn’t have any choice then but to go after the game. We did to Croatia what France had done to us: kept the ball and pushed on, confident something would happen for us. Just before half-time, it did. I was pleased for Scholesy that he got the equaliser. There’s a lot more to Paul than goals but, because he hadn’t scored one for England in something like 30 games, I think the attention that was focussed on that didn’t help the rest of his game. He’s been an automatic choice for England for the past few years. We’re going to miss him now he’s decided to retire from international football and concentrate on what he still does better than anyone else in the Premiership for United.
Scholesy’s goal came five minutes before half-time and we still had time to go in at the break ahead. Wayne Rooney was fantastic for us in every game at Euro 2004. He’d been big trouble for France and Switzerland and Croatia couldn’t get anywhere near him. That game, as well, he and Michael seemed to be on absolutely the same wavelength. Michael was involved in the build-up to both Wayne’s goals and I thought that made us look as if we could be even more dangerous from then on in the competition. We passed the ball well all game against Croatia and, even when they got a goal back to make it 3–2 we went straight up the other end to get another ourselves.
Frank Lampard had an amazing time at Chelsea in 2003/2004: he probably started the season on the fringe of the England team. By the time we left for Portugal, the manager couldn’t really leave him out. He scored that fourth against Croatia; he’d got the goal against France and he went on to score against Portugal too. I looked across our midfield at Euro 2004 and saw Frank, Stevie and Scholesy: three players who are all about getting forward and getting goals. All of them exceptionally talented, too. The way I felt in myself and the way those three were playing – and scoring – meant I was happy to be the one who usually took the responsibility for sitting in while they got forward.
It worked for us against Croatia and afterwards there was a genuine feeling that we were starting to get into our stride. France beat Switzerland the same evening so we went through as runners-up in our group. That meant we would play Portugal in the quarter-final at the Estadio Da Luz – their home ground, maybe, but it felt like ours too – the following Thursday. However confident our fans were back in England, we were even surer than they were that it was a game we could win. I was certain we would. Gary Neville was the one player – he’s played more European Championship games than any of us – who tried to hold people back:
‘Just remember: every game is a scapegoat game from now on.’
All the lads who’d been at World Cups or European Championships with England in the past knew what he meant. There’s always one man, it seems, who has to get the grief if we fail, never mind that football’s a team game. Phil Neville, Dave Seaman, David Beckham: we all know what it’s like to be the one who gets slaughtered in the weeks after a big defeat. We tried not to think about that possibility, though, in the c
ouple of days we had to prepare to play Portugal. Surely it wouldn’t come to that this time, would it?
Whatever anyone else says, I believe this group of England players is good enough to win a major tournament. But no team ever wins anything without a couple of lucky breaks at vital times during games along the way. Plenty’s been said and written about our quarter-final in Lisbon but, in amongst all the recriminations, people should remember that when we needed the run of the ball against Portugal – or the run of the officials’ decisions – we didn’t get them.
It never fails to make me feel like the proudest man in the world. Leading the team out at the Estadio Da Luz was no different. The stadium’s fantastic and that night was perfect. There seemed to be at least as many England supporters in the place as there were Portuguese. No question at all, either, who was making the noise. It was odd. The first goal came out of nowhere and our supporters had built up such an atmosphere before kick-off it almost felt as if going ahead so early dampened things down.
It was a perfect start for us, though, wasn’t it? One of their midfield players – Costinha, I think – misjudged a header and flicked it backwards beyond his own defenders. I don’t know how great strikers know, but they do: Michael had already made his run in behind and the ball fell just right for him to lift it over Ricardo, the Portuguese keeper, who was so surprised he was late getting off his line to close down. Three minutes gone and a goal up against the home nation. We couldn’t have asked for better.
It maybe took us a bit by surprise, going ahead before the game had got any shape to it, but for the next twenty minutes it seemed like we had the situation just how we wanted it. The Portuguese are very good technical players and none of them better than Luis Figo. We knew that, if they had the ball, we’d have to work very hard to get it back again. But we pressed them in midfield and it looked as if we’d be more likely to score again than they would be to equalise. Michael got away again and Ricardo, their keeper, made a really good save.
David Beckham: My Side Page 45