Carra: My Autobiography (5 page)

My international bow came when Blunt picked me upfront against Italy in Sardinia, and left a shy striker called Emile Heskey on the bench. I scored in a 2–0 win, the Italian keeper Gianluigi Buffon having no answer to my lethal finishing. Sadly, the return game with the Italians ended with tragic news. A coach from The Chaucer travelled to Walsall packed with my supporters, then returned to discover one of the locals, Stevie Porter, had been killed in Spain the same afternoon. Stevie would have been on the coach but for his holiday; his son Michael was one of those who'd come to see me play. His mum was waiting for him to deliver the news when the bus got back.

Other outings for the Marsh Lane boys were less traumatic. My next game was away in Holland, a 1–1 draw, with David Thompson on the mark for us. This fixture was my dad and his friends' first European expedition to support me. Included in the party was the landlord of The Chaucer, Jimmy Roberts, who'd had his eyes gouged out during an horrific incident some years earlier. Naturally enough, thoughts turned towards a slice of the action in Amsterdam's red light zone.

'I'm not getting involved in any of that, Philly,' Jimmy told my dad.

'Don't worry, Jimmy,' my dad replied. 'We've brought you here as our eyewitness in case any of our birds accuse us of getting up to no good. You can tell them you didn't see us do anything.'

My second year at Lilleshall saw me briefly flirt with going back to Everton. Lilleshall's match with Liverpool ended in a 2–0 win for the representative team, for which I was playing upfront alongside Andrew Ducros. He began his career as a trainee at Coventry but has spent most of his days playing for non-league clubs such as Nuneaton and Burton Albion. He must think back to those days in 1993–94 when Graeme Souness tried to sign him for Liverpool. Ducros was taken by Souness and Sammy Lee into the office at Melwood after the game and told the club had liked his performance so much they'd like him to join. He got on the team bus heading back to Lilleshall understandably chuffed, while I – a Liverpool player – sat there still waiting for my first hello from the Anfield manager.

I was so livid that quitting the club on the spot seemed a valid option. After five years, this was how they treated me? By trying to sign my striking partner? Making me feel like an idiot in front of all the Lilleshall players? I wasn't going to lie down and accept this. I got ready to fight back. Ray Hall had also watched the match, saw how angry I was, and told my dad he'd happily sign me again. 'Let's see how Liverpool feel if I go somewhere else,' I thought.

Unfortunately for Ducros, Souness didn't remain in the job long enough to take him to Anfield, and my revived thoughts about heading back to Goodison lasted no longer than the coach journey home. I made up my mind to put my Everton sympathies to one side and prove to Liverpool they didn't need to be considering any alternative to me.

One of my final games at Lilleshall was against Portugal during the Under-16 European Championship in 1994, on the same day the old Kop closed before it became seated. We won 1–0 against the hosts, and at a celebratory team meeting after the game Blunt said it was appropriate for me to lead a rendition of 'You'll Never Walk Alone'.

As a Liverpool player, it was easy.

As an Evertonian? I was opening a can of worms in my head.

On 26 May 1989, Michael Thomas ran through the heart of Liverpool's defence and scored the most notorious last-minute goal in Anfield history, handing Arsenal the title. In a Bootle pub just a couple of miles away, an eleven-year-old Evertonian, his dad and his mates began celebrating as if their own team had won the League. A group of lads went outside and scrawled graffiti on the wall.

THANK YOU, ARSENAL.

The eleven-year-old laughed his head off, encouraging and applauding the offenders who were chalking the headline he dreamed of reading on the back of every newspaper the following morning.

That boy was me. I thought of myself as the biggest Blue in Bootle. On that depressing night for Liverpool, the club I would eventually come to love, their defeat meant as much as any of my own team's victories. I didn't simply want to bask in the glory of Arsenal's win; I wanted to rub it in under the noses of every Red in the city.

My earliest football experiences had been with an Everton team that competed for the League and FA Cup every year and which also enjoyed European success. By 1989, the only satisfaction left at the end of the season was this failure of Liverpool's to parade the championship. Nowadays, the Goodison trophy room is a museum of former glories.

This is part of being a football fan, and we should make no apology for it. The ultimate pleasure is a cup or League victory for your own side, but taking comfort in the disappointment of others is strangely satisfying. Anyone who takes a hike up the moral high ground and says they're not happy to celebrate when their rivals lose is a liar. You're always looking for these consolations as a supporter because it sustains your interest when your own ambitions are foiled. Seeing clubs you don't like suffer is all part of the tradition. Every side does it, not just Everton, though circumstances dictate some are condemned to feel this way more than others.

As an Evertonian, I was thrilled whenever Liverpool lost, mainly because it improved our chances of winning the title. As a Liverpool fan, those feelings are now reversed, and other sides have been added to the list of teams whose defeats I celebrate. Seeing Manchester United and Chelsea come a cropper makes me feel the same way I did about Liverpool when I was eleven years old. I'd never go as far as writing graffiti on the side of my house, but I'm sure if United ever lost a cup final in the last minute the drinks would be flowing.

I've thought a lot during the course of writing this book about my feelings towards Everton, and they must be as complex as anyone's in the city. My attitude has changed towards Everton as I've grown older. I used to love them, but there are things about the club I can't stand now.

There are two Evertons in my life: the Everton before Liverpool, and the Everton after. The club I loved in the 1980s and the team I see now are poles apart in my mind. I refer to the Everton of the eighties as 'us' and the modern Everton as 'them'. I can't stop myself discussing what 'we' did when I think of Howard Kendall's first wonderful side. That's why I'm dedicating a chapter to Everton. They're part of my life as much as Liverpool. It's a blessing and a curse to feel this way. It puts me in a unique position to observe the relationship between the clubs, but it forces me to confront some uncomfortable truths.

I was Everton-mad growing up. I was a regular at all the away games as well as at home. Evertonians talk fondly about the legendary European Cup Winners' Cup semifinal against Bayern Munich in April 1985. Never mind the Goodison second leg; I was in Germany with my dad for the first game too, getting my bobble hat swiped by some Munich fans outside the ground.

I'd be in a bad mood for days when we lost. Worse than that, I'd be inconsolable when our rivals won. Nothing meant as much to me as my Everton top, which I even wore while training at the Liverpool School of Excellence. Liverpool were the target of my poison in those days, even after I'd joined them. I thought the Liverpool fans were cocky and arrogant – a characteristic they'd earned after years of success – so naturally I rejoiced when they were beaten. They reacted the same way if Everton lost, although you still hear the more dishonest claim otherwise.

One of my earliest memories of the Merseyside derby rivalry came courtesy of Everton's defeat to Manchester United in the 1985 FA Cup Final, which I attended as a seven-year-old. As our coaches returned to Bootle shortly after midnight I vividly recall a group of Liverpool fans who'd been waiting for our arrival so they could give us stick. We'd won the League and the European Cup Winners' Cup, and had enjoyed arguably the best season in our history, so we were hardly in mourning. But there they were, desperate to twist the knife, even if that meant celebrating a United win. Any time I hear Liverpool fans say they're more bothered about Manchester United than Everton, I think about that night and those lads who must have been standing outside for hours for no other reason than to have their moment of fun at our expense. They're probably the same people who say Liverpool fans don't care about Everton. Oh really? So you weren't celebrating Norman Whiteside's winner? I wouldn't be surprised if 'Thank you, United' was written on the wall of a few Liverpool pubs that night. In my opinion the derby rivalry is bigger and far more important to the city than the one with United.

Liverpool and Everton fans had to take it as much as dish it out to each other back then, but it wasn't underhand and was always based on what was happening on the pitch. We could share the bragging rights because in the mid-eighties we were undoubtedly the two best teams in Europe. My loyalties were exclusively to my heroes in blue, and I wasn't shy of showing Liverpool fans, players and staff how I felt about my team, even while I was training alongside Anfield legends. In fact, signing for Liverpool made me want to show my true colours even more, even if it sometimes got me into trouble.

I remember returning with the Liverpool reserve squad from a mid-afternoon game early in 1996 while Everton were playing an FA Cup third round replay at Stockport. The radio match commentary was on as the coach made its way back to Melwood, and naturally I was listening to every word and urging Everton to win. Stockport scored, and Ronnie Moran and Sammy Lee, who were in charge of the reserves at the time, couldn't hide their delight.

'One–nil!' shouted Ronnie, the sense of joy inescapable.

Sitting at the back of the coach, I simmered away inside, praying we'd get back into the game.

Then my moment came. Everton equalized. I couldn't resist.

'Get in!' I screamed.

'Who the fuck was that?' shouted Ronnie, who as the first-team coach was still in the dark about my youthful loyalties.

I wouldn't say it was the cue for a witch hunt, but Ronnie might as well have been holding a pitchfork as he swooped to find the culprit.

The next day I was hauled before our youth coaches Hugh McAuley and Dave Shannon for one of those 'quiet chats' footballers have to get used to during the course of a career.

'Listen, Jamie, you've got to sort this out,' Hughie said to me. 'The senior staff have high hopes you'll play for the first team. It's time for you to start behaving like a Liverpool player.'

I walked out of that meeting having heard the warning, but it was going to take more than a gentle pep talk to stop me loving Everton.

The first time I was named sub for the senior team was an away fixture in Middlesbrough in 1996, and even then my mixed loyalties couldn't be hidden. At halftime I was warming up with the other subs as the latest scores from elsewhere were being read out over the tannoy. Everton were winning 2–0 at home to Newcastle. It was the day Alan Shearer was making his debut for the Geordies, so I was pretty impressed by the Blues' efforts.

As I was going through my routine, I spotted my dad, who'd come to the front of the stand. He was eating a meat pie as the halftimes were announced and I made the mistake of giving him the thumbs-up to show my approval of the Everton score. Had they been paying any attention, a few thousand Liverpool fans in the away end might have seen how happy I was too. It wasn't the most diplomatic way for an up-and-coming player to curry favour with his own supporters. I could see from the way my dad's face turned a rather unattractive shade of beetroot he was livid. 'I could be ducking football boots again when I get home,' I thought as I headed back to the changing room.

He was far less diplomatic in his use of language than Dave and Hughie when he caught up with me, but even then the message was only partially accepted. Every true football fan will tell you how hard it is to shake off those feelings you have for your team. Most of us never have to do it, and even for those of us who succeed, it certainly can't be achieved overnight. I had to go through a prolonged spell of enforced indifference before I deserted Everton. My first taste of Liverpool first-team involvement at Boro was a tentative step in the red direction.

That didn't mean I stopped treasuring childhood memories of following the Blues. Giving them up was not part of my Liverpool 'transfer'. There are Goodison legends from the golden period I still admire and copy today, many of whom I've since had the good fortune and pleasure to meet on a regular basis. They made those early football experiences magical.

The first League game I ever watched at Goodison was at the start of the inspiring 1984–85 season, at home to Tottenham. I was six years old. We were comprehensively beaten, 4–1, and I don't remember anything about the game other than seeing Harry Cross, a famous character from the now-departed Scouse soap opera
Brookside
, leaving the ground early. Judging by the faces of everyone around him, it was the only decent cross anyone saw at Goodison that day. He'd seen enough, but even though we lost, I was yearning for much more.

My dad started taking me to away games that season. On the train to Ipswich – which must be the ground furthest away from Bootle in the country – he introduced me to all the most famous Evertonians, like Eddie Cavanagh. Eddie ran on to the Wembley pitch when Everton won the cup in 1966 and had earned himself iconic status ever since. Meeting him was like a coming-of-age ceremony. The nod of approval from Eddie was an acknowledgement you were now a true Blue. I wasn't just a home-game regular but part of an away-day elite.

Being seen on the pitch, particularly if you were caught by the television cameras, was like a medal of honour. One of the most recognized Blues in the city was Eric Crainey, who jumped on Graeme Sharp when he scored the famous winner at Anfield that season. Later there was Jimmy Sanders, who ran to Neville Southall when he was involved in his halftime sit-down protest against Leeds in 1990. It takes some courage to run on to that hallowed turf, and a bit of fitness too: you have to be an Olympic hurdler to avoid the rugby tackles of the stewards and policemen when they chase you off. I also heard many examples of my dad getting on the pitch. At one time the players must have thought he was the physio. 'I'll get on there one day,' I'd say to myself, and I wasn't necessarily thinking it would be as a player.

That season was captivating from start to finish. I was lucky, or maybe it was fate, to have such an exceptional Everton team as my introduction to top-class football. They didn't simply beat virtually everyone home and away, they tore them apart, playing high-quality football. I didn't go to games fearful we wouldn't win, I'd be guessing the margin of victory. So confident was I of our success, I'd already be thinking about how our rivals would do before a ball was kicked, and how far ahead we'd be in the table by the end of the afternoon.

Match of the Day
became the second most important event of the week, after the game itself. My dad would video the show and I'd watch it repeatedly until I'd memorized every word John Motson and Barry Davies said.

Back then there weren't cameras at every ground. You were only given decent highlights if you were near the top of the table, so Evertonians became used to earning top billing and having the pleasure of seeing the afternoon goals from another angle. If you weren't one of the main games, you had to settle for a clip on the local news. In October 1984 we beat Manchester United 5–0 at Goodison, but
Match of the Day
weren't there to film it. The goals were only shown on the BBC filmed by one of those dodgy long-distance cameras. It was literally sixty seconds – a bit like the graveyard slot the modern side gets after midnight on
Match of the Day
now, only with a cloudier picture. We had the tape and it circulated the whole of Bootle for the rest of the week as if it was a piece of treasure for every Blue to get a glimpse of.

I'd mimic radio and television commentaries from Everton's most famous wins of the time, repeating them when we were recreating goals during our own kick-abouts. 'Gray's there again. Oh, I say!' I'd shout as I re-enacted the striker's diving headers against Sunderland in 1985. 'Everton's hold on the cup has been re-established' was another quote which stayed with me from the FA Cup run that season. Motson and Davies provided the soundtrack to Everton's epic victories.

When I couldn't go to the game, for whatever reason, listening to the radio was torture. You hear the full ninety minutes on local and national radio today, but two decades ago it was secondhalf commentary only, with a couple of brief reports in the first half between the songs the DJ played. It was terrible trying to guess what was happening without the likes of Teletext, mobile phones or
Soccer Saturday
providing instant updates. From a young age I wanted to see the action every weekend, not be miles away imagining Peter Reid, Kevin Sheedy and Paul Bracewell exchanging passes before Trevor Steven crossed for Graeme Sharp to head us into the lead.