Gerrard: My Autobiography (12 page)

First thing next morning, I almost broke the world 100m record getting down the newsagent’s. I bought all the papers to see what they had written about me. I checked the player ratings. Only nine out of ten. Fuck off! Where’s my picture? Back page. Fucking magic. I craved being recognized. Walking down the street and having people asking for my autograph was such a buzz. Having my family make a fuss over me spread my smile even wider. Fame was new to me, and I couldn’t get enough. More please! In the Liverpool programme, there were pages on Steven Gerrard – ‘the new kid on the block’. I must have read the piece a thousand times. Arrogance wasn’t the reason; I just loved all this recognition. If I got noticed in the street or written up in the papers, I was delighted because it meant I was doing all right on the pitch.

The praise didn’t go to my head. I had the right people around me. Dad was brilliant, always making sure my new-found celebrity did not soften me or make me slacken off in training. ‘Don’t fucking read all that,’ Dad said when he saw me lounging around on the settee, flicking
through newspapers. ‘You’ve got training tomorrow. Make sure you play three or four games. You have done nothing.’ Dad had one special piece of advice, which he kept reminding me of: ‘Don’t copy those players who have played 300 games and are starting to relax. Train and play as if it’s your first ever game. Train and play as if it’s the World Cup final. Learn. Never ease off.’ Established players like Incey, Redknapp and Fowler would never have let that happen. If this new boy fresh from the Academy had got above his station, Incey would have hammered me straight back down.

I began to receive more and more attention in the papers – ‘The local lad in the Liverpool engine room’, ‘Huyton’s Hero’, that sort of thing. Jamie, Robbie and Michael helped me handle the fame, and gave me tips on how to deal with dodgy questions in interviews. I just kept stressing how much I had to learn. Gérard deliberately made me room with Steve Staunton for the remainder of that season. He knew I would learn about being a proper pro from being around ‘Stan’. We called him Stan because he looked like Stan Laurel. Stan watched me closely in training, in games and around the place. He picked up on little things like the importance of being polite to everyone, from hotel staff to fans, everyone. Stan was such a nice fellow and had done so much in the game. A young pro can take so many wrong turnings, but Stan pointed me in the right direction.

Everyone at Anfield assisted me. Even Incey. I had some one-on-one chats with him, and got to know him. My perspective on him changed. I started to really like him. The memory of being terrified by him as a YTS
disappeared, replaced with a feeling that he was all right. What had really altered was his view of me. After a few games, particularly the Celta Vigo match at Anfield, Incey realized I wasn’t just a lightweight from the Academy. I could handle life among the heavyweights. Conversations with Incey really lifted me. Imagine it. Me talking to Paul Ince! One of my England heroes!

Life at Liverpool just got better and better. Being part of such a lively dressing-room was brilliant. The lads all really got on with each other, and I listened eagerly to their plans for the Christmas party. Liverpool’s Christmas parties have always been legendary, with fancy dress and epic nights out. I wanted some of that. A few drinks and a few laughs with my new friends, the superstars of Liverpool Football Club. I couldn’t wait for the big night. Every day at training, when the banter was banging around the dressing-room, the talk would be of the Christmas party. As it drew closer, the excitement level rose to almost fever pitch. Players were discussing what fancy dress they were wearing. I knew Michael was going as Harry Enfield’s Scouser. I couldn’t decide what to wear. I was more distracted by a fear about what might happen to a new boy like me. I was actually shitting myself, because Robbie, Macca and Jamie would walk past and whisper, ‘You’re singing, aren’t you? It had better be some decent music. Don’t worry, there’s no pressure. You’ll be up there, on stage, with the microphone, on your own. Don’t let us down. Sing your heart out for the lads.’ And they’d walk on, laughing their heads off. Jesus Christ. What was coming my way? I also noticed in the sneaky smiles of the older players that I was heading for an
ambush. Pints over the head. Bombarded with food. Bring it on!

Suddenly, my social arrangements were rearranged by the manager. A week before the big date, Gérard summoned me into his office at Melwood. ‘Steven, you are not going to the Christmas party,’ he said. I desperately tried not to show my disappointment, despite being ripped up inside. ‘If I find out you went, you are fined. Keep away. It’s not for you.’ I was gutted. Wrighty was also banned from attending.

Thank God we didn’t go. The party got infamously out of hand. The players began at a local hotel for some drinks and then hit a club. Outsiders and friends turned up who couldn’t be controlled. People got carried away with the drink. A stripper turned up, and it all got ugly. The
News of the World
had somehow got in and taken pictures, and they ran a story. Certain players got set up and looked bad. A depression fell over the team. I remember sitting at the dinner table with the lads and they were all shaking their heads in frustration. The mood was bleak. The camp was down for weeks and weeks. The team realized it was a mistake.

Gérard stormed into the dressing-room and gave the players a monster caning. I had never seen the manager so incensed. He felt Liverpool’s good name had been dragged through the gutter. He was right. It had. The players let the club down. No question. No excuses. After Gérard’s rant, he pulled me and Wrighty. ‘That’s the reason why you got told you were not going,’ he said. ‘You guys are innocent. But just you learn from the others’ mistake.’ Even though I hadn’t gone to the party, we were all in it
together and I felt for the lads. It was unlikely to happen again. Not just because the players all felt so bad, but because all parties were banned by Gérard.

Still, the season seemed like one long celebration for me. Liverpool were not enjoying the best of fortunes but I was loving just being part of the drama, good or bad. I was living the dream, playing against boyhood idols like Paul Gascoigne. I first bumped into Gazza when Middlesbrough visited Anfield in February 1999. More accurately, he bumped into me. There were thirty-six seconds on the clock and Gazza elbowed me. A full-whack right elbow straight in my left eye-socket. Off the ball. Bang. No reason at all. A gift from Gazza, my hero! Thanks, mate. I’d love to know the reason from Gazza. Fucking hell, why? Maybe he heard I was doing all right, that people were talking about me as future England material, and he wanted to put me in my place. Maybe that elbow was a welcome to the big time. Bang. Clobber. My eye was throbbing. Boom, boom. I hadn’t even touched the ball. It was a bit harsh.

‘Right,’ I shouted over at Gazza, ‘is that how you fucking want it?’

The next time he had the ball, I went in hard and fast like a steaming bull. I wanted to send him flying. No chance. I never got near him. He just turned sharply, like a matador, and swept the ball away, leaving me tackling thin air. Chasing Gazza was like trying to catch a ghost. Back I went again, this time winning the ball. Now it was Gazza after me. A game broke out within the game. Gazza closed me down dead quick, and I tried to slip the ball through his legs. What the hell was I playing at? Trying to
nutmeg one of the most skilful midfielders ever to play for England? I must be mad. I was so fired up by the challenge of taking on Gazza. ‘Behave!’ Gazza said. ‘What the fuck are you up to?’ Gazza stared at me and then added: ‘You little cunt!’ Gazza was loving it. He knew he had wound me up.

After the game, Gazza strolled over, ruffled my hair and put his arm around me. ‘You are a fucking good player,’ he said. ‘Keep going.’ Unbelievable. I was still no-one at the time, third choice, a young kid fresh from the Academy. And there was Gazza going out of his way to congratulate me! Deep down, I think Gazza was happy with the way I reacted to his elbow. I never complained. I never hid. I just went looking for him. Unfortunately, I couldn’t get near him. Back in the dressing-room, I told the other players about my run-in with Gazza. Like the ref, most hadn’t seen the elbow. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ Jamie said. ‘Gazza probably knew he was going to do that even before the game. You will get more of them off Gazza!’

I wore my black eye from Gazza like a medal won in battle. It meant the world to me to encounter him, however painfully. I wanted another memento, his shirt, but I was that intimidated. Because he elbowed me, I probably thought he would tell me to fuck off. I was terrified of asking him. It must sound strange being in awe of someone you have just spent ninety minutes trying to smash to pieces, but that was the way I was with Gazza. I grew up on his brilliance. I read his book. I bought his England shirt. So did Paul, my brother, who used to look like Gazza. Bit heavy. Chubby cheeks. ‘Hey, Gazza,’ I used to
shout at Paul. He went off his cake! We both loved Gazza. His video,
Gascoigne’s Glory
, was my prized possession. I must have watched it a million times. I used to watch that tape thinking, ‘Oh my life, what a player.’ It was a wonder the tape never wore out. Gazza at Italia 90. Gazza taking on the world. Skill, determination, love of the shirt, cheeky smile. The whole package, the real deal. Gazza summed up everything I worshipped about football. He was the David Beckham of his day. I looked up to him so much. In my early days at Liverpool, people considered me a defensive midfielder, but in training I was always trying to be Gazza. I play more like Gazza today than when I first started. I am nowhere near as skilful as him, but I have things he never had, like endurance.

When we collided at Anfield, I knew his career was on the downward slope. Of course, it was sad to see someone once so special on the decline. But just think about the career. Remember the good things about Gazza, the turns away from his marker, the dribbles and the fantastic goals. That free-kick in the FA Cup semi-final at Wembley in 1991 was like a fucking rocket. His control and finish against Scotland at Euro 96. Gazza was a genius. Everyone said he was a wayward genius. I never used to believe the bad things I read about Gazza because I loved him so much. Black eyes apart, he was so good to me. I was fortunate enough to have some conversations with him when he was at Everton, living nearby, and he was top-class. On the pitch, he was always at it, slyly digging me in the ribs or trying to intimidate me. Off the pitch, Gazza was such a nice fella. He filled me with confidence. He praised bits of my game, and always asked me how
things were going. I thought, ‘Let me talk about you! I want to hear about Italia 90, Lazio, Spurs, everything!’ When I was younger, Gazza’s was the only autograph I craved. You see, Gazza lived the life I wanted: fame, fortune and England.

ENGLAND OBSESSED ME
from my earliest days. Running around Ironside in my Gazza shirt, weaving past Huyton lads and sticking the ball between two dustbins, I imagined it was the winning goal in the World Cup final. I pictured all the England fans leaping up, punching the air and screaming my name. ‘Gerrard, Gerrard!’ I saw myself mobbed by my England team-mates, celebrating the goal that brought the World Cup home. Pulling on the white shirt. Looking down and seeing the Three Lions crest over your heart. Walking out into a packed stadium, knowing the eyes of the country are on you. The adrenalin, the noise, the sweat, the glory. All of it. I wanted it big-style.

Countless obstacles were strewn across my path to senior international recognition. I had to fight my way to the top. First up, those idiots at Lilleshall ignored me at U-15 level. England realized their mistake when I tore into the National School at Melwood. The season after that, when the England get-togethers started, I was straight in
(no apology, though). I was soon involved with England U-16s, coming off the bench in a 4–0 rout of Denmark on 3 February 1996. That was me finally going, on the road to the England first team.

I will never forget my first U-16 start, seventeen days after that thrashing of Denmark. The stage was Lilleshall, of all places. The opposition, the Republic of Ireland, a good team with future stars like Richard Dunne, a tough defender with Man City, and Stephen McPhail, who made his name at Leeds United. England put out a tidy XI as well. Wes Brown and Michael Ball stood out in defence. My area, midfield, quickly became a battle zone against the Irish. I was up against McPhail, who was streets ahead of me. This was during my teenage years when I started growing fast. I needed to because I was really too small to compete in such daunting midfields. Apart from scoring England’s first, I was awful. McPhail was a class apart. At least we won 2–1, with Phil Jevons netting the second. My first England start was a winning one. I was up and running.

I watched Euro 96 at home on the Bluebell Estate, cheering on Gazza, Alan Shearer and Teddy Sheringham. Wembley looked and sounded fantastic, packed with people waving banners and singing ‘Football’s Coming Home’. England treated the fans to some fabulous football, particularly in the 4–1 defeat of Holland. I so wanted to be there. I had just turned sixteen and I was desperate to reach the top.

I carried on up through the England age-groups, growing physically and developing technically. Come France 98, I sat transfixed in front of the TV at Ironside as my
mate Michael took on the world. Go on, Michael! Jesus, what a sight that was. A tireless trainer and relentlessly ambitious, Michael deserved his shot at World Cup glory. There had been a lot of speculation that Glenn Hoddle, the then England manager, might take Michael to France. His name was all over the press and on the telly. I was really buzzing for Michael to go. In April, I talked to him about his chances of getting the nod from Hoddle. ‘That’s my aim,’ Michael told me. ‘I would love to go.’ Michael was on the fringe of a few squads. Then he scored against Morocco in Casablanca in one of the warm-up games. Suddenly, everyone talked about him starting. I so wanted him to be picked. Not only because he was a mate, but also because of what it meant for me. I played with Michael for so many years. If he was in with the England big boys, I must have a chance. ‘Look how well Michael is doing,’ Dad said as we sat on the sofa glued to France 98. ‘It might be you the next World Cup.’