Gerrard: My Autobiography (18 page)

I treasure the shirt he gave me at the final whistle. It’s upstairs, and when I look at it all the memories of that night in Charleroi come flooding back. The nerves, the tackle, the three points. ‘All the best in your next game,’ said Didi, before heading off to the demoralized German dressing-room. Typical Didi. Even then, in what must have been a time of real heartache, he was prepared to think about someone else. My life took a turn for the better the day I met Didi Hamann.

As Didi disappeared, I was engulfed by people. Well done. Brilliant. Congratulations. Well played. Kevin was in tears, hugging me. England’s changing-room was buzzing, players and staff happy. Me? I was on cloud nine. Keegan stood in the middle of the room and said, ‘We’ve got a chance of qualifying now, boys!’ I shook hands with all the lads and congratulated them. But it hadn’t yet sunk in; it was as if I hadn’t played. Me, a hero for England? Impossible. Only when I left the room and had had time to gather my thoughts did I start to appreciate that it really had been me out there, flying into tackles, helping to get England back on track at Euro 2000. It really was me playing a part in England’s famous victory.

As I walked back to the bus, I wanted to share my joy with my family, so I called Dad. He didn’t go over the top in his praise – that’s not Dad’s way – but I could tell from the tone of his voice that he was really happy for me. It was Father’s Day, and Dad said, ‘That performance was a
tremendous present, Steven.’ Just to detect that pride in my dad’s voice meant the world.

Back at the hotel, the dining-room felt different. The gloom was gone, dispersed by Shearer’s goal. That night, I actually looked forward to coming down from my room. I knew everyone would be happy. After the Portugal loss five days earlier it had been a case of in for your meal sharp, back to your room sharp. Gareth Barry was made up for me. ‘Brilliant, Stevie, well done,’ he said as we unwound in our sitting-room. Tiredness soon overcame me, and I said goodnight to Gareth.

The moment I shut the door for the night and lay down in bed, I was besieged with all my old nerves. The homesickness kicked in again, bringing me down from my Charleroi high. I almost packed my bags and ran for cover. It was so strange. I should have been on top of the world after the Germany game; instead, I felt like I was staring into a black hole of depression. I just wanted to be at home. God I missed Ironside.

First thing next morning, I rang home. Just hearing my parents’ voices calmed me down. I asked them to read out the headlines in the English papers (we never got the papers straight away at Spa; they were often a day late). ‘Full Steve Ahead: an England Star is Born’ declared one. ‘Move Over Ince, Gerrard is the New Guv’nor’ said another. That cheered me up! Shit! I guess this was my Michael Moment, when it all goes mental and everyone knows your name. When I finally got hold of the papers myself I almost ripped them to pieces, such was my haste in turning the pages. Some of the things I read, about me being ‘England’s future’, I felt I shouldn’t be reading.
‘Ignore those,’ Dad urged me. ‘Don’t believe it. Just focus on doing the same again.’ Good advice, as always with Dad. But I was drawn to those papers. It was fascinating reading about myself. ‘Don’t take any notice of the hype,’ said Gérard Houllier when I spoke to him later that day. Steve Heighway said the same. Foot on the ball; don’t get carried away. Keegan did, though. ‘Steven Gerrard gave a cameo of what England’s future will be,’ said the manager. Didi also spoke well of me in the press. ‘Stevie will be England captain one day,’ he said. ‘I wish Germany had a few players like him.’ Top fella.

One grey cloud filled the sky for England: our fans rioted in Charleroi. Even in our Spa cocoon, we learned what had gone on. The television pictures looked bad. When I saw water cannons sending fans flying and soaking that big town square, it was unbelievable, like an image from a medieval war. England fans are passionate, but it shocks me when it spills over into violence and fighting with police. I wasn’t embarrassed by their behaviour, because most England fans have been brilliant to us, but it wasn’t good to watch. All the players understood that outbreaks of hooliganism meant bad news for the team. We had all heard the rumblings from the big boys at UEFA that England could get kicked out of Euro 2000. ‘Christ,’ I thought, ‘that would be so unjust, a real kick in the teeth.’ We had worked so hard over ninety minutes against Germany to turn our group around. Now a few nutters threatened to ruin it.

It became a hot topic of conversation in the hotel. The players kept talking about the trouble, and the threat from UEFA that we would have to pack our bags and go home
if the violence erupted again. FA officials called a meeting with the players in Spa. They were shitting themselves. One of the FA officials, David Davies, was desperate to get a message through to the fans to calm down. ‘Whenever you do any interviews, warn the fans about the gravity of the situation,’ Davies told us. ‘Tell them they are letting the team, and the country, down. We really could get booted out.’ All the players were praying it wouldn’t get to that stage. Luckily, it never did. The trouble subsided.

We want the passion and commitment of the fans, but not the dark side. England supporters are always tremendous in the stadium. They spend all their hard-earned money and give up their time to follow us around the world. It’s unbelievable. Truly, England would be knackered without the fans. It means so much to sit in a dressing-room in some cold foreign stadium and be able to hear the England fans outside. “Come on, England! Come on, England!” It’s reassuring to come out of the tunnel at some inhospitable venue and see all the St George flags. When we are down, the fans lift us. We owe them big-style. The rioting of a minority cannot dent my admiration for the majority.

Back in Spa, we soon forgot our concerns about the fans. We had three days to prepare for our final Group A game, against Romania, who were fighting for their lives with only a point to their name. Again, we were really up for the match. Training was unbelievable, with a real bite to it. I was flying. All the papers were full of my name. Everyone, it seemed, was talking about me. As I walked out to training, Michael was alongside me. We were
chatting about everything and nothing, just joshing around. My old mate then turned serious. ‘You played really well against Germany,’ he said. ‘You have to be pushing for a place against Romania.’ Similar encouragement came from Robbie and Macca. ‘You must have a chance,’ they said.

A situation vacant sign did hang in central midfield. Scholesy was too good to drop, but one position was still up for grabs. Wisey could slot in there, but Kevin tended to use him out wide. Incey’s position was the vulnerable one, according to the papers, who said he looked tired in the first two games. But I wasn’t plotting on nicking Ince’s job, I just wanted to impress as much as possible in training and let Kevin make the decision.

I went to work as if my life depended on it. The day before the Romania game, I couldn’t wait to get stuck into my last chance to convince Kevin. Such was my desperate enthusiasm that I charged into a nightmare of my own making. Off the bus, top speed on to the pitch, couldn’t hold back, let’s get cracking, and then I felt it go. My calf. Pulled. No question. Fuck it. Didn’t warm up properly. Shit, shit, shit.

Desperation coloured my subsequent actions. Because of what a few players and papers had said, I thought I had a chance of starting, so I didn’t tell anyone about the calf. Not the physios, and definitely not Kevin. I trained on, running hard to disguise the problem. It hurt, but I knew missing Romania would cause me more pain. I didn’t realize how bad I had pulled it. I’m no bloody doctor. Might just be a bit tight, I told myself, grabbing any strand of comfort; I’ll have a painkiller when I get back to
the room and stretch the calf in the bath. I might just get shot of it before kick-off. God, let it just be a bit of tightness, maybe just some slight tension that will disappear overnight. Oh God, don’t let me miss Romania! I couldn’t bear it.

The high of Germany suddenly seemed a world away. I dropped into a depression, sent tumbling there by a simple failure to warm up. How stupid was that? I cursed myself under my breath as I continued to train. ‘Come on, let’s get back to the room, see if we can find an escape from this nightmare,’ I told myself. My heart pumped fast, my mind working overtime with thoughts. Uncertainty about whether or not I was in Keegan’s plans still reigned. He gave no clues in training; we did no shape work that signalled who might start in midfield. Kevin was obviously going to announce the eleven in that night’s meeting. I had to get my calf right.

Back in the privacy of my room, I hobbled around. Shit. This felt like something more than a bit of tightness. This was serious. ‘I can’t play, but I am going to play,’ I told myself. Somehow. Christ, I’ve just got to.

I left my room early as dinner-time loomed so that no-one would see me walk in slightly stiffly. The other lads soon bounded in and sat down, chattering about Romania. Some of them believed Keegan would start me against Romania. They’d been talking to journalists they knew. ‘You’re playing tomorrow,’ Robbie said to me. A weak smile came to my lips.

After dinner, I snuck down to the physio room to see if Gary Lewin could have a look at it, maybe weave some magic. I opened the door and walked straight into Alan
Shearer and Tony Adams, who were enjoying some banter with Gary. Shit. Spinning 180 degrees, I sped back out, terrified at the thought of revealing my injury to Gary in front of England’s two senior players.

Back up in my room, I reconsidered my options. In times of trouble, my first instinct is to call home. Dad answered the phone.

‘Dad, I can’t believe it,’ I said. ‘I’ve done my calf. Badly. In training.’ I was stuttering. Disappointment prevented me from speaking properly. Tears formed in my eyes. ‘Dad, I really think Keegan is going to pick me against Romania. We’ve got a meeting in an hour and I’m sure I’m in the team. But my calf’s a mess. It’s really tight. There’s no way I can play.’

As I was talking, there was a knock on the door. ‘Come back later!’ I shouted. Bloody cleaners. They were so busy, in our rooms all the time. You’d hardly put a cup down and they’d come flying through the door like the SAS to tidy up. Another knock. I was on the verge of screaming ‘Fuck off!’ I am usually polite with people, I almost never swear at them, but my head was gone. Completely gone. My world was in ruins, shattered by a damaged muscle. Knock, knock. Busy cunts! Can’t they leave me alone? They had only just left the room ten minutes earlier.

‘Hold on, Dad, I have to get rid of the cleaners,’ I said.

I went over to the door, opened it, and standing there was the England manager.

‘Boss! Come in, come in.’ I picked up the phone again. ‘Dad, the manager’s here, I’ll phone you back.’ Dad tried to say something, but I buttoned him. My mind was on Keegan, the calf, and the game with Romania.

‘How are you, Steven?’ Keegan began.

‘I’m all right, boss, fine.’

‘Sit down, Steven.’

So we sat at this little table, a smiling England manager on one side and a heartbroken kid with a wrecked calf on the other.

Keegan looked directly at me. ‘You’re starting tomorrow,’ he said.

No! No! Don’t tell me that! Christ! I felt trapped in a horror story that kept getting worse. It was unreal. Keegan had just knocked on my door to tell me I was starting a European Championship game for my country, and I was seconds away from limping down the corridor, tapping on his door and confessing all. I had to come clean. Keegan had always been so good with me. I couldn’t mislead him now; it would be unfair on him and the team.

‘Thanks, boss,’ I said, ‘but I have something to tell you.’

A confused look spread over Keegan’s face. ‘What is it?’

I paused, searching for the courage to get the words out. Speaking to Keegan was a new experience. I was shy, relieved in the past just to listen.

‘Come on, Steven, what is it?’

Finally, I found the strength. ‘Boss,’ I began, ‘listen, I’m sorry. I have something to tell you, something I have been hiding from you. I’ve done my calf.’

The world stopped spinning for a moment. A silence took hold for what felt like an eternity.

‘What?’ he said, his voice crackling with disbelief. ‘Why haven’t you mentioned it?’

‘Boss, I just wanted to play so badly. I went down to the
team room before but the physio wasn’t there.’ Gary had been there, of course. I was lying, hiding behind any excuse so that the England manager wouldn’t think so badly of me.

‘Have you pulled it or is it just tight?’ Keegan asked.

‘There is no way I can possibly play tomorrow,’ I replied. ‘I did it early in training, but played on because I wanted desperately to be involved tomorrow. I didn’t mention it to the physios in case they ruled me out or told you. It wasn’t until I got back to the room that I realized how bad it was. I’m struggling to walk properly. It’s getting worse.’

A big lump formed in my throat. How I’d got the words out I will never know.

Keegan took hold of me and said, ‘Thanks for telling me. I appreciate it.’ He knew how gutted I was.

‘I’m sorry, boss,’ I said again.

‘Don’t you be worrying,’ he said. ‘Your future is sorted. Get it right for the game after. Forget about it. I will take the blame. I will tell Gary you told me but that we were going to see how it was.’

And Kevin did take the whole blame. If I had been older and more experienced, Kevin would probably have hammered me. He could have hung me out to dry with the physios and in public, but he didn’t. Keegan cared for his players, and to me his sympathy meant everything.

He led me, this distraught kid, down to the physio room where Gary Lewin examined my calf. ‘No chance,’ he announced, and that was it. Officially ruled out.

Word spread fast in the camp. Everyone was brilliant, consoling me, telling me they would go out and beat
Romania so I could play again later in the tournament. Well, not everyone was brilliant. Fazackerley’s reaction was, I thought, disgraceful. Still struggling with homesickness, and now with a battered calf, the last thing I needed was someone sidling over to me and saying, ‘Are you injured again? Are you not warming up properly?’ I felt like going for him. Punching Fazackerley’s lights out crossed my mind a few times during Euro 2000. He upset me that much. He was good to me at times, but otherwise he was frosty and hurtful when I needed comforting. He just dealt with me all wrong. I was down. I didn’t need some cold-hearted tosser pushing me further down. He simply didn’t understand how low I was.