Gerrard: My Autobiography (19 page)

Fortunately, Keegan cared, even when I was of no use to him. He put me on the bench, stripped, as if I were available to come on, covering up my injury from the media so I didn’t get stick. He knew the papers would give me all that old shite about being a young crock. Kevin did me a huge favour that day. Although the press were informed that something was wrong with my calf, they thought it was only a twinge, and that Kevin was being wary by starting with me on the bench.

I sat there in despair, wishing I was playing against Romania. What a mad game it was, swinging one way and then the other. England lost 3–2, to a penalty in the final minute after Phil Neville brought down Viorel Moldovan. The dressing-room was bad afterwards, with players going crazy, screaming and shouting as the bitterest of post-mortems was conducted. A look of anger took up residence on the faces of Ince, Adams and Martin Keown. They sat there spitting out venom over an abrupt
end to Euro 2000. Nothing got thrown. Players raged at the situation, not at each other. A few people sought to console Phil Neville, but no-one blamed him. Other players just sat there, towels over their heads, unable to speak. Keegan was distraught. Everyone was. As a squad we knew we had failed. People had expected England to have a right good go after promising displays at Euro 96 and France 98. We had let the fans down – a crime, given their fantastic support. Being on the first flight home from Euro 2000 was a disaster.

Grim inquests soon began. Keegan got some unbelievable crap thrown at him. I knew Michael was unhappy with Keegan. Michael loathes being substituted, as he was in all three games. He feels it is an insult, and that’s the right reaction. Managers don’t want players who race happily to the touchline when the fourth official holds their number up. They should be angry, wanting to stay on. When I’m taken off, I feel almost physically ill. What I didn’t know during Euro 2000 was that Michael wasn’t enjoying Kevin’s training sessions. Michael wanted more pattern-of-play work and fewer small-sided games. He was also critical of Keegan’s organization. It got personal between Michael and Kevin, and their relationship broke down.

Keown also laid into Keegan, slamming him as ‘tactically naive’. Everyone made a big fuss about Martin’s comments, ignoring the fact that players not in the starting eleven always have an axe to grind with the manager. That’s normal. Whenever I am not in the line-up, it feels like the end of the world. Nowadays, football is more of a squad game and players are more accepting of rotation.
But during Euro 2000, tension was written all over people’s faces as the manager read out the team. Nerves raged around the room. Everyone wanted to be in that eleven. It felt like the worst failure not to be picked. This is England. We are ambitious individuals not used to being overlooked, so feathers are bound to get ruffled. A camp is naturally almost split into two during a tournament – starters and understudies. Nowadays, teams have more of a team spirit, greater togetherness. Managers are better at drilling it into players that it is about the squad, not the team.

Kevin got stick because he was not so good at looking after those like Martin who were not in the team. I felt differently towards the England manager. I flew back from Holland and Belgium thinking that he was different class as a man and a manager. Keegan treated me as if I were Pele. He made me feel like I was the best player in the world. He made me feel so important. He gave me my debut and stood by me in my darkest hour. My respect for Kevin Keegan will never die.

MY HOMESICKNESS WAS
cured the moment I set foot in Merseyside again, but a new problem awaited. Photographers lurked outside the house – a first for me. This was the England effect, the price to be paid for twenty-nine eye-catching minutes against the old enemy Germany. The media seized on me as the one scrap of hope from England’s screwed-up stay in Holland and Belgium.

Flavour-of-the-month status didn’t appeal. I don’t mind being recognized, but this was organized stalking. It was not just me being shadowed. Friends and family were trailed, which is a disgrace. The morning after the Germany game, the intrusions began. Reporters knocked at relatives’ doors and shoved microphones in their faces, demanding their take on ‘Stevie G – England Hero’. Back in Spa, I was shitting myself. What were these reporters after? Leave my family alone! My relatives reacted differently. ‘No comment,’ some said. ‘We’re really pleased for Steven,’ replied others. Nothing satisfied these
reporters. Like locusts, they spread across Merseyside hunting juicy morsels about me. They invaded Cardinal Heenan and St Mick’s. On returning home, I found the papers full of my old teachers coming out left, right and centre and reminiscing about me. The press got hold of all sorts of pictures of me, past and present. Me at school. Me in the local team. The full paparazzi treatment was focused on me. Germany changed my life for ever. I became public property – a prospect that didn’t exactly fill me with joy. Sharpish, I disappeared on holiday, got some sun, caught my breath and readied myself for the new season. The pressure was on, big-time. Could I repeat my Germany display? Everyone was watching me. Was I just a flash in the pan, a one-game wonder? I had to produce.

Just before that 2000/01 season kicked off, I learned Bryan Robson was chasing me. Middlesbrough were prepared to offer £5 million – a massive sum for someone as inexperienced as me. Liverpool were having none of it, and sent Robson packing in no uncertain terms. Leaving Liverpool was a million miles from my thoughts, but it was still flattering to hear an icon like Robson rated me. After the Euros, Robson was interviewed in the papers talking me up. When I read those articles, I wanted to cut them out and frame them. Fuck me, Bryan Robson, England legend, praising me! His approval meant the world. I looked at the pieces and thought if I could become a tenth of the player Robson had been, I’d die happy.

As a kid I once wore a Manchester United shirt with ‘Robson’ and his number 7 on the back. I detested United with a passion and loathed the idea of putting on one of
their strips, but this was different. A mate of mine owned this Robson top, the old blue-and-white one with dashes on it. We were kicking about on Ironside and I asked him whether I could be Robson for a while. I slipped out of my Liverpool shirt, and put on the Robson one. It felt fantastic. I wore it for an hour, charging all over, flying into tackles, scoring brave goals, pretending I was Robson. Because the shirt had Robson’s name on it, I forgot about the United bit. It didn’t seem like treachery to Liverpool, more homage to an England god.

Unfortunately, Dad looked out the window and went ballistic. ‘Get inside now!’ he screamed. Scarcely through the door, I ran into a right good grilling. ‘What the hell are you playing at, wearing a Manchester United shirt?’ he asked.

‘But Dad, it’s Bryan Robson’s shirt,’ I explained.

Dad couldn’t have cared less. ‘You should know better,’ he said.

It was a United strip, and Dad wasn’t having any son of his dragging the Gerrard name through the Huyton gutter. What would the neighbours think? Honest to God, I thought I was going to have to move house! I was only a baby, but I was convinced Dad would kick me out for putting on that United shirt.

Apart from those trial matches when I tested Liverpool’s loyalty, I never made the mistake of wearing United’s colours again. My admiration for Robson never disappeared, though. I was buzzing that he believed in me. The new season couldn’t start soon enough. Robson’s interest meant I was steaming even more to get stuck in. This was going to be my year. Still, not even in my wildest
dreams could I have envisaged what an extraordinary year it would be. One cup would have been good, two unbelievable, but the Treble? No chance. Surely not? Those who despise Liverpool call it the Mickey Mouse Treble, but it was still a monumental achievement. We needed to rewrite all the odds and predictions to lift that Treble.

Liverpool had a good team that season. I knew that. Gérard Houllier assembled a quality outfit. The odd concern still nagged away at me, though. I wasn’t completely convinced by our goalkeeper, Sander Westerveld. The Dutchman’s kicking was excellent, and his shot-stopping and communication skills good, but he was prone to mistakes. Not blatant errors like fumbles, but goals he should really have prevented. Analysing videos of our games with Carra and Michael, we noticed certain shots or headers went past Sander a bit too easily. I kept quiet. I was still only twenty, still learning my craft. What right did I have to stand up in team meetings and question Liverpool’s keeper?

Sander was fortunate that he was protected by a brilliant defence. Our right-back was Markus Babbel, a smooth German whose name was rarely chanted at Anfield but who was highly regarded in the dressing-room. Markus was an unsung hero in our pursuit of the Treble. He was awesome in training, fit as fuck, a great defender and completely dependable. Gérard pulled a belter out of the bag with Babbel, who arrived from Bayern Munich on a free as a centre-half, but shone at full-back. Liverpool got one magnificent season out of Babbel. Sadly, the following year Markus contracted a weird illness called Guillain-Barre Syndrome that causes
havoc with the nervous system. Liverpool’s club doctor, Mark Waller, told us Markus wouldn’t be around for a while. The doc explained the illness, and how serious it was. ‘Markus will be back,’ he promised, ‘but whether he will be 100 per cent, I don’t know.’ Us players got nosey. Markus was a mate, and we worried about him. ‘How did he get this illness, doc?’ I asked. Doc Waller didn’t know. Markus’s illness started off like flu and then drained nearly all the life from him. Markus was so tough and brave in fighting it. He was away from Melwood for months. ‘Where’s Markus?’ everyone kept saying. ‘We need him back.’ He eventually returned from Germany in a wheelchair. I was stunned. I couldn’t believe this was the same person. Markus had been toned, clean-shaven, a good-looking guy glowing with health. Now, I found myself shaking hands with a ghost. He was grey, and much thinner. His weight dropped from almost thirteen stone to eleven stone. His muscle tone went, too. All I recognized was the familiar Babbel smile. One of the best players of our Treble season was suddenly in a wheelchair.

Markus recovered, but he was never the same all-action defender again, not like he had been during our march to the Treble in 2000/01. Markus was switched to right-back because Sami Hyypia proved a revelation in the middle. Gérard did not bring the tall Finn in as first-choice. Liverpool’s management got a really big surprise with Hyypia. We all did. From the moment Sami arrived in 1999, he was brilliant; £2.5 million from Willem II in Holland was a bargain. Sami was just what Liverpool craved: an aerial presence in defence. Liverpool had been slaughtered for years for not having someone
commanding in the air. Any cross came in against Liverpool and we were screwed. Whenever we played Man United, David Beckham notched up three or four assists from crosses or corners. Sorting out the defence became one of Gérard’s urgent requirements.

I remember seeing Hyypia for the first time at Melwood, and watching this lanky Scandy loping out to training. ‘Who the fuck is this?’ I whispered to the other guys. No-one had heard of Sami Hyypia. We thought he had been bought in case injury or suspension knackered our main centre-halves. The next thing I knew Sami was clearing balls a hundred yards, making fantastic tackles and passing the ball out well. Left or right foot, no problem. His only weakness was speed. Sami never boasted the pace of centre-halves like Rio Ferdinand or the Italian Alessandro Nesta. But it wasn’t an issue. Sami’s reading of the game was so good that during his first couple of years at Liverpool nobody got past him. He was truly world class for those two seasons.

Sami struck up an immediate understanding with Stéphane Henchoz, who came in from Blackburn Rovers. Stéphane was solid, never giving anything away, always there to make vital interceptions. He and Sami were like rocks at the back. Opposing attacks just crashed onto them and fell back, bruised physically and mentally. Sami’s partnership with Stéphane won us the Treble. No doubt. They were the heartbeat of a magnificent defence, with Babbel on the right and Jamie Carragher on the left.

I love Carra. So do managers. He’ll play anywhere across the back, no problem. Carra’s best at centre-half, but he never complained when Gérard shoved him in at
left-back for the Treble season. A true pro, Carra just knuckled down. In training, he worked overtime developing his left foot. He got YT boys to ping balls at him on the left, time after time. He almost wore a hole in his left boot. Practice, dawn till dusk, turned Carra into a brilliant two-footed defender.

Some people will be surprised to learn Carra is a student of the game. He’s not a thick Scouser from Bootle. He’s always reading books about football, always talking about it. Conversations with Carra are 90 per cent football. He’s not a Statto or a bore, he’s just football-mad. Ask Carra any football question and he’ll answer before you’ve finished. Get Carra on past or present players, and he’ll rattle off their goal record, club history, strengths, weaknesses, birthplace and probably even their star sign and favourite holiday destination. Any football quiz, Carra is there, bloody Mastermind, cleaning up. Toss him a trick football question, and Carra will never be caught out. Bang. He’ll hit back the right answer.

I have always admired Carra as a bloke, a footballer and a leader who has never needed an armband. He always behaved like a captain. In that Treble season, I often turned to Carra for advice. If I had the raging hump about something, and was steaming in to see Gérard, Carra would stop me, calm me down and sort me out. Television interviews don’t give the right image of Carra. He’s bright, as well as being a top lad.

When another wise head, Gary McAllister, joined Liverpool, I was not alone in the dressing-room in wondering what the hell Gérard was doing. He seemed an odd buy. OK, he was once a terrific midfielder for Leeds
United and Scotland, but McAllister was now thirty-five, his best days surely behind him. His arrival was of particular concern to me. Would he limit my appearances? ‘It’s a bit of a strange signing,’ I remarked to the lads when Gérard wasn’t around. ‘Isn’t McAllister over the hill? I’ve seen him play for Coventry recently and, yeah, he’s good, but why’ve we signed him?’ No-one came up with an answer. The word from above was that McAllister had been brought in as cover. I rang my agent, Struan Marshall, who knew McAllister well. ‘Stru, what’s all this about?’ I asked.