Gerrard: My Autobiography (21 page)

I wasn’t. My sharpness wasn’t there. I had a good run on goal early on, until their centre-half Michael Johnson clipped my ankles. Gérard took me off after seventy-eight minutes, putting on Gary Mac, with the game seemingly won.

Robbie’s great goal in the first half vindicated Gérard’s decision to start him ahead of Michael up front with Emile. The sight of Michael being relegated to the bench shocked all of us. ‘I can pick only two out of three,’ Gérard explained of his dilemma. He did, after all, have three England strikers. Michael took it professionally, with his usual dignity, but inside he was fuming. A man for the big occasion, Michael hated rotting on the sidelines. I never understood why Gérard didn’t partner Michael and Robbie. All the pundits claimed they would duplicate each other’s movements and strengths, but that wasn’t true. Michael is right-footed, Robbie left. Robbie could come short, Michael go long, and vice versa. The presence of both would have guaranteed the team a goal threat. Gérard disagreed. Strange.

At Cardiff, his plan worked until the ninetieth minute,
when Birmingham equalized through Darren Purse’s penalty. More spot-kicks decided the day. The shoot-out was dead funny. I saw the penalty-takers getting assembled by Gérard, and the shout came over that Carra was taking the fifth kick. ‘Oh no!’ I cried. ‘Carra’s got some front!’ A strapping defender taking a pressure penalty in a final? That took bottle. Carragher had only ever scored two goals for Liverpool, and about three own-goals, so the joke was that Carra was on minus one. ‘Christ,’ I thought, ‘our first four takers better be on the mark.’

The kicks were taken down at the Liverpool fans’ end, which helped. Martin Grainger missed for Birmingham, Didi failed for us, so up stepped Carra. He put the ball on the spot, turned round and started walking – and walking and walking. Carra’s run-up was so long they should have put an athletics track there. It looked about a hundred metres! I didn’t want to watch because I was worried a good friend would stick the ball in the stand. But I had to. It was hilarious. ‘Carra, what are you doing?’ I said out loud. He had me in stitches. I tried desperately to keep a straight face because if Carra screwed up and somebody took a snap of me laughing, I’d be in serious trouble. With his socks down around his ankles like Johan Cruyff, Carra’s run-up and kick lacked the grace of a total footballer; it was more giraffe than gazelle. But up he came, like a runaway train, and smacked the ball in the top corner. Brilliant! Players and fans went crazy, particularly when Andy Johnson missed to give us the Cup. Carra, the penalty king! He’s impossible now. He’ll never let us forget it. When we have pens in training, Carra is
unbelievable. ‘Let me through,’ he says. ‘I have a 100 per cent record for Liverpool. I’m the best penalty-taker at the club.’

Carra was unstoppable that day. When the karaoke started at the party back in the hotel, we couldn’t get him off. That’s Carra. First on the karaoke mike. First on the dance-floor. No shame! He loves it. He actually moves better on the dance-floor than on the pitch! I steered well clear of the karaoke. You’d never catch me on that, making a fool of myself. I can’t dance, and I definitely can’t sing. Anyway, I was just loving watching all the players and their relatives having fun. Liverpool won together and lost together. We celebrated together and commiserated together. The Liverpool way. Liverpool’s family feel is essential to someone like me who works best in a strong, caring environment. No club in the country can rival Anfield’s sense of community.

If the Worthington Cup felt good, the FA Cup run was truly special. We started off against Rotherham in the third round at Anfield, Emile getting a couple and Didi another. We then got a pig of a draw, away to Leeds United, a class outfit at the time. Woodgate and Ferdinand at centre-half, Bowyer and Batty in midfield, Viduka and Keane up front. Some team! And Alan Smith came on for them. They ran us ragged. Leeds’ fans were going crazy, screaming for a goal. Somehow Barmby and Emile struck in the last three minutes and Leeds were out, desperately unluckily.

I missed the fifth-round win over Manchester City but was back for the quarter-final on 11 March: Tranmere Rovers away. Across the Mersey, but still a derby. We
knew Tranmere would be pumped up for our visit. No question. Tranmere live in the long shadow Liverpool cast over the region. Big brother was visiting, and this was a rare chance for Tranmere to give us a bloody nose. Short in miles, the journey still felt like a long trek into enemy territory. We knew what lay in wait at Prenton Park. We’d read the papers. We’d listened to Rovers manager John Aldridge talking about how his team would be right up for the challenge. We didn’t expect anything less from Aldo or his players. Aldo is a top man, really honest, a Liverpool legend, and as passionate as they come. He was desperate to put one over on his old club. Aldo’s no fool, though. He knew the gulf in class. Tranmere needed to drag us down to their level, and that meant only one thing: a kicking match. ‘It’s their cup final,’ Gérard warned us in the modest away dressing-room at Prenton Park. ‘Tranmere will be going for you, hard and fast. Be careful. I’ve picked an English team because this is going to be a fight. This team will be able to stand up to it. They’ll come at you immediately. Weather the storm, win the fight, then play them off the park.’

Tranmere v. Liverpool was a scrap between neighbours, so Gérard threw all his home-grown players into the fight: me, Michael, Carra, Robbie, Danny and Wrighty. An FA Cup quarter-final at an inhospitable ground like Prenton Park against opponents who wanted to carve us up was no place for foreigners like Patrik Berger. Us English lads understood what was at stake, the local pride as well as a ticket to the semis. Me, Michael and Carra had grown up aware of the amazing tradition of the FA Cup, its love of upsets. We were determined not to feel the underdog’s
bite. The whole country would have pissed itself had we lost. ‘No fucking slip-ups,’ me, Michael and Carra said to each other. ‘Don’t give them a chance.’

Wound up by Aldo and their fans, Rovers came flying at us. All that stuff in the papers about them launching everything at us was true. Tranmere didn’t disappoint. Looking into the eyes of Aldo’s players at kick-off, I saw the fire burning within each of them. Their existence depended on beating Liverpool. Brilliant. This was my kind of game. A good old English scrap on a shite pitch with only the strong-hearted surviving. And Gérard’s decision to field English players paid off handsomely. Danny, Michael, me and Robbie all scored in a 4–2 victory. On a better surface, like back at Anfield, we would have creamed Tranmere 6–0. The fire soon went out of Aldo’s men, their fans as well. Tranmere supporters lacked the real intensity of Everton’s. In the end, the tie lacked edge because we knew we were a lot better than Tranmere.

My direct opponent that day was Jason Koumas, my old mate from the Vernon Sangster Sports Centre. His departure from Liverpool had been strange. Apparently, he wasn’t happy with the way Steve Heighway and Hughie McAuley used him in the younger teams. Jason wanted to be pulling the strings in central midfield but they played him out wide so he disappeared to Tranmere. He progressed really quickly there, and it was good to see him again. We always got on well. Not that I showed any mercy. I always enjoyed playing against Jason because I always get the better of him. He doesn’t like the physical side. Boot Jason early and he fades.

The semi-final draw smiled on us: we could have pulled out Arsenal or Spurs, but instead got Wycombe Wanderers, a team two divisions below us. Without any press hype, Liverpool would have walked that game. But everyone built the semi up so much that suddenly Wycombe believed they could cause a shock. In Lawrie Sanchez, Wycombe had a manager who’d stunned Liverpool in the Cup before, with that header for Wimbledon in the 1988 final.

Like Aldo in the quarters, Sanchez had his team pumped up. It pissed down at Villa Park, and we certainly made heavy weather of edging past Wycombe. They held us for seventy-eight minutes, but then Emile scored. Five minutes later, we won a free-kick in a terrific position, on the edge of Wycombe’s box. Five of us gathered around the ball. Gary Mac took responsibility.

‘I’m on it,’ he said.

‘OK,’ I said, and stepped back, out of the way.

‘All right, Macca,’ said Robbie.

We all respected Macca’s ability with a dead-ball, but Robbie had other ideas. He sneaked up and smacked the ball in the top corner. Bang!

‘Fucking hell, Robbie!’ Macca shouted.

‘Get in!’ laughed Robbie, and ran off.

Everyone thought Macca was chasing Robbie to congratulate him. Bollocks. He was trying to throttle him! Wycombe pulled one back, but it was too little, too late. Liverpool were in the FA Cup final. Class!

I couldn’t wait to celebrate. I got home, went into town, and the atmosphere was quality. All the Liverpool fans were out in force, buzzing we were going back to the
Millennium. Everyone around the world would be watching Liverpool’s FA Cup final date with Arsenal – a real glamour pairing. As a kid, the FA Cup final had always mesmerized me. God, I envied the players. Now it was me. Bring it on.

The build-up to the big day, 12 May, passed in a blur. Was I actually going to the final, or just locked in a childhood dream? I had prayed for this moment. The cup final suits, the banter and interviews, the sense of expectation around the club and the city. Everyone flying. All the trivia on the telly, the speculation about line-ups, and cameras around the hotel. Non-stop rolling news, focusing on us, the finalists. The attention was unbelievable. It was like no other game ever mattered as much as this one. To think some cynics were suggesting the FA Cup had lost its magic. What a joke! Try telling that to the tens of thousands of Liverpool fans who charged down the motorway to Cardiff in May 2001, singing all the way, flags and scarves streaming from windows, a Red army on the move. Try telling that to the players, Englishmen like me, who view the famous old trophy as a Holy Grail. Our dads taught us about the Cup, sat us down on that great Saturday in May to watch, and explained that few honours can beat being the man who steps up to lift the FA Cup. Try telling the foreign lads the FA Cup means little. Their cup competitions are sideshows. Not ours. The foreign boys know all about the massive significance of the FA Cup. Didi didn’t need a history lesson; he grew up watching it. Didi’s first word in English was probably ‘cup’.

This huge anticipation meant I never slept a wink on
the Friday night. As I walked out of the Millennium tunnel, into the heat of the day and the fever of our fans, I thought of past finals. I followed the footsteps of so many men who made footballing history. All the clichés of the Cup flashed through my mind. Enjoy the day, seize the moment, and all that. Cup folklore also demands that a team needs a touch of luck to win, and our 2–1 victory over Arsenal certainly proved that. Arsenal smashed us all over Cardiff for eighty-three minutes. They deserved to win. No dispute. They had the ball while we chased mocking shadows. It was a good Arsenal side, with defenders like Tony Adams and Ashley Cole, and attackers like Thierry Henry and Robert Pires. Patrick Vieira was immense in central midfield. We’ve faced each other many times, but never has Vieira played better than on that day. He was fucking magnificent, winning the ball, running midfield, setting up attacks – head and shoulders above anyone. The final was hardly a classic, it just drifted by like a lazy stream, but Patrick moved to a different, faster rhythm. He took the game by the scruff of the neck and dominated. I wanted his shirt. Badly.

When Freddie Ljungberg scored I thought that was it. Game over. Dream dead. Shake Vieira’s hand and go home. Loser. Try again. Arsenal were too good for us. How they were leading only by Ljungberg’s goal, I don’t know. Well, I do actually. Stéphane Henchoz played like a goalkeeper for us for a while, unofficially sharing the handling duties with Sander. Fortunately for Liverpool, referee Steve Dunn did not notice his hand-balls. Thank God. We’d have been 2–0 down by half-time if Dunn had
awarded nailed-on penalties, more if Arsenal had taken the chances they kept creating.

Everyone expected Arsenal to chew us to pieces and spit us out. They outplayed us, no question, but they never broke us. Liverpool had a spirit that wouldn’t crack. When Freddie’s goal went in, Arsenal got all cocky and thought they had won. But we are Liverpool. We don’t throw in the towel. Never. Our fans wouldn’t let us. I wouldn’t let us. Suddenly, with seven minutes left, a ball fell in the Arsenal box and I thought I had a chance. I swung my foot back and then brought it down and in. No contact. The ball had gone. Michael had pounced in front of me. Half-volley, full impact, past David Seaman, 1–1. Thank God Michael hit the ball before it came to me. I would probably have shovelled it over the bar. I was still going through with my redundant shot when Michael sprinted away, making for Liverpool’s fans. He did that celebratory toss-over of his, with me, Robbie and Emile grabbing him, going berserk with happiness. I couldn’t believe we were level with Arsenal.

Hold on. Keep it tight. Steady. Arsenal will hit back. Extra time seemed our aim. Then, with the stadium clock showing eighty-eight minutes, Michael did the impossible. He has this fantastic knack of scoring spectacular goals at vital moments. The ball was put between Martin Keown and Lee Dixon, and Michael was in like a flash. Nine times out of ten when Michael runs through with the ball on his right foot it ends with a goal. On his left foot, Michael still had a lot of work to do, but what a finish! Bang. Take that, Arsenal. Lightning had struck twice. Seaman was beaten, and so were Arsenal. The life ebbed
from them. What a turnaround. Still to this day the Liverpool lads joke about that 2001 FA Cup final being Arsenal versus Owen. I don’t dispute we had luck on our side that day, but we also had Michael.

The final whistle sounded so sweet. I walked across to the Arsenal players, who lay scattered about like victims of a motorway pile-up. Vieira was my target. I found him, and we hugged. Two sportsmen who had hammered away at each other parted, a mutual respect deepened. But some Arsenal people were graceless in defeat. I couldn’t believe the reaction of Arsène Wenger and Ljungberg, for instance. They moaned on in the post-match interviews, saying, ‘Liverpool didn’t deserve it. We did. It should be us with the winner’s medals.’ No-one likes a sore loser, and no-one loses as sorely as Arsenal. Wenger and Ljungberg kept complaining about the hand-balls. Get real, boys. That’s football. Grow up. I’ve played in loads of games Liverpool dominated and should have won but ended up with nothing, except a nasty feeling of frustration. Unfortunately for Arsenal, their bad luck came in an FA Cup final. So what? I wasn’t interested in Arsenal’s bitter reaction. I just wanted my Vieira shirt, my winner’s medal, and to get back to the hotel to celebrate. I left Arsenal to their sour grapes and went off for some beer.