Gerrard: My Autobiography (22 page)

Typically, Gérard urged moderation, reminding us that the season was not over. Just four days away was the UEFA Cup final. ‘Only two beers,’ he ordered. We tried briefly to keep to the limit, honestly. Tried and failed. Two beers was insufficient to honour the FA Cup. I had a few more than a couple. All the players had a good drink. We
were so happy. We weren’t thinking about the UEFA Cup, we were thinking about the FA Cup, which was now heading to Anfield. I looked around at all the other players and sensed the deep satisfaction flowing through them. They had fantasized about this moment all their lives. So we drank, and we toasted Michael. Tomorrow could wait. Tomorrow, we’d get rid of the hangovers and get ready for the UEFA Cup. But that precious night, we sat and drank and joked and revelled in our achievement. For me, that was the highlight of Liverpool’s Treble season. Nothing rivals the FA Cup.

Being French, Gérard felt differently. He was more turned on by the UEFA Cup than the FA Cup. Liverpool’s dressing-room was split between the English lads excited most by the FA Cup and the foreigners more interested in the UEFA Cup. I smiled at Gérard’s pleas after Cardiff. ‘Live like monks,’ he urged me, Carra and the rest. ‘I know you’ve won the FA Cup, but the UEFA Cup means so much.’ Gérard was obsessed with the trophy. He told us how much it weighed, and all about its history, but the UEFA Cup never raided my dreams like the FA Cup.

Europe was still a wonderful experience that season, though. The early rounds of the UEFA Cup saw Liverpool progress past Rapid Bucharest and Slovan Liberec, where Carra had the only nightmare I can ever remember him having. ‘Are you all right, son?’ Gérard asked Carra at half-time. ‘Are you not well?’ Carra was that bad. We were all pissing ourselves laughing. He was pulled, but we still got through, booking a third-round tie with Olympiakos. When we turned up in Athens towards the end of November, it was dead hostile: 50,000 loons, flares going
off, and flags everywhere. The Greek fans were far away from the pitch, but they have a good arm on them. Their missiles still covered the distance. Great atmospheres like that really get me going, and I scored a glancing header off a Gary Mac corner.

Injury ruled me out of facing Roma in the fourth round, which was frustrating. I fancied playing against Francesco Totti, who’s my kind of player – a real gladiator. Fortunately, Totti was also injured so I didn’t miss out on a duel I craved. Unbelievably, Roma players slagged off Liverpool, saying they would walk all over us, which gave the lads all the motivation they needed. Beating the likes of Gabriel Batistuta and Cafu 2–0 in the Olympic Stadium gave the boys the confidence to believe the UEFA Cup could be lifted.

Next up were Porto, a really defensive side with a touch of skill in Deco and Capucho. We got the clean sheet we wanted at the Stadio Das Antas in early March, because we knew Portuguese sides don’t really travel. They were duly finished off at Anfield a week later. I hit a volley and their keeper, Espinha, pulled off a worldie save.

Not even a rabid Evertonian could accuse Liverpool of taking the easy route to the UEFA Cup – the semi-finals brought mighty Barcelona. For many players, Camp Nou is the greatest stage on earth. I was buzzing to play there. Training there on the eve of the first leg, I couldn’t concentrate. No chance. I was a tourist, looking round in admiration at this magnificent building. Carra and I kept smiling at each other. ‘Some fucking stadium,’ I said to him. Having a kick-about at Camp Nou felt a long way from playing bare-arse on Ironside. The next night, I
wasn’t really bothered about the result. Just let me on the Camp Nou pitch, let me hear those 90,000 mad fans. I just wanted to enjoy the occasion, and not think about winning or losing.

Barcelona were brilliant. Pepe Reina kept goal with the assurance he now shows for Liverpool. In attack, Rivaldo and Patrick Kluivert toyed with us. Barcelona never really had a front-man; those two just moved wide and deep, letting midfielders like Luis Enrique and Marc Overmars through. My job was in the middle, and rarely have I been so exhausted mentally and physically by opponents’ unbelievable movement. Barcelona fielded Pep Guardiola and Philip Cocu behind the midfield, and whichever one I tried to screen, the other came in to receive the ball. I went dizzy trying to follow them. Barcelona gave us a lesson in pass and move, qualities supposed to be Liverpool’s hallmark. The possession stats must have been seventy-thirty in Barcelona’s favour. When Robbie came on in the second half, he asked Frank de Boer for a loan of their ball! On the few occasions we managed to get out of our half, I heard the shout from our bench: ‘Great!’ Nicking a 0–0 was a fabulous achievement. I immediately ran to Kluivert to swap shirts. I occasionally look at that shirt and remember that footballing lesson in Catalonia.

Tactically, we delivered a smart performance at Camp Nou and came away with a goalless draw, so I couldn’t understand the criticism assailing us. ‘Cautious Liverpool’ was one of the kinder headlines. So fucking what? Going gung-ho against Barcelona would have been suicide. The press, particularly in Spain, labelled Liverpool as ‘boring’. That got under a lot of people’s skin at Anfield. It never
worried me because I was building a medal collection in that 2000/01 season. One, two – count them. If Gérard had made us more adventurous that season, my haul would have been smaller. We were strong defensively and then hit teams on the counter-attack – bang, bang, you’re dead. It suited the players we had. At Anfield in the second leg we reached our first European final in sixteen years with a Gary Mac pen and then another unbelievable defensive display in the second half. Job done.

Boredom was certainly not a word used to describe the final in Dortmund on 16 May. The atmosphere was special, because we were FA Cup winners. We didn’t have the cigars out, but we certainly landed in Germany with our chests out. No matter what happened against our opponents, Alaves, Liverpool’s season was a success. I was so relaxed, I slept like a baby every night in the run-up to Dortmund. I awoke on the morning of the final to discover our wonderful fans were everywhere in Dortmund, painting the town red. The journey from the hotel to the stadium was bedlam. Massive numbers of Liverpool supporters lined the streets, cheering us on, causing traffic chaos. Just parking the bus took half an hour. The fans wouldn’t let us in. They had not seen us since Cardiff, and were determined to salute that victory. As security tried to force a way through, I looked out of the bus window and saw all the T-shirts: ‘FA Cup winners 01’ and ‘Treble 2001’. Everyone believed the Treble was now inevitable, but no-one anticipated such an extraordinary match against Alaves, the surprise Spanish package. Finals don’t come much more entertaining.

Because we had won the Worthington Cup and the FA
Cup, there was no pressure on us, and we just went out and enjoyed ourselves; if we had lost to Arsenal, we would have been a lot more cautious, sitting deep, stifling Alaves and playing on the counter-attack. Within four minutes, Gary Mac lifted over a ball and Markus Babbel put us ahead – a brave header, because he received an elbow for his troubles. Gary Mac’s set-pieces were vital for Liverpool that season, and they were no flukes. Small details determine big games, and Gary Mac’s constant practice, day in day out, meant he had corners, free-kicks and penalties off to a T. He was in such good form that Gérard gave me the right flank against Alaves. Thanks a lot. Gérard took the easy option. Rather than take on a respected old pro like Gary Mac, he sent a youngster out on the graveyard shift. Complaining was pointless. Gérard wouldn’t listen, and moaning is not my style. Besides, I soon scored. I owe Michael a lot because his ball through was spot-on, inviting me to try my luck. Head down, smash it, 2–0. Alaves were no fools. They fought all the way. Ivan Alonso came on, pulled one back, but then Gary Mac slotted in a penalty: 3–1.

Coming into the dressing-room at half-time, we thought we’d won. Liverpool’s fans were shouting about the Treble. Some players whispered it. The staff even mentioned that if we kept doing what we were doing, the Treble was ours. I was not alone in that Liverpool dressing-room in thinking that the Treble was done. Alaves never showed anything in the first half to worry us. That’s why we returned to the fray far too casual. Alaves punished us, Javi Moreno netting twice. Unbelievable. Gérard sent Robbie on, and within seven minutes he had
put Liverpool back in front with a fantastic shot. That seemed to be it. Alaves’ resilience finally appeared broken. But we had one weakness. Sander suffered some dodgy moments during the season, and he screwed up again here, missing a cross which Jordi Cruyff dumped into our net. It was 4–4, and extra-time. It had to be Jordi, ex-Manchester United.

Gérard switched me to right-back for the additional period, where I immediately began worrying about penalties. ‘If Gérard asks, I’ll take one,’ I told myself. To refuse would be to let the team down. I’d never let Liverpool down. I was still thinking about penalties when Macca put that free-kick in and Delfi Geli headed an own-goal. Gérard had spoken about golden goals, but I’m not a good listener in meetings. I didn’t realize the game was over and we’d won. I was waiting for the re-start. ‘Fuck me, that’s it!’ I eventually shouted, and I started leaping about in celebration. What a weird way to decide a final, and how harsh that it was an own-goal. At least it finished in open play and not with penalties.

So that was it. The Treble was completed, and the singing began. All the fans were chanting ‘Houllier, Houllier’. Liverpool supporters will always respect Gérard, because when he arrived at Anfield he promised trophies, and he delivered. He never got the main one, the Premiership, but to collect three cups in one season was phenomenal. But, once again, he would not let us celebrate properly. Shit. I was dying for a session. But we couldn’t. We had a match at Charlton Athletic three days later laden with significance. The Treble was good, but to beat Charlton to qualify for the Champions
League was more important financially for Liverpool.

Throughout the season, we had worked hard to stay in contention for third place and had even won at Old Trafford for the first time in ten years. The memory of this match on 17 December 2000 will never leave me. The press built up the game as a clash between me and Roy Keane. ‘Are you scared?’ people asked me. No fucking chance. I couldn’t wait. I felt I might lose a fight with Keane, but I wouldn’t lose many tackles. At the time, Keane possessed all the qualities that make a top midfielder. Obviously, I hated watching Manchester United, but I loved watching Keane. I wanted his aura, his ability to be everywhere on the pitch, tackling hard and passing well. Keane was impressive on television but simply awesome in the flesh. On telly, you don’t see the runs he makes, the covering positions he takes up and the orders he gives. I lay in bed the night before the game, unable to get the image of Keane the leader out of my mind. ‘Everyone is talking about Keane, so stand up to him, don’t be bullied,’ I told myself. ‘And if Keane wants to mix it, fucking well mix it.’

Over breakfast, I flicked through the papers which all had page after page on the game. Ferguson even spoke about me. The biggest, and probably only, compliment someone from Manchester United ever paid me came from the United manager in the papers that day. I couldn’t believe my eyes as I read his view of me. ‘Gerrard’s physically and technically precocious, a good engine, remarkable energy, reads the game and passes quickly,’ said Fergie. ‘I would hate to think Liverpool have someone as good as Roy Keane.’ Fuck me. I knew how much
Keane meant to the United fans, and to Ferguson. For Ferguson to compare me with his captain was some accolade. Still, his admiration was no secret to me. The United lads told me at an England get-together. After reading Ferguson’s comments, I just wanted to go and prove him right, to let him know Liverpool did have a Roy Keane of their own.

Visiting Old Trafford is like negotiating an assault course as it rains vitriol. That 2000 trip was no different. Driving behind enemy lines triggered the usual stick. Liverpool’s coach was belted, the United fans jumping up at the windows, their faces contorted by sheer hatred. We got the full welcome: V signs, wanker signs, knife signs. ‘Fuck off, scum!’ they’d shout. ‘We’ll fucking kill you!’ ‘In your Liverpool slum . . .’ they sang. The poison dripping from the United fans never ceases to shock me. Shit, they really loathe us. Bang. A window splintered and a brick nearly bounced off my head. Jesus Christ. Here we go again. I ran for the gate leading to the dressing-rooms.

Of course I knew what Liverpool–Manchester United games were all about from my YTS days. I had some right kicking matches then with Wes Brown and Richie Wellens, who plays for Oldham now. Two men and a dog watched those YTS meetings, but we approached them the same way, do or die. And during ninety minutes of football, I want United to die. I have never known hatred like United’s. Everton fans have grown to despise me because I score against them so regularly, and because I keep saying I love beating Everton. They loathe me when I play against them, but I think they respect me as a player. At Old Trafford, it’s different. Everyone there just hates
me because I’m Liverpool. That winter’s day in 2000 was no different. I almost couldn’t hear the first whistle because of the booing. ‘Fuck me,’ I thought, ‘this is show time. Get on my game or get fucked.’

For ten minutes, United gave an exhibition of possession. All of Fergie’s players, not just Keane, kept the ball well. I had played against decent sides and players before, but United were on a different level. I didn’t get a kick for ages. I had been warned. In the dressing-room, Gérard and Thommo said, ‘Press them, choke them, stick together, be compact. And whatever you do, don’t lose the ball.’ Why? Because Keane will kill you. Because United’s fans will piss themselves. Giving away possession at Old Trafford is close to suicide. I lost a few passes, Keane got the better of me a few times, and I had 60,000 Mancs laughing at me. Shit. No-one is welcome at Old Trafford, particularly not neighbours from along the East Lancs Road, and that is why United have been so successful. They have a great team housed in a stadium that scares the shit out of visitors.