Gerrard: My Autobiography (23 page)

We held firm, and when Danny scored the free-kick to settle the game it was just an amazing moment. We had only a few thousand fans there at Old Trafford, but it was like winning a cup final. Playing against Keane felt like a ninety-minute lesson which improved me. He shook hands, said ‘well done’, and that was it. I was too intimidated to ask for his shirt. I would like one of Keane’s Ireland shirts, but I would never take a Man United top home. United shirts are banned in my house.

That victory kept us on course for the Champions League, but the real push was accelerated by an
astonishing 3–2 win at Goodison on 16 April, when Macca won it for us with a forty-yard free-kick. Qualification rested on that final game at Charlton, and we won it 4–0. We won all our final games that amazing Treble season.

On the back of my contribution to the Treble, Liverpool sought me out over a contract extension. Struan rang to say that Rick Parry, Liverpool’s chief executive, had been constantly on the phone. Liverpool sounded desperate. ‘Stru, they are steaming for me to re-sign,’ I said. I scored ten goals that season, played well and was doing all right for England. ‘We are offering Stevie a six-year deal,’ Rick told Struan. ‘I think that’s too long,’ Struan said to me. ‘Six years is a massive commitment. Four years would be better. That gives some freedom for movement later on.’ I agreed. Struan was always brilliant with my finances. The deal was done and dusted sharpish. Maybe Liverpool were worried that someone would come in for me. Rick agreed to the four years and put me on really, really good money – £50,000 a week. Players who rise through the ranks rarely get top wages, but Liverpool were different class with me. It was a massive jump up financially, and Liverpool certainly made sure I knew that.

After I signed, Rick, Gérard and Thommo talked to me about the future.

‘We are giving you a big contract because we rate you so highly,’ said Gérard. ‘We don’t want you to change. Carry on training and playing the way you have been. We’re really happy with your behaviour. Don’t change.’

I was buzzing. The money was great, but my life had been comfortable before the new deal. For someone like
me, a kid from Huyton, I was doing well. I had my own apartment. I sorted out Mum and Dad for a few quid. But money wasn’t an issue. What really delighted me was the fact that Liverpool were anxious for me to stay. Brilliant. My love affair with Liverpool was continuing.

PLAYING ABROAD DOESN’T
appeal to me for one dead simple reason: I love the blood and thunder of English football too much. Our league and cup competitions have an intensity and honesty that cannot be found anywhere else in the world. The physical nature of the Premiership suits my style. Tackle and be tackled. Get up and get on with it, mate. Don’t roll around pretending you’re hurt. This is England. Piss off to Spain or Italy, where they niggle, dive, and pull shirts. I can’t stand that. Switching from the Premiership to the Champions League is like speaking a different language. Over time, I’ve learned to adapt in Europe. Whenever I step onto a continental pitch, I’m very careful because opponents exaggerate the force of even harmless challenges. I hate that. Take the physical out of football and the game will be destroyed as a spectacle. For me, nothing beats a wet pitch, sliding into tackles, and going for the ball – brilliant. Nothing stirs me more than hearing passionate fans screaming ‘Get stuck in!’ That’s me. I was put on this earth to steam into
tackles. When I finally bow out of the game I love so much, I want to be remembered as hard but fair.

For most professionals, tackling is a technique. For me, it’s an adrenalin rush. It’s a chance to beat an opponent one-on-one, win the ball and then launch an attack. The sight of the other team with the ball makes me sick. If it’s Everton, Man United, Arsenal, Chelsea, or whoever, I have to claim it back. It’s my ball, and I’m going for it. Tackling is a collision which sorts out the cowards from the brave. I never hold back in a tackle. I can’t. I put my heart and soul into it, as well as my body.

Down the years, that approach has sometimes got me into trouble. Even back in my YTS and reserve days at Liverpool, I was desperate to make my mark and occasionally did so literally. I’d see someone with the ball and that was it. Bang. I flew in, got the ball and left him in a heap. My boots were not guided by malice as they crashed in. He had the ball; I wanted it – end of story. Liverpool’s coaches always warned me against it. Sod that. Restraint was not a word I understood. In one training session, Steve Heighway ran down the wing, taking the piss really, so I belted him against the wall. Straight through, crash, smashed against the wall. ‘What are you playing at?’ Steve shouted when he got up. He was livid. ‘You’ve got to cut out those sort of tackles.’ All the staff had a go at me.

Liverpool actually like a bit of devil in their players. They were always trying to toughen us up. Our five-a-side YTS games were often invaded by two pros, Steve Harkness and Eddie Turkington. Some of the tackles going in were ridiculous. Harkness booted all the YTS
boys, even elbowed us. My blood boiled. ‘He’s not doing that to me, no fucking chance,’ I told myself once as I saw him line up on the other side. ‘You’re not coming over here, kicking me.’ I was ready for him. Steve was a decent player who could look after himself, but I went right through him. Bang. More than once. Bang bang. Don’t mess with me. Turkington as well. He was meant to be this big hard-case in the ressies, I reminded myself. Let’s find out. Right into Turkington, hit him, belt him. Eventually, Heighway called Dad in. ‘What’s up with Steven?’ Heighway asked. ‘Has he got a problem at home? He comes in so angry. He wants to kill people in training.’ Steve looked at Dad, waiting to make sure the seriousness of the situation was sinking in. ‘We don’t want to take away Steven’s aggression, because that’s one of his strengths,’ Steve continued, ‘but he’s going through tackles wanting to really do damage. Please have a word with him. He’ll either break someone’s leg or injure himself.’ Dad pulled me at home. ‘You must calm down,’ he said. Even Ronnie Moran paused from working with the first team to give me some advice about the big tackles. ‘Stop them,’ he told me. I couldn’t.

At sixteen, I saw a sports psychologist about the tackling. Bill Beswick is well respected in the game and worked a lot with Steve McClaren at Middlesbrough and also with the Man United boys. Howard Wilkinson introduced me to Bill when I represented England U-18s. ‘This guy is brilliant,’ Howard said. ‘Listen to him.’ Bill talked to me about my tackling. ‘Imagine a set of traffic lights,’ Bill said. The idea was to know when to go for the ball, and when to stop. Bill advised me on how to approach
games. ‘Fire in your belly but ice in your head’ was one of his favourite sayings. ‘It will work perfectly with you, Steven, because we don’t want to take aggression out of your game but we do want you on the pitch. That’s where everyone wants you.’ Bill even came to Melwood to chat to the Liverpool lads. My confidence was boosted by Bill. I would never consult him personally now, but at the time he helped me. But even with all this good guidance, from Bill, Steve, Ronnie and my dad, I still crunched into tackles as a youth-team player. Even when I made Liverpool’s first XI I was a liability at times. Growing up as a player sometimes proved painful. A feeling of shame fills me when I recall the moments that scarred the early stages of my career.

The first came on 27 September 1999 at Anfield. We were up against the enemy, Everton. I was aching to play. In the team meeting, Gérard Houllier read out the eleven starters: ‘Sander; Veggard, Sami, Carra, Stan; Vladi, Didi, Jamie, Patrik; Michael and Robbie.’ Not me. Gutted. Big lump in the throat. I deserved to start but got bombed. Why? My head was a mess. I sat on the bench in a huge sulk, seething at the injustice.

On the pitch, it was all soon kicking off. Franny Jeffers and Sander Westerveld tangled and got sent off. I wanted to be in there, sorting Everton out, showing everyone I should have started. ‘If you get on,’ I said to myself, ‘just belt one of them. Fucking belt a Bluenose. Let Gérard know he is not dropping me for another derby. Ever.’ I was a red card waiting to happen the moment Gérard sent me on. My fuse was short and burning fast. Bang. I went in high and late on Kevin Campbell. No mercy, no
excuses: straight red. I escaped the pitch as quickly as possible. I sprinted down the tunnel and bumped into Franny, who was laughing his big-eared head off. ‘Ha, ha, ha,’ went Franny. ‘Thanks, Stevie! You took the pressure off me!’

As the red mist cleared, I realized how much I’d screwed up. ‘Little selfish bastard,’ I told myself as I stood in the showers. Liverpool’s players would be fuming. We were only 1–0 down, still with a chance of getting back into the derby. But then I nailed Campbell, and the lads faced mission impossible. Shit. I’d let them down badly. I expected stick off the players, off everyone.

When I switched my phone on, the first text was from Dad. He got straight to the point: ‘What are you doing, you knob-head?’ I knew exactly what he meant. A crazy tackle and a three-game ban was not the best way to convince people I could be trusted with a place in Liverpool’s starting XI.

When I arrived at Melwood the next day, I was ordered to Gérard’s office. The boss laid into me. ‘Your head wasn’t right from the moment I told you that you weren’t playing,’ he said. ‘We could see you were sulking. You have got to sulk for ten seconds and then forget about it.’ Gérard banged on and on. ‘Think about the team, not yourself, Steven. Stop doing tackles like that because we need you on the pitch. We brought you on to change the game and you let us down.’

I’d heard enough. My natural defiant streak kicked in. ‘I was expecting to play,’ I answered back. ‘You just dropped me in the derby. I was desperate to play.’

As I was about to add that Liverpool wouldn’t have
been 1–0 down if he had started me, I saw the look on Phil Thompson’s face. Thommo was standing behind Gérard, glaring like a madman and ready to pounce if I dared have a pop back. That was Thommo to a T. ‘Take it,’ I thought. Arguing the toss was pointless. I knew I was out of order.

When I drove out of Melwood that day, I stopped to sign some autographs for a few fans and they were buzzing for me. ‘Dead right, well done, at least you cared,’ they said. They were wrong. I shouldn’t have done it.

A few weeks later, I had a meal at Est Est Est in Albert Dock and somebody told me Sami Hyypia was next door in the Blue Bar. I nipped in to see him. We had a drink and soon I needed a piss. I went through the door of the toilets and, bloody hell, who was there at the urinal? Kevin Campbell. We stood there, side by side, having a piss. The last time I saw him he was lying on the ground at Anfield with the Everton physio sticking him back together.

‘All right?’ Campbell said.

Christ, I felt embarrassed. ‘Listen, Kev, sorry about that tackle, my head had gone.’

Campbell laughed. ‘Forget about it, Stevie. But I did have some stud-marks on my thigh!’

He was very forgiving, but I wasn’t taking any chances. Kevin’s a bit of a unit, built like a heavyweight. I feared he might take his revenge right there and then in the Blue Bar toilets. I got out sharpish.

Fast forward a year, to 1 October 2000, and Liverpool were getting soundly whipped by Chelsea at Stamford Bridge. I’d just had enough. I hate losing. Frustration squeezed all sense out of my mind and I went for Dennis Wise, belting him. Dennis grabbed me by the neck, and we
were pushing and shoving, scuffling away. As fights go it was handbag stuff, and I thought people would quickly forget about it. Fat chance. A couple of days later, England met up at Burnham Beeches to prepare for a vital World Cup qualifier against Germany, the last international at Wembley before the bulldozers rolled in. Wisey was in the squad. So was I. Robbie Fowler and Steve McManaman dropped by my new place in Whiston to pick me up. The three of us all drove down to Burnham together and they were merciless all the way. Macca and Robbie had me by the balls.

‘Wisey won’t be happy with you,’ laughed Macca, winding me up.

‘Tough bugger, him,’ Robbie chipped in. ‘Crazy Gang and all that.’

‘Fuck him,’ I replied. ‘If he wants some, I’ll give it to him.’

Would Wisey really pull me for a one-on-one? What would the other England players think if Wisey and me started battering each other again? I wasn’t scared of Wisey; I was just thinking I was a little shitty-arsed kid and Wisey was an established international.

‘Be on your toes, Stevie,’ Robbie warned me as we drove into Burnham. ‘Wisey’s waiting for you.’

My heart pumped madly as I walked into the hotel, braced for an ambush by the little Chelsea man. I kept expecting Wisey to jump out and shout, ‘Oi, Gerrard, what’s your fucking game?’ I was ready. If he wanted another war, I wouldn’t disappoint. He could have another scrap, big-style. But Wisey wasn’t in reception. ‘Maybe he’s waiting for you in the meal-room,’ Robbie said helpfully. Slightly nervously, I entered the
meal-room. Wisey was there, big grin on his face. He walked across. ‘This is it,’ I thought. ‘Action stations.’ My fists clenched. Wisey’s right hand came out sharpish, stretching towards me. But he only wanted to shake my hand. ‘’Ow are yer?’ he said, and rubbed my head. And that was it. No war, nothing. Top man.

Liverpool against Leeds United is another lively old fixture. And on 13 April 2001, at Anfield, it was a top-of-the-table clash. I was up for it and was soon piling into tackles. I picked up a caution early on, for clipping Alan Smith. Nothing nasty. Hardly a yellow. Just doing my job, chasing the ball. Soon I was closing down David Batty, going in cleanly to win the ball. Batty stitched me up big-time. He dived. I never touched him. My heart fell as the referee reached for his notebook again. That was me off, for two nothing tackles. Ridiculous. ‘Don’t send him off, ref,’ said Batty, trying to plead my case. Clever lad, Batty. I was already on my way. The ref was never going to change his mind. But there was Batty coming over all innocent, even pretending to be my mate. Bollocks. Batty wanted me out of the game. That was why he went down so easily. I have met Batty since and he seems a decent enough guy, but that sending-off stank. It was a stitch-up.