Gerrard: My Autobiography (27 page)

The situation got totally out of hand. In the press, people slaughtered me left, right and centre. Debating player behaviour was all the rage at the time. Eriksson had just left Frank Lampard out of the squad after an incident involving some Americans after 9/11. Footballers were in the public eye like never before. Me? I was being used for target practice. Struan phoned again, and we talked through the mess. ‘I’ll go and speak to the manager and tell him exactly what I did,’ I told Struan. Eriksson was superb. ‘Just learn from it,’ he said. ‘You’re young. People want you to sit in the house and live like a monk. Don’t worry about it, concentrate on the game. Just be more careful when it’s coming up to a game.’ I was relieved. I really appreciated Eriksson’s stance. Sven showed a real human side. No bollocking, just advice. ‘Thanks, boss, and I’m sorry for what happened,’ I said.

The FA released details that I had apologized. I said I had done wrong, but I hadn’t. My only real crime was the time I went to sleep. Yet half-midnight is not a hanging offence. I was gutted by the press reaction. Why me? Like Sven, the other players were dead sympathetic. Robbie said, ‘I was out with Macca!’ ‘Yeah,’ said Macca. ‘We had a couple of beers, but no-one knew!’ I appreciated Macca and Robbie trying to lift my spirits, but I couldn’t stop
thinking about the furore. My head was bursting. ‘Forget about it,’ Macca said. ‘You haven’t done any harm.’ I wished I could be as laid-back as them about these things. I hated being caned in the press. Becks sought me out as well. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said. Becks behaved like a captain and a friend. ‘If you need to talk, I’m there for you,’ he added. ‘What the papers are doing is out of order. You’ve done nothing wrong. It happens to all of us. You get good press and then bad.’ Dad was devastated. ‘Next time, Steven, just stay in,’ he said. ‘The main thing now is to get it out of your mind. You’ve got a massive match on Saturday. Concentrate on that.’

All the people who really cared for me rallied around. Gérard called, and I told him the truth. Gérard was first class. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘It’s normal behaviour for someone your age. Just be careful because you are high profile now. Limit the times you go out. If you socialize, go to the right places. Your career is so short, Steven. You have so much ability. Make the most of it.’ A father figure to many of the young lads at Liverpool, Gérard was always full of good advice. One of his favourite sayings was, ‘Why go to a nightclub now when you can own one at the end of your career?’ Fair point. Like Sven, Gérard drilled into me that I needed to be on my toes. ‘Because you are well known, everything you do and say, whoever you speak to, you are in the spotlight,’ said Gérard. Yet the gaffer also understood that pros are humans.

I was twenty-one. I wanted to go out with my mates, have some fun, nick a bird. Usual lad stuff. The problem then was that those friends didn’t realize I had to be in bed
at a sensible time. Living on my own, young, free and single, buzzing because I was in Liverpool’s first team, I fancied nights out. And yeah, perhaps I was out on the town too regularly. I just wanted to celebrate a Liverpool win with mates who had been at the match. The alternative was sitting in my flat, watching the telly, screwing up a pasta recipe, and doing my head in. Sometimes when the phone rang, I said, ‘No, guys, I’m stopping in.’ This image of me being a party animal is bollocks. After my Liverpool debut, I never touched alcohol for six months. I have never been out twice in a week in my life. Even back then, when most twenty-one-year-olds are on the lash all the time, I hit a bar two or three times a month, maximum. I drink even less now. I’m practically a monk! My mates now appreciate the strict demands of my profession. They come round, drink tea, coffee or water, and we just chat. I’ll still have the occasional night out, of course, and why not? I’m twenty-six. If I want a night out, I will go wherever I want. The majority of footballers go out after a game if they don’t have a match until the following weekend. Timing is the key. Back then with the Southport bar incident, I just picked the wrong place at the wrong time and suddenly newspapers questioned my lifestyle. Oh, here’s another mad, piss-head footballer, they said. Bollocks. The people who wrote the story didn’t know me. They heard about one incident and blew it out of all proportion. It proved a useful, if painful, lesson. Maybe if that hadn’t happened, something worse would have hit me. I might have got involved in a fight. All that negative press, the apology and feelings of anger made me determined to avoid bad publicity again. After that, when
I went out I kept a low profile. Once bitten, twice shy.

Michael is spot on when he describes Liverpool as a ‘rumour city’. One quiet beer gets exaggerated into a wild session. I’m idolized by many people around here, but the interest is not always positive. Liverpool is strange like that. Many people want to see me fail, and would love to tell a bad story about me, or sell a rubbish story about me to the press. That sort of jealousy and greed disgusts me. Before I started doing well at football and making good money, I admired those who did well and wished them luck. When Fowler scored, I jumped all over the Kop. When Michael was shooting towards stardom, I was so made up for him. I don’t understand envy. When young English players like Wayne Rooney break through, I’m happy for them. The negative mentality of that little tit in Southport sickens me.

One night out in Southport never affected my performance for England against Greece. The hysterical reaction did. Every time I got on the ball at Old Trafford, I knew the papers were watching, waiting to leap on any mistake as confirmation I left my form and fitness in a bar. Jesus, I was so nervous. The ball felt like a hand-grenade coming at me. Normally, adrenalin flows through my veins. Here, it was pure fear. I was scared stiff. Couldn’t focus, couldn’t get rid of dark thoughts. I played shite. Going into the last minute, England were 2–1 down and automatic qualification for the World Cup was going up in smoke. The play-off lottery beckoned. I knew where the blame would be laid. Against me. As the seconds drained away, I imagined the vicious headlines coming my way like runaway trains. All that ‘Stevie Blunder’ shite. Pens
were being sharpened to stick into me. I was going to get it big-time. No question. No escape, surely?

I was shaken from my nightmare by a roar sweeping around Old Trafford. Becks and Teddy Sheringham were lining up a free-kick outside Greece’s penalty area. Teddy wanted it. He’s terrific at dead-ball situations, and Becks had already missed with six. It was a key decision. The twenty-five yards between them and the net could mean England travelling halfway around the world. Who would take it? Becks was captain, and he was confident of his ability with his free-kicks. ‘It’s mine,’ he told Teddy. Becks’s courage has never been in doubt, but this was a real pressure moment. I wanted him to take it. After six attempts, he was getting his range and technique right. It made sense for him to carry on. I watch David in training, and when he takes ten free-kicks, he usually scores two or three, top corners, often more. Go on, David. Put this one in.

Old Trafford went quiet. I could feel my heart beating loudly. Becks didn’t let us down. The ball flew in and Old Trafford went crazy. What a worldie goal from Captain Marvel! In fact, Becks was brilliant all afternoon. England didn’t play well, but Becks was everywhere, dragging us to the World Cup almost single-handedly. When England desperately needed someone to take the game by the scruff of the neck, he stood up to be counted. He was man of the match by a million miles. Top man.

Becks’s dynamic performance amazed everyone, but not me. His energy levels down the right for United were always frightening. Up and back, up and back, non-stop. Moving to Real Madrid hasn’t altered his all-action style.
He’s the same with England, always shuttling up and down the right. Becks is great to play with, defensively and going forward. Obsessed with football, he contributes so much. In a way, that’s his downfall. People have such high expectations of Becks because of displays like Greece. But it’s madness thinking he can perform like that every time. He’d have to be Superman. Opponents are so good, they just won’t let Becks run the show each week. I can’t deliver every match either. Opposing managers analyse my contributions, and Becks’s, and set their players up to stop us. Yet if I’m not an eight out of ten, I get coated. If David isn’t a nine out of ten for England, he gets slaughtered. Fortunately, Becks put in an eleven out of ten performance against Greece.

When the Dutch ref, Dick Jol, blew the final whistle moments after Becks’s wonder-strike, a sense of unbelievable relief rushed through me. Selfishness ruled. I thought only of myself, of the backlash if we hadn’t qualified, and how much more the press would have blown up the Southport incident. Thanks to Becks, the heat was off me and we were off to the World Cup. As I dreamed of what lay in store in Korea and Japan, I thought of all the great players who have graced World Cups. I thought of England in 1966, and how special it would be to bring the trophy home. I couldn’t wait. Exciting images of the Far East replaced bad memories of a Southport bar.

But just when the sun seemed to be shining on me, another dark cloud swept across the sky. Injury. The curse of my growing years. My personal stalker. I hated it. Why me? Why would I be charging around, limbs pumping
away like pistons, and then seize up? All that season my groin was troublesome, a persistent pain and worry. Getting on the pitch was still possible, but I needed to break the bad cycle of three matches on, one match off crocked. Liverpool’s players sensed my frustration. ‘Come on, Stevie,’ said Didi. ‘You need to see my guy, a surgeon in Germany. He’s the best. He’ll sort you out.’ Typical Didi, fretting over my welfare. Trust Didi to know Dr Hans-Muller Wohlfahrt. Robbie would have recommended Edward Scissorhands! I talked the situation through with Gérard. He knew all about the famous Dr Wohlfahrt, who treated Michael’s hamstrings. ‘Go over, hear what he says, come back and then we’ll decide,’ the boss said.

Accompanied by the Liverpool physio Dave Galley and club doctor Mark Waller, I flew out to Munich. Fears and doubts kicked in. I’m a footballer. It’s what I do. If my body keeps breaking down, I’m no use to anyone. Just a lump of meat with no future. As I sat on the plane, I closed my eyes, and suddenly I was back on that stretcher in Accident and Emergency at Alder Hey, a rusty fork sticking into my toe, with Steve Heighway arguing passionately with the doctors to save my career. All my dreams were on hold. Life seemed so fragile, oblivion a moment away.

I was brought back to the present with a jolt as we landed. Be strong. Meet the challenge. Beat the challenge. Remember the last visit to Munich. Good memories. A stadium is a second home to me, though; hospitals scare me. Before long I was in a cold clinic being examined by Dr Wohlfahrt from head to toe.

‘To sort your body out you need four operations,’ he told me.

‘Four?’ I couldn’t believe it. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes. One knee operation, one on the ankle, and probably two hernias.’

Christ! The doc had only seen me for a short time and he wanted to rebuild my whole body.
Four
operations? Shit. This trip to Munich was fast turning into a nightmare.

‘But I need to confirm the hernias,’ Dr Wohlfahrt added.

So he packed me off to see a groin specialist. She checked the scans, nodded her head, and confirmed Dr Wohlfahrt’s suspicions. ‘You need operations on both groins,’ she said. Forget the scalpel to the knee, groin and ankle, this was a knife to the heart. I looked anxiously at Doc Waller. He clearly wasn’t convinced. ‘We’ll call you,’ Doc Waller said to the Germans, before we beat it sharpish back to the airport.

I flew back to Liverpool with my head all over the place. I felt a write-off. My body was giving up as my career was really starting.

Back at Melwood, Liverpool held a crisis meeting. Me, Gérard, the physios and Doc Waller searched for the right solution. ‘There’s no way you need four operations,’ Doc Waller kept repeating. I trust Doc Waller with my life, but these German guys were specialists. The walls of Dr Wohlfahrt’s clinic were covered with diplomas and degrees from the best medical schools. He came recommended by Didi. Michael swore by him. Jurgen Klinsmann and Boris Becker used him. Dr Wohlfahrt was
the business. But Doc Waller stood his ground. ‘A lot of people have been to see Dr Wohlfahrt, been told to have ops, but didn’t and carried on playing,’ he insisted. True, but I also knew how many people in football Dr Wohlfahrt had sorted out. His name was respected throughout the game. I had a choice: go with a foreign specialist’s advice or trust in a Liverpool doctor’s instincts. As usual, I stuck with Liverpool. I have worked with Doc Waller so long. He lives around the corner and tends my family. He has always had my interests at heart. Doc Waller would never put me through surgery unless it was the last resort. My faith in him is unshakeable. ‘OK, let’s do it your way,’ I told him. He sent me to see other specialists. I got four more verdicts with different solutions. None of the four said I needed four operations; a couple said I needed at least two.

Gérard was still worried. Even if it was only two ops, Gerard didn’t want me cut open unless it was absolutely vital. An op meant missing a long stretch of the season, and it’s always risky. But was there any alternative? Gérard thought so. ‘Go and see Philippe Boixel in Paris,’ he said. ‘He will make you more supple through stretching. That may help.’

So off I went again, passport in my hand, fear in my heart. I flew to Paris where I met Boixel, an impressive man who works with the French national team. ‘If he’s good enough for Patrick Vieira,’ I thought, ‘he’ll do for me.’ Boixel examined me and made me do all these complicated stretches. ‘You don’t need any operations,’ he said at last. ‘Your groins just need strengthening work. My mentality is don’t fix it, work on it, and avoid surgery.
You can have an op on any part of your body, but it can mess you up.’ Thank God. Doc Waller was happy, Gérard too. I placed my future in the strong hands of Boixel. ‘Come and see me once a week at first, and then once a fortnight,’ he said. He went to work first on my back, the root cause of all my troubles. ‘Because of the shape of your back, it puts pressure on all your muscles,’ said Boixel. ‘Not just your groin, but ankles, knees and calves. That’s why you’re getting niggles.’