Gerrard: My Autobiography (28 page)

I felt reprieved. Maybe I didn’t need surgery after all. An op would have been a nightmare, timing-wise. Sacrificing Liverpool in the short term to guarantee my fitness for England in the summer of 2002 was something I just couldn’t do. Just imagine me announcing to Kopites: ‘Sorry, lads, I’m taking three months off now so I’ll be fine for the World Cup. Sorry about screwing up Liverpool’s season. Don’t worry, the UEFA Cup will be fun.’ No chance. That would have caused a riot. Liverpool needed me, and I would never let the club, the fans, the players or the management down. So between matches I kept nipping over to Paris, where Boixel sorted me out a lot by changing the shape of my back. My groins improved. Injuries were less frequent. Two games a week became manageable. Liverpool were pushing hard for the second automatic Champions League place, and I was right in the thick of it. We had to get that spot. Liverpool needed the money, and the Champions League was the only stage for me. I strained and sweated hard to get the points.

Little did I realize that my body still wasn’t right. The healing hands of Philippe Boixel could only help so far. The pressure built up. On the last day of the 2001/02
season, 11 May, we tore into Ipswich Town at Anfield, knowing victory would book our ticket to Europe’s best arenas. I was right up for it. I sprinted on to the pitch, determined to smash down the last barrier to the Champions League. No holding back. Get stuck in. After thirty-three minutes, I stretched for a ball. Bang. My groin ripped. No, no! Not again! Not now! Shit. Back to square one. Back to the treatment table. Back home while the boys are at the World Cup.

Gérard called a meeting for the following morning at Melwood. When I arrived, everyone around the place was made up because Liverpool’s 5–0 win had guaranteed us Champions League qualification. Next season would be good. Get the map out. Brilliant. But I was having none of this celebration shit. I couldn’t think or talk I was so devastated. I wandered around Melwood like a zombie. Up the stairs to Gérard’s room, sit down, listen to the gaffer and the doc. ‘Steven, even if we patched you up and sent you off to Japan, your groin could go again in the first game,’ Gérard said. ‘You probably wouldn’t even be ready until the semis. I know it’s not what you want to hear, but it’s really best that you stay home and we get you ready for next season.’

His words felt like a punch in the face. No. Don’t say it. Stop. I don’t want to hear it. Sven didn’t want to hear it either. When Gérard called my injury against Ipswich ‘a blessing for England’, I could understand why Sven went through the roof. England were livid at Gérard’s comments. I could just imagine Sven, sitting in his office at Soho Square, telling Tord Grip, ‘Yeah, it’s a real blessing we’ve lost Steven Gerrard.’ To me, the injury felt
like a curse not a blessing. Of course, I don’t blame Gérard. How was he to know my groin would break down in that particular game? It was a freak injury. Liverpool didn’t overuse me, as some people claimed. If Gérard had left me out for the Ipswich game, I would have set fire to his office. I hate being rested. Hate it. Even if I know it’s for my own good, I’m a nightmare, kicking up a stink, turning the air blue. Play me! Being deprived of football is like being starved of air. I live and breathe the game. Missing one minute of one match feels like death.

The club-versus-country balance is always delicate. Liverpool respect England and understand how much the players love pulling on the Three Lions shirt. Representing England is such a boost to a player’s career. But clubs are selfish. They pay our wages. I understand their fears. Gérard’s priorities were straightforward: winning games for Liverpool, and qualifying for the Champions League. England was not Gérard’s problem; getting me ready for next season was.

‘I’m sending you to see another specialist on Monday,’ the boss continued, ‘and I’ll call Sven and tell him you can’t go to Japan. I’m sorry, Steven.’

Another trip to another groin surgeon. ‘You do need two operations,’ this specialist said, ‘but not hernia ops as you’ve been told. You need a simple operation on both sides to release a muscle. You have a muscle either side that keeps getting tighter and tighter because of the position of your back. I can release them because you don’t need them.’

And so my dreams of the 2002 World Cup ended up on
an operating table. The closest I got to Japan was Dubai. I was going mad hanging about at home, so I took my girlfriend Alex off on holiday. ‘I’ve got to get away, Alex,’ I told her. ‘I can’t be here with the whole country going crazy over England.’ I was steaming to leave, to get on a beach and bury my frustration in the sand. I checked with Gérard. ‘Steven, we’d rather you had the op now and got going with the rehab,’ he said. I checked with the surgeon, who was spot on. He sensed how desperate I was for a break. ‘You’ll need a holiday this summer, so take one now and I’ll operate on you when you get back,’ he said.

As the players boarded their plane for Japan, Alex and I climbed on a flight to Dubai. Swimming in the sea felt good, but nothing could wash away my anger. I missed the World Cup so badly that I even walked up and down the beach in a pair of England shorts. Inevitably, I was drawn to watching the matches on television. Michael, Becks, Scholesy – they are my friends. I was desperate for them to do well, so I found a bar with a massive screen for the Argentina game.

A punter walked across. ‘I wish you were out there, Stevie.’

‘Thanks, mate, so do I.’

A few other fans came over, asking for autographs. They were good as gold. They knew how bad I was feeling. They gave me some space and left me to my thoughts. Phil Thompson came in – Dubai is always packed with football people – so we shared a drink and a chat. Thommo’s great in situations like that, dead positive. He consoled me briefly and then we sat back to watch the pictures from Sapporo.

The moment I saw the lads lining up in the tunnel, that was it, my head went again. It rammed home everything I was missing. This was England v. Argentina, what World Cups are made of. Hand of God. St-Etienne. Decades of history, hurt and glory. Jealousy seeped through every fibre of my body as I watched the boys making their last-minute preparations. Christ, I envied them the feeling of anticipation as they flicked their leg muscles, rolled their necks to loosen up, and stared at the enemy. Even from thousands of miles away, I smelt the tension. This was my sort of battle – tough, intense. Fucking get stuck in, lads! The man who had taken my midfield place, Nicky Butt, was standing there, his concentration total. Go on, Butty. I know you can do it. Hammer the Argies. I was praying for him to have a good game.

From the first whistle, I kicked every ball with Butty, Becks and Scholesy. In my head, I steamed into tackles on Diego Simeone and Juan Sebastian Verón. Fucking take that! Come on, just win. We have to win. Penalty for England! Bar goes mental. Becks steps up. That arsehole Simeone tries to put him off. Fucking ignore him, Becks, just bury it. He does. Bar goes completely crazy. Suddenly, I’m not a frustrated injured player any more, I’m an England fan, shouting the place down, singing the songs, fist in the air. Here we go!

The next day, I scoured Dubai for the papers. Look at the pictures, read the match reports. Every word. One paper carried an interview with Pele where he said I was the best player not at the World Cup finals. Pele implied that England really missed me in midfield. Thanks, mate, but what about Butty? He had a stormer against the Argies.

My holiday over, I returned to reality. The surgeon’s knife awaited. The operation complete, I limped around my apartment in Southport, catching the rest of the World Cup. A few friends called and asked me round to watch the Brazil quarter-final. I couldn’t. England v. Brazil was too personal for me to share the experience with other people. All my mates would be sitting around, buzzing, when I would just be sunk in a depression over missing such a colossal occasion. World Cup quarter-finals against Ronaldinho and Ronaldo don’t come along too often. I had to watch the game on my own. Doors locked. Phone off. Just me and my misery.

It dawned on me that the lads were just three games away from becoming champions of the world. If they beat Brazil, they’d be favourites. Semi-final, then final. God, how the hell would I deal with that? I’d be made up for Michael, Becks and the boys, but missing out on a World Cup winner’s medal would haunt me the rest of my life. Stop it. Be positive. Quick, send a text to Michael – ‘All the best’. I meant it.

The game passed in a blur. Michael scoring. Brazil hitting back. Ronaldinho’s goal. Seamo’s tears. Heartache. Brazil looked fresher, better suited to the hot climate. At the final whistle, England’s players slumped to the ground, drained and defeated. I sat there in silence, my heart breaking for them. They are not just England players to me, star names people see in papers and on the telly. They are good friends, and I was devastated for them. For all my frustration and jealousy, I would much rather have seen Michael and Becks with World Cup winner’s medals around their necks than Ronaldinho and
Ronaldo. I am selfish, I want to fill my upstairs room with medals, but there was no sense of private relief at watching England return home from Japan empty-handed. I was as distressed as them. Like Becks and Michael, my determination doubled to bring the World Cup home in 2006.

FOR ALL MY
frustration over missing the World Cup, my admiration for Gérard remained immense. He cared passionately about Liverpool. People forget he almost lost his life working for the club. I will never forget when he was almost taken from us.

The boss seemed fine and healthy as he gave us some last-minute advice on 13 October 2001, talking us through what we should expect from Leeds United, the visitors to Anfield that Saturday afternoon. We returned to the dressing-room at half-time 1–0 down, expecting Gérard to be waiting to have a go at us. Instead it was Thommo, who’s a bit noisier. ‘Gérard’s not well,’ Thommo explained as we looked around for the boss. ‘He’s gone to hospital for a check-up.’ The staff were outwardly very calm. Thommo didn’t want to distract us from the task of turning the game around. Points were at stake. But we couldn’t help but worry about our manager. We knew it must be serious for Gérard to be rushed off to hospital. We managed to focus enough on the game to
equalize, through Danny Murphy, but everyone was down afterwards. Being without Gérard hit us hard. Imagine Manchester United coping without Sir Alex Ferguson. I drove home feeling worried. When I got in, I sent the boss a text: ‘Hope you are all right’. No reply. My concern deepened. Gérard is usually sharp back on the text, or he calls. But nothing. Not a word.

At Melwood the next day, Doc Waller gathered all the players in the meeting room. ‘Gérard has undergone emergency heart surgery,’ he told us. ‘It took eleven hours and it was a dissection of the aorta.’ Such medical terms meant little to me, but the serious look on Doc Waller’s face told me everything I needed to know about the manager’s plight. ‘He will be away for some time,’ Doc Waller continued. ‘He sends his regards and asks you to focus on the next games, not on him.’

Typical Gérard. Always thinking of Liverpool, never himself. I feared his 24/7 commitment to leading Liverpool had damaged his health. Constant pressure takes a toll. Gérard would never have listened to any signs from his body to slow down. Now he had been at death’s door, saved only by a surgeon’s skill.

‘Gérard will be back,’ insisted Thommo, ‘and until he does, I’ll be taking over. We must stick together to make sure we are in a good position for when the boss gets back. He has all your interests at heart. He fights for you. We must show that fight for him.’

We flew out to Kiev later that day for a Champions League game, and the long trip was desperately gloomy. When we got to Dinamo’s stadium, Thommo put a sign up on the dressing-room wall: ‘Do It For The Boss’. We
did. I poured all my concern for our missing manager into that tie, even scoring the winner in a 2–1 victory.

Gérard Houllier was a well-liked manager, a player’s manager, and very human. He is one of life’s good guys. So is Thommo. Like Gérard, everything Thommo did was for the good of Liverpool Football Club. He was a Scouser like me, and I respected him because he lifted the European Cup for Liverpool. He was always honest with me, always told me when I was not training or playing well enough. I liked him. Still do. The perception of Thommo as not the cleverest is wrong. He knows his football and he did a good job as caretaker.

Of course, we fell out at times. Thommo’s a fiery character, and I’ll not hold back. On one occasion, before Thommo became caretaker, we flew back from a European tie into Manchester airport. Gary Mac asked Thommo if he could leave the group at Manchester and make his own way home, rather than catch the bus back to Melwood. ‘No problem, Macca,’ said Thommo. I overheard this. My nan was in hospital at the time, so I was keen to get to her sharpish. ‘Can I make my way home from the airport?’ I asked Thommo. I never mentioned nan was ill, because I didn’t want to make a fuss. Besides, Thommo told Gary Mac he could go, so why not me? ‘Yeah, yeah, Steven,’ said Thommo. He was taking the piss, but I didn’t realize.

I left the team at Manchester airport, got picked up by my mate Bavo and raced to the hospital. I jumped out and ran in, leaving my phone and other stuff with Ian. While I was inside, it rang. Bavo answered.

‘Hello?’

‘Who the fuck’s that?’ came the reply. It was Thommo, raging. ‘Hey, put Steven on the phone. I know he’s there, next to you.’

‘He’s not, Thommo, honest,’ said Bavo, scared shitless.

‘Liar,’ screamed Thommo.

‘I’m not lying. Stevie’s not here.’

‘Tell him he’d better call me dead quick. No-one gave him permission to leave us at the airport. He’s in deep shit.’

Poor Bavo! When I reached the car, he was still shaking, all red and shocked.

‘What’s up?’ I asked.

‘Phil Thompson just caned me for nothing,’ Ian said. ‘You weren’t allowed to go home from the airport. He said you were out of order.’