Gerrard: My Autobiography (31 page)

A lot of people actually sympathized with me over Basle. When I next went down to England, the journalists I knew there said they couldn’t believe the way Gérard behaved. I remember a few pieces saying Gérard was out of order. Fortunately, Basle didn’t harm my relationship with Gérard in the long run. Before we travelled up to Sunderland in December, the boss called me into his office. ‘Sami is out for the game and I want you to be captain,’ he said.

Captain of Liverpool!

Basle seemed a distant memory as I led Liverpool out at the Stadium of Light. We lost, but the feeling of having the armband on was special. ‘One day, you will captain the club permanently,’ said Gérard. ‘Keep learning.’ He mentioned the captaincy a couple of times that season, but
I never really thought anything of it. During training one afternoon the following season, 2003/04, Gérard said, ‘Come and see me afterwards.’ I showered, changed, and ran upstairs to the boss’s office. Thommo was sitting there next to Gérard.

‘We’ve had meetings with the staff,’ Gérard began, ‘and have spoken to a few players. We feel as if we need to change the captaincy of the club. Sami has been a good captain, but we feel you are ready to take the captaincy on. We feel it would help the team.’

I was stunned. Everyone respected Sami. A big, vocal centre-half, Sami was a natural leader.

‘How is it going to be with Sami?’ I asked.

‘Don’t worry,’ replied Gérard. ‘I’ve spoken to Sami.’

When I left the office, I looked around for Sami, but he had gone home. Pity. I wanted to address the issue as quickly as possible.

I didn’t sleep much that night. Feelings of pride mixed with concern over how Sami would react. Sami hadn’t been playing that well, so maybe taking away the armband would allow him to focus on his own game, rather than the team. Still, it can’t be nice to have such an honour taken away. I’d be devastated.

As I arrived at Melwood the next day, Sami pulled me.

‘Stevie, can I have a word?’

‘Yeah, of course, Sami.’

‘Listen, I spoke to the manager and Phil yesterday and I want you to know there are no hard feelings. You deserve the captaincy. It was only a matter of time. Good luck. If you need any advice, I’m there for you.’

Some man, is Sami. That can’t have been easy for him,
but he handled it with real dignity. My admiration for him rose even higher. I wanted to be a captain like Sami, a good ambassador. Becks was my other role model. Until he stepped down after the World Cup in Germany, Becks proved an outstanding captain for England. Becks always led by example, always gave everything on the pitch, always gave sound advice off it. Becks was brilliant with the young lads, especially those new to the set-up and slightly in awe. When I became Liverpool captain, I watched Becks even more closely with England. Saw how he dealt with issues, how easily he handled the responsibility.

Sometimes I stop on the drive home from Melwood and just sit in the car and tell myself, ‘I’m captain of Liverpool Football Club.’ For a kid who grew up in Huyton, who stood on the Kop, being Liverpool captain is an unbelievable honour. I think of all the greats who have led out Liverpool, real leaders like Ron Yeats, Emlyn Hughes, Thommo, Graeme Souness, Alan Hansen. And now me. I can never thank Gérard Houllier enough. I owe Gérard so much. I’ll always remember what Gérard did for my career.

I EVEN CAPTAINED
England. It was only a friendly, a trip to Sweden on 31 March 2004, but it felt like the World Cup final as I led my country out in Gothenburg. This was a moment I had dreamed of since I wore the Bryan Robson shirt while kicking about on Ironside. We lost, to a goal from Sweden’s clever striker Zlatan Ibrahimovic, but the armband and the memory will stay with me for ever.

Just before then, the press questioned how much we players love representing England – a disgraceful claim. The controversy stemmed from the build-up to our final Euro 2004 qualifier in Istanbul on 11 October 2003. Six days before this massive tie, I drove to Manchester airport with Emile and Carra for the flight down to London. We met the United lads at the gate and had a chat. Usual stuff, until Carra noticed Rio Ferdinand was missing. ‘Where’s Rio?’ Carra asked. ‘Is he not in the squad?’ Scholesy, Butty and Gary Neville explained Rio had been left out on Football Association orders, because he missed a drugs test. Well, he hadn’t deliberately missed it. He’d forgotten,
left the training ground, and when he remembered, the testers had gone. Rio took a test later and passed. But the FA were livid and stopped Sven picking him. Carra, Emile and me were shocked.

The saga was only just beginning. When we arrived at Sopwell House, our base near St Albans, the place was in uproar. Quite a few of the England lads were steaming over the FA’s treatment of Rio. We should have been focusing on training with Sven and getting prepared for Turkey, but all the boys could talk about was Rio. Carnage lay around the corner.

On the Tuesday we managed to train in the morning, and then Becks called a meeting. He spoke, and so did Gary Neville, very forcefully. ‘We need to stick up for Rio’ was the gist of Gary’s argument. The majority of the squad sat and listened to the players driving the argument, those with links to United like Gary and Becks. Gary talked tough towards the FA because Rio’s a United lad. I admire Gary. He was sticking up for a team-mate. We all wanted Rio, a good friend and a great player, back with us, but I didn’t want to get into any trouble. The FA’s chief executive, Mark Palios, was allowed into the room to explain his reasons for kicking Rio out. He wasn’t very convincing. I looked around the room and realized support was strengthening even more behind Rio. Palios was in an awkward position. He had banned Rio from joining up, but he didn’t want it to affect his relationship with all the other players. ‘I had to do it,’ Palios kept saying. After ten minutes, Palios left and Becks stood up. ‘The team stay behind,’ said England’s captain.

More speeches. More debate. Then Becks and Gary
organized a ballot over whether to support Rio, with the understanding that could mean not going to Istanbul. A strike! Just mention of the word makes me shudder. It would be a hugely controversial call, a decision that would live with us for the rest of our lives. Abandon England? Christ. What were we getting ourselves into? I wanted Rio back in the squad, and I wanted to show my support, but the thought of striking scared me. Could I really follow Gary Neville and turn my back on England when it counted? My team. My dream. Istanbul was not just any old match; if we got a point we reached Euro 2004. I’d missed the 2002 World Cup and was desperate to play. I felt Gary was too strong in calling for a strike. He possibly should have taken more time to consider the consequences, not just for him but for all the players, particularly the young ones. They sat around as senior pros argued for a strike which would blacken everyone’s names in the eyes of the public and press. I didn’t want to be slaughtered for not playing for my country. England fans would be outraged. But I couldn’t bring myself to voice my concerns. I took a back seat and listened. It was a horrible meeting to be in. We’re footballers, not politicians. I wanted to be out there training, not sitting around taking a vote.

Fortunately, David James spoke out, calling for clear heads before we considered striking. ‘We’ve got to think about the fans,’ said Jamo. ‘With all due respect to Rio, and I want him back in the squad as much as anyone, there are going to be more problems than we all think if we go on strike.’ People say goalkeepers are mad, but Jamo always talked sense. I really admired him for what
he did and said at Sopwell. Jamo made everyone realize the dangers of a strike, that it wasn’t going to benefit any of us. Gary put forward one argument, and Jamo just looked at the situation from the point of view of a few others at the meeting, the ones like me who never said anything. After Jamo spoke, I felt better. The consequences of not going to Turkey were obvious. ‘If we support Rio 100 per cent and don’t go to Istanbul, we’ll all have to take the flak,’ said Jamo. Fucking hell, I thought, this is so serious. My heart beat fast.

We can’t go on strike, but we must stick together. Send out a message to the FA: don’t mess with us. The best sides are those where the players stand shoulder to shoulder, like soldiers in a war. We were all in it together, even those with reservations. Eventually, I decided to follow the experienced players like Becks and Gary. So did the rest of the squad. We all agreed the FA had to bring Rio back or face the consequences. Whatever the reservations of players like myself, we were united. One out, all out. Though I prayed we wouldn’t have to go through with the strike. Gary and Becks knocked up a statement from the England squad which read: ‘It is our opinion that the organization we represent has not only let down one of our team-mates but the whole of the England squad and its manager. We feel they have failed us badly. They have made the team weaker.’ We gave the statement to the FA and sat back to see their reaction.

Becks quickly told Sven. He wanted the dispute settled sharpish, but he backed us all the way. On the Wednesday, as the controversy intensified, Sven told all the cameras at Sopwell that he was behind us. God knows what Palios
thought of that! Every England player really respected Sven for that. He could have ducked the issue, or sided with the FA because they pay his wages. Sven didn’t. When the team needed the support of the manager most, Sven stuck up for us. It was a horrible day, though. Whenever I flicked Sky on in my room, people were criticizing us for talking about striking. We were getting unbelievable stick. I felt we’d made our point by publicly backing Rio and it was time to move on, to get back to football. I was not enjoying the caning. None of the players were. A sombre mood fell over Sopwell.

That evening, the players held another meeting. ‘Right, we’ve made our point,’ said Becks. ‘We’ve shown the FA that they cannot mess about one of our players.’ We all agreed we should now go to Istanbul.

Just as well. As Jamo predicted, and I privately suspected, the newspapers slaughtered us for even thinking of striking. The story had spread from the back pages to the front. It became a huge national issue. At breakfast on the Thursday, I picked up the
Daily Mirror
, which had the story of the proposed strike on the front and the back. Photographs of every player were printed on the front underneath the words ‘Who the hell do they think they are?’ Jesus, if that was a warning of the coverage we would receive if we went on strike, thank God we pulled out. Chaos was just a ballot away. No-one wants to be battered from pillar to post in the press. It’s a brutal experience. All my friends and family called, wondering what the hell was going on. Thank heaven it was sorted and the media wave of criticism could subside. Rio sent us a message saying how much he appreciated our support,
stressing that he didn’t want us to go on strike. We’d done the right thing to stand by Rio and then fly out to Istanbul.

As the plane hurtled across Europe, my mind finally turned to what sort of reception the Turks would lay on for us. Our home game, at Sunderland on 2 April 2003, had been quick, intense and nasty. The Turks were up to all their old tricks at the Stadium of Light, leaving the foot in, pulling shirts, the usual sly stunts, anything to break up our flow. Even players who have spent time in the Premiership, like Tugay, an opponent I respect, tried to provoke us. That’s the Turkish mentality. Bulent scratched my face, drawing blood. Turks don’t care how they win, as long as they do. Turks will try to con their way to victory. But cheats never prosper. When Tugay and his mates arrived at Sunderland, they ran into Wayne Rooney. Turkey didn’t know what hit them. Rooney was brilliant in that 2–0 victory, all muscle and touch.

In those few days up in the north-east of England, I realized exactly how special Rooney was. One day, in training at Slaley Hall, Rooney announced to the whole England squad the massive size of his talent. We were playing a practice match towards the end of training when Rooney picked up the ball, dribbled past a few players and chipped Jamo. Astonishing. Silence reigned for a split-second, as if everyone was trying to take in exactly what we had just seen. Then we all burst into applause, everyone, even established stars like Becks and Owen. We all glanced at each other, as if to say, ‘This boy can play.’ Only seventeen, and already heading for greatness. I knew Wazza was talented because I had seen the goals he scored
for Everton, I’d watched him on the telly, and I’d read all the press coverage. But that day at Slaley Hall made me realize quite how brilliant he was. I needed to train alongside him, watch him close up, to appreciate the quality of his first touch. His self-belief too. Most players would be cautious during the build-up to their first start. Not Wazza. He charged into Slaley Hall, trying all sorts of skills. Nothing fazes Wazza. It’s a Scouse trait. No wonder we hit it off immediately.

By the time we landed in Istanbul, Wazza and I were good mates. What I love about Rooney is, however big the occasion, he’s relaxed. England’s journey to Fenerbahce’s home ground would have unsettled even the toughest customer. Not Rooney. Wazza just smiled out the window at all these Turks throwing bottles at us, giving us the finger, screaming abuse. When Rooney was ready, he just ran out of the tunnel into this wall of noise and laughed. Is that your best? Try harder, shout louder, because I ain’t bothered. That’s Wazza. He went towards one goal and started banging balls around. Scholesy was the same. Out the tunnel, pinging balls around, no warm-up. I don’t know how Scholesy and Rooney get away with it. If I had not done some stretching first, working on my hamstrings and calf, I’d have pulled every muscle in my legs. Not Rooney. Rooney’s talent was shaped on the streets of Croxteth, and he has not lost that street-player’s streak. Out the front door, bang, into a game. No warm-up, no tension, let’s get cracking, lads. No worries. In Istanbul, he almost looked bored as he warmed up. Chewing gum and smiling – just a kid belting balls around. He kept wellying the ball high up in the air while
the rest of us were working on our stretches. How his hamstrings survived I don’t know.