Gerrard: My Autobiography (41 page)

As Maldini applauded, we went up to receive our medals. As captain, I was last. When it was my turn, I collected my medal from the main men at UEFA, Lars Christer Olsson and Lennart Johansson. I kissed the medal and thought of Dad. His pride. His smiling face. ‘Thanks, Dad,’ I thought, ‘this is for you, for all the encouragement and the good advice.’ I stood there on the podium, waiting while Rafa and the other coaches were presented with their medals. The UEFA officials hung about, saying things, pointing me this way and that, as officials do. I ignored them. I had eyes only for the cup. There it was. On the pedestal. Closer and closer. Now I could touch it. No inhibitions now. No superstitions. I leant forward and kissed it gently. The silver should have felt cold, but it didn’t.

This may sound mad, but I genuinely felt the cup wanted to be with Liverpool again, going back to Anfield. Liverpool people never stopped loving the European Cup, even when it was far away. Even when it was not in our trophy room, the European Cup was always in Liverpool hearts. It’s a love affair, and that’s why I kissed the cup. I must have kissed it about ten times that night. Alex watched on telly, and when I got home she said, ‘You gave that cup more kisses in a night than you give me in a year!’ She understood, though. I kissed the cup because I wanted to show the world how much it means to Liverpool Football Club.

‘You must be happy,’ said Johansson as he prepared to hand me the cup.

‘It’s for them,’ I replied, pointing to our fantastic supporters.

Johansson seemed reluctant to part with it. Carra went ballistic. ‘Give him it!’ he screamed at the most powerful man in European football. I dug Johansson in the ribs. Hand it over, mate. It’s ours. Carra and I had seen it before at presentations, when the person handing over the trophy tries to lift it or help the winning captain raise it. No chance here. The cup was Liverpool’s. I wrestled it off Johansson and looked around, loving being in control, knowing all our players, our staff and 40,000 fans and millions more watching on TV were waiting to go through the roof. At my command, unleash heaven! I lifted the cup to the stars and the whole place went crazy. Players leaping up and down, red fireworks and streamers going off, the fans dancing madly. Magical. I held it in the air and felt at that moment everyone in the world stopping what they were doing and watching me.

I carried on kissing. Xabi got a smacker full on the lips. So did some of the coaching staff. Rafa got a massive hug. He’s not an emotional man, but if you can’t hug your manager when you’ve just won the European Cup, when can you? I blew a kiss into a television camera for Alex. Carra and I went mental in front of the photographers, dancing around and chanting ‘Ring of Fire’. Badly out of tune, but who cares? We’d just come back from 3–0 down to lift the European Cup.

Back in the dressing-room, everyone embraced, sang and carried on partying. Liverpool’s chairman, David Moores, was in tears, unable to hold back the wave of emotion, his pride getting to him big-style. I looked at him and thought, ‘Yes, this cup is for you, chairman, for all the shite you suffered at AGMs, for all the pressure people
put you under. Enjoy the moment, chairman, you deserve it. Always a smile, always a good word. As a chairman, and a friend, you have always been there for me.’ On a night of special sights, here was one of the best: seeing the chairman in the dressing-room, cradling the trophy.

Liverpool’s dressing-room was mobbed. Gérard Houllier squeezed in, which surprised a few. Some people at the club muttered darkly about whether a former manager should join our moment of triumph. Not me. I was pleased. Gérard wasn’t gate-crashing. He came down to congratulate the lads and the chairman. He had earned the right. He genuinely loves Liverpool. He was so happy we had won it, he wanted to congratulate us. Why not? Given his disappointment at leaving, it takes a real man to return and say ‘well done’. That impressed me. Other managers with different characters might have got their jealous heads on and not wanted us to win. Not Gérard. He was buzzing for us.

When I got back to the hotel, I was shattered, and slumped into a seat. Some of the lads, like Baros, shot off down to Tacsim Square to party with the fans. Our hotel was crammed with fans. My bed called to me, but thousands of people wanted a word, an autograph, a picture. Fighting back the utter exhaustion, I went to the do Liverpool laid on at the hotel. Nothing wild. A lot of the players had their girlfriends and wives around, and we just sat about talking about the game, the emotions, still trying to take it all in. We had been crap in the Premiership in 2004/05 yet here we were, crowned kings of Europe. Crazy. Why? Some of our players were more suited to European football, a less physical world than the
Premiership. Our technical players got time on the ball in Europe. We never had enough aggressive players to win the Premiership, nor a target-man to give us the outlet away from home.

I couldn’t think any more. By now, bed screamed out to me. But my mates came into the hotel, so we had a few more beers, a few more laughs. Everyone raved about Kaka, who’d been sensational for Milan. ‘He was the one Milan player I couldn’t get near,’ I said. Struan came in and we talked some more. ‘I really wanted you to take the last pen, for the drama of winning the cup,’ Struan said. I was confident I would have scored, but it was good not to have to find out. Struan ran through all the messages he had received, including one from John Terry. ‘I’m buzzing,’ said JT. ‘Hairs out on the back of my neck. Tell Stevie, brilliant. I’m buzzing for him.’ JT had seen me lift the European Cup knowing it could so easily have been him, and he still wanted to congratulate me. Top man.

Everyone was so happy and smiling, even Rafa, who is 24/7 serious and dedicated to football. He even stopped picking holes in that first-half display and had a couple of glasses of wine. Amazing! The room was packed. It seemed every Liverpool supporter had blagged their way past security. I didn’t want to talk to people because I was that drained, but I did. I stayed on and talked and drank beer until it was light outside. I was one of the last out of the party. As I stumbled out towards my room, I looked back and saw my new best mate, the European Cup, just standing there on a table. There were people in the room I didn’t know, and even in my pissed state I thought,
‘That’s not going missing.’ I grabbed the cup and we headed off upstairs together.

Two hours later, I awoke with a start. Where the hell am I? My eyes struggled to deal with the daylight streaming in through the window. Gradually, the outline of something large came into focus at the end of the bed. Fuck me, it’s the European Cup! It was just me and the European Cup. My room-mate, Xabi, had his missus staying over so he had gone off to catch up with her. Me and the European Cup were alone together. I never slept with the European Cup. I never had my legs wrapped round it or anything. It never got into bed with me. It just stood there, on one of those tables with a mirror where the missus does her make-up. The European Cup was reflected in the mirror. I was seeing double. ‘Morning,’ I said to the cup. I could not remember bringing it back to the room, but then I couldn’t remember getting myself back to the room. As soon as I hit the pillow I was bang asleep.

I gazed at the cup, and memories of the previous night came flooding back. For twenty minutes I lay there, just staring at the European Cup. Just the two of us. Then, shit! No-one will know where this cup is! Liverpool had waited twenty-one years to get their hands back on the cup and now it had gone. I’d better get down to breakfast.

I staggered into the meal-room.

‘Where’s the cup?’ Carra shouted.

Everyone was there, looking concerned, as if they were about to scramble a search party.

‘Don’t panic,’ I laughed. ‘It’s in my room. Come and have a look if you want!’

So all the boys piled upstairs and saw the cup again. Then we brought it down, had a team picture taken with it and the hotel staff, and said goodbye to Istanbul.

I hate flying, but the whole trip was heaven. The second we landed at John Lennon International, it all went crazy again. Press and fans, questions and autographs. More pictures. Back at Melwood, we boarded an open-top bus and headed back into town. We had to do the parade that Thursday because all the foreign lads were flying off for internationals. On the bus, champagne open, good drink, good laugh. Brilliant. All the players took it in turns to lift the trophy, showing it to the fans, milking the moment, and deservedly so. The foreign lads were gobsmacked. They hadn’t realized we had so many supporters. Only as the bus snaked slowly through the streets did they appreciate how big a club Liverpool is. I’d experienced it before with the Treble, all the passionate support lining the side of the road, but the European Cup tour was even better.

Carra and I were at the back of the bus, sorting out the night’s entertainment, enjoying the look of amazement on the foreign lads’ faces and waving at the hundreds of thousands of fans. It was a scrum on the pavement, people often spilling off into the road. ‘Someone could get seriously hurt,’ I said to Carra. And the crush was worrying at certain points on the route. Police horses kept crashing into the side of the bus; fans were getting thrown back. People were a hundred feet up in the air, hanging off lamp-posts, out of trees and buildings. Merseyside Police did a super job controlling all those people because really it was mission impossible. When we got into town, the
bus didn’t move for forty-five minutes. I kept catching sight of friends, waving, smiling, punching the air. The European Cup was home. Everyone on Merseyside seemed to have come out to watch, even a few Evertonians, who weren’t really too happy. I could tell them a mile off!

‘These are the best two days of my life,’ I told Carra. He smiled back. A great night in Istanbul followed by this unbelievable reception back home.

The tour lasted so much longer than anticipated that Carra and I had to reschedule our evening plans! I caught up, though. The week that followed was a blur of parties, bars and nightclubs. The miracle of Istanbul deserved to be celebrated in style.

In the months to come, everyone wondered why I never got an MBE off the Queen for bringing home the European Cup, particularly when all the cricketers got them for the Ashes. That never bothered me. I know it would be a Big-Hat day for Alex at the Palace, but it’s not something I’m preoccupied with. Honestly. The only honours I want are handed out in football grounds – like in Istanbul.

IN CLIMBING TO
the peak of my club career in 2004/05, I endured moments of doubt. The thought of joining Chelsea still ate away at me. Liverpool may have won the Champions League, but the Premiership belonged to Chelsea.

Because honesty is a quality I prize so highly, I was always straight with Liverpool. In a press conference before the Champions League tie with Olympiakos, I was asked, ‘What are you going to do if Liverpool don’t get Champions League football next season?’ I didn’t flinch. ‘I am going to have to consider my future,’ I replied. No choice. So the crazy whirl of rumours intensified because I didn’t come out and say, ‘I’m not going to Chelsea or Real Madrid.’ I didn’t want to lie, or claim everything was all sweetness and light at Liverpool. I wanted to wait and see how the season panned out. Ideally, Liverpool would finish first or second, and I could announce, ‘I don’t have to move.’ Sadly, we were soon fighting it out for fourth or fifth again. The fear of the UEFA Cup loomed large.

On 10 December 2004, Rick Parry tried to calm the speculation by insisting Liverpool had ‘no intention’ of letting me go. ‘If we can deliver top honours, I am convinced Steven will remain at Liverpool,’ he said. More stories about me appeared during the winter transfer window. ‘Is Gerrard Staying?’ ‘Is Stevie G-oing?’ Headline after headline, more fuel on the fire. Again Rick emphasized how highly the club rated me. ‘Steven is above money,’ Rick told the press. ‘He is the future of Liverpool. Even if it’s thirty, forty or fifty million, we won’t accept offers.’ Privately, Rick also came to me twice during the season and said, ‘We want you to extend your contract. We want you to stay.’

But I was confused. If they wanted me so bad, why didn’t they put a contract on the table? Show me the deal. Show me you really want me. Rafa was also on at me to commit myself. But how could I without seeing what Liverpool proposed? They never contacted Struan, who sorts out all my deals. I didn’t understand Liverpool’s game-plan. Did they want to keep me? If they did, Rick and Rafa were certainly going about it in a strange way. ‘I want to keep you,’ Rafa told me one day at Melwood. ‘We want to keep you,’ Rick told me. But it seemed to me that Liverpool wanted to keep me on their terms. Liverpool’s approach was, ‘Sign when we say, and if you agree, we’ll tell you how much the deal is worth.’ As captain of Liverpool Football Club and someone who had run myself into the ground for the team, I deserved to be treated with more respect. Contract negotiations with top players do not work the way Liverpool were operating. I was not some spotty kid just up from the Academy.

The impasse led to further speculation in the press. Chelsea, Chelsea, Real, Real. Non-stop. It was becoming a soap opera. Before our League Cup semi-final with Watford in January 2005, Benitez pulled me and said, ‘Listen, you can put a stop to all this stuff in the papers by signing a new deal.’ But there was no deal there! Frustration at the situation did my head in.

‘You know where my agent is,’ I told Rafa. ‘Talk to him. He represents me with deals.’

The first time Rafa and Rick cornered me, I said, ‘Look, how can I seriously sign a four- or five-year contract now when we are fighting for fourth or fifth place in the Premiership?’ I was dead serious, too. I needed to know what Liverpool were offering me financially, but most importantly I wanted Rafa and Rick to guarantee progress. No more pissing about in fifth place. I looked Benitez in the eye and said, ‘If I sign and I am playing UEFA Cup football next year, what do I do then? What happens if I fall out of the England fold?’