Gerrard: My Autobiography (47 page)

Along with all the talk about Wazza, other issues occupied my thoughts. I was just hours away from my World Cup debut, my supreme test. I was desperate to take my Liverpool form into an England game. Everybody was watching. Could I cut it? Could I do in the World Cup what I had done in the FA Cup and European Cup? Questions crowded in on me. Climbing on board the plane out of Lisbon after Euro 2004, I carried a kit-bag full of regrets. Flying into Germany, I kept telling myself, ‘No regrets this time, Stevie.’ I cranked up the pressure on
myself. I paced around my room at Buhlerhohe, saying out loud, ‘First World Cup game – make sure it goes well. Remember France at Euro 2004: you were OK until the last five minutes. Have a solid game this time. Ninety minutes, no mistakes.’
No mistakes
.

I couldn’t really sleep that week. My mind was jumping with too many concerns to close down for an hour or two. And another worrying distraction soon affected my preparations. On the day Wayne was jetting in and out of Manchester, I went into a tackle with Joe Cole at Mittelberg. Whack. Joe’s elbow banged into my hip, and my back went into a spasm. Shit. All the old fears tumbled back into my present. ‘That’s me out of the group games,’ I thought. ‘That’s another tournament screwed.’ Thank God I was in good hands. England’s physio, Gary Lewin, examined my back and said, ‘It will settle down quite quickly.’ Fingers crossed. Touch wood. The doc, Leif Sward, agreed. The next morning an osteopath called Carl Todd arrived from England, and he manipulated my back four times that day. ‘You’ll make the Paraguay game,’ Carl insisted, filling me with belief. But I carried a back problem for the rest of England’s stay in Germany.

All that mattered was that the medical lads got me on the field against Paraguay. My instructions were simple in Frankfurt: to hold back when England bombed on. Sven had us playing 4–4–2 without a holding midfielder, so someone had to take responsibility in case Paraguay broke away. ‘You are a little bit more defensive than Frank,’ Sven told me, ‘so don’t go up as much as him. Be more cautious.’ That sacrificed one of my strengths – storming forward. I craved to play my Liverpool role for England.
Just let me loose, like Liverpool do. No dice. Frank Lampard had the attacking licence. But that was OK. Lamps was worth his place in the World Cup starting eleven. In fact he was one of the main reasons England reached Germany: he’d been immense in qualifying. I had no complaints. Just get on with it, Stevie lad. Frankfurt was my first World Cup match and I was aching to play. Right-back, left-back, anywhere – just let me taste the World Cup atmosphere. I’m twenty-six, it’s been too long, let me out there.

The mood in the dressing-room before the game was good. Everyone was up for it. Shouts ripped through the corridors underneath the stadium. Come on! As usual, Paul Robinson didn’t shut up from the first minute he marched into the dressing-room until we charged through the door just before kick-off. Everyone buzzed with anticipation. This was it. The World Cup. Our time.

When we walked out of the tunnel, the home of Eintracht Frankfurt belonged to England. What a sight! England flags everywhere. Our fans everywhere. The ticketing problems never affected England. Our boys were out there in force. I wasn’t surprised. England fans are unbelievable; I knew they’d pack out the ground. I’d switched on the TV the night before and seen them partying all over Frankfurt, all over Germany really. I’d opened my hotel window in Frankfurt and heard them running through their songbook. Football’s Coming Home! Us players now had to make sure it did come home.

We started well. Becks forced an own-goal from Carlos Gamarra early on and we should have made it three or four, but the heat seemed to come straight from the
Sahara. My mouth felt like it was lined with sandpaper. Yet the sweltering conditions affected us only towards the end. Eintracht’s pitch was the real reason we never played well. On our beautiful Mittelberg surface, our football was quick. Not here. Frankfurt’s pitch was too dry, the grass too long. England tired after the break and Paraguay kept the ball better than us. Yet apart from an unfair booking, I was really, really happy with my individual performance. Collectively, though, we all knew we’d face criticism for our second-half display. But so what? Three points meant one thing: England were up and running.

Next up were Trinidad and Tobago in Nuremberg on 15 June. ‘England should win this no problem,’ I told myself. Again we failed to impress. In the second half, particularly, I got really frustrated and some of my passing went astray. England did not have the look of potential world champions. For eighty-three minutes, the so-called Golden Generation were held by a team of players from Wrexham, Port Vale and Coventry. We could not break through, until Peter headed in. At last we led. We could relax, and I could take a few more risks. Go on. Push on. Get a few shots in. Back at Melwood I work on my left foot all the time, so when I created a chance in the ninetieth minute I did not hesitate to use my left. I caught the ball really sweet and knew it was destined for the net. In it went. Unstoppable. The feeling of scoring in a World Cup was magical. There was relief, too. People see me hitting the target for Liverpool week in, week out. I felt under a lot of pressure to score for England, so seeing that ball flash past Shaka Hislop was wonderful. As it
flew in, all the frustration over missing the 2002 World Cup finally disappeared as well.

Two games, six points, Wayne now back in action – it should have been all sunshine and smiles for England, but the clouds of concern persisted. This time, the press slagged us off for too many long balls. Rubbish. We tried to build up through midfield. The critics just look at Peter Crouch and assume we automatically hit it long. That’s unfair on Peter and the rest of the lads. England were not a long-ball side at the World Cup. Sven’s tactics were not the problem. It was us, the players, simply not performing as we should do against lesser opposition. Deep down the players accepted that. We talked about it back in Baden-Baden. ‘We must play better if we are to win the World Cup,’ I said. ‘We must take our chances.’

Some tension began to creep into the England camp, partly because we could not spend proper time with our families after each match. The paparazzi and reporters who dogged us in Baden-Baden were a disgrace. So much rubbish was written about the WAGs, as the players’ wives and girlfriends became known. People claimed they got more attention than the team. Well, whose fault was that? The bloody paparazzi and the papers for printing the pictures. Why didn’t they leave the WAGs alone? Why did they wait around the WAGs’ hotel, the Brenners Park, and then stalk the families? I tried once to go for a walk around Baden-Baden with Alex, Lilly-Ella and Lexie. Fucking pointless. Photographers everywhere, following our every step, our every move. Piss off! Even when we tried to relax in the Brenners gardens, the photographers set up camp in a public park opposite and took pictures.
Brenners was like a fortress. When I did visit Alex, we had to stay in our room. It was the only place where we could escape the intrusive photographers. Unfortunately, being in a hotel room with two kids bursting to get out and have a play is hardly relaxing. Even if Lilly-Ella and Lexie had been old enough to understand, how do you explain that no, actually, we can’t go to that lovely park outside because there are paparazzi lurking behind every tree? I was livid. Photographers don’t stop to think whether they have the right to take pics of me playing with my kids. They just think, ‘This will help pay the mortgage.’ Snap, snap, snap.

It seemed like a competition for them – ‘Let’s see who can earn the most money out of Coleen, Posh and Alex’. The WAGs took the kids to a local theme park one day, and the staff there said they had never seen so many photographers, not even when the German national team dropped by. It was crazy. Did the Italian players have their families over in Germany? Yes. Did their media follow their wives and girlfriends? No. So why were the English papers obsessed with the players’ families? If I am with my family the night before a massive Champions League game at Anfield, is it an issue? No. I’m left in peace. And some of the stories in the newspapers about the WAGs were ridiculous. Alex went out with the girls one night in Baden-Baden and the bill for the lot of them came to 800 euros – hardly extravagant. In the papers, that bill was inflated to 4,000 euros. The story claimed the WAGs drank sixteen bottles of really expensive champagne. Alex had one glass. The behaviour of the English media during the World Cup was unbelievable. My mum kept getting
phone calls from GMTV asking whether she wanted to come on telly. What? Come on!

It really was mad. Newspapers criticized England for allowing the WAGs out to the World Cup, then filled their front pages with pictures of Coleen, Posh and Alex. The WAGs had every right to be in Baden-Baden. Some of the younger players might have become homesick without family and friends about. I remember how lonely I felt at Euro 2000. Why should a seventeen-year-old like Theo not be allowed to see his girlfriend or Mum and Dad for seven weeks? Why can’t Becks, Frank, Carra and me see our kids for a couple of days during a tournament? It makes us feel better, train better and play better. Lexie actually fell ill in Germany with a viral infection. Now, exactly how would I have felt if Lexie was back in England and poorly? Shit. I would have been tempted to run for the airport, to go back to help Alex look after our precious new baby. Sven was brilliant. The day I learned Lexie was ill was a day when the players were not allowed down into Baden-Baden. I knocked on his door. ‘Lexie’s struggling. Can I sprint down to Brenners?’ I asked Sven. ‘Of course,’ he replied. ‘I understand completely.’ I went down and helped out. If Lexie had been a thousand miles away, I would have been a mess with worry.

If the WAGs had been left at home completely, it would have damaged the squad’s morale. Having said that, I did feel they didn’t need to be in Germany all the time. Events down in Baden-Baden became a permanent, high-profile side-show to the real England drama. All the talk about the WAGs and the paparazzi was a distraction. Really, the FA should have flown the WAGs in and out. There has to
be a happy medium. Before the next tournament, us players need to sit down with the FA and discuss how the family side of things could be organized better. One option is for the WAGs to come out between games. If the WAGs can’t go to the match, so what? They can see it on telly back home. Girls don’t watch football anyway; they watch their individual fella. At least they have seen their boyfriends two days before a game or two days after. At least we have seen our kids. Probably the best solution is to let the WAGs fly out on the morning of the match, and we see them afterwards. For forty-eight hours after a game, we don’t do anything apart from some light stretching. Let the WAGs visit us then. No clever columnist can complain about that.

A lesser frustration surfaced as we prepared for our final Group B match, against Sweden in Cologne on 20 June. One afternoon, after training at Mittelberg, Sven pulled me aside. ‘Keep doing what you are doing, Steven,’ he began. ‘You are doing really well. But I’d like to rest you against Sweden. We’re already through. You have a yellow card, and I can’t afford not to have you in the last sixteen. What do you think? I think it’s for the good of the team that you are on the bench.’

On the bench! God, how I hate those words. ‘Yeah, I sort of understand,’ I replied, ‘but I want to play.’

‘I knew you would say that, Steven,’ said Sven. ‘I appreciate how much you want to play, but I have to make the right decision for the team. Let me have a think about it for another day.’

‘OK, boss. If you decide not to play me I’ll understand, but I want you to go away thinking I want to play. I’ve
missed enough World Cup games. I want to play in them all.’

I returned to my room and thought hard about the situation. My hunger for involvement against Sweden was immense. Christ, why did that bloody ref book me for nothing against Paraguay? Without that I would be starting against Sweden. I knocked on Carra’s door and explained the problem.

‘What do you think?’ I asked him. ‘I have a feeling Sven’s going to rest me. I don’t want to be on the bench.’

Carra quickly got to the heart of the matter. ‘But what if you get a yellow?’ he said. ‘Just think of the last sixteen, don’t think of Sweden. If you get booked again and it goes wrong for England in the last sixteen without you, what will you think then? You’ll think, “Why didn’t Sven rest me against Sweden?”’

I was torn, so I decided to wait and see what Sven had to say the next day. The boss came straight to the point. ‘I’m resting you, Steven. I can’t risk losing you for the last sixteen. I know how much you want to play, but I have no choice. We want to finish top of the group. If we need to use you to make sure we get that point, we will.’

‘OK,’ I said. ‘I’m fine with that. Let’s go and top the group.’

Sven then added, ‘I know Frank’s on a booking too, but he hasn’t scored in the first two games. I want to give him another chance to get a goal.’

I understood completely. Sven’s concern over my booking was really a compliment to me.

Reluctantly, I took my place on the bench in Cologne and watched team-mates like Michael Owen line up.
Michael had been subjected to some flak for his first two performances, so he was right up for Sweden. A feeling swept through me that Michael would score. Definitely. I caught that determined glint in my mate’s eye. Been here before, seen it before: Michael means business tonight. I thought back to the Euros where there’d been similar pressure on Michael and he hit back with that great finish against Portugal. He looked focused, sharp and ready to remind everyone of his class.

But then he smashed up his knee barely seconds after the first whistle. I was devastated for Michael, as a friend and also as a player. I felt for his family who were in the stadium, watching their loved one being carried away on a stretcher, his tournament over. Sitting on the bench, I also thought, ‘Sven will get hell for this.’ Michael’s accident exposed the boss’s crazy decision to take only four strikers. If only England had travelled to Germany with five forwards, Sven would not have been slated.