Gerrard: My Autobiography (30 page)

THE MOST DEPRESSING
point in my relationship with Gérard Houllier came in the pretty Swiss town of Basle on 12 November 2002. Everyone in Liverpool’s colours needed all their energy and focus for this massive Champions League tie, the most important game of the season, but my head wasn’t right. For some time, I’d been a moody bastard. Tension between me and Gérard built and built. When the boss took me off against Spurs at Anfield on 26 October, I snapped. Straight down the tunnel, no acknowledgement. Straight into the dressing-room, door slamming, boots flying, absolutely steaming. I hate being hooked, however rubbish I’m playing. For Christ’s sake, not in front of the Kop, where my mates are watching. When the fourth official holds up my number it feels like a judge passing a sentence. Game over. I have no control; I have to leave the pitch, and everyone stares. Not good enough today, Stevie lad. The humiliation kills me.

Storming past Gérard at Anfield pissed him off big-time. The boss immediately sent Doc Waller to come and
get me. ‘No chance,’ I told the doc. ‘I’m staying here.’ Doc Waller caught the fury in my eyes and knew he would need an army to budge me. I was selfish, I knew that, but I just want to do my best for Liverpool and I can’t if the manager subs me. I stayed in the dressing-room, alone with my anger. Gérard went mental and fined me. Even an apology couldn’t repair the damage. He put me on the bench against West Ham, and then subbed me at Middlesbrough. What a mess. As we flew out to Basle, Gérard wasn’t in my good books, and I wasn’t in his.

It was my fault. My form wasn’t right. Bad problems off the pitch distracted me. I couldn’t tell anyone at Liverpool because it was too personal. Mum and Dad were splitting up. There was trouble in the house, arguing, fighting. I love my parents so much it was desperate to watch them tearing each other apart. Shit. It was supposed to be perfect. I had bought a house in Whiston and the three of us lived there, with Paul, my brother, keeping Ironside. I was gutted Paul didn’t come with us. Family means everything to me, all together, sitting around and laughing, under one roof. I wanted the magic of my Ironside childhood to last for ever. However crazy my life became with Liverpool and England, I wanted that protective wall of my family around me. But Paul decided to stay at Ironside. Still, there was Mum, Dad and me living together. Together. That’s what mattered.

Family life at Whiston seemed great to start with. The better I did on the pitch, surely the better life should be at home? That’s how I thought it would work. We had money, a nice house, each other. Mum and Dad weren’t working, so it wasn’t as if they were spending time
apart. They were always close. What could go wrong?

Everything. People fall out of love with each other, I suppose. At first, I didn’t know my parents were quarrelling. They kept it from me, didn’t want to upset me, didn’t want to disrupt my career. But they couldn’t hide the tension for ever. I found myself getting dragged into their nightmare. When I came back in from Melwood or a match, I heard the arguments which they quickly tried to stop when they realized I was home. I tried to speak to them about it, tried to help, but they were too far down the road to breaking up. Even now, looking back, it still rips my heart apart. I just wanted everything to be perfect, for everyone to be together. No fights. No rift.

The turmoil at home destroyed my game. My form hit a brick wall. As I pulled my boots on and did up my laces, my thoughts were miles away. In training and matches, all I could think about was that two people I adored were going their separate ways. The split happened over a couple of months, and I couldn’t handle it. It felt like a bereavement. Only one word can describe my life as winter approached: carnage.

Before we flew out to Basle, Gérard hauled me into his office at Melwood. He’d had enough. He wanted to find out what was bugging me. I walked in to be confronted by Thommo, Sammy Lee, the goalkeeping coach Joe Corrigan and head scout Alex Miller, as well as Gérard. Christ, they looked like a bloody firing squad standing there. Gérard opened up first: ‘What’s eating you, Steven? Is your family all right?’

I stared at the floor. I should have talked, but I didn’t feel comfortable. Not in front of them all. My silence
goaded them. One by one, they each got stuck into me. They hit me with so many questions it was like being punched in the face time after time. ‘You are not training good enough,’ said Thommo. ‘You are sulking around the place,’ Corrigan chipped in. ‘You are down, not yourself, always snarling, not happy,’ added Miller. ‘Has it all gone to your head?’ Gérard asked. ‘Do you want to talk?’ said Sammy. ‘Have you got problems at home?’ The questions and criticisms kept coming, wave after wave. I was hanging around with the wrong people; I’d got too big for my boots. Question after question. What the fuck was going on? A goalie coach was having a go at me. A chief scout was laying into me. Fair enough if it were Sammy, Gérard or Phil. I could accept that. But this mass interrogation was all wrong. I can take criticism, but this was five grown men, pointing their fingers at me, slaughtering me.

Incensed, I struggled to control my fists. I was that close to attacking them. ‘Have you lot finished?’ I finally said, and walked out the room. Steaming. How could I possibly stand there and tell five men that my mum and dad were fighting? Every time I thought about it a lump came into my throat. I didn’t want anyone to hear about our family problems. I trusted Gérard with my life, but I didn’t want to tell him about Mum and Dad and then add, ‘Don’t say anything to anyone.’ It would have looked like I didn’t believe he could keep quiet. So I kept my problems to myself and just took all the shite off the management staff.

I revealed my anguish to one person. In Basle, I shared a room with Danny Murphy, and I told him everything about Mum and Dad and Gérard’s firing squad. Danny endured the same grief with his parents. He understood
the pain I was going through, how it affected my football. Danny was superb. I would not have survived that Basle trip without him. ‘Don’t worry,’ said Danny. ‘You’ll get through. Be strong. Just forget what’s happening for a moment and go out and play.’

Amazingly, I started against Basle. After the ruck with Gérard and his staff, I assumed I would be on the bench again. The boss played me in my favourite position, too, central midfield, but I was shocking. Not focused. Not involved. Not at the races. Every pass I made went to a Basle player or into the crowd. I wasn’t running enough. I felt so detached, as if I was watching someone in a horror film. Gérard might just as well have put me in with the fans. Liverpool needed a big performance from me. We had to beat Basle to reach the knockout stages of the Champions League. But my mind was elsewhere. I looked around St Jakobs Park and just wanted to be back in Whiston, trying to keep Mum and Dad together. With me off the pace, Basle grabbed a three-goal lead by half-time. And my night was about to get even worse.

In the dressing-room, I was scarcely through the door when Gérard shouted, ‘Steven, shower.’ That was it. Me off. Fuck’s sake. All the lads felt embarrassed because I looked stupid. If a player has a nightmare, a manager can react in two ways at half-time: either give the player another five minutes so the subbing doesn’t appear that bad, or humiliate the player by not allowing him out for the second half. Gérard should have allowed me five more minutes, just to give me a chance to make some impact. I deserved better treatment than being shown up in front of the team. Gérard had embarrassed me like that before,
bringing me on and taking me off in the same game against Newcastle. That pissed me off no end. This was worse, far worse.

Corrigan walked into the showers. ‘Keep your chin up,’ he said.

‘Fuck off,’ I told him. I was in no mood to talk.

I stood there in the shower, listening to Gérard giving instructions for the second half. It was mission impossible. ‘Salif, I want you in central midfield where Steven was,’ Gérard said. Salif Diao? That made my subbing even more shaming. Even if I was playing on a four out of ten I could do what Diao did. In fairness to Salif, he did help turn the game round. Liverpool pulled three goals back, through Danny, Vladi and Michael, which made me look even worse. Afterwards, when the staff came into the dressing-room, I just walked into the toilets and stayed there while they talked to the boys.

We stopped the night in Basle. The next morning I got word Gérard had had a pop at me. The boss told journalists, ‘Once a player starts to believe everything that is written about him and thinks “I am king of the world”, there is difficulty and danger.’ Basically, Gérard questioned my commitment, suggesting I was a Big-Time Charlie who enjoyed the reflection of his own image. Bollocks. At the airport, I sought out Joycey, who I knew would have been at the press conference with Gérard. Joycey would give it to me straight, no bullshit.

‘You’re not going to like the papers in the morning, Stevie,’ he said.

Christ.

‘Did Gérard really say all that shite about me thinking I was king of the world?’ I asked.

‘Yes.’

I was steaming. All the journalists had their heads together, working on what was a massive story. The headlines were going to kill me. I sat on my own on the plane. Not in the mood for company. A few players came up and said, ‘Fucking hell, Gérard didn’t need to do that.’ Everyone knew, and the papers weren’t even out yet.

The next morning, the stories were as brutal as I feared. Gérard accused me of reading too many headlines. I certainly read these ones he whipped up. I talked to two people I trust, Chris Bascombe of the
Echo
and Liverpool’s press officer, Ian Cotton.

‘Did Gérard say it the way it has been printed?’ I asked them.

‘Yes,’ Basco and Cotton both replied.

I needed to know for sure. Sometimes a manager’s words get twisted on the way from a press conference to a headline. Not in this case.

When he called me, Gérard claimed it was typical press overreaction. ‘I had a go at you in the press, but they blew it out of proportion,’ he said. Bollocks. Gérard meant every word. It wasn’t malice. The boss just wanted to shake me out of my poor form. In Gérard’s mind, he’d tried every angle, from one-on-one talks with me to the full firing squad, and nothing lifted my depression. Basle was the last resort, the shock tactics, and it hurt like hell.

Liverpool managers have always kept criticism in-house, saying things privately to players rather than slagging them off in public. What Gérard did in Basle
broke the code. At the very least he should have warned me what he was planning to tell the media, not throw an unexpected bomb at me in a crowded press conference. Managers must be careful what they say to the media. What happened in Basle showed a lack of respect on Gérard’s part. I felt badly let down. My phone was red-hot with calls from the team. Everyone was saying or texting how shocked they were by Gérard’s action.

‘Go and see him, he’s out of order,’ said Robbie.

‘It’s not normal what the gaffer’s done,’ agreed Jamie Redknapp. ‘What are you going to do?’

‘I fancy going to Melwood and slaughtering Gérard to his face,’ I replied.

‘Be sensible,’ said Jamie. ‘Be careful what you say. Don’t go in there and be too harsh.’

Gary Mac gave me good support as well. So did Struan. My dad hit the roof when he picked up the papers.

‘What the fuck is going on?’ he asked me. ‘I know why you’re not playing well. It’s not because you are a bad player, or have the wrong people around you. It’s because of what is happening in our house between me and your mother. Doesn’t Gérard understand that?’

I couldn’t reply. It was too painful.

‘Doesn’t Gérard know?’ Dad said again.

I shrugged my shoulders. ‘I’ve not told him,’ I replied eventually.

‘It’s our fault, and
I
am going to tell Gérard,’ Dad said.

‘No! Leave it!’

‘Come on, Steven, either you tell him or I will.’

‘I’m not.’ I was really upset by this time. I felt trapped.

Dad was livid. ‘Give me Gérard’s number.’

‘No.’

‘Right, that’s fucking it. I’m going down the training ground to have it out with him.’

I couldn’t stop Dad. He was out the house before I could react. I hoped he would calm down and have second thoughts as he drove there. No chance. Straight down to Melwood, straight up to Gérard’s office, knock on the door, and in. Nothing was going to stop Dad saying his piece. He was raging. He explained everything to Gérard and Thommo. ‘It’s mine and Julie’s fault that Steven’s off his game,’ he told them.

While Dad was in there, I got a call off Boggo. ‘Stevie, your dad’s in with Gérard.’ I was gutted people knew my old fella was in the boss’s office. My mobile went again. It was Gérard, asking me to come in for a meeting. I rushed over.

Dad was just sticking up for me, I know. When I got back to Whiston, I thanked him. He knew how unhappy I was. Dad knows me better than anyone. ‘I haven’t seen you smile for ages, Steven,’ he said. ‘You are not the happiest of people anyway! But I can tell.’ Dad got everything out in the open, and from then on my form came back sharpish. I felt as if a huge stone weight had been lifted off my chest. I was grateful to everyone at Liverpool for keeping news of my parents’ split quiet. No-one outside the club or house knew. Mum and Dad broke up, but it was not an aggressive fall-out in the end. They just sat down, talked, and went their separate ways.

Merseyside buzzed with gossip about me, all of it bullshit. It was the usual ‘rumour city’ stuff. People claimed Gérard worried about me hanging around with lads who
took drugs. Throughout my career, I have heard all sorts of sneaky stories linking me with drugs. Struan calls and says, ‘I have had another journalist on, saying he’s got a story about you and drugs.’ Lies, all lies, a million miles from the truth. This drugs slur needs nailing once and for good. I have never taken drugs. Never. Coming from Huyton, I know people who do drugs. Drugs are rife, a sad fact of life, a curse for many, but I have never succumbed. After Basle, I got really pissed off about being linked with drugs on the Merseyside grapevine. I spoke to Robbie, a mate who suffered similar smears. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Robbie. ‘I’ve had it all the way through my career.’ Robbie is good at giving advice. I took all the rumours about me with a pinch of salt because I knew they were all rubbish. Sad people dug around for stories, but there was no dirt on me.