Gerrard: My Autobiography (32 page)

Before kick-off, Becks gathered us together and reminded us what would happen if we screwed up. The fuss over the threatened strike would return with a vengeance. Doubled. Imagine the headlines, lads. We had to get that point. Qualify for the Euros, and we’d go from zeros to heroes in the fans’ eyes again. All teams visiting Turkey need strong bonds between players, and the Rio controversy bolted all the players even closer. All that off-the-pitch unity now needed to be shown in the teeth of a Turkish hurricane.

The atmosphere in Istanbul was crazy. There were 42,000 Turks screaming blue murder at us. Love it. All that hostility turns me on. When I went near the crowd, to pick up the ball for a throw-in, Turkish fans drew fingers across their necks, making as if they wanted to slash our throats. Bring it on. At half-time, it all kicked off between the players in the tunnel. I was one of the last to arrive, because I was on the other side of the pitch when the whistle went. It was typical Turks, ambushing opponents. There was shouting, spitting, pushing and kicking. Alpay, the Aston Villa centre-half, was right in the thick of it. Someone spat at Ashley Cole. By the time I got there, Rooney was sorting out a few Turks. Fortunately, Pierluigi Collina was there to calm tempers. The sight of Rooney, Ashley, Emile and the rest all standing up for each other showed England’s togetherness. Even when Becks missed a penalty, which was given after Tugay tripped me, no-one blamed him. He slipped. Penalty-taking is a lottery anyway, so no-one was going to
dig Becks out. How many times has he got England out of trouble? Countless. We are a family at England, and we look after each other like brothers.

The goalless draw was enough to give us what we’d gone to Turkey for: a place at Euro 2004 in Portugal the following summer. I fancied England’s chances. Good squad, great spirit, and everyone up for it.

WE LANDED IN
Lisbon among the favourites. Our team was settled, with Wayne now established alongside Michael, and the midfield situation sorted following two warm-up games at the City of Manchester Stadium. In the first, against Japan on 1 June, Sven shifted me out to the left of a diamond – a decision that disappointed me. I’ll play anywhere for England, of course. No-one doubts my commitment to my country, but my strengths lie in central midfield. No question. Confronting the enemy head on, getting the ball, bombing on, finishing moves off – that’s me. I envied Scholesy his position at the tip of the diamond against Japan, a real attacking role. I’d have caused chaos there.

Before kick-off, I was presented with a trophy for England Player of the Year – a fantastic gesture from the supporters. I’ve had awards from journalists and players, but this honour was different: it came from England fans who spend their life, and their hard-earned cash, travelling around watching us. My heart swelled with
pride. England Player of the Year! Sounded good. Time to show it was deserved.

Cutting in from the flank, I helped set up Michael’s goal against Japan, but I hated life on the left. I love the centre-stage, not playing out on the fringe. Being moved around was wrong. Sven often used me in different positions, sometimes telling me only hours before a game or changing my role during a match. As a footballer and as a human being, I must feel settled before I can be happy and deliver. I crave the nod days before, so I can work on the role, eradicate mistakes in training, and talk the assignment through with Sven, the coaches and other players. Even good footballers find it difficult to adapt if told their role only twenty-four hours before a massive game. But whinging is not my style. I never raised my unease in public after the Japan game. I just read with interest the debate raging on the sports pages over where I should play for England. No debate, guys. I’m best in the middle. End of story. I do have the legs to play out there, but I’m not John Barnes, beating three and getting crosses in.

Fortunately, diamonds are not for ever. Four days later, Sven restored me to England’s heart against Iceland. We thrashed them 6–1, and I was there to stay. Thank God. By then, Frank Lampard had edged out Butty, so England flew into Portugal with a midfield of me and Lamps in the centre, Scholesy on the left and Becks right. It looked good. ‘This is my midfield for Portugal,’ Sven told us. My sigh of relief was long and loud, although I felt sorry for Scholesy, who got the graveyard shift. I wanted Scholesy to shine on the left at Euro 2004 so Sven wouldn’t banish me out there.

As we checked into our Lisbon base, the Solplay, everything appeared perfect. The hotel boasted all the five-star trimmings. The weather was magnificent, so in our spare time we gathered round the pool to relax, or nipped out for a knock of golf. Every camp needs a joker and we had Jamo, a bubbly character, brilliant at getting the spirit going. In the hours after training or between matches, Jamo always lightened the mood with his dry humour. Spending weeks abroad can trouble players. Boredom and homesickness gets to people. Not at Euro 2004. Anyone feeling down would immediately be lifted by Jamo’s banter. I like Jamo being around. From the outside he can come across as a strange character, but with England he’s like an experienced father-figure, good for advice and a laugh.

Gary Neville is more serious than Jamo, but is just as important to the squad. Always focused, always professional, Gary is the ideal team-mate with England. People think of Gary being Red Nev, a union leader on a mission, but he just stands up for the rights of the England squad. Gary is fiercely protective of the young players, always helping them. He fights for the team, on and off the pitch. At Liverpool, Steve Finnan reaches towards Gary’s level, but in terms of consistency over the years, Gary is the best right-back I’ve played with. Captain of Manchester United, Gary’s a leader, a winner. Sitting around the Solplay, some had doubts whether we would do well at Euro 2004. Not Gary. ‘We can win this,’ he kept saying.

But, inside, we all knew it would be difficult. We weren’t firing on all cylinders. Euro 2004 was do-able, but
we needed to raise our game, individually and collectively. People had high expectations of me, particularly now I was back where I belonged, in central midfield. I was in the holding role, but at least I was central. Having a nation’s eyes on me was not a problem. My club form had been good. But England faced a stiff start, against France, the champions, the team of Thierry Henry, Zinedine Zidane and Patrick Vieira – a familiar opponent from Premiership war zones.

Everyone made England underdogs for this opening Group B game at the Stadium of Light on 13 June. Everyone tipped France to thrash us. France’s team-sheet was pinned up in our dressing-room. Michael and I looked at the names. ‘Fucking hell,’ I said. ‘These are top players. I’ll have to be right on my game.’ I sat down, put my kit on, and as I tied my laces tight I reminded myself of an old saying in football: ‘Respect them, but don’t fear them.’ Spot on. Zidane was class, but we had top players as well. ‘I’m not fucking having this,’ I said out loud. ‘Let’s show everyone what we can do.’ We had Michael. We had Wayne. Wayne! I looked across at him. Not a care in the world. Relaxed, confident, ready for any opposition, however good. He just banged a ball against the wall, first time, bang. Back it came. Bang. Back it went. Back and forth, almost hypnotically. Wayne was just messing about with the ball, as if he were going out for a Sunday League match. He stopped as Sven gave us some last-minute orders. When Sven finished, Wayne also had some instructions. ‘Just give me the ball,’ he told everyone. ‘Give me the ball. I will do it. I want it.’ Wayne wasn’t being big-headed. He knows what he can do. Everything! We had
a chance against France. Wayne would breeze through them.

The atmosphere in the dressing-room ripped into life. Jamo, standing tall in the middle of the room, screamed encouragement. Becks, Gary Nev, Sol – all shouting. Sol is amazing. A great player for Spurs and Arsenal, he really comes to life at tournaments. The moment he stepped into the dressing-room before the French game, he became a different person. A leader, a warrior. So serene around the hotel, England’s Colossus was fired up to face the French. His voice and presence filled the dressing-room. Shouts were now coming from all corners of the room. No-one was quiet. No-one was scared. This was it. France. Vieira. Fucking come on! Door open, into the tunnel, out into the stadium.

Nothing prepared me for the sights and sounds that greeted me. The Stadium of Light held 62,487 that night, and they all seemed to be English. White flags waved everywhere. Even in the French corner, I saw hundreds of England supporters, faces painted with the Cross of St George, singing ‘Three Lions’, not giving a monkey’s they were in the French section. Our supporters are truly fanatical. They launched into the national anthem so loudly the hairs stood to attention on the back of my neck. Controlling my emotions was a struggle. Focus, focus. But the adrenalin was pumping, racing even quicker as I poured my heart into the anthem. Amazing moments. The singing and formalities completed, I sprinted into the middle. This was it. Into battle. Come on, Vieira.

England settled the quicker. All the predictions were
being turned on their head. We passed the ball around well, even taking the lead. One of Lamps’ main strengths is raiding into the box, getting goals. At Euro 2004 he got off to a flier with a fantastic header past Fabien Barthez. Pick that out. That goal was the making of Lamps, filling him with confidence. His first game at his first tournament, and he’d just scored against France. Not bad. I was delighted for him as a midfield colleague, and as one of the nicest blokes I’ve ever met. Good company, good banter. I spent some very enjoyable hours at the Solplay chatting away with Frank, about the tournament and about what was happening at Chelsea and at Liverpool.

France were caught out, sent reeling by the intensity of England’s football. I got stuck into Vieira and Zidane. Frank raced forward. Rooney stretched France, pulling Lilian Thuram and Mikael Silvestre all over the Stadium of Light. France were totally unprepared for this one-man tornado from Croxteth called Wayne Rooney. He battered them. Wayne never looks scared in matches, never hides from the ball. He could be back on the street in Merseyside. We all knew how special he was; that night at the Stadium of Light was the moment the whole world realized England boasted an extraordinarily gifted teenager. A star was born in Lisbon. Since then, Wayne has become the key man for England. He’s such a character and joker around the hotel. He is always up to something. I didn’t know Gazza too well, but I heard all the stories about Gazza’s antics lifting team spirit. Wazza is the same – always smiling, always happy. He’ll wind anyone up. At the Solplay, all the players marvelled at his confidence for someone so young. Rooney knows he is the
main man. When he passed twenty caps, I mentioned to Michael, ‘It’s like he’s got eighty, he’s so settled and relaxed in the squad.’ Tactically, people wondered whether Michael and Wayne could play together. Neither is a natural target-man centre-forward in the old Alan Shearer mould, I know that. But Wayne and Michael are the perfect partnership, a model for the modern era. They actually complement each other superbly. Michael runs in behind defenders, poaching goals – an option if I want to launch it long. Wayne is brilliant between the opposition defence and midfield, always there, always looking for the quick ball to feet, a joy to link with. Wayne can run at players, beat them and set goals up. One of his many runs against France panicked Silvestre into giving away a penalty. Becks missed, but we still felt in control.

Sensibly, Sven sent Emile on for Wayne to see the match out and keep our new strike threat fresh for England’s next game. Our fans were singing, celebrating, generally going wild. We were up and running at Euro 2004, three points surely in the bag. Surely? It still sickens me to record what then occurred at the Stadium of Light. Emile fouled Claude Makelele, Zidane bent in the free-kick, and the life went out of us. Having led for so long, Zidane’s goal was a crushing blow. Heads down. Play for time. Cling to the draw. Keep the point. No more mistakes. Almost there. In injury time, I received possession quite deep in our half and I knew instinctively what to do. Run the clock down, waste time, play it safe. Pass back to Jamo. Shit. Thierry Henry. The great French striker was lurking behind one of our central defenders, and if you are going to hide behind anyone, hide behind big Sol. Once I
played the ball back and realized there was a Frenchman there, I prayed to God it was anyone but Thierry. He’s lethal. I have passed accidentally to Henry since, at Highbury, and when he picks the ball up it can lead only to a goal. Jamo sprinted out, fouled Henry, and Zidane swept in the penalty. From 1–0 up to 2–1 down in the space of two minutes. Nightmare.

A feeling of utter desolation closed in around me. My mistake made me feel so wretched I thought I would be physically sick. I could hardly look at the other England players, or our supporters, as I raced back to the dressing-room. Some of the French players intercepted me, offering consolations. I shook hands and disappeared as quick as I could. I never even swapped a shirt. I couldn’t. I felt ashamed, devastated. I let everyone down. Trying to be clever, trying to hold on to a point, I’d thrown it away. Shit. In the dressing-room, I sat there with my head in my hands. Michael, Becks and the lads tried to comfort me. ‘Don’t worry about it. It’s gone now. Forget about it,’ they kept saying. Kind words. Appreciated. But just leave me to my misery.

From down the corridor came the sound of French celebrations. Their players were singing, trumpeting their victory. Sven made sure the door stayed open so we could hear them. ‘Listen to them,’ someone said. ‘We’ll prove them wrong.’ French crowing spurred the squad on, making us doubly determined to recover from this setback.

As the other players got dressed, I stood in the shower, trying to wash away the frustration, the guilt. Why didn’t I look? England had played so well. My own
performance, apart from the back-pass, was satisfying, but the back-pass made the headlines. ‘Be strong,’ I told myself. ‘Adversity will not kill you. Fight back.’ I phoned Struan, and Dad. ‘Keep your head up,’ they said. I didn’t switch my phone off, or hide from the fact that I screwed up.