Gerrard: My Autobiography (34 page)

And he wasn’t the only one considering his future.

THE GOOD TIMES
would roll with England again, but my career stalled at Liverpool. No question. I was running across quicksand. Striving to move forward, I found myself sinking deeper and deeper into mediocrity. A sense of depression blew into my life like a dark cloud that would not go away. Frustration bit deep. I hated constantly worrying over whether Liverpool would qualify for the Champions League, the playground of Barcelona and Real Madrid, AC Milan and Juventus. Names that inspire. Names Liverpool’s history demand we mix with. Michael and I shared one fear: playing for a club that wasn’t among Europe’s elite. ‘We have to be in the Champions League,’ I told Michael. ‘We have to. I can’t stand watching it on television.’ Michael agreed. He and I both knew that Liverpool, the club we loved, was falling away from the top three of Arsenal, Manchester United and Chelsea. Everybody kept mentioning it. Pick up the paper and read, ‘Liverpool are thirty points behind the leaders.’ Turn on the radio and hear, ‘Liverpool are
going nowhere.’ Flick on the telly and listen to some pundit calling Liverpool also-rans.

Thirty points. The number kept turning over and over in my mind. It chilled my blood. I hated all the verdicts, but I couldn’t fight the truth: the final Premiership table for the 2003/04 season showed Liverpool thirty points behind the champions, Arsenal. A massive margin. Doubts filled my waking hours. Did Liverpool have my ambition? Did we have the players to compete seriously for the Premiership and Champions League? Questions, questions. I certainly questioned my future at Anfield. Should I leave? Could I tear myself away from the club and city I love so passionately? Chelsea had ambition, resources, a bright new manager in Jose Mourinho, and they obviously wanted me. In the summer of 2004, temptation entered my life.

Another kick in the teeth was getting knocked out of the UEFA Cup by Marseille in the quarters on 25 March 2004. Christ, that pissed me off big-time. The UEFA Cup is nothing special, an ugly kid brother compared to the handsome Champions League, but it is still a trophy, still a winner’s medal. Emile scored early on against the French, we controlled the game, but then Igor Biscan made a stupid mistake and got sent off. Marseille took over and we were out, thanks to Biscan. Liverpool would have won the UEFA Cup that year but for that tit’s shirt-pulling. We would have played Newcastle in the semis, Valencia in the final, and beaten them both. I was livid.

Liverpool were stagnating under Gérard. Everyone could see it, inside and outside Anfield. Shortly after the end of the season, Gérard was dismissed. I was devastated
for him, but not surprised. Liverpool went backwards after the Treble. Fact. Gérard leaving was for everyone’s benefit. After six years, he needed a different challenge, and Liverpool needed a new manager to freshen things up. I needed to play for a new manager. Rumours were rife in the press that I had been on to Rick Parry, Liverpool’s chief executive, and told him it was time for Gérard to go. Bullshit. Those stories insulted me, and Rick. Captaining the team was my responsibility, choosing the manager was the board’s.

The parting of the ways between Liverpool and Gérard made sense, but it was still painful to watch. I hurt bad. Gérard was a father figure to me, and that bond was now severed. A little part of me died when he left. He cared for me. Typical Gérard, when I called him to commiserate, he was more worried about me. ‘Steven, you are at a fantastic club,’ he said. ‘You are going to be one of the best players in the world. Trust me. Just keep going, keep learning. And do not worry about me. I will be all right.’ Gérard is a good, honest man, and I am so made up we have stayed in touch. He did so much for my career. My respect for him will always remain strong. Before big England and Liverpool games, he always calls, telling me to be relaxed, wishing me all the best. ‘How’s the family?’ he asks. A great man. I also still speak to Gérard’s old assistant, Patrice Bergues. His sessions were really good, keeping everyone involved, no standing still. When he told me I was doing something wrong, I knew he was right. Patrice knew his football. Patrice had already left for Lens. Now Gérard had gone as well.

A couple of days after Gérard’s departure, Rick called.
‘Steven, can I have a chat with some of the senior players?’

‘Yes, Rick, not a problem.’

‘Get some of the lads over, and I’ll be round.’

By then, I had moved to Blundellsands, so Rick came there. Most of the lads were busy, but I rustled up Carra, and we sat there and talked football with Rick. Usual stuff: ambitions, players we rated, teams on the rise. Suddenly Rick said, ‘What are the players’ feelings on another foreign manager coming in? Are there any problems with it?’

‘No,’ I replied. ‘The majority of the players had a great relationship with Gérard. We won a Treble under him. If another foreign manager came in, took the club forward and brought success, then fine.’

Rick nodded. Liverpool’s board were clearly thinking of appointing another overseas manager. One fear nagged away at me, a concern I had to voice. ‘Rick,’ I said, ‘I’m English, and I will always edge towards an Englishman coming in. They know who I am.’ And after six years with a Frenchman in charge, many Liverpool fans wanted an English manager. The
Post
and
Echo
were crammed with supporters’ letters pleading for an Englishman.

Rick paused, looked at me, and said, ‘What do you think of Rafa Benitez at Valencia?’

My eyes lit up. Foreign, yes, as Spanish as tapas, but what a coach! I smiled at Rick. ‘I’d go for Benitez.’

Rafa bloody Benitez! Me and Carra were excited by the possibility of Benitez coming to Anfield. Rick was clearly delighted.

‘Why do you rate him?’ he asked.

‘Simple,’ Carra replied. ‘We’ve played Valencia three or
four times and been murdered every time. Benitez is a top coach. Valencia play good football and win things.’ I agreed. I watch a lot of Spanish football on the telly, and Valencia broke the stranglehold that Barcelona and Real Madrid had on Spain. With little time and money, Benitez transformed Valencia. ‘Tactically, Valencia are the most difficult side I have ever played against,’ I added. ‘They give you no space to play. Great organization. We just couldn’t get the ball off them. We knew we couldn’t beat them the moment we kicked off. Valencia were fitter than us, physically stronger, and very strong mentally.’

Could Benitez do that with Liverpool? Why not? No-one expected him to overturn Barca and Real in La Liga, but he did. So what was to say Benitez couldn’t give Man U, Chelsea and Arsenal a run for their money? Uncertainty still nagged away at me, though. Could one man really revive Liverpool? Would I remain stuck in a cycle of struggling to make the Champions League?

I flew into Portugal for the European Championship with a bag full of troubles. Anything to declare? Yeah, mate, a ton of doubts. If I was homesick in Euro 2000, I was distracted at Euro 2004. Head screwed up. Concentration difficult. My mind kept flicking back to events at Anfield. If I learned one thing in Portugal, it was to go into future tournaments focused solely on the job in hand. I admire players who carry on performing no matter the distractions in their life. I can’t. My head must be clear. I never set Euro 2004 alight because I was thinking about Liverpool. After training or matches, I’d be on the phone home, wondering what was going to happen to Liverpool and me. Friends and family kept calling and
telling me about the latest club I had been linked with in the papers. Chelsea, Real Madrid; Chelsea, Inter Milan; Chelsea, Barcelona; Chelsea, AC Milan; Chelsea again. It did my head in. ‘Are you staying?’ Dad asked. ‘Are you going?’ asked Paul. God knows.

A fire of speculation raged, and I ended up burnt. My football went to pieces. No-one was to blame for my crap performances at Euro 2004 except me. My fault. Mine alone. I let England down. Shit, I’m sorry. I screwed up big-time. I was naive, inexperienced, incapable of handling all the rumours about my future while busting my lungs for England. I let down the players, the fans and Sven. On and off the field in Portugal, I was edgy. In the England hotel in the middle of a massive tournament was the worst time and place to learn top clubs were chasing me. Real Madrid definitely sniffed around. Arsenal, too. Both Milan clubs, and Barcelona. Fact. Everybody mentioned Chelsea because their owner, Roman Abramovich, is loaded. Many clubs were in the hunt, and all of them made their interest known through the papers, dropping little hints here and there. I couldn’t pick up a paper without reading how much Real or Chelsea wanted me. When I should have been getting ready for kick-off, my thoughts drifted away into imagining what it would be like playing for Chelsea or Barcelona. Arsène Wenger, Jose Mourinho and Sir Alex Ferguson talked me up before the tournament, so I knew they fancied signing me. Fergie even did an amazing piece in the
Sunday Times
in which he called me the ‘most influential player in England, bar none’. Bloody hell!

If that comment wasn’t enough to make me realize
United were after me, an incident during Euro 2004 confirmed it. I was hanging around my room at England’s Solplay Hotel in Lisbon, catching some football programme, when there was a knock at the door. I opened it, and one of Fergie’s players stood there. He came in and said straight out, ‘We’d love you to come to United.’ That’s how clubs’ interest was expressed to me. The Arsenal, Man U and Chelsea players in the England squad kept coming up and saying, ‘Are you coming to us?’ I had no problem with that. It wasn’t unfair of them to approach me. The boys respected me as a player and wanted me in their team. I’ve done it myself. I’ve approached players. I’ve said to Wayne Rooney, ‘I’d love you to come and play for Liverpool every week.’ That’s not me tapping Wayne up, that’s me showing my huge respect for Wayne. Come on, Wayne, come and play in my team. I love Wazza as a player. He’d be fantastic up front for Liverpool. Me on the ball in midfield, finding Wazza. Me running forward, Wazza finding me. Goal! I still dream of Wayne pulling on a proper red shirt. I’m not sure the Kop would be so keen, though!

That knock at the door made me realize all the top managers thought there was a race on for me. And that race couldn’t wait until after Euro 2004 in those managers’ minds. I was target number one, and it got messy. All the other players in the England squad thought I was leaving Liverpool; it was just a case of clarifying my destination. Of course, I was flattered. Big-time. It felt like I was back in the playground picking sides. But it shattered my focus on Euro 2004. Struan, as usual, tried to help. ‘Right, Stevie, we are not going to talk about your
future,’ he said early in the tournament. ‘Leave it for now. Anything in the papers, anything that anyone says, any approaches from the England lads, leave it until the tournament finishes.’ Good plan, impossible to achieve. I could hardly tell close family to shut up whenever they mentioned a story in the papers to me. ‘Barcelona are after you.’ ‘Chelsea definitely fancy you.’ ‘Hey, Stevie, Wenger’s interested.’ And always, ‘What the fuck is going on?’ My family love me, and they were concerned about me, about my happiness and my future.

It pissed me off that my family had to read bollocks in one paper during Euro 2004 that Carra battered me. The story said Carra and I fell out over all the uncertainty between me and Liverpool. We had a fight, the paper claimed. Carra came to my room with the paper and said, ‘Have you seen this shite?’ At first, we both laughed about the idea of us having a fight. ‘Who won?’ I asked Carra. We read the piece. Carra had, according to the paper. Well, that’s another lie! I’d quite fancy my chances against Carra in a one-on-one! Really, though, it was no laughing matter. Carra and I did our best to squash the rumour straight away. We put something in the
Liverpool Echo
, stressing what good friends we were, and even joked about getting in the ring for charity. Coming in the middle of Euro 2004, this story of a divide between me and Carra definitely wasn’t helpful. It set my family and friends on edge, and some of the other England players read it and thought it could be true. So this 100 per cent complete nonsense was damaging. When I first came through at Liverpool, Carra was really close to Michael, but we immediately hit it off. When Michael and Danny Murphy
left Liverpool, Carra and I lost our two best mates in the team so we bonded a lot more. Our relationship has got stronger and stronger over the years. Yet this story about Carra and me fighting cropped up every so often. We even got Liverpool’s press guy, Ian Cotton, to look into it. It just seemed the papers were hell-bent on stirring up trouble between me and Carra because of the tension between me and Liverpool. No wonder I was distracted at Euro 2004.

Sven was concerned as well. ‘Are you OK, Steven?’ the boss asked one day. ‘You seem a bit quiet. You seem to have a few things on your mind.’ Sven knew. Having Sammy Lee in the England camp, where he helped out with coaching, probably alerted the boss to my problems. ‘Try to focus on the tournament,’ said Sven. ‘Whatever you decide, just make sure you make the best decision for yourself, not for anyone else.’ This was hardly eye-opening advice, but I appreciated Sven’s guidance. He didn’t suggest where I should move to, he just encouraged me to think clearly. ‘Steven, the demand for top players like you is unbelievable,’ he added. ‘You are already at a fantastic club in Liverpool. But I’m not surprised all the top clubs are after you. The most important thing is to keep playing well. If you let all the speculation distract you, the top clubs won’t want you.’

No-one at Anfield called. I didn’t really expect them to. Rick Parry’s position was clear from what he was telling the papers: Liverpool wanted to keep their captain. Anyway, Rick was busy appointing Rafa Benitez as Gérard’s successor. Rafa was unveiled on Tuesday, 16 June, and Liverpool’s new manager flew out to Portugal
on the Friday. He clearly wanted to talk to me, Michael and Carra. On the flight, Rafa sat next to Gérard, who introduced him to my mum. She was flying out for England’s game against Croatia on the Sunday. Rafa shook Mum’s hand and said, ‘Does Steven like money?’ First question! Unsurprisingly, Mum was taken aback. She wasn’t expecting a question like that from someone she had just met. It annoyed me, actually. It was unfair of Rafa to ask Mum a question about my money. It’s got nothing to do with her. But that is what Benitez is like. He is mad on learning a player’s mentality. Rafa was just trying to find out from Mum whether or not I was motivated by money. Behind the scenes, he was busy doing his homework on me.