Gerrard: My Autobiography Read online

  About the Book

  Steven Gerrard is a hero to millions, not only as the inspirational captain of Liverpool FC, but as a key member of the England team. Here, for the first time, he tells the story of his lifelong obsession with football, in an honest and revealing book which captures the extraordinary camaraderie, the teeth-grinding tension and the high-octane thrills of the modern game as never before.

  A relatively private figure, Steven has rarely spoken out in public. Now, his legions of fans are allowed an intimate glimpse of what makes their hero tick. He describes for the first time the torturous will-he-won’t-he Chelsea rumours – and his undying passion for Liverpool. We experience first-hand the highs of winning in Istanbul and elsewhere, as well as the lows of being parted from his much-loved family and friends. And, of course, the book contains a full blow-by-blow account of England’s World Cup campaign in Germany 2006 and Liverpool’s 2006-07 season.

  Steven Gerrard’s book is the definitive football autobiography. Like its subject, it’s honest, passionate and exhilarating. If Steven Gerrard isn’t your hero yet, by the time you’ve read this he will be …

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Acknowledgements

  Picture Acknowledgements

  Dedication

  1 Born to be Red

  2 Growing Up and Toughening Up

  3 Clocking on at the Dream Factory

  4 Teenage Kicks

  5 Liverpool Heaven

  6 England Calling

  7 Love and Hate in Spa

  8 Make Mine a Treble

  9 Tackling a Problem

  10 Three Lions, Two Beers and One Swede

  11 Good Guys and Bad Buys

  12 Darkness in Basle

  13 Stars and Strikes

  14 Pleasure and Pain in Portugal

  15 Feeling Blue

  16 The Long and Winding Road to Istanbul

  17 The Miracle

  18 Feeling Blue Again

  19 Three Lionesses: Alex, Lilly-Ella and Lexie

  20 Millennium Magic

  21 Frustration in Germany – the 2006 World Cup

  22 My Future

  23 Athens, Andorra and the Altar

  Picture Section

  Career Record

  Index

  About the Author

  Copyright

  GERRARD

  My Autobiography

  Steven Gerrard

  Acknowledgements

  This book is for the people who make my world go round: for my wonderful partner Alex, and my precious daughters Lilly-Ella and Lexie, for my loving parents Julie and Paul, who have always been there for me, and for Paul, the brother I idolize. Struan Marshall has always been a good friend as well as my trusted agent, and his assistant, Kathryn Taylor, has been fantastic.

  I’m eternally grateful to everyone at Liverpool Football Club for giving me the chance to live my dream. I know I’ll never walk alone.

  I’m grateful to Henry Winter of the Daily Telegraph and Paul Joyce of the Daily Express for listening to my story and recording it so faithfully. The Transworld team have been terrific, led by editor Doug Young and his assistant Emma Musgrave. I’d also like to thank other members of the Transworld team: publisher Bill Scott-Kerr, copy-editor Daniel Balado-Lopez, publicist Alison Barrow and jacket designer Steve Mulcahey. Many thanks also to Ged Rea and Dave Ball for supplying the statistics of my career with Liverpool and England.

  Picture Acknowledgements

  The page references in this section correspond to the printed edition from which this ebook was created.

  All uncredited images are © Steven Gerrard.

  FIRST SECTION

  Page 1

  Portrait: © Alan Clarke.

  Pages 4 and 5

  Dave Shannon and Liverpool youth team; training at Melwood; SG and Dave Shannon; SG with Liverpool trainees and Steve Heighway, Dave Shannon and Hughie McAuley; SG in changing room with Dave Shannon, Hughie McAuley and Michael Owen: all courtesy of Liverpool Football Club Academy.

  SG and Michael Owen in England blazers: © Steven Gerrard.

  Pages 6 and 7

  SG with Lilly-Ella at Anfield: © Empics.

  Page 8

  SG and Lilly-Ella in Germany and SG with Alex Curran and Lilly-Ella: © Empics.

  SECOND SECTION

  Page 1

  SG and Gérard Houllier: © Empics.

  Pages 2 and 3

  SG and Jamie Carragher; SG and Jose Mourinho; SG and Rafael Benitez; SG and Stan Lazaridis; SG with referee Barry Knight and Paul Ince; SG tackles Garry Naysmith: all © Empics.

  SG, Danny Murphy and Robbie Fowler with FA Cup: © Action Images/Darren Walsh.

  SG scores against Alaves: © Empics, Robbie Fowler, SG and Sami Hyypia during a parade: © FP/MC Reuters, picture supplied by Action Images.

  Pages 4 and 5

  SG in Basle; SG scores against Olympiakos; scoreboard at Champions League final; SG scores first goal against AC Milan; SG brought down by AC Milan’s Gennaro Gattuso: all © Empics.

  Pages 6 and 7

  SG lifts Champions League trophy; SG waves from tour bus; SG and Rafael Benitez carrying the Champions League trophy; SG scores his side’s 3rd goal against West Ham United during the FA Cup final: all © Empics.

  Page 8

  SG lifts FA Cup: © Empics.

  THIRD SECTION

  Page 1

  SG and Kevin Keegan; SG and Sven-Goran Eriksson; SG and Michael Owen: all © Empics.

  Pages 2 and 3

  SG scores against Germany; SG and Wayne Rooney training; SG plays a backpass England v. France; SG and Carlos Paredes of Paraguay; SG scores his side’s 2nd goal against Trinidad and Tobago; SG and Wayne Rooney in Germany: all © Empics.

  Pages 4 and 5

  SG replaces Wayne Rooney: © Phil Cole/Getty Images. SG scores his side’s 2nd goal against Sweden: © Empics. SG celebrates his goal: © Stephane Reix/For Picture/Corbis.

  Pages 6 and 7

  SG at England v. Ecuador: © Action Images/Reuters/Alex Grimm. David Beckham celebrated by his team-mates after scoring against Ecuador: © Empics. SG and Ecuador’s Luis Valencia: © Empics.

  Page 8

  SG and Portugal’s Cristiano Ronaldo: © Action Images/Tony O’Brien Livepic; SG with dejected Rio Ferdinand, Gary Neville and Jamie Carragher: © Empics; SG dejected: © Action Images/Tony O’Brien Livepic.

  Dedication

  Every time I drive into Anfield, I slow to a crawl as I pass through the Shankly Gates. My eyes are drawn towards the Hillsborough Memorial. I see the tributes to the ninety-six Liverpool fans who never returned from that FA Cup semi-final in 1989. I see the scarves left by visiting fans, signs of respect that lie alongside wreaths placed by families whose tears will never dry. I see the flame that burns always, reminding the world that the ninety-six will never, ever be forgotten.

  As my car inches past the Memorial, I look down the names of those who fell on the Leppings Lane End, never to rise again. My eyes stop at one name. Jon-Paul Gilhooley, ten years old, the youngest of those who never came home from Sheffield. A fan who died following the team he loved. A boy whose life was snatched away just as it was starting. Crushed to death in a stand unfit for human beings. I knew Jon-Paul. He was my cousin. A shiver runs down my spine. I make the sign of the Cross and drive on.

  I park the car and step into Anfield still thinking of Jon-Paul, his parents, and how lucky I am. I was nearly nine when Hillsborough took Jon-Paul from us. We were separated by a year and a bit in age but united in a passion for football. Jon-Paul adored Liverpool with the same fervour that fills me whenever I pull on that red shirt. We were so alike.
Similar Merseyside estates, similar interests. Jon-Paul joined in the kickabouts on the street outside my house in Huyton on the edge of Liverpool, proudly wearing his Liverpool strip. The club meant the world to Jon-Paul.

  As with all people across Merseyside, Saturday, 15 April 1989 is forever scarred in my mind. Liverpool FC was a religion in the house I grew up in so the moment we heard something had happened at the game we quickly gathered around the television to watch the news. Me and my dad Paul, my mother Julie and brother Paul sat there, staring disbelievingly at the pictures. We listened, shaking, to the grim details emerging. I couldn’t take it in, the sheer horror of Hillsborough. None of us could comprehend the carnage. Why? How? Who? So many questions. The atmosphere was bad in our house that night, really bad. Each of us kept repeating the same anxiety: ‘I wonder if anyone we know went to the game. God, please let there be no-one.’ Eventually, I went to bed. I climbed the stairs and threw myself down on the bed, hoping for sleep to banish my thoughts. No chance. The images from Hillsborough kept me awake. Finally, in the early hours, I slipped into an uneasy sleep.

  At half-eight the following morning, there was a knock at the door. I ran downstairs and undid the lock. Granddad Tony stood there. Without a word, he walked into the front room. The rest of the family began stirring, and soon we were all in the front room waiting for Granddad to talk. We all knew something was wrong. Granddad lives over the road and is not the type to be out and about at 8.30 on a Sunday morning. ‘Our family has not escaped Hillsborough,’ we thought. The look on Granddad’s face told us something terrible had occurred.

  ‘I’ve got bad news,’ he said. ‘Jon-Paul is dead.’

  Tears, anger and confusion tore through all of us. We hadn’t known Jon-Paul was at the game. He went to Anfield all the time, but an FA Cup semi-final was a special treat. Granddad explained: Jon-Paul’s mum, Jackie, had somehow managed to get a ticket. She knew how much it meant to Jon-Paul to see his heroes in such an important match. It was only in Sheffield, barely seventy miles away. And he so wanted to go. A friend of the family took Jon-Paul. They set off from Liverpool that Saturday morning, all buzzing with excitement, but Jon-Paul never returned. Never returned from the match. Those words will haunt me for ever.

  The bleak process of post-mortems meant that Jon-Paul’s funeral was quite a while after Hillsborough. I didn’t go to the funeral because of school. Well, that was the reason I was given. Actually, I’m sure Dad didn’t want me to attend the funeral. My parents wanted to protect me. I was just a kid, struggling to understand that my cousin had died supporting the team we both adored.

  I had just started at Liverpool’s Centre of Excellence and training was cancelled for a while after Hillsborough. When we finally resumed, I could tell from the shocked look on the coaches’ faces that this was a disaster that affected a whole club and a whole city. Hillsborough was the talk of my family for months afterwards. Even now, seventeen years on, we still touch on a subject that remains raw and painful.

  Whenever I saw Jon-Paul’s parents during my Youth Trainee Scheme days at Anfield, it gave me an extra determination to succeed. Just before I made my Liverpool debut, they said, ‘Jon-Paul would be so proud of you.’ During that match, I felt Jon-Paul was looking down on me, pleased I was fulfilling a dream we both shared. In the thrill of victory, I always think of Jon-Paul and about how buzzing he would be over a Liverpool win. It breaks my heart every day just to think Jon-Paul is not here any more.

  Liverpool were brilliant with Jon-Paul’s family. They were so caring and helpful towards all the people who lost loved ones at Hillsborough. They still are. Liverpool are a compassionate club with roots that go deep in the community. I remember Jackie once telling Dad how well the club treated them. Every year, on the anniversary of Hillsborough, Liverpool hold a service at Anfield. It’s compulsory for players to attend. Rightly so. The team must show their respects to the ninety-six. In 2005 I felt really fluey, but I went. No way would I miss the Hillsborough service. It is part of my life.

  The players normally meet up at our Melwood training ground and take the team bus to Anfield. During the journey, I talk to the foreign lads who don’t understand. ‘Where are we going?’ they ask. ‘What are we doing?’ They have heard of the Hillsborough disaster, but don’t know the full story. I fill them in, and they sit there, speechless with shock. I explain that there was a lot of anger over what got written after Hillsborough, which is why the worst offender, the Sun newspaper, will never be seen at Melwood, Anfield or in my house. Every Liverpool fan is completely against the Sun. I’m a Liverpool supporter so I respect their views, and I also lost a member of my family at Hillsborough. I won’t touch the paper. The foreign players are very respectful. I have never known any of them not to want to pay their respects. They always go to the service. That’s a credit to them and to Liverpool, a sign of the deep respect even new players feel for the club.

  The trip is strange for me. I travel with the team yet when I arrive I see my family and all the thoughts about Jon-Paul come flooding back. For me, it’s not a professional duty going to the Hillsborough service; it’s desperately personal. I stand there, my head bowed, as a grieving relative as well as the team captain. Liverpool usually open the Kop, where Jon-Paul and many of those who died used to spend their Saturday afternoons. The service lasts a couple of hours. We sing hymns, say prayers and mourn for the ninety-six. In 2006, I did the reading, which I found incredibly emotional. Occasionally at the services, I speak to Paul Harrison, who used to be Liverpool’s reserve keeper. Paul lost his dad at Hillsborough. Terrible. I cannot imagine being without my parents.

  The families are very good at supporting each other. At Liverpool, You’ll Never Walk Alone. Our famous club song is more than a string of words and a great tune; it is a pact between people. We stand together in good times and bad. The people who run the Hillsborough Families’ Group deserve so much praise. They want justice and they just won’t give up, which is completely right. There are families across Liverpool with an empty seat at their table, an untouched bedroom upstairs. These families deserve justice. I fully support the campaign because I want it myself. We should know exactly what happened at Hillsborough, and who was to blame. Action should be taken against those in authority who let ninety-six innocent people die. My cousin died at Hillsborough, and he has not had justice. When I warm up at Anfield, I see the ‘Justice for the 96’ banner and I nod passionately in agreement. The government should hold a proper inquiry. Only then can the families of the ninety-six sit at home and mourn, knowing justice has been done. Only then can they tend their loved ones’ graves knowing someone has been brought to account for this terrible tragedy. A tragedy that could have been avoided.

  Hillsborough must never be allowed to happen again. No-one should lose a life or a relative at a football match. Every time I see Jon-Paul’s name cut into the cold marble outside the Shankly Gates, I fill with sadness and anger. I have never let anyone know this before, but it’s true: I play for Jon-Paul.

  1

  Born to be Red

  CUT MY VEINS open and I bleed Liverpool red. I love Liverpool with a burning passion. My determination to reach the heights at Anfield intensified when poor Jon-Paul passed away. Also fuelling my drive to succeed was an accident I suffered during my school days. My career was nearly destroyed before it started. All my dreams of starring for Liverpool and England, of lifting European Cups and shining in World Cups, rested on the skill of a surgeon when I was only nine.

  Anfield was already my first love and my second home. I’d been there a year, training with Michael Owen at the Vernon Sangster Sports Centre, learning my trade, when a calamity hit me that left me in hospital fearing for my future. Even now, I shudder at the memory of what took place on a patch of grass near my house on the Bluebell Estate of Huyton, Merseyside.

  It was just a field, surrounded by bushes, a mess really. The type of place where people threw their rubbish without a second thought. Me and my ma
tes didn’t care. All that mattered to us was the grass was half-decent for a game of shootie. We were on it night and day, summer and winter. To us kids, that scrap of wasteground was Anfield, Goodison and Wembley rolled into one – a heaven on earth. One Saturday morning, early doors, I was kicking about on the strip with a kid from our street, a boy called Mark Hannan. We’d sorted out the pitch. It wasn’t exactly the Bernabeu, but it was home. A mate nicked some nets from his Sunday League team, cut them in half, and rigged up two seven-a-side goals. Perfect.

  So there was me and Mark, having a dead good kickabout, when the ball flew into some nettles. No problem. I ran across to fetch it. ‘I’m not putting my hands in there,’ I shouted to Mark. ‘I’ll get stung.’ I couldn’t see the ball. The nettles were too thick. ‘I’m going to have to kick it out.’ So I pulled my footy socks up and put my leg into the nettles to kick the ball out. It wasn’t coming. I gave it a really good welly with my right foot, my tin-opener, the one I shoot and pass with. I kicked fast and deep into the nettles.

  Agony. Total agony. My foot hit something. Jesus, the pain was merciless. I nearly had a heart attack. I fell down, screaming for help. In my career I’ve had smashed metatarsals and torn groins, but honest to God, I have never felt pain like this. Like poison from a needle, it shot up my shins. Mark sprinted over. ‘I don’t know what it is, Mark,’ I yelled. ‘I can’t see it. My leg won’t come out of the nettles.’ Mark looked. Christ. All the blood drained from his face. He’s going to throw up, I thought. How bad is it? I looked down and couldn’t believe my eyes. A garden fork was embedded in my big toe. Straight through my trainer and into my foot, no stopping. Some nugget tossed this rusty fork away, and it got lodged in the nettles. The handle wasn’t there, just the metal prongs, and I had kicked right into them. I felt the prong go in, burrowing into the bone.