#2Sides: My Autobiography (2 page)

When I was a kid I sometimes went to QPR games with my Dad – and I insisted we arrive early. Why? Because I wanted to see the pre-match warm-up. To me, the warm-up was better than the game because I’d see Ray Wilkins practising long passes. He’d hit beautiful balls down the line and I’d think: ‘the ball doesn’t make that sound when I kick it.’ I’d then go home and practise and try to make the sound Ray Wilkins made. But I could never do it so I had all these questions. Does he strike the ball differently from me? Are we using a wrong ball? Is it because my boots aren’t kangaroo skin? Nowadays kids come home from a game where they’ve seen a great player and they ask different questions.

‘What car did he leave in?’

‘What colour was it?’

‘Was it a Ferrari?’

One day at West Ham our centre-halves didn’t turn up for a game so the manager turned to me and said, ‘Could you just play there this week?’ I was about 15 at the time and my position was central midfielder, but fair enough. I did as he asked. I must have played well because after the game he said, ‘Listen; I want you to play there next week, too.’ I wasn’t happy about that! In fact every time he asked me to play at the back I’d have a sulk about it. Soon it was all the time. I suppose defending came naturally to me but it certainly wasn’t a pleasure. What I liked was dribbling and passing and shooting and scoring goals … and here I was stuck having to win the ball then give it to other people to do all that stuff!

I had a strangely unfulfilled feeling after games, even when we won. I thought: ‘Yeah but I didn’t do anything.’ All I did was stop other guys scoring. Where’s the fun in that? It carried on like that for years. In fact, all through the entire early part of my career I got no buzz out of blocking shots or breaking up goalscoring opportunities. I liked doing bits of skill or a good pass, or running with the ball. Admittedly, I did enjoy racing against a forward and beating
him for speed. But the art of defending just left me cold. Even playing for England I still wasn’t actually
enjoying
defending. If my team lost I wouldn’t be too upset as long as I’d ‘done something’ in the game. I’d go home to my estate and watch
Match of the Day
with my mates and say: ‘did you see my bit of skill?’ I’d be proud of some trick or something I’d done against Alan Shearer, say, and wouldn’t think about the fact that he’d scored a goal or got behind me.

It wasn’t until I went to Leeds that my attitude began to change and mature – and my game really started to improve. I have to thank David O’Leary, the Leeds manager, for helping me. When I decided to leave West Ham, Chelsea wanted me but I realised I needed to leave London. I had to get away from the bright lights and all the invitations to nightclubs I found so hard to refuse. When I met the chairman, Peter Ridsdale, he talked about money and I wasn’t listening. I was sitting there thinking, I don’t really care about the money. I’m sure it will be more than enough. All I want to know is will David O’Leary make me a better player? I said, ‘Listen, Mr Ridsdale, with all due respect, I’d rather just speak to the manager please.’ So I did and I asked him what he had in mind. What did he see in me? Where could I improve? And all his answers were what I wanted to hear. He promised to make me a better footballer. He was saying things like: ‘I want you to work harder, I won’t give you any easy stuff. You’ll work extra after training. You need to improve your heading and your concentration and the way you approach games.’

A key moment came when I got injured in the first minutes of an FA Cup game against Cardiff. One of their players went over the ball and twisted my ankle. In truth, the damage was done before the match. A few of the lads had sawn Paul Robinson’s shoes in half, and were generally messing around. It was just a stupid bit of banter while we were having a laugh in the changing
room. When I got hurt on the field the manager told me it was my own fault. He said: ‘You got injured because you were messing about before.’ He explained that I had to go into games with my mind right, ready and focused, respecting your opponents. He said I couldn’t expect to just switch my concentration on and off like a light bulb. I had to prepare long before the game. It was a break-through moment for me.

I always looked forward to playing against the best players. If I was facing Michael Owen, I’d be thinking, ‘Let’s see how quick he really is, I can’t wait to race him.’ Against Dion Dublin or Les Ferdinand or Duncan Ferguson, who were all good and aggressive in the air. I wanted to test myself against Dion Dublin or Les Ferdinand or Duncan Ferguson, who were all good and aggressive in the air. So I’d go into those games excited. The bigger the game, the higher the reputation of my opponent, the better I liked it.

But I still had a lot to learn – as I discovered during the World Cup quarter-final against Brazil in Shizuoka in Japan. For one thing, I went into the game with far too much emotion. Brazil was the international team I always supported after England; I loved them. So to play for England against Rivaldo and Ronaldo, who were the best players in the world at that time, was a dream. Added to that, all my friends and family were there. I could hear Mum shouting ‘Rio, Rio’ and I knew my Dad, brothers, sisters and my girlfriend Rebecca were all in the stadium, and … well, it just all got too much for me. As the national anthem played, I started welling up. I was way too emotional and, as a result, the game kind of passed me by and I didn’t impose myself as I should have done.

That was a really important lesson. Ever since then I’ve made it a rule never to let that happen again. Don’t get emotionally involved, don’t get caught up in the atmosphere or the game will pass you by. You just have to shut off from everything. The moment you start hearing what the fans are shouting you think
‘Woah, I’m not in the game, I’m not in the right frame of mind here’ and concentrate harder. Of course, there are times when you just can’t get into that mode but sometimes the game takes care of that for you. The intensity can force you to concentrate, or maybe you’ll have a battle with someone, or you can talk yourself back into the right frame of mind.

That Brazil game taught me another lesson too. There was a moment of brilliance between Rivaldo and Ronaldo that left me open-mouthed. You can still see it on YouTube. Ronaldo was in the inside left channel just outside the box and played the ball to Rivaldo, then went towards the goal for a one-two. Naturally, I turned and, head down, sprinted towards goal because I thought this was going to be a race between him and me. But he’d sold me a dummy! He’d started to run, then checked, and gone back for the one-two to feet. While I was running towards goal like an idiot, he’s gone back and made himself space for a free shot. I thought ‘Bloody hell! That’s different to anything I’m used to!’ And that’s when I thought I’ve still got loads of work to do if I’m going to be a world-class defender. But I loved that trick because it showed me the next level. It made me think, I need to do more. I’ve always learned more when I’ve failed at something. That’s where a big chunk of my character has come from. The idea of being comfortable and satisfied with any achievements always scared me, because if I became satisfied, my foot would come off the gas, my standards would drop and success would dry up.

You’re always learning and developing. I remember Frank Burrows, the reserve team manager at West Ham when I was growing up, always telling me to talk to the players in front of me in a game: ‘You’ve got to talk to them, push them around, make your life easier.’ At one level I understood what he was saying but I couldn’t do it as a young player. It didn’t help that I never felt I was
an out-and-out defender. If we were losing they’d always put me up front to score a goal. So I still had an attacking frame of mind. More importantly, at that age I didn’t concentrate well enough, and I didn’t know when or where or how to give instructions.

My game improved a lot at Leeds because I was playing and training with better players and, being out of London, I had time to kind of think about the game a bit more and a bit deeper. But somehow, after that World Cup, it all just clicked into place. I don’t know why, but I suddenly got it: this is a serious business and I need to make sure that everything’s on point. And that’s when I naturally started talking and moving people about on the pitch. Later at Man United, Nicky Butt even complained ‘fucking hell, man, all I can hear is you shouting at me left, right, left, right!’ He was kidding of course. People like Nicky and Owen Hargreaves told me I started making their lives much easier by talking. They didn’t have to look around for people so much because I was telling them who to mark, when to block off a pass or whatever. People really started to put their confidence in me. I’d kind of blossomed and it all came together. Ever since, talking and organising people on the pitch has been an important part of my game. Paul Scholes or Michael Carrick or Giggsy or Darren Fletcher or anyone who’s played in front of me will tell you that all they can hear in training or in games is me screaming and shouting. And of course helping them helped me.

It took me a while to adapt to United when I arrived from Leeds. The first training session is when you’re most anxious. The most nerve-wracking thing isn’t when you go out and play in front of tens of thousands in the stadium – it’s when you go to the training ground and are training for the first time in front of your new teammates. You want to gain respect and show them that you are good enough to be there. At first I made the mistake of playing
cautiously, making sure I didn’t make a mistake. In training one time, I passed an easy square ball to Gary Neville and Roy Keane just ripped into me. He said: ‘Listen; stop fucking playing safe, play the ball forward, you’re not at fucking West Ham or Leeds now. Fucking play the ball forward.’ My first reaction was: ‘why’s he attacking me? I’ve passed the ball to a teammate, I haven’t given it away.’ But, thinking about it, he was right: we were there to win, not coast. You’ve got to take risks if you’re going to win.

There were loads of things like that to work on: I had to reach their higher level. It was a question of pushing, developing and growing all the time, testing yourself, stretching. Some people might go into their shells but I’ve always embraced challenges so, in a way, it was perfect for me. The sheer quality of that squad improved me. I was training against Ruud van Nistelrooy, Louis Saha; Ole Gunnar Solskjaer, Ryan Giggs, David Beckham. Later it was people like Rooney and Cristiano Ronaldo. You either sink or swim when you’re in the water with people like that. My professionalism had to go up because I couldn’t risk getting embarrassed. So my clubbing days had to be over immediately. I still went out. Don’t get me wrong. But only at the right times.

Meanwhile, David James introduced me to a brilliant sports psychologist called Keith Power. I only had about a dozen sessions with him but he changed the way I approached games. One crucial thing he taught me was visualisation. I started preparing myself mentally days before a game. I’d see my first header, my first tackle, my first pass, my first run down a channel against my opponent. When these things came up in the game, it was already in my mind and I knew what to do. The morning of a match I’d do the same thing. And it really worked. For example, I’d see myself in a stadium playing against Raul. He’s left footed and I know he likes to come in on his left foot, so I’d picture him getting the ball,
turning, shooting with his left … and me blocking the shot. Or I’d see myself going up for my first header against Kevin Davies … and winning that ball.

Mostly, though, I improved because I was testing myself every day against fantastic players. Louis Saha was one of the hardest to play against. He’d be stepping on your toes, shooting off either foot; he was quicker than anyone else. What made him even harder to face was his opposite movement, meaning he’d run for the ball, then run behind you. And Scholesy would see him every time and put the ball on a sixpence for him. That was ridiculously hard to deal with. Louis was fantastic. I’m convinced that if he hadn’t had injuries, he’d have been a top, top player. It was all good experience and I learnt so many lessons. The intensity was always higher than at my previous clubs. And the will to win was ferocious. In training, you absolutely had to win your individual battles because everyone had a big ego. When you arrived at Carrington, you’d hear the chatter. If someone got nutmegged he became an object of ridicule. You did NOT want to be the guy everyone was laughing at! So there was always something to play for. The players pushed each other to improve, and if we slackened Alex Ferguson or Carlos Queiroz would step in. One time we were doing a positional drill and it was wasn’t as intense as it should have been. So Carlos stopped the training and was sharp with us: ‘if you don’t want to train, go inside. Do it properly.’ We didn’t like him sometimes because he used to get on our nerves. The training could be boring. But we really missed him when he left. He was one of the best coaches I worked with because he had such a clear picture of how he wanted you to play.

When I was younger at West Ham, I was always quicker than any forward I played against. So, when the other team had the ball, or one of their midfielders or forwards was making a run, I
used to say to myself: ‘I’ll give this guy a yard, then race him, beat him and then get the applause.’ When I started playing in Europe I had to change. The ball comes in quicker, opponents identify space quicker, get their heads up quicker and pass the ball quicker. More importantly, if they get in on goal they don’t need extra touches to get the ball under control. They take one touch then … bang! You have no time to recover. So I learned to stay goal side. I couldn’t rely on my pace because I’d get caught out at the highest level.

Whatever stage you are at in your career you have to keep learning and developing and solving new problems. When I was a kid with West Ham I’d be facing a certain type of forward, then you get into the first team and there’s bigger, stronger people to deal with. Guys like Mark Hughes and Les Ferdinand could roll you, use their strength to ease you out of the way and then they’re facing your goal with the ball and you’re on the floor. So, I had to read situations like that. Sometimes I’d tap someone on one side of his body when the ball’s coming in, so they think I’m coming that side, then go round the other. You’d be working to get little things like that in your game all the time. Neil Ruddock used to say to me, ‘Go down their back with your studs from the first header when the ball goes up.’ So sometimes the ball goes up, the referee’s watching the ball, and you jump with your leading leg, and you put your studs down their back. And then sometimes, the striker won’t come near you for the rest of the game. Sometimes you do stuff like that if you’re having a hard game. You try and do something a bit cute and hope the referee won’t see it, just so that forward recognises that you’re not messing about. But I’m not one for blood and thunder and lots of flying around. I always relied on being a bit smart, trying to do things a little bit differently to get the upper hand.