Carra: My Autobiography (12 page)

Of all teams, Liverpool were playing Manchester United that day at Wembley, which provided another example of how we'd allowed our rivals to invade traditional Anfield territory. We'd picked up the bad habits Alex Ferguson had successfully rooted out of Old Trafford. In the 1980s, it was Liverpool led by a working-class Scot who won the League most years while the brash, arrogant upstarts from Manchester consistently failed to live up to their preseason promises under Ron Atkinson. Now it was United acting like the old Liverpool while our lads were behaving like those flash United players we used to hate.

The youngsters, like Jamie Redknapp, Robbie Fowler, Steve McManaman and David James, took most of the criticism for those infamous ice-cream Armani suits. They were right to feel offended. The responsibility for the humiliation lay with the older players and staff, who went along with the absurd idea. Put it this way. If one of the young lads in our squad had asked me or Steven Gerrard before the 2006 FA Cup Final to wear a white suit, what do you think our reaction would have been? You're impressionable at a young age. The advice you get from the staff and older players is critical. If someone had been strong enough to say 'You can fuck right off' when the idea of wearing those suits was mentioned, as would happen now, those young lads would have thanked them for it after the game. For the experienced professionals to say it had nothing to do with them won't wash. It's they who should have been showing as much authority as the manager in those circumstances, preventing the more naive players from making a calamitous error of judgement.

I felt particularly sorry for Jamie Redknapp, who had to fight against the Spice Boy accusation for years after. Jamie is one of the few players I've met who shares with me an absolute devotion to football. He was no more a Spice Boy than Robbie and McManaman, but because he was a Londoner and he married a pop star, he was an easy target. Jamie despised the image he was wrongly given. He's one of the most polite fellas you could wish to meet, but it was the one subject that sent him into a rage. Michael Owen's dad gave an interview shortly after his lad broke into the side, and it was headlined 'My Lad's No Spice Boy' with a picture of Jamie alongside. That was obviously nothing to do with Mo's dad, but Jamie went berserk and rang him up to make his point. There was no better professional at the club at the time, no one who took more pride in his performance or worked harder to improve his game. But for injuries he'd have achieved far more than he did at Anfield. Anyone who tries to lump him into the same bracket as a few others at the club at the time is seriously mistaken. That's why Jamie was made captain when Houllier arrived a few years later.

Robbie and McManaman escaped much of the fall-out after the final because their performances were beyond criticism. Everyone knew Robbie didn't buy into the celebrity lifestyle nonsense. He was a normal lad with an extraordinary talent. I became a big pal of Robbie's because we're from the same background, but also because even at the height of his powers he never let it go to his head. While he was banging in thirty goals a season, I was still in the youth side trying to impress. Although I was at Melwood all the time, I'd never spoken to him. He knew me only by my name and appearance. I was walking around town with some friends one day when Robbie appeared, spotted me and simply said, 'All right Carra?' It may seem nothing, three quietly spoken words with a nod of acknowledgement as I walked past. But it made me feel a million dollars in front of my friends, who all worshipped Robbie and now believed he was a mate of mine. I knew after that he was a top lad, so by the time I was playing alongside him it was inevitable we'd get on. He wasn't given the nickname 'God' for nothing. As someone who epitomized how Scousers wanted to be on and off the pitch, his iconic status was deserved.

Steve McManaman was never held in the same regard, but his performances under Evans deserve far more recognition than they're given now. People seem to forget he virtually singlehandedly won two cups for Liverpool. The 1992 FA Cup win under Souness was McManaman's tournament in every round, and he inspired the sole cup success under Evans, the 1995 League Cup against Bolton.

His reputation suffered when he moved to Real Madrid as part of the most high-profile Bosman deal of the time. Liverpool have since benefited from such free transfers themselves. Markus Babbel was one of the most respected defenders in Europe in 2000 when we took him from Bayern Munich without paying a penny, but that tends to be overlooked when McManaman is accused of betrayal by some of our supporters. To pin that on him is an unforgiving and inaccurate reflection of what happened. He'd nearly been sold to Barcelona for £12 million in 1996 but the Spanish club opted to buy Rivaldo instead. He played out his contract and accepted a golden opportunity to join Real Madrid, where he won league titles and Champions League medals. McManaman presumed (correctly as it turned out) he'd never get the chance to win the same honours at Anfield. At that stage of his career he faced the genuine prospect of never playing in the Champions League. If he could make the decision again, does anyone seriously believe he should act any differently? Had Real Madrid had to pay for him, they might not have gone ahead with the transfer. Despite being accused of greed, Macca also lost money to secure the move. He was one of the lowest earners at Anfield, despite being the top player, because he'd refused to sign a new contract. Financially he took a big risk, putting his career before money. I respect him for that.

Robbie and McManaman opened the doors for young players coming through on Merseyside. Not so many had made the jump in the years before them, but their progress signalled the start of a prolific period, with me, Michael Owen, David Thompson, Dominic Matteo and Steven Gerrard soon to follow.

It was my intention to follow their lead to give the first team a solid local base. I could hardly wait for that symbolic moment on a Friday morning when Ronnie Moran took the pre-match meal orders. That's when you knew. There was no summons to the manager's office, or grand announcement of your inclusion. A simple question from Ronnie was all you needed, to know you'd made the squad.

'What do you want to eat tomorrow?'

Those seven words started hundreds of Liverpool careers.

It was the question I was desperate to hear. I'd even rehearsed my answer to make sure I didn't ask for the wrong food.

'Chicken and beans,' I told Ronnie when he finally spoke those words to me.

I had Alan Shearer to thank for my response. I'd read an interview with him a few weeks earlier in which he'd revealed his pre-match meal, so thought I was on safe ground following his example.

First I was an unnamed sub, then preseason friendlies gave me a chance to progress. As if designed by someone above, my first ever appearance in Liverpool's senior team was against Everton at Goodison Park in a practice match in 1996. I was a wing-back, adding another position to my varied repertoire. My dad nearly spat out his Bovril when he saw me running out as I'd been given no prior indication I'd be playing.

I had to wait another six months for my 'real' debut, of course, which came on 8 January 1997 in a League Cup tie away to Middlesbrough. I replaced Rob Jones fifteen minutes from time in a 2–1 defeat. Three days after this I played a full half in central midfield against West Ham at Anfield in a 0–0 draw. Those appearances were swiftly forgotten by the fans, many of whom still believe my League debut came a week later on 18 January when Aston Villa came to town. That was when I made my first start for Liverpool, promising to forge a career as a goalscoring central midfielder.

Patrik Berger's dodgy stomach opened the way for one of those fairytale afternoons you'd lie in bed constructing in your mind but could never imagine would come true. Typically, I arrived at Anfield on the morning of the match expecting to play in one position but found myself starting in another. On the eve of the fixture Roy Evans told me I'd be centrehalf. The club had just signed Bjorn Kvarme from Rosenborg, but his international clearance hadn't arrived in time. I went to sleep preparing to mark Dwight Yorke and Savo Milosevic. Overnight, Kvarme was given the green light to play, but no one at the club thought this information important enough to be passed on to me. But for Berger falling ill, I'd have been on the bench. Instead, I played central midfield. Everything I'd been planning mentally had to be disregarded. Now I'd be taking on one of the most experienced central midfielders in the country, Andy Townsend. He must have felt confident of running the game against an unknown Scouse rookie. I was determined to prove him wrong.

The adrenalin rush as kickoff approached clearly affected my judgement. In my anxiety to get changed and on to the pitch, I put the wrong shirt on. My squad number was 23, a number I've stuck with ever since despite plenty of opportunities to move up the pecking order. I was ready to head out wearing Mark Kennedy's 22 jersey until someone patted me on the shoulder.

The referee's whistle saw me frantically pursue my first involvement, whether it was a pass or a tackle. I clattered into Townsend with a fearsome late challenge after twenty seconds. He did me a favour by getting up straight away. Others might have milked it, and I could have been in the record books for the quickest sending-off in Anfield history. As it was I was booked, which was the second best thing to happen to me that day. It settled me down for the rest of the game. I began to relax, and the nervous energy was channelled in a more appropriate direction.

I was alongside Jamie Redknapp in midfield and acquitting myself well. Then my moment of glory came. For Stig Bjornebye's corner five minutes into the second half I drifted into the box and headed in at The Kop end, the first in a 3–0 win. Off I went towards the corner flag. Of all the preparations I'd considered, celebrating a goal was not among them. You spend years dreaming of such a moment, visualizing how it will play out and how it will feel. It's a once-in-a-lifetime experience you can never explain or understand. Suffice to say, having forty thousand supporters cheering you is spine-tingling.

My dad was in the crowd, sitting next to Fowler and McManaman's parents. They rushed to him and gave him a hug, he told me later.

I gave an interview to
Match of the Day
after the game, trying to give the right impression. 'I know I'll be out of the team when everyone is fit next week,' I said, eager not to sound like a 'big head'. I thought I was saying the right thing, but Sammy Lee told me otherwise. 'Never say anything like that,' he told me the following Monday. 'Make it as hard as possible for the manager to drop you. Don't put yourself down in that way. You're as entitled to a place in the side as anyone now.'

I headed to The Chaucer on the night of the game to be met by a standing ovation, and several re-runs of the goal were given an airing. The evening ended in Aintree's Paradox nightclub as I began to discover what it felt like to hit the town as a recognizable face. Some players feel the biggest moments pass them by, but I've always tried to pause and soak them up.

I'd made the breakthrough. From then on I wasn't just James Carragher from Bootle, I was Jamie Carragher the Liverpool footballer. But plenty of youngsters over the years have made a blistering start only to end up as the subject of 'Where are they now?' features in
The Kop
magazine. The next challenge was to establish myself as more than a one-goal wonder.

And before you get accepted by the fans, or even the manager, you have to become 'one of the lads'. As Collymore found to his cost, this isn't as straightforward as it may seem. There are all kinds of trials and tribulations to undergo, all of which provide as much a test of your personality as ninety minutes against a top striker.

Steve Harkness was responsible for many of my sternest examinations off the park as he pushed my tolerance to the limit with his 'pranks'. He is a good mate of mine, and was a great source of banter in the dressing room. He welcomed me into the squad on away duties by wiping shit all over the door handle of my room. Not the kind of welcome gift you'd wrap up. Harky was also put in charge of looking after me during the soccer-six trip to Amsterdam, which was a good way of ensuring I ended up in the kind of establishments I shouldn't have been in. In one pub at about two a.m. a bouncer the size of a sumo wrestler ordered us to leave.

'Ay you, yer fat bastard,' was Harky's response to the breaking news of an imminent bar closure.

The bouncer towered over Harky, ducked down and fixed a cold stare on him before replying in a Dutch accent, 'Are you talking to me?'

Harky didn't fancy the odds if he continued the conversation.

'No, I was talking to him over there,' he said, pointing behind the Dutchman.

I'd already made my way to the exit, and by the time the bouncer looked back we were both halfway down the road.

The sense of indiscipline may have been frowned upon, but there was no shortage of laughter in that squad. Much as I agreed with many of the decisions that were taken later, there's no doubt the sense of humour was lost when disciplinary measures were taken to a new extreme. 'Banter', as we footballers like to call it, can be a source of team spirit. The more players enjoy one another's company off the park, the more they'll be prepared to help one another on it. The best managers get the balance right between working hard and playing hard, in every sense.