Carra: My Autobiography (20 page)

We raced into a 2–0 lead, but our usually tight defence was unbelievably shaky on the night.

After all the emotion and adrenalin in the build-up to the match, at some point during the first half a horrific realization dawned on me.

I was knackered.

The toil of the last nine months had caught up. My mind was giving my body instructions, but it wasn't able to act upon them. I've never felt so vulnerable and exposed when an opponent attacked. Most of us felt the same way. Alaves came from behind four times to take us into extra time. Their fullback, Cosmin Contra, played so well he earned a transfer to AC Milan. We made him look better than he was.

An owngoal by Delfi Geli a minute before the end of extra time won us the cup, 5–4. Gary McAllister floated another perfect freekick into the box, and the defender unintentionally took his place in Anfield history. It was the most golden of golden goals. Yet again the 'lucky' jibes were showered on us. Yet again I ask anyone to watch that final again and try to convince me the best team didn't win.

'This was the greatest UEFA Cup Final of all time,' everyone agreed. The BBC finally had the entertaining football they'd been crying out for. I'd certainly never played in a fixture like it, and was sure I'd never do so again. Cup finals aren't meant to go that way. They're cautious, tight, usually settled by a single goal. 'If we ever reach another European final, it'll be nothing like this,' we told ourselves.

Over the course of that competition, as in the League Cup and FA Cup, we got our just rewards, even if we made it more difficult for ourselves than it should have been. There was always a sense we didn't get the credit we deserved, and we could never allow the extent of our achievement to sink in. No sooner had we won the UEFA Cup than we had a crucial League fixture to prepare for. It was a relentless grind of a season. We were like marathon runners, pausing to grab an energy drink every few miles before dragging ourselves another extra mile. This led to a strange, incomplete sensation following all our cup wins. We were never allowed to bask in the glory or share the full postmatch euphoria of our fans. Each Cardiff success was acknowledged by no more than a team meal, a celebratory speech from the boss which ended with the message 'keep going', and an early night ahead of preparations for a pivotal game days later. We'd simply take a deep breath and start running again.

As young lads, I can't deny a certain level of resentment towards the manager for refusing to allow us to over-indulge on the nights of our victories, even though he was right to do so. Other coaches would have been tempted to allow us one night out, but Houllier was adamant we should wait. Usually you can prioritize certain fixtures during the course of a season and find time for a break. You find yourself out of one of the cups, or struggling in the League, and players subconsciously turn their focus on the trophies they know they can win. There was never a time to stop and reassess priorities during that 2000–01 season. Cup semis and finals were instantly followed by huge European ties or League games that would determine what for many at the club, especially the manager, seemed the most important task of all: qualification for the Champions League for the first time since the Heysel ban.

It had been sixteen years since Liverpool last competed for the European Cup, but we knew it was only a matter of time before we returned. Financially, it was crucial we did so. The silverware brought instant rewards, but as the separation between football's elite and the rest became more apparent, the longer we missed out on the Champions League the more we risked being left even further behind United and Arsenal.

We should have been playing in the tournament instead of the UEFA Cup in 2000–01. Stupidly, we'd failed to win any of our final three matches of the 1999–2000 season, against Leicester, Southampton and Bradford, and lost third spot to Leeds by two points. Had we beaten Bradford in the last game of the campaign we'd have pipped David O'Leary's men and deprived ourselves of the UEFA Cup. That loss in Yorkshire must therefore rank as the best of my career. There was a sense of disbelief at Valley Parade at our failure, but unlike many of our most traumatic defeats under Houllier, this really did prove to be a blessing in disguise.

We had no intention of making the same mistake a year later, but the cup competitions were in danger of distracting us. This is when Houllier's management and organization shone. He was criticized for changing too many players – usually one or two a game – but it ensured we were fresh during the finale to the season. As Manchester United, Arsenal and Chelsea have proved over the years, rotation can work when you're changing the right players and replacing them with ones of similar quality. We were also changing like for like. The spine of the 2001 side didn't alter. The defence and Didi remained intact for the last three months. It was the 'flair' players who were kept guessing, as Steven Gerrard and Gary Mac alternated in the middle, or Stevie moved to the right, while the strikers fought for two spots.

After a demoralizing defeat at home to Leeds on Easter Monday, we won six of our last seven League games while winning two major cup finals. It was an astonishing run, assisted by our most influential players delivering when it mattered most. We didn't just rely on one player as a match winner; throughout that spell different elements of the side grabbed the headlines.

Against Everton at Goodison Park three days after losing to Leeds, Gary McAllister was the difference. This was the derby to beat all derbies. I think my celebrations at the end were even more manic than at Cardiff. We'd gone ten years without winning at Goodison, and how my Blue mates loved to remind me. I still believe had we not won that day we'd have had too much to do to finish third. But it was the manner of victory that was most satisfying. With the score level at 2–2, a thirty-five-yard freekick in injury time allowed Gary Mac to beat Paul Gerrard, tricking him into thinking he'd be drifting the ball into the box instead of shooting. My Evertonian friends are still moaning about it, claiming Gary stole an extra five yards before he took the set-play – as if scoring from thirty-five yards is so much easier than from forty. I was too busy celebrating to hear their boos. I've never felt such delight at winning a Premier League fixture. Only claiming three points to win the title could ever top it. The spirit in our side must have been as thrilling to Houllier as the result itself.

If anyone was to blame for our enforced abstinence following each trophy win, it was the fixture schedulers. In normal circumstances the UEFA Cup Final would have been the last game of the season. For whatever reason, and it was certainly the first time I'd known it to happen, a League game followed both the FA Cup Final and UEFA Cup Final. This denied us a more fitting, traditional homecoming after Dortmund and explains the sense of anti-climax in the German dressing room.

Our epic journey ended at The Valley, home of Charlton Athletic, on 19 May. Only a win would secure our Champions League place, but at halftime we should have been at least 2–0 down. Then Robbie stepped up with a couple of goals and we romped to a 4–0 win. The Champions League spot was ours. To the money men at the club, this was as much a relief as the three trophies. I looked towards Houllier and Thompson, and there seemed to be an even greater sense of satisfaction etched on their faces than I'd seen in Dortmund. The coaching staff were hugging one another and indulging in a tub-thumping, fist-clenching celebration.

Houllier must have felt untouchable then, and who could have blamed him? Regardless of his reputation today, that was a season when the Liverpool manager got everything possible from his players. It was impossible to have achieved any more than we did. Belatedly, all of us could now enjoy the moment and allow an alcoholic influence on the party.

It felt like a career's worth of pinnacles was being condensed into three months. The climax to this campaign was one dizzying high after another, but I was so fatigued that much of it passed me by. Thousands lined the streets when we paraded the three cups on our return from London, although I was so tired I just wanted to escape from my teammates and coaching staff, go home and reflect on my triumph with my family.

This was on my mind as I looked across the sea of red and picked out a banner that read 23 CARRA GOLD – FROM MARSH LANE TO DORTMUND. There it was again, the enduring reminder of where I'd come from and where I was at. The pride in my achievement intensified. It also contributed to making sure I never changed the number on my shirt. I was offered a more conventional jersey when others were sold in the summers that followed. Had I taken it in 2001, it would have been an appropriate conclusion to a season that had begun with my annual worries about being sidelined but ended with a feeling I'd cemented a permanent place in the club's history. I rejected the proposal. Being 23 was more distinctive. Only Robbie Fowler had worn it before me, and I saw no reason to change, especially as the lads had gone to such a grand effort with that flag.

Maybe this was a sign of my growing confidence. As a youngster you pursue the opportunity to be one to eleven, but it was a trivial matter now. I may have been in the team for a while by then, but it underlines how that was the year I truly felt I'd arrived, established myself, provided all the confirmation I needed to of how good I was. I'd proved myself domestically, but now I'd gone to the Nou Camp and won man of the match. I'd gone boot to boot with Rivaldo, Totti and Deco and never flinched or looked out of my depth. I'd spent years knowing who the best players in Europe were, and now a few of them would remember me when our paths next crossed.

Many of the lads had taken souvenirs of our foreign conquests, swapping shirts with those great names. I never bothered. I've always kept my own jersey, unless specifically asked by an opponent, as I've never felt obliged to show a rival how much I respect them. I'd never want anyone I was facing to think I was somehow in awe of their talent. To me, it's a contradiction. I spend ninety minutes committing myself to beating them into submission. Win or lose, I don't want their shirt afterwards. I'd feel too embarrassed to ask. Perhaps this was another indication of how I'd matured as a player.

Breaking into the Liverpool side had forced me to step up a level. The arrival of Houllier and regular European football pushed me to take another jump in class in order to survive. I could never guarantee my long-term future at a club of Liverpool's stature, but now I was confident enough to believe there weren't many out there worthy of joining and taking my place. I felt I belonged on those big stages.

Those three winners medals aren't simply a souvenir of an astonishing few months. They represent the season when we reserved our place in Anfield folklore, and when I began to carve out my career as a one-club man.

'Make yourselves fucking legends,' Phil Thompson had said.

Do you know what, Thommo? I think some of us must have been listening to you.

Sitting on the England coach as it prepared to drive us away from the World Cup in Germany, I received a text message.

'Fuck it. It's only England.'

I'd just missed a penalty in the quarterfinal shootout against Portugal. Around me were the tear-stained faces of underperforming superstars. England's so-called golden generation had failed. Again.

An eerie depression escorted us on the short trip back to the hotel, but as I stared at my phone and considered the implications of the comforting note, I didn't feel the same emptiness I sensed in others.

There's no such concept as 'only England' to most footballers, including many of my best friends. Representing your country is the ultimate honour, especially in the World Cup. Not to me. Did I care we'd gone out of the tournament? Of course I did. Passionately. Did I feel upset about my part in the defeat? Yes. I was devastated to miss a penalty of such importance. Had I really given my all for my country? Without question. I've never given less than 100 per cent in any game.

Despite this, whenever I returned home from disappointing England experiences one unshakeable overriding thought pushed itself to the forefront of my mind, no matter how much the rest of the nation mourned.

'At least it wasn't Liverpool,' I'd repeat to myself, over and over.

I confess. Defeats while wearing an England shirt never hurt me in the same way as losing with my club. I wasn't uncaring or indifferent, I simply didn't put England's fortunes at the top of my priority list. Losing felt like a disappointment rather than a calamity.

The Liver Bird mauled the three lions in the fight for my loyalties.

I'm not saying that's right or wrong, it's just how it is. You can't make yourself feel more passionate if the feelings aren't there. That doesn't make me feel guilty. If people want to condemn me and say I'm unpatriotic, so be it. I played for England because it was my country of birth, I was eligible for selection, and a series of managers thought I was good enough for the squad. It was another chance to compete on the international stage. Playing for Liverpool has been a full-time commitment. What followed with England was an extra honour, but not the be all and end all of my purpose in the game. I saw wearing a white shirt as a chance to represent my city and district as much as my country.

We all hear about the importance of 1966 to the country. For my family, the most important event at Wembley that year was Everton winning the FA Cup. If anyone referred to the glorious images of 1966 in my house, they weren't talking about Geoff Hurst scoring a hat-trick or Nobby Stiles dancing along the touchline with the Jules Rimet trophy, they were recalling Eddie Cavanagh running on the pitch, Mike Trebilcock's two goals against Sheffield Wednesday, and Derek Temple's winner. 'Yes, 1966 was a great year for English football all right,' I'd be told. 'We came from 2–0 down to win the FA Cup. You can't get much better than that. England? Oh yeah, they won the World Cup as well.' Liverpudlians feel the same way about the season as Bill Shankly won his second League title at Anfield. That year's Charity Shield saw players from both clubs parade the World Cup before kickoff, but it was their own silverware that meant more to the fans. That's how we've been brought up to feel, and playing for my country didn't change it.

There was nothing nationalistic about my pursuit of caps. I'd never bellow out the anthem before a game. I don't know what message it's trying to send out. 'God Save the Queen' doesn't get my blood pumping. We sing 'You'll Never Walk Alone' at Anfield, and everyone understands it. It's a rallying cry for standing by one another through thick and thin, wind and rain. Football, or any team sport for that matter, is about togetherness once you cross that white line.

Our nation is divided, not only in terms of prosperity but by different regional outlooks. For some of us, civic pride overpowers nationality. A lot of people in Liverpool feel the same way. I'd stand side by side with supposed rival Mancunians Paul Scholes and Gary Neville in the England line-up, keeping our lips tightly shut as the camera glided along, poking the lens in our faces to see who knew the words to the anthem. I don't know if they felt the same as I did, but a lot of their fans do. For all our differences, this is one area where most Liverpool and Manchester United supporters agree.

Whenever I wore an England shirt, I was colliding with a different culture. There's a split between followers of successful northern clubs such as Liverpool and Manchester United, and the London lads I've played with over the years. If you're born near Wembley, it's a more natural aspiration to play there. It's bred into you. On the streets of Liverpool we have a different view. The clubs represent the lottery numbers and the country is the bonus ball. Playing at Goodison and Anfield was the objective of the lads I grew up with.

I'm sure there are a whole range of social reasons for this. During the 1970s and 1980s, Merseysiders became increasingly alienated from the rest of the country. The 'us' and 'them' syndrome developed, and it's still going strong. I've heard The Kop sing 'We're not English, we are Scouse'. There's no affinity with the national team. While Liverpool as a city suffered economically during the eighties – unemployment was a major issue – our football clubs were the best in Europe. It was the one area where Margaret Thatcher's Conservative government couldn't hurt us. Football was our way of showing the southerners we wouldn't be trampled on. The identity of our clubs is connected to the reputation of our city, so Liverpool and Everton always came first. We were revelling in our region's glory, not sharing it with the rest of the country.

I identified subtle but confusing differences between international and club football as I was growing up. As an Evertonian I was certain I was watching the best players in Europe week in, week out, but international honours seemed unevenly distributed. That didn't just apply to England. It puzzled me how Peter Reid, Paul Bracewell and Trevor Steven weren't acclaimed in this country, but I was equally baffled that Graeme Sharp wasn't Scotland's number one striker. And why wasn't Kevin Sheedy regarded as one of the Republic of Ireland's greatest players? If I could see as a seven-year-old how much better the Everton midfield was, why couldn't the international managers?

Only after Ray Wilkins was sent off during the 1986 World Cup, the first major international tournament I remember, did Reid break into the England team, and they started to play well. My support was for the player rather than the team. I celebrated when Everton's Gary Lineker scored, but when Diego Maradona knocked England out in Mexico, ten minutes later I was outside playing with my mates copying the handball goal. If it had been Everton losing an FA Cup quarterfinal, I wouldn't have wanted to speak to anyone for the rest of the day.

Going to Wembley to watch England was unheard of in Bootle. The thought never occurred to us. I considered England in the same way I did Arsenal or Spurs, as a London club for southern football fans. Wembley might have been the stadium we went to for cup finals, but it still seemed a distant, foreign place, inhabited by a different type of supporter.

I discovered this to be correct when I started playing for England. Although I never had the opportunity to play at Wembley before its redevelopment, even stadiums such as Old Trafford or Villa Park felt unfamiliar on international night. You get this strange, largely subdued atmosphere that only comes alive when England score or attack. There's always a slightly sinister edge, too: you know the mood can shift from euphoric to vicious within the space of a few minutes. If England win, some players still get booed. Over the years, top-class performers such as John Barnes, Frank Lampard and many Manchester United players, all tremendous servants for their country, have suffered, even when the team was comfortably ahead. I dread to think what reaction I'd get from the 'loyal' Wembley faithful if I reversed my controversial decision to retire from international football and answered an SOS.

England internationals are a magnet for fans who are a bit inexperienced, dare I say clueless, when it comes to top-class football. For followers of teams with limited success, particularly in the lower divisions, the national team matters more than for supporters of the top Premier League sides. It's their only chance to travel to Europe and see the best players in action in major competitions. They feel empowered by their opportunity to tell the stars what they really think of them. There's probably an element of club rivalry in the stands too. When Lampard was booed, it was more than likely West Ham supporters, still upset over his move to Chelsea, leading the jeers. 'You'll Never Walk Alone' could never be sung at Wembley during England games because it would be a contradiction. Many top-class England players must have felt lonesome in front of an intolerant eighty thousand crowd.

A superiority complex has also developed. It's presumed England should go close to winning every World Cup and European Championship; failure to live up to this inevitably generates more criticism. But there's no historical justification for it. England's sole success in over a century of international competition is the World Cup in 1966. That was a tremendous achievement inspired by worldclass players like Bobby Moore, Geoff Hurst, Gordon Banks and Bobby Charlton, but for all their efforts we're not the only country to win as hosts. Without demeaning their justly legendary status, home advantage was clearly a major factor.

Since 1966, every time we've played a quality side at the business end of a tournament, we've lost. There isn't one team England has beaten in the knockout stages of a World Cup or European Championship we shouldn't have beaten. More relevantly, there isn't a game where the odds were stacked against us when we defied expectations. Go through the record books and it's there in black and white. In the World Cup, England lost to Germany in 1970, to Argentina in 1986, to Germany in 1990, to Argentina in 1998, to Brazil in 2002, and to Portugal in 2006. There's no shame in those defeats, but where are the upsets? Where are the kind of results we've seen our rugby union side achieve at World Cups, when they turn over the likes of Australia when everyone anticipates defeat? It remains the case for those World Cups when the side's efforts were acclaimed: in 1990, only the 'mighty' Cameroon and Belgium had to be beaten to reach the semifinal. England's European Championship record makes for even grimmer reading. Since a third place in 1968 (that World Cup-winning squad again), in those finals we actually qualified for we've only won one solitary knockout match, against Spain in 1996 – on home soil, and on penalties.

Our overall record places England in a third tier of world football, and that will only change with the help of a radical mental rethink. We'll never be as technically gifted as the South Americans, who learn their football on the streets of Rio and Buenos Aires, yet there are those who still believe we should aspire to play in their style. We're also behind the French, the Italians and the Germans, whose greater nous means they consistently produce in the major events, where it really matters.

France have benefited in recent years from the number of African immigrants who arrived in their country as youngsters, and whose natural athletic gifts they've been able to develop in their academies. Italy and Germany are the countries we should be emulating; their success has more in common with the kind of football I've played at club level, especially in Europe. The will to win at all costs, in players and fans alike, is worth an extra 10 per cent in knockout football. This game is as much about 'knowing' how to win as it is about natural ability.

On the surface, there's no reason why England can't match Italy and Germany. Our league is superior, and no one is going to convince me the Italian side that won the World Cup in 2006 was technically better than ours. We've never mastered the methodical, tactically disciplined approach that is the foundation of their achievements. Crucially, we lack the shrewdness of our European neighbours. I've noticed throughout my career how, in general, the top foreign players think much more deeply about the tactical side of the game. They can see how a game is progressing and instinctively recognize the right time to drop the tempo for a spell, often to walking pace, to keep possession. Then they'll speed it up and go for the throat when the time is right. With England, there's a demand to play in one robust 100 mph style. We're always looking for the killer pass, and there have been occasions when no matter how much the manager tells players it's important just to keep the ball, even if it means the game goes through a quiet patch, the supporters demand it goes forward as quickly as possible, which usually means we give it away. At international level, you can't be successful unless you vary your style, usually in the same match. It's the ultimate test of playing with your brain as much as your feet, and we've failed too often to do so.

I could also be controversial and say the foreign lads know how to cheat better than us, but that makes it sound like a negative. What some call 'gamesmanship', others call 'cunning'. I've seen Liverpool teams adopt the 'winning is the only thing' attitude in Europe, just as the Italians and Germans do so expertly in World Cups, but I've never seen it in an England team. We're not cute enough upstairs, and some of our players and coaches are probably terrified of changing our ways. If one of our players hits the deck when he's only been slightly touched and wins a penalty, or gets another player booked or sent off, we declare a state of national emergency and instigate a witch hunt. I can remember Glenn Hoddle being castigated prior to the 1998 World Cup for daring to suggest our players need to go down more. He was spot on.