Carra: My Autobiography (23 page)

When I was subbed during our second game, against Trinidad and Tobago, my friends and family started to get upset on my behalf. 'Fuck off Eriksson, you shithouse,' was my dad's response to the decision. If he'd known he was sitting next to Sven's son at the time he might have been more restrained.

In the final game against Portugal, I thought my chance to play in the middle would finally come when John Terry picked up an early injury. Eriksson turned towards the bench and gave the call.

'Sol, get ready.'

The seeds of imminent international retirement were planted.

For my family, it was going to take more than the minor inconvenience of England's mediocre performances to stop the entertainment at that World Cup. The motto of the Gallacher family from the TV show
Shameless
might as well have been amended and daubed in graffiti on the hotel walls of Baden-Baden during the 2006 World Cup: 'The Carraghers understand one of the most vital necessities in life. They know how to throw a party.'

In their honour, English journalists dubbed the temporary home of the players' families 'The House of Scouse'. My guests were the only England fans who were smiling whatever the results. It's a wonder I ever concentrated on my football as I was taking phone calls from the FA following the latest 'incident' involving the WAGs and the FAFs, which is what my 'crew' called themselves. Friends and family. I don't know what friends and girlfriends would have been called.

I was still emptying my suitcase prior to the tournament when the first call from the FA arrived.

'Jamie, I'm afraid there's been a problem in one of the rooms booked under your name. It appears someone was keeping awake all the residents by singing anti-German songs.'

Four weeks later I was packing my bags and wondering how I'd missed my pen when the final bulletin was handed to me.

'Jamie, I'm afraid there's been another problem in one of the rooms booked under your name. Someone has thrown a bucket of water out of the window directly on the heads of some journalists who were sitting below.'

By now, I had only one response.

'Thank fuck this World Cup is over.'

The families, especially mine, had all the fun. While England's players laboured their way past Trinidad and Tobago and Ecuador, I often felt I was in the wrong hotel. I'd head down there as much as possible, usually armed with the latest discarded training strips which I'd swiped from the team's base. Our kit men would dump all our used gear in a room on my floor, so I'd pop in every morning with a few carrier bags and fill them up. The FA staff must have been bemused by the sight of all the families walking around town with official England training tops on, some of them with the initials JC, DB, MO and SGE.

The WAGs were hilarious. Their unofficial queen, Posh Spice, adopted my dad as her bodyguard. What a pair they made. My dad first met Victoria Beckham in Portugal in 2004. He admitted being struck by blind panic as she walked towards him in the hotel lobby. He was on his way to the laundry room and got so flustered as Posh approached, he dropped all his dirty washing. He found himself on all fours desperately trying to retrieve his smelly underpants as Posh strutted past in her designer outfit and high heels. By the time of the 2006 World Cup Posh had enlisted his help to protect her from journalists. When she needed someone to give the paparazzi a threatening scowl, she'd find him in the bar.

Neville Neville, Gary and Phil's dad, was my dad's drinking partner. In fact, it was he who introduced Posh's dad to mine.

'This is Mr Adams,' said Neville.

My dad started talking about the Arsenal team of the late eighties and early nineties until it was pointed out it wasn't Tony's dad.

'I thought he looked a bit young,' my dad said.

Some of the girlfriends lapped up the publicity. I know a few of them were tipping off the photographers about where they'd be eating or drinking of an evening. I'm glad to say my Nicola has never sought the limelight like that.

'Are you going shopping again?' the paparazzi would ask her as she left the hotel.

'No, I'm taking my kids to McDonald's for their tea,' she'd shout back.

Even that would make
Granada Reports
, the local TV news show.

Everyone wanted a night out with the Carraghers, and there were many funny exchanges, as my family had to do little to confirm predictable Scouse stereotypes. When my brother Paul was discussing the hotel set-up with Paul Robinson's mum, he was hit by one.

'It's an amazing place,' Paul said to her. 'The way we've got security guards on every floor is brilliant.'

Robinson's mum gave Paul a cheeky grin and joked, 'I thought you'd be used to that, coming from Liverpool.'

There was a suggestion the presence of our families was a distraction. It's a daft theory. If having your wife and children near you before and after a big game can make you lose focus, I'd like to know why so many of us have performed so well for our clubs in Europe over many years. I slept in my own house the night before some of the biggest home games I've played with Liverpool, and it didn't seem to do any harm. As excuses go for our poor performances, blaming it on the fact we could see our wives and girlfriends in between games has to be one of the lamest.

Apart from the WAGs and FAFs, a few JAGs (journalists and gobshites) shared the hotel. Although many players distrust the press, it made a refreshing change. Apart from a few minor altercations it was a success to mix the families with the journalists. A lot of clubs and countries would consider this a huge no-no, but if you put a barrier between players and reporters it creates unnecessary tension and gives certain writers the freedom to go overboard. Reporters will take a more sensible, less sensationalist attitude in their writing if they know they've got to have breakfast with the wife or parents of a player the next day. Criticism of the England team is part of the job, it's the personal stuff that's avoidable, and 90 per cent of the journalists covering the national team didn't overstep the mark, even though the team's performances weren't very good. At a World Cup, it's also important for everyone to be able to differentiate between those who are reporting solely on the football and those who are there for other purposes, like the paparazzi or showbiz reporters. Most of the families appreciated the chance to get things off their chest, and even left Germany respecting reporters they thought they'd hate.

My dad had an issue with Matt Lawton from the
Daily Mail
. Lawton had referred to one of my poor early England performances in order to criticize me in one of his articles. 'Why are you still going on about a game that was four months ago? Don't be putting shit in the paper about my lad,' my dad warned him, though not so politely. By the time of the World Cup they were able to shake hands and resolve their differences.

Most reporters I know are passionate supporters who want the best for their team, but at times they can go a bit too far, particularly with England. I've had few problems with the media throughout my career. The only gripe I have is the 'marks out of ten' syndrome. It's utterly pointless, annoying, and can definitely impact on a player's confidence. I've heard players seem less concerned about the manager's opinion and more worried about what mark they've been given in a Sunday paper. If all sports editors could grant me one wish, it would be to get rid of this stupid marking system.

Disturbingly for us, the biggest story of the 2006 World Cup was almost the journey home on the plane, which nearly didn't land. Players from Liverpool and United took a connecting flight to Manchester from Heathrow, but the stormy conditions were atrocious. As the plane dipped from side to side there was a moment when all of us genuinely feared we weren't going to make it. On the plus side, the plane was rerouted to Liverpool John Lennon Airport. I tried to remain calm to reassure my children James and Mia, but most of the women and children were screaming.

'Try and keep quiet,' I shouted. 'The kids are getting terrified.'

There was someone screeching in terror towards the back of the plane. I'd never heard howling like it before. Even my two-year-old daughter had never created such a noise.

'Whose child is that?' I asked Nicola.

When I looked myself, I noticed it wasn't an infant. Head in his hands, ducked into the safety position, was an inconsolable England and Manchester United superstar. It was Wayne Rooney.

Thoughts of international retirement grew as soon as I returned to Liverpool. Only two things stopped me there and then.

First, Steve McClaren's appointment excited me more than others. I figured an Englishman might recognize and trust my qualities more than another 'outsider'. If I'd felt I'd have to prove myself again, I wouldn't have bothered. I'd enjoyed working with McClaren when he was assistant manager. His training sessions were similar to those of Taylor with the Under-21s, full of fresh ideas.

I admit I had some doubts about his step up, though. There are times when promoting from within works, but so soon after the Eriksson era, with everyone, including the players, fancying a change, the timing was tough for McClaren. He had to handle a lot of the baggage from the World Cup. You always felt his toughest task was earning the respect a new England manager deserves. His early results and performances made it doubly difficult. There was no honeymoon period for him, but I was initially optimistic about my future under his leadership.

I also delayed quitting because I felt my form was as good as ever heading into 2006–07. John Terry is one of the best central defenders in the world, but over the previous two years I thought he was the only English centrehalf who'd played better than me. I was confident I could challenge Rio Ferdinand for the second central defensive spot. Sol Campbell had been left out of McClaren's first squad, so I'd pushed ahead of him in the queue. A potential vacancy was there. All I needed was a chance. If I was given one big game alongside Terry, I was sure we'd be so formidable as a pairing the manager would have to keep me in. The opportunity never arrived. McClaren called up Jonathan Woodgate, and then he selected Ledley King ahead of me when Ferdinand was absent in what became my final international involvement, in Estonia in June 2007. Five days earlier I'd been sent back to fullback on my Wembley debut against Brazil. That Brazil game sealed the deal for me, but I wasn't prepared to cause a stir ahead of an important qualifying game. McClaren was oblivious to how upset I was, but when I was overlooked again for King I couldn't wait any longer.

All this came at the climax of a season when I felt my game was better than ever. I'd won man of the match against Barcelona, the most destructive attacking force in the world. McClaren had been at Anfield on the night we kept out Ronaldinho, Messi and Eto'o in the Champions League. Still I couldn't play centre-back for my country.

Enough was enough. I called McClaren shortly after the Estonia trip and told him I wouldn't be available for England the following season. He was shocked, and pleaded with me to delay my decision. 'I promise you'll play the full ninety minutes against Germany at centrehalf,' McClaren said, referring to the forthcoming friendly. 'In my mind, you are third-choice centre-back.'

I was taken aback by how surprised he was, but I'd rehearsed my responses.

'If I'm really third choice,' I said, 'why didn't I play in the middle against Brazil and Estonia?'

There was no comeback to that.

His vow to pick me next time didn't make me feel better. I wouldn't be in the team on merit, but because I'd forced the manager into a corner. That wouldn't have been right or fair on the other defenders. If I'd played badly in the next game, I wouldn't have been able to look McClaren in the eye.

McClaren even asked John Terry to call me and get me to think again. Terry had told the manager he thought I should partner him in the notorious fixture in Estonia, and he told me as much.

The only concession I agreed was not to announce my intentions, but it was leaked to the press so I had no choice but to confirm the story. Stupidly, I left a get-out clause saying I'd return 'in an emergency', but all this did was make me anxious about Terry and Ferdinand picking up injuries – which they both did. There was no way I was going to reverse my decision, no matter what.

I confirmed this to McClaren during one final meeting.

'The door is always open for you, Jamie,' he said.

I walked behind him and closed it.

I doubt the England fans would have had me back anyway, given their reaction.

As I drove away from Melwood during preseason, I switched on TalkSport and heard a discussion about my decision. The presenter, Adrian Durham, accused me of being a bottler. I was raging. If the intention was to provoke a response, it worked. I felt compelled to defend myself, so I called Durham on air to confront him. I wasn't thinking about the publicity for the radio station, which they predictably milked for all it was worth, more about my own pride. I'd never imagined the news would provoke such hostility. I considered myself a fringe player, so why the fuss? I have no issue with anyone claiming King or Woodgate are better centre-halves, I just didn't agree with it. I'd reached the point where competing for the right to be number three centre-back wasn't on my agenda. I was ready to step up and play alongside Terry. My record for Liverpool, and my dependability when it came to injuries, entitled me to feel I was worth a look.