Carra: My Autobiography (32 page)

I was gutted to get the call informing me Terry had won UEFA defender of the year in 2005. Judged on the domestic season, I had no complaints. Based on Champions League performances alone, I was right to feel aggrieved.

The awards ceremony took place in Monaco on the eve of our Super Cup Final against the UEFA Cup winners, CSKA Moscow. As Terry was named the winner, and Stevie collected his personal award, I was in the team hotel, watching from afar. I was at the centre of events when my team won the Champions League, but back on the fringe when it came to UEFA acknowledging my contribution. Hidden from view again, I could feel an annoying twinge in my heart. I knew I should be standing next to my captain. While others were in the spotlight, I was elsewhere nursing my private agony.

It was like being back on the podium in Istanbul.

Recognition from UEFA's bigwigs may have been elusive, but a Champions League winners medal wasn't my only precious reward in 2005. In the eyes of The Kop, I'd become indispensable. My renewed sense of security was captured with a new entry in the catalogue of Anfield chants: 'We all dream of a team of Carraghers'. Bayer Leverkusen were our opponents in the quarterfinal of our European Cup-winning campaign when I first heard this ditty. It's sung to the tune of The Beatles' 'Yellow Submarine'.

It may sound like a small gesture, the supporters singling you out for attention and belting out your name, but I wasn't going to shrug this off as a trivial development. I loved it. Beyond medals, what every footballer craves is reassurance and appreciation. It's a short career, and the enduring fear is the prospect of having to pack your bags every couple of seasons and settle into new surroundings. Liverpool players, or any of those at a 'big four' club, usually have to expect this lifestyle more than most. It's a hazard of the profession, especially these days. Fans crave change if a team isn't competing for trophies, and new managers often swing the axe when they arrive. If a player has the crowd on his back, especially The Kop, his days are numbered. If he's a fans' favourite, a manager will have to work overtime to shift him should he want to.

Only a select few remain attached to the same side for the entirety of their playing career. By now, I'd not only survived the regular culls at Anfield under Houllier and Benitez, I was excelling. I was seen as one of the senior players whose opinions were valued by fans and board members alike. To see my approval ratings hit such a peak cemented my relationship with The Kop and my position at the club. This ranks alongside my proudest achievements.

I was now revelling in my position at centrehalf, performing at the same levels of consistency I always felt I enjoyed, but in a role more suited to my natural strengths. My reputation was enhanced to a point where I was not only viewed by Liverpool fans with the same esteem as Steven Gerrard, in the eyes of many I'd become even more popular because of ongoing fears the skipper might leave for Chelsea. As supporters became increasingly disillusioned with other events at the club, they became more appreciative of me. They trusted me on and off the pitch. I'd see more youngsters around Anfield on a match day wearing 'Carragher 23' on their backs, and it was immensely pleasing to consider how far I'd come.

When I first heard the 'Team of Carraghers' chant I guessed it was my dad and his mates egging on a few of the lads around him. As the 'Ring of Fire' episode showed, my dad had infiltrated the travelling Liverpool fan club to the extent he had as much influence on the song choices as anyone. But this was more than a selective bunch from Marsh Lane. Pretty soon I was hearing thousands joining in. Now, when The Kop is at its most vibrant on a European night and I make a crucial tackle or interception, the whole stadium sings it.

It was a humbling and mind-blowing experience to be compared with some of the greatest defenders of Liverpool's past. I even read a newspaper column by Alan Hansen claiming I was a better defender than he was. Naturally, I didn't agree. I'd need a few of his League titles for the comparison to stand up, but for a player of his class to be so complimentary is incredibly rewarding.

While my performances were undoubtedly the main contributor to this image transformation, I recognize I also benefited from the circumstances created by others. It can be no coincidence my popularity soared after Stevie almost joined Chelsea for the first time and Michael moved to Real Madrid. Before the Chelsea saga, Stevie was perceived in the same way as me, but he flirted with someone else. Rightly or wrongly, he had to win the trust back of some fans. Once again, I benefited from supporters' natural tendency to make comparisons.

It wasn't simply my football ability the fans were yearning for, it was my personality and character. The Kop loved me for what I represented. I was now being valued as a symbol of what a Liverpool player should be. I read one article saying if Steven Gerrard was the heart of the club, I was its soul. I liked the sound of that.

Now they didn't want one of me, but another ten.

Some players are wary of ever stating outright they'll never leave a club, just in case they're tempted in the future. I, on the other hand, had no hesitation confirming I had every intention of playing out the remainder of my career at Liverpool. My teammates could argue my situation was different to theirs. Firstly, I didn't have Real Madrid, Barcelona or Chelsea trying to sign me. My love of my city and my hopes for my family mean I wouldn't have moved even if they had. At the height of the Gerrard/Chelsea hype, Sky Sports' Geoff Shreeves asked me if I'd ever consider leaving for a 'bigger club'. I was bemused by the question. 'Where's bigger than Liverpool?' I asked. I was aware such a statement would be pounced upon, but I meant it. My medal collection compared favourably with most modern players'. The fans lapped this up. They began to wish all our players had the same attitude, so the notion of dreaming of a team of Carraghers was born.

For me, this 'team' was in existence already, but it's more of a squad. It comprises my family, my friends and all those who've dedicated themselves to supporting my career. There's my wife Nicola, and children James and Mia; my brothers Paul and John; my mum and dad; and the Bootle boys such as Tony Hall, Sully, Bucko, McGhee, Alfie, Uncle Peter, Fran Bentley, Joe and Tom Foley, and my cousin Jamie Keggin. These are people who've been with me from the start and who define Marsh Lane dependability and character in my eyes. I couldn't have wished for a more faithful and reliable set of friends and family, supporting and guiding me through a demanding career. They're the real reason why I've never wanted to leave Liverpool. I could never have left my squad behind. Yes, I'm fortunate the club has the stature it has, but it's my settled family life that ensured I could never have found fulfilment elsewhere. Once I'd established myself in the Liverpool team there was only one football club and one city I ever wanted to be attached to. In the modern era, I'm somewhat of a rarity. I'm a one-club man. I'm faithful to the red shirt, ultra protective of everything it represents, and for better or for worse I would never want to stray.

Liverpool are the second biggest love of my life nowadays, though. The toughest challenge in recent years has been to find enough space in my heart to devote to the club and the game now that I've dedicated it to my family. My wife and children have achieved what I thought fifteen years ago to be impossible: they've ensured football is my second priority (although it's a very close second). Obviously your family always comes first, even when you're a youngster, but it takes time to fully appreciate that and act in a way that proves it. For too long I behaved as if everything played a supporting role to my professional ambition. Now I've come to understand my success as a footballer is geared towards providing the best for Nicola, James and Mia.

I couldn't have wished for a more perfect wife than Nicola. She's funny, feisty and clever (and she's looking over my shoulder as I'm writing this to make sure I get it spot on), and also my biggest companion and best friend. I knew this kind-hearted Liverpool girl during our schooldays, long before my football career kicked off.

She has no interest in football at all. I knew this before we got together because I was aware her family were Evertonians. I'm not sure if I could have been with someone who shared my love of the game. You can't spend all day at work discussing and playing football and then go through it all again when you get home to your wife. It would drive anyone insane. We have the same view of life, though, and share a similar sense of humour, and the fact we're both from Bootle means we're instinctively on the same wavelength in our attitude to success.

This part of my life story is the one I find most difficult to tell. I could talk for hours expressing my fondness for certain players or football teams, but doing the same thing about the woman you love? For someone from my background, public expressions of affection aren't the 'done thing'. I've never strolled around a park holding hands with my wife. We've never cuddled up to each other in a bar and started kissing in front of everyone. Nicola's not the type who'd want me making that kind of fuss in public anyway. To us, those sorts of things should be kept within the confines of your own home. We're an ideal partnership, really, although it's fair to say I'm not a hopeless romantic, just hopeless at being romantic.

The day I asked Nicola to marry me proved that.

It was 2002, our first Christmas Day together as a family in the house we'd built in Blundellsands, a more exclusive area of the luxurious suburb of Crosby. My son James had just been born, so I thought it was time to pop the question. Unfortunately, the question didn't quite pop out. I bought an engagement ring, got my mum to wrap it up and plonked it on top of all her other presents (two cookbooks and Ulrika Jonsson's autobiography).

Nicola looked at it, slightly uncertainly. 'Is that . . ?' She paused, then unwrapped the ring and tried it on.

It didn't fit. I hadn't checked her size.

Disguising my embarrassment, I confirmed her suspicions about the proposal, then tried to change the subject by asking her to go and make my breakfast.

A miffed Nicola decided she would only wear the ring after I'd proposed properly, which I did. She didn't get me down on one knee as I asked her to marry me, but at least she now felt comfortable telling family and friends about our engagement.

I was lucky to have known Nicola Hart since childhood. At St James', the primary school we both went to, Nicola and I shared a love of sports. She was the first and only girl to win the Sefton cross-country title two years running. I was three years older, but as she was also from Marsh Lane we saw each other around Bootle throughout our teenage years.

Nicola's brother John was well known around the area as a promising footballer. Sadly, he was struck with meningitis as a youngster and was unable to fulfil his dreams.

When Nicola turned eighteen, I had one of those moments when you realize how much you're attracted to someone. I spotted her queuing to get into Sullivans, a club in Bootle, so asked her to let me push in. It was a good excuse for me to get talking to her, and I kept my eye on her from then on, waiting for an opportunity to ask her on a proper date.

I was never one for chasing girls; I'd never had a proper girlfriend until then. Why chase the rest when you can wait for the best? That was my philosophy. And once I had my heart set on Nicola I knew that was it, although every lad has to go through a few nervous moments to make sure the target of his interest feels the same way.

John told me Nicola had been given her first mobile phone, which was a big thing at the time, so I pestered him to give me the number. I called, but there was no response. (She only had her mum and dad's number stored on the phone so didn't want to answer a strange number straight away.) Instead, she rang me back.

'Who's that?' she asked.

'It's James.'

'James who?'

'It's me, James Carra. I got your number off John.'

I was then faced with the uncomfortable task of explaining why I'd called.

Thankfully, Nicola gave me a chance. We went to an Italian restaurant, Antonelli's in Waterloo, Crosby, which was coincidentally owned by Michael Owen's relatives. I'd like to say the banter instantly flowed, but you know how it is. Nerves get the better of you when you're trying to impress on your first night out. You're careful what you say to make sure you don't make a fool of yourself. Eventually we started to share our experiences of growing up in Marsh Lane and had a laugh together.

Before we met I'd bought myself a flat in Crosby and was living the perfect young bachelor's existence. I'd go to my mum's round the corner for breakfast, pop in later on to give her my dirty washing, and be back for my tea. The flat was just a glorified bedroom at first. Nicola changed that, and helped me grow up.

I was happy for her to do the usual female trick of easing her way into the flat without me even noticing. We all know how women think. First they stay overnight, then you notice the toothbrush and extra towels in the bathroom. Before you've even considered the possibility you're living together, the wardrobe starts to have as many of your girlfriend's clothes as your own. I enjoyed the transition. There was no point where we decided 'this is it, we're going to spend the rest of our lives together'. It progressed comfortably and naturally, which is exactly why I knew I'd met the right person.

After a couple of years together we decided we wanted our own family. I'd reached a stage in my career when I wanted to settle down. Football would now have to share my affections, and there was an internal struggle before I faced my new responsibilities. My dedication to the game has been my professional inspiration and the key to my success, but it wasn't so long ago it was also my personal flaw.

I still think about football constantly. If we've a match approaching, my mind will drift towards what I need to do in the days leading to kickoff. After a game I rush home and tune in rather than switch off. The Sky Plus recording is instantly replayed, and I'm reassessing what went right or wrong. If I've played badly or made a mistake, I don't want to get out of bed the next morning. If Liverpool aren't playing, football will always find its way on to the television. Whenever there's a live game, be it in England, Spain, Italy or the African Nations Cup, I'll find myself drawn towards the TV. Instead of
Shoot
magazine, it's newspapers and football talk shows on TV and radio that grab my attention now. When there's no live action, Sky Sports News stays on permanently. The appearance of that yellow ticker bar to signal 'breaking news' means everything grinds to a halt so I can listen to what's going on.