Gerrard: My Autobiography (6 page)

I tore straight back upstairs. Tears? Christ, they never stopped. It felt like the end. It was bad. Bad. Dad climbed the stairs slowly. He knew I was beyond consoling. He knew how much I wanted the chance of going to Lilleshall. He walked into my room and saw I had the pillow over my head. I was completely gone, in floods of tears. My dream of a life in football seemed wrecked. I felt I was not good enough. Me! Captain of Liverpool Boys! Rated by Liverpool Football Club! Big clubs like Manchester United chased me. If those people from Lilleshall had been there in that room, I’d have killed them. How could they do this to me? I knew I was good enough. Never before had someone dared tell me I was not up to scratch. Never. My first setback hurt like hell. I dreaded the news circulating within Liverpool. Michael was a dead cert to go to Lilleshall. Jamie Carragher and another Liverpool kid, Jamie Cassidy, were already there. So was Tommy Culshaw, a midfielder on Liverpool’s books. I just wanted so much to join them.

Dad attempted to make me feel better. I lifted the pillow from my head, stared at him through the tears, and said, ‘I can’t carry on. That’s me finished with football.’ Dad was superb, as usual. He dried my tears and soothed my pain. ‘Listen, son, you’ve done well to get where you are,’ he told me, sitting on the side of my bed. ‘I watched all the trials and you were as good as anyone there. Maybe Lilleshall turned you down because you lack a bit of height. Maybe they spoke to Cardinal Heenan and think you can’t hack two years away from home. It doesn’t mean you’re not a good footballer. You are good. I know it, you know it, and most importantly Liverpool know it.’
In my devastation, I seized on Dad’s words. Maybe it really was nothing to do with my football. In their letter, the Lilleshall people gave a vague explanation. ‘You are a great player, don’t give up,’ they wrote. ‘Sometimes it is not just on football why we select certain people to go further than you. It’s for other reasons.’ Bloody well tell me then.

I heard the whispers: Huyton was looked down on by those smart blazers from the National School. Did Lilleshall feel I might be a jack the lad and disrupt life at their nice school? That wasn’t me, though. Honest. At the trials I was quiet, well behaved and well presented. I always did the right thing. Before the trials, Steve Heighway warned us the Lilleshall staff watched how we ate, whether or not we were polite. I tried my best.

What were these ‘other reasons’? I knew Lilleshall held meetings during the trials and Mum and Dad were quizzed about me. ‘What’s Steven like? Is he doing well at school? Could he handle being away from home?’ Mum and Dad spoke well of me. I know that. They always backed their sons 100 per cent. Maybe Lilleshall felt I couldn’t cope away from home, being separated from the family I adore. I certainly hated being away from home. Even now. In my heart, I don’t know whether I would have gone to Lilleshall anyway. Maybe I would have done simply through Dad forcing me. But, for all the whispers about Huyton and homesickness, I still feel it was my lack of height in those days that brought rejection from Lilleshall.

No reason could ease the grief, though. My anger at Lilleshall’s cold shoulder has never subsided. The insult
was personal, one that remains in my mind, needling away at me. It never dims, that memory of rejection. Of course, I never chucked football in. Dad talked me round. He was all compassion and common sense. Still, for all Dad’s tender words, the sense of frustration, humiliation and bitterness lingered. But life went on. ‘Prove them wrong, son,’ said Dad.

With a heavy heart, I resumed Liverpool training. Steve Heighway was waiting for me. He pulled me into his office, sat me down, and went behind his desk. ‘I am absolutely ecstatic you didn’t get into Lilleshall,’ Steve said. ‘I am so made up.’

I was astonished. ‘You prick,’ I thought.

‘I didn’t want you to go to Lilleshall,’ Steve explained. ‘I don’t want Michael to go. I’m selfish. I want you here at Liverpool. Steven, I know you are upset but, trust me, I can make you a better player than Lilleshall can.’

At the time, I didn’t believe him. Michael was packing his bags for a new adventure, and supposedly the best coaching in the country. Michael deserved it. Good luck to him. ‘I’m buzzing for you,’ I told him when he came to say goodbye. Secretly, I was gutted. I just wanted to be setting off to Lilleshall, walking in there shoulder to shoulder with Michael. I didn’t want to be left behind, staring at Michael’s empty place in the dressing-room. I loathed the taste of failure. I thought that if Steve had pushed me, I could have got into Lilleshall. It took me a long time to understand Steve’s motives.

Lilleshall’s rejection slowed my climb up the England ladder. Bias rules in schoolboy football, no doubt about it.
Players at the National School were always selected for the England U-15s. Always. The advantage was huge, obvious and deeply unfair. It really pissed me off. The midfielders who got into Lilleshall ahead of me were players like Kenny Lunt, Jamie Day of Arsenal, and Richard Keller of Scarborough. They were also ushered into the U-15s. Go on, straight through, there are your England shirts, help yourselves. I seethed with resentment at their fast-track treatment. I sat at Ironside, just thinking of those midfielders running out onto those beautiful pitches at Lilleshall, enjoying daily coaching and being handed the key to the England U-15s dressing-room. These England games were on Sky. I fancied some of that, being broadcast to the whole country. Watching the games was torture. I sat there with Dad, looking at midfielders who were my age but not my equal. I screamed at the TV, bollocking the commentator when he praised one of the midfielders with Three Lions on his shirt. I would have walked out in disgust but for one person. I loved seeing Michael do well.

Lilleshall screwed up, and I hoped and prayed every day they would recognize their mistake. Shit, we left out that brilliant kid from Liverpool. What’s his name? Gerrard. Let’s get him in, sharpish. I dreamed of a letter coming through with a Shropshire postmark apologizing for their terrible oversight and telling me to get down there now. The door seemed to open briefly when a youth attached to Arsenal left Lilleshall. Michael called to tell me. ‘There’s talk of them bringing in a replacement,’ he said. I couldn’t sleep that night. I lay in bed thinking of Michael’s words. Mentally, I was already packing my bags for
Lilleshall. They had to call me in. But no. The call never came. My dream died again.

Seven months later, my anger with Lilleshall found a fantastic outlet. The National School came to Melwood, where us Heighway kids were based at the time, for a fixture. Thank you, God! I prepared an ambush. I was steaming for this game like nobody’s business. Honest to God, the night before the game I was cleaning my boots, making sure the studs were nice and sharp for those pretty boys from Lilleshall. Dad realized how pumped up I was. He wound me up relentlessly. ‘You’ll shit yourself against Lilleshall,’ he said. ‘You will. I know it. Those National School boys are better than you.’ I went, ‘Yeah, yeah.’ I was burning inside. I felt like having a fight on the Friday evening. I stayed awake all night, as if I feared sleep might soften me, lessening the fury inside. In the morning, I stormed into Melwood on a wave of adrenalin and resentment. Steve could see the fire in my eyes.

‘Be careful,’ he warned. ‘You’ll get injured.’

‘These lot are getting it,’ I replied. ‘They are all getting booted everywhere. I am going to show Lilleshall they got it wrong. All of them.’

Steve tried to reason with me. No chance. I was on a mission.

And when I saw those Lilleshall boys marching into the pavilion at Melwood, all smart and smiling in their England blazers, the fire raging within me turned into an inferno. I was more than a man possessed. Even now, I don’t know how I restrained myself from nailing them in the corridor. ‘Let’s have it now,’ I thought. ‘Come on, in your spotless blazers and cocky smiles. Huyton v.
Lilleshall, now. We’ll see who’s better!’ God, I couldn’t wait.

I sprinted out of the pavilion and towards the pitch. Good, I thought, as I realized which pitch we were on. Liverpool had done me proud. Normally we played on the B team pitch; for Lilleshall’s visit, Liverpool gave us the A team pitch, a surface as good as Anfield. Someone at the club knew how much this game meant to me. Thank you. I warmed up, went through the pre-match formalities as captain and kept staring at the ref to hurry him up.

The first whistle made the same impression on me as a bell in a prize fight. A call to arms, the signal for battle. I smashed Lilleshall’s midfield to pieces. Absolutely shredded them. No mercy. Into every tackle I poured all my frustration at being ignored by the National School. I loved the thought of their coaches standing helplessly on the Melwood touchline as I tore into their chosen ones. ‘This will show them what they rejected,’ I thought as I crunched another set of shin-pads. ‘This will make them see how wrong they were,’ I told myself as I sent another of their precious boys flying. ‘Calm down,’ the ref kept shouting at me. No chance. Those Lilleshall boys were getting it big-time. Nothing was going to stop me. How could a referee understand my pain?

Lilleshall fielded some good players, like Michael Ball, Wes Brown and, of course, my mate Michael Owen, who inevitably struck his usual hat-trick. The score was 4–3 to Lilleshall, but I settled a personal score. My performance was so good that all their players ran over at the end to shake my hand. I had battered them, but they still wanted to show their respect. Fair play. I admired them for that.
‘How you never got into Lilleshall was a joke,’ Michael remarked as we walked off, the battle over. ‘You are well better than these.’ The England staff all strolled across to congratulate me. I just turned and ran to the dressing-room. I was so upset inside. There was no way I could shake hands with those who gave me so much heartache. They snubbed me. Here was some of their own medicine. Take that.

Even now, I still fume at them all. I cannot stand setbacks. The manager who never picked me for the U-15s, John Owens, is now a coach at the Liverpool Academy. I love walking past him now. Love it. I see him coming, compose myself and say ‘All right?’ as we pass. Owens thinks I have forgotten about the Under-15s. I haven’t. Whenever we bump into each other, Owens is so nice. I talk to him, all polite on the outside, all angry on the inside. I feel like pulling him in a room and asking, ‘Why didn’t you pick me? You’re wrong. Tell me the reasons to my face now, because I know the reasons you put on that letter were a load of shit. Was it really to do with my height? OK, the other midfielders might have been a bit bigger and stronger than me but none were better than me. None of them.’

Sod it. Heighway was right anyway. Would I rather have gone to the National School for two years or had two seasons of Steve’s expert training? Steve and his coaches just loved me, and I loved them. Their sessions were class. Steve and Dave Shannon did all the things I adored: possession, crossing and shooting, passing. At the end we played games that felt as important as the World Cup final. If you made a mistake, Steve and Dave had you
doing press-ups, your face going in and out above the grass as boots chased the ball around you. I raced through my press-ups and steamed back into action. I wanted to win so much, wanted to impress. This was my life. This was everything. Liverpool training meant the world. Academy football was so far removed in quality from kickabouts with schoolmates at Cardinal Heenan or friends on Ironside. Team-mates at Liverpool were on my wavelength; they could read my passes. If someone at Cardinal Heenan failed to make the right run or miscontrolled the ball, it annoyed the hell out of me. ‘They might not be as good as you, but they are your friends,’ my teachers at Cardinal Heenan told me. ‘So get on with it.’ At Liverpool, everyone was on my level.

Lilleshall’s rejection deepened my love for Liverpool. They wanted me, and I was determined to deliver for them and prove Lilleshall wrong. In the long run, failing to get into the National School worked in my favour. In my opinion, those national coaches would never have developed me as well as Steve Heighway did. Steve used to come round Ironside, see how we were, or call on the phone. Steve always had Mum and Dad into the Academy, checking everything was OK. Steve gave me boots on the sly. ‘How’s your family?’ he often enquired. ‘What’s the money situation?’ He knew we never had much. He used to help. Steve likes to bond with families, assist people. He’s a top guy. Genuine. Obviously, it was in Liverpool’s interests to keep me happy, but Steve’s commitment to me was not merely professional. He really cared. I was not a piece of meat, or an investment opportunity, to Steve and Liverpool. I was flesh and blood, fears
and dreams, and Steve looked after me like a son. I will never forget Steve Heighway’s immense involvement in shaping me as a man and as a footballer. Fuck Lilleshall. I had Liverpool.

Steve wasn’t stupid. He knew how many clubs circled around me. Those fools at Lilleshall might not have realized it, but I was rated everywhere else. Manchester United kept sending letters to Ironside, far nicer letters than the ones from Lilleshall. The postman also brought regular offers from Crystal Palace, Manchester City, Everton and Spurs. One day, Dad spoke to Steve. ‘Look, Steven is getting all these offers,’ he said. ‘Can we sort out his future here?’

Steve was laid-back, perhaps deliberately so. ‘If Steven wants to go and have a look at what Manchester United and the rest have to offer, then let him,’ he said. ‘If he wants to have a look at the facilities at Spurs or City, no problem. We won’t think anything different of him. We won’t fall out with Steven.’

So I did. Everton showed me around, attempting to woo me. I played a trial game for Tranmere Rovers. I wore the claret and blue of West Ham when we took Cambridge United apart 6–2. At fourteen, the red of Manchester United even enveloped my small frame in two trial matches. After doing well in those games, United offered me a three-year pro contract. I even met their legendary manager, Sir Alex Ferguson. A group of us triallists had dinner with Mr Ferguson, as he was then. Michael Owen was meant to be at the meal, but he didn’t turn up. Michael Ball was there. We sat and listened in awe to one of the managerial greats. Mr Ferguson was top
man. I knew all about him, obviously. He was masterminding United’s re-emergence. He had heard about me and desperately wanted me to sign. Mr Ferguson told us how well we would do at Old Trafford and that he was committed to promoting good youngsters. Ryan Giggs and the David Beckham generation were beginning to break through around then. I enjoyed the meal, and listening to Mr Ferguson, but I was never going to sign for United. No chance. I looked around other clubs partly to pressure Liverpool into giving me a YTS contract.