SIX thousand and eighty-five miles – that’s how much distance I put between myself and the misery of not making the World Cup squad. I prepared myself for the ordeal of dragging the rejection around for quite some time. I thought it would be impossible to escape the hurt of being left out. I was wrong.
I walked into Thomas Cook and booked a holiday to Mauritius. That was easy enough but what really helped me put the pain of missing out behind me was the woman who sat next to me on the plane: Elen Rivas. We had only known each other a few weeks but there was something about her which gave me balance even when it felt like my world had been turned upside down. I have never met anyone like Elen. She is intelligent, funny, intuitive, and has a beauty which stopped me in my tracks the first time I saw her. The circumstances were difficult. Trying to begin a conversation among the seething, noisy throng of a nightclub is not the ideal start to a relationship.
Talking to Elen, however, was an event I had to build myself up for. I was out with some mates having a laugh. We generally keep ourselves to ourselves for obvious reasons but another group of people we knew arrived at the bar. Elen was among them and the moment I saw her I was smitten. She was talking with her friends and so didn’t notice me as I looked at her.
I drifted out of the conversation I was involved in and stared at her until she instinctively turned her head and glanced in my direction. Embarrassed that I’d been caught, I interrupted the chat which was continuing without me. I was flustered. I was trying to divert attention from myself but I needn’t have bothered. She knew.
It was schoolboy stuff but I lacked confidence with girls. Even though I was used to the company of women it was a new experience to come across someone who had that instant effect. It’s a fact of life that when you are a footballer you attract a certain amount of interest from females whenever you go to a bar or club. It’s part of the culture now. People say football is the new rock ‘n’ roll and if you choose to get involved then there is plenty of opportunity to spend time with the groupies and admirers who hang around players. I had never had a serious relationship in my life. Actually, that’s not true. I was married to football at a very young age.
After moving to Chelsea, however, I realized my celebrity status had increased. An £11 million transfer fee attracts its own notoriety. Most of the time it was laughable. I would spend ten minutes talking to some girl in a club and the next day we were an item according to the gossip columns. I never had a real girlfriend before Elen. The longest relationship I had experienced lasted about six months and was with a South African girl. We saw each other a couple of times a week but it wasn’t full on. The whole thing fizzled out just as I signed for Chelsea and I never really gave it another thought until a couple of years later when I was on a beach in Miami with Elen, and Kutner called.
‘Who the f*** is this girl?’ he inquired with his usual subtlety.
‘Who? I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ I replied completely off guard.
‘Well, she says she used to go out with you and that you dumped her in a bad way.’
‘What? When?’
‘In the News of the World this morning.’
The penny dropped. She had sold a story to the paper, saying she loved me and I had treated her badly by ending the relationship the way I did. It wasn’t true. It was, however, a harsh lesson about the way fame can make people envious and bitter. In the months I saw her love had never been mentioned. We were not suited to each other and that was obvious from the way the friendship failed to develop. I had never been in love and didn’t know what it meant or felt like. With Elen, I have never known anything else.
In the bar, I shuffled my way towards her trying to make it look like I was heading in that direction anyway. I said hello and introduced myself. That in itself can provoke a strange reaction in people. People who know who you are already just laugh nervously when you say ‘Hi, I’m Frank.’ I never assume anything though and with Elen that was just as well. She nodded her head and smiled but as she told me her name I began to panic. There was something about the way she spoke – an accent. Her English was great but she pronounced her words with a throaty purr that was very sexy but also threw me.
‘Barcelona’, she said when I asked the obvious question.
‘Ah, good football team though they’re a bit s*** at the moment,’ I replied nervously.
She rolled her eyes a little. I wondered if I should just knock it on the head there and then. It was hard enough to have a conversation because of the music, throw in an Essex boy after a couple of beers and a stunning Catalan woman and it’s all getting a bit silly.
I had to have another go. There was something about her that made me believe I had a chance. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. A kindness in her words and a look in her eyes said she was interested in me even though I was having the dating equivalent of a botched penalty kick. It was partly down to shock, not that I thought about it there and then. I just never imagined in a million years that I would date a Spanish girl. My mind was closed to other cultures back then. I was very much a home boy whose interests and tastes didn’t venture much beyond the boundaries of London and where I grew up.
We talked for far too short a time before she left with her friends for another club. The company, it seemed, was not as good as I would have liked to think. I thought of her often even though my track record with girls suggested that I had been wasting my time in the first place.
A couple of weeks later I was sitting in Scalini with my cousin Mark and Billy Jenkins having lunch when a stunning girl flashed past the window. She wore a white fitted top and her face was partly hidden by a pair of large framed sunglasses which were very fashionable. As usual, the restaurant was buzzing with assorted people meeting and eating. We were still talking when I caught sight of the girl from the window take a seat at the next table. I looked at her for a few seconds and leaned into Mark. ‘See her,’ I said, trying to be as discreet as possible without pointing, ‘I could marry her.’
I wasn’t trying to be twee or trite. Mark nodded his approval. We were finishing up when a conversation between our table and the one next door was struck up. I looked directly at the girl who had arrived last and realized it was Elen. She looked different. Her hair was tied back and I noticed how bright her eyes were every time she smiled. There was a little embarrassment that we hadn’t recognized one another sooner but it quickly evaporated in the more relaxed atmosphere of my local eaterie. We got on really well and I discovered from her disarming and candid questions that she didn’t have the slightest clue that I was a footballer or who I played for.
I have been with other footballers in these situations and most of them don’t seem to think twice about cutting straight to the part where they get the girl’s number. I am much more shy and it wasn’t until we were making to leave that I finally plucked up enough courage to ask for hers. She smiled and wrote it down without hesitation.
‘What you up to now then?’ I said clutching the piece of paper tightly.
‘Going to hang out for a bit and then we’re going out later. You?’ she replied coyly.
‘Don’t know. See what happens.’
We weren’t even out of the restaurant before I told Billy that we were definitely going out that night. It was midweek – a time I would never normally go over the door. This was not a normal situation though and Billy and I went back to my flat to prepare.
Elen told me the place she was going and we arrived early – embarrassingly early. The music was echoing around the place due to a lack of people but I didn’t want to risk missing her. Billy and I were perched at the bar trying to look as cool as possible in a half-empty room. She eventually arrived and floated effortlessly in and then out again before I had anywhere near enough time to talk to her. It didn’t matter, I had her number and I was going to use it.
The following weekend I was in Birmingham for the FA Cup semi-final against Fulham. The match was being played at Villa Park on the Sunday and we were holed up in a hotel outside the city. I stared at the numbers she had written on a card and then at my mobile. I dialled.
‘Hi Elen, it’s Frank,’ I said furtively.
‘Fra-ank,’ she repeated in her Spanish drawl which I now know so well.
‘Yeah, you remember. We met at Scalini and you gave me…’
‘Yes. I remember,’ she cut my sentence off. ‘Hey. Can I call you back, I’m on the other line right now.’
‘Yeah, sure,’ and I put the phone down.
S***. She gave me the rubber ear. You know the moment someone you barely know says they’ll call you back, that they’ll be staging the Winter Olympics in Hell and you will still be sitting by your phone. I couldn’t believe it. I was nervous enough about the game never mind getting the brush-off from the girl I desperately wanted to go out with.
I lay on the bed and tried to get some sleep, without success. After a couple of hours my mobile rang.
‘Hi Frank, it’s Elen,’ came the voice. ‘Sorry about before but I was talking to my family in Spain and I didn’t want to cut them off. How are you?’
And that was it – as natural as the sunrise, she lit up my life and has filled it with warmth and happiness ever since. We agreed to have dinner back in London. Scalini, of course. It was scheduled for the Monday night and I got my mate Tel to come round to the flat before with a couple of beers. I needed to build up my courage.
I needn’t have bothered. There was no bravery needed. All the nerves and worry disappeared within moments of sitting down. It’s hard to explain, other than to say we just clicked – right from that very first moment we were alone together. There was no awkwardness or discomfort and very little small talk. I knew Elen was right for me – my heart was shouting it out.
We were inseparable after that. We had dinner every night or second night and then just started spending time with each other at our respective flats. Life was good. Life was great. It wasn’t till I got the call from Sven-Goran Eriksson telling me that I hadn’t made the World Cup squad that it nosedived. Even then, I consoled myself with the thought that I could spend a relaxing summer with my girlfriend.
Mauritius was just what I needed. Elen was just what I needed. When we got back I felt de-stressed and was already looking forward to next season. In a fit of madness a few weeks earlier, I had signed up to go on a lads trip to Las Vegas for a few days: me, Bill (McCulloch) Blood, and Banger. I didn’t really enjoy it. We did the usual stuff. Played the tables in the casino and had a few beers and laughs. England were playing against Argentina in Sapporo and we had to stay up until four in the morning to watch it. I didn’t particularly want to but felt almost as if I had to. It was painful – not because it was a bad match because from the national anthem through to the final whistle I wondered what it would be like to be playing.
Watching just isn’t enough, neither is being there – only playing matters. Bill and Banger jumped out of their seats when the penalty was awarded but I stayed glued to mine. As David Beckham focused on what he had to do next so did I. I briefly remembered how sick I had felt when I found out I wouldn’t be going. I recalled Eriksson’s words on the phone. ‘I will be coming to watch you for Chelsea and will be looking to pick you for the Euro 2004 qualifiers.’
I had heard his words over and over since the conversation took place. Sometimes I let it go but at other times I imagined answering the England manager in a much different manner to the way I had. You always think of what you would have liked to say when the opportunity to do so has long gone. I wanted to tell him that I would be back next season, better, stronger, more determined than ever. I turned to Bill – someone I can confide in and who is a great sounding board for all the lads at Chelsea – and told him we needed to speak. ‘All right geezer,’ he said, and turned his head back to the screen.
The three of us jumped around when Beckham scored but I wasn’t feeling much like celebrating. I was already planning my England future and besides, I was missing Elen. Bill has since told me that I was like a lovesick puppy for the entire trip. I believe him. I couldn’t wait to get back.
I returned home with a renewed sense of purpose about my life and my career. Things between Elen and I moved very quickly and were helped along by the fact that I had to move out of the flat I had been renting during the first season with Chelsea and bought a new place near Old Brompton Road.
The timings didn’t quite dovetail and I was intending on checking into the Chelsea Village Hotel for the weeks in between. I wasn’t looking forward to it. Elen had a nice little flat in South Kensington and because we were getting on so well she said I should come and stay with her until my place was ready. I didn’t need to be asked twice.
It was a fun time – partly because it was tiny space which meant we were always together when we were at home. It was impossible not to be: the lounge was downstairs, the bedroom on the first floor, and you had to go through the bathroom to get there. We didn’t care – it was cosy and we had a real laugh.
I came home from pre-season training and we’d curl up on the sofa with our dinner and watch Big Brother on TV. It took about two or three weeks to finalize everything in my new place but Elen and I were so natural together that I didn’t hesitate about asking her to move in with me. I hadn’t even imagined anything else and I wanted to be with her. It’s funny, we might never have lived together so quickly had circumstances not conspired to give us a preview of what it would be like.
It was definitely a big step for me. I wasn’t exactly a party animal, though I did like a night out with my mates, but after a taste of domesticity I just wanted to spend time with Elen. I still enjoy time out with my team-mates and friends and always will but when you fall in love your life changes. I certainly became more domesticated and within two months of living with each other we got a dog who we christened with a traditional Spanish name – Reggie.
Making commitments with Elen was easy. We were so comfortable with each other and we spent a lot of time at home. I enjoyed learning about the Spanish culture as well as the language. It was a natural progression for me. I had enjoyed the lifestyle of a young footballer – a lad’s life and one which had given me experience both good and bad. I made some mistakes along the way about how to behave but I changed a lot after meeting Elen and nothing that was different about my life seemed strange to me.
Roccaporena was certainly familiar as we arrived there for another pre-season. It was a shorter stint this time because we had already done a week at Harlington before going out and I was determined to improve on my first season at the club. Again I spent a bit of time with Bill Blood and we expanded the conversation I had started a few weeks earlier in Las Vegas.
‘This year I’m going to take the bull by the horns and assert myself at Chelsea,’ I said. ‘I was too timid last season. I accepted being played out of position and I was too quiet around the training ground.
‘I need to make my voice heard and my presence felt. It’s a big season for me. I’ve had time to settle in and I now need to establish myself as one of the major players in the team.’
Bill’s my mate and stuck up for me – even against myself! ‘You’re already quite influential Lamps,’ he said.
I was on a roll though: ‘You can’t go around saying you’re the main man if you’re not doing it though. Look at Roy Keane and Patrick Vieira. They live and breathe it and no one doubts their influence. This is it Bill. This is my time.’
Bill has since reminded me of this conversation. He said there was a determination in my voice which he has heard again and again, at important times in the season – the day of a big Champions League game, the night before we won our first title. It’s true. I felt differently that summer and I knew my life was changing for the better.
I had put enough space between myself and the World Cup to be able to analyse how I felt much more objectively. I had bottled up a lot of anger – I was sure I was good enough to make the squad and had been overcome by a lot of negative thoughts: about my game, myself, and the other players who had been picked.
‘He’s not better than me,’ I would think. ‘Maybe I could come on and change the game with a goal or a pass. I could do that better than him.’ That’s not being disrespectful to the lads who were in the squad. My Dad calls it ‘professional jealousy’ which is not being jealous of the person who may be playing in your position, but jealous of wanting to be better than you are. You should be gutted about not being good enough and find it hard to watch the games you’re not involved in. For me, it was also part of the process of getting over it. I had been very depressed. It was a rejection which I had never experienced before on such a scale.
Not making it into Lilleshall was all I had to compare it with. Then, it was bad enough that my family and friends knew that I wasn’t good enough to make the cut, but this was a very public humiliation and whatever people said to comfort me it did little to silence the nagging voice in my head which was telling me I wasn’t good enough.
I was even embarrassed about telling Elen. I had warned her that the tournament was approaching and that the plan was to go to Dubai with the partners beforehand and would she want to come? I wondered what she’d think – we didn’t know each other so well at the time and I was apprehensive that whatever I told her the reasons were, she might wonder if I was making excuses. Getting out of the country as I did meant extracting myself from the hype which had engulfed the nation.
I didn’t want to hear how England got on in the warm-up games or receive the daily fitness bulletins. I didn’t want to see the flags on the houses and in every second car on the streets of London. I am not unpatriotic. I love my country but I was in a stage of falling out with myself. It’s the kind of experience which can make you retreat into yourself – like the world is against you.
The closest comparison I can make is with being dumped by someone you really want to spend time with. I went through the same anger, frustration, self-doubt and loathing as afflicts you when you are rejected by a girl. However, you can always call her and beg for another chance – that’s not an option with the England manager. I felt utterly helpless. Some people choose to react in a positive way. It was my instinct to react without bitterness.
I resolved to become more assertive in every aspect of my career and when I saw Claudio Ranieri for the first time on coming back for training I looked him in the eye and felt a sense of dedication about the season ahead. I converted the frustration of not going to Japan into a burning ambition to succeed.
I had already started running on my own during the holidays and when we got started on the fitness training I just went for it. There is something in my nature that makes me feel invincible when I am in top physical condition – as if no one and nothing can touch me. It’s not something I express openly – it’s more of an innate feeling of well-being and self-confidence which apart from me, only my closest friends and family can detect.
It wasn’t long before I had a tingle in my spine and a spring in every step I took. I had matured over the previous twelve months. I had left my first club, my home, and my family and made a new life around Chelsea. I was at the beginning of a serious relationship and I knew more than ever what direction I wanted my life to take. In short, I grew up. The progress I had already made with Chelsea gave me a platform to aim higher.
When I look back now I know without question that that summer was the pivotal period of my life. It was also the start of the most important phase in the history of Chelsea. I had changed for the better but at first I wasn’t sure about how changes at the club would work out.
That close season, for the first time in years, Chelsea didn’t spend big in the transfer market. In fact, they didn’t spend anything at all. In previous times there seemed to be a revolving door ushering expensive footballing into and out of Stamford Bridge. The only two players to join in 2002 were on free transfers – Marco Ambrosio from Chievo Verona and Enrique De Lucas from Espanyol. The lack of activity was slightly confusing and only later in the season would the facts emerge about how badly the club was struggling financially. None the less, players tend to be pretty pragmatic and we viewed the fact that there were fewer comings and goings as an opportunity to let the team stabilize. There had been too much chopping and changing and I for one was happy that we would focus on the players we had, even if the truth was that we couldn’t afford anyone.
Publicly, we set our sights on winning the Premier League though qualifying for the Champions League was more realistic. Ranieri, however, always put the emphasis on performance rather than results and ambitions. Even before individual games he would stress that it was the way we played that mattered most and not the result. Sometime he set targets but very limited ones, which puzzled me. For example, if we had finished sixth then he would call on us to move to fifth that season or if we got there in mid-season then he would perhaps say that we were able to improve a bit more and to go one better. Ranieri would never have said ‘Right. Let’s win the league. Let’s win every game.’ Those were not phrases in his vocabulary. Caution was his style. He was keen on improvement by steps. It was a different way of working and he didn’t want to heap too much pressure on the players or himself.
It wasn’t my way, however, and I would often get frustrated. ‘Why does he say that? Why doesn’t he really challenge us to go out and win no matter what?’ I found myself saying this to Eidur or JT a lot that season. We would lose a couple of games and be in another ‘crisis meeting’ and the boss would be talking about the importance of a good performance in the next game. I am not digging him out. We didn’t have the players then that we had later and maybe Ranieri didn’t believe we could take the title. It was his way of working but I could never imagine Mourinho preparing his team that way. In fact, there has been the odd occasion when Mourinho has said, ‘F*** the performance, just get out there and get the result.’ All that matters is the result.
Ranieri had other practices which I only now recognize were rather odd. For instance, he would compile a DVD of all of the strengths of the team we were playing next and show it to us while telling us where they might exploit our weaknesses. We would get frustrated by that especially when it would happen two hours before a game against the likes of Arsenal. It wasn’t the best preparation – getting a preview of how they would destroy us over ninety minutes. Instead of telling us how we could undermine them, he showed us footage of Thierry Henry sprinting past five defenders and scoring a hat-trick. I appreciated that he came from the Italian school of coaching where avoiding defeat is the single most important factor, but when we are at home against the likes of Sunderland and Ranieri is warning us about what they might do to us, I think some of us saw it totally differently. We were the big club. They should have been worrying about us. The talk should have been about what we were going to do to them.
No one can take away what Ranieri did for Chelsea and I certainly don’t deny what he did for me personally. I respect him greatly and it’s only since discovering other coaching methods that I realize there are different ways of motivating players. At that moment, however, I was motivating myself for the most important season of my career. Whatever anyone else believed, I wanted to win the league but what none of us knew as we walked out of the tunnel at The Valley for our opening match against Charlton was that getting into the following season’s Champions League was to be critical in determining the future of Chelsea Football Club.
If we had failed, then it’s safe to assume that Roman Abramovich wouldn’t have touched us in the following summer of 2003 when he was looking for a club to buy. The only thing in my mind on that August Saturday afternoon was how good I felt. We all did. Pre-season was hard but productive and the lads were fit and ready to explode out of the blocks. We were 2–0 down after half an hour.
I couldn’t believe it. Everything had been positive all summer long and as soon as the real thing started it was falling apart. Richard Rufus scored after Paul Konchesky had already put them ahead and I thought, ‘Here we go.’
Franco Zola then pulled one back before the break, and Carlton Cole came on in the second half and made a difference, scoring the equalizer with six minutes left. The game was in its dying minutes when the ball got deflected into my path. I gave Dean Kiely an eye signal that I would hit the ball one way and then I steered it to the other side. It was the winner.
I ran to our fans to celebrate and it felt like it had all turned round in an hour. It was a great start and all of the optimism which I had taken into the game returned. So much can be said in football for getting the winning goal – it can cover up a multitude of things at times – but this was a great feeling and it made an impact and sent out the right signal.
After all of the things I had said to Bill Blood before it started it was more important to put it into practice. We played Man United next at home and drew 2–2, which was not the worst result before going away, to Southampton. This match was memorable because of a move which started in our half. I knocked the ball wide and kept running and Eidur returned the ball to me and I let it run just enough before dinking it over the keeper as he ran out at me. It’s one of my favourite goals for Chelsea and complemented the one at Charlton. Two in three games was a boost for me but the fact was that we had only one win in that sequence put things in perspective.
That didn’t change when Arsenal visited the Bridge. We were in the middle of a spell where no matter what we did we couldn’t beat them. It had already been around eight years since Chelsea had claimed a league victory over them. We were a goal up and then Patrick Vieira got sent off. Kolo Touré, who had yet to establish himself, came on in place of Edu and ended up scoring the equalizer after an hour.
We got a couple more decent results and all in all it was a good start, if unspectacular. Europe beckoned once again as did more embarrassment. We played Norwegian side Viking Stavanger in the UEFA Cup with the memory of the previous season’s fiasco against Hapoel Tel Aviv thrown in our face in almost every paper we read. That part of the build-up was inevitable. I was getting used to some people having a go and enjoying knocking us down. I had it at West Ham on a personal level but with Chelsea it seemed more to do with the club itself and to some extent the chairman, Ken Bates.
Ranieri told me on the day of the game that he was resting me. I was surprised and annoyed. In a game like that you want to put out your best team, bash them 4–0 at home and then you’ve nothing to worry about for the away leg. He did put me on at half-time and we were in control of the tie without playing brilliantly. A couple of goals to the good it looked pretty academic until we conceded one right on the final whistle. That shouldn’t have been disastrous in itself but it made the lads more nervous than we should have been going into the away game. Memories of the previous season still haunted us and none of us wanted to put ourselves or the manager through that humiliation again.
We clearly carried some sense of apprehension onto the pitch in Norway because we were 2–0 down after half an hour. I pulled one back just before the break but we lost another on the hour. No one’s head went down. We believed we had the beating of them and JT scored the goal which put us ahead just two minutes after them. We held out but not long enough. We were completely naive. We had allowed them to score in the dying moments of the first leg and, sure enough, Viking stunned us with a winner three minutes from the end. For the second season in a row we crashed out of Europe to a team we should have walked all over.
It was a disaster. We got back to the airport after the match and there were a lot of fans who had made the trip filing through security and waiting for their charter flights to leave. Understandably, they were not in the best mood and Ranieri took a bit of stick from some of them. It was a horrible feeling. There is nowhere to look in a situation like that and it’s a bit unfair that the manager bore the brunt of the criticism. It was the players’ fault first and foremost because we hadn’t been clever enough and made it difficult for ourselves.
I had only had the slightest taste of European football at West Ham and one of the reasons for moving to Chelsea was to play on that stage and get more experience. If we thought the fans were harsh then the papers had a field day. Most of them decided that Chelsea were in crisis. It was an exaggeration, though by the time we lost at Liverpool the following weekend it was harder to deny – and it was still only September.
The England squad was now announced for the two European Championship qualifiers against Slovakia and Macedonia and I was included – which made a nice change. It was also an opportune time to get away from Chelsea and try to find some perspective again. I had not featured in the get-together at the very start of that season when Portugal had visited Villa Park but having missed the World Cup in the summer I wasn’t so shocked at being left out. Even so, the words spoken to me on the phone the previous May entered my head and I wondered where I stood. Lee Bowyer played in that match and I began to wonder how far down the pecking order I was in Eriksson’s eyes.
Not so far, was the answer. I was pleased to be included for the competitive games though I wasn’t sure if I would make it on to the pitch. We travelled to Bratislava a couple of days before the game and despite the fact that it was the start of an important qualifying campaign, the game itself was very much overshadowed by events off the pitch. There were some incidents between rival sets of fans around the city in the build-up but that was nothing compared to the headlines being made by the manager.
The story broke about his relationship with Ulrika Jonsson two days before the game, and the media lay in wait for him to give his pre-match press conference on the Friday. I remember watching the pictures on TV as he walked up the stairs of the hotel where he was due to speak. Mr Eriksson rarely betrays emotion of any kind – in public at least. Even when he smiles it can seem like courtesy rather than a natural reaction. That’s not to say he’s disingenuous. He guards his privacy with conviction and given the scrutiny and intrusion which goes with being England manager, I don’t blame him. He looked calm and prepared when he faced the reporters and cameras that day though he was noticeably flanked by senior officials from the Football Association which was not normal. Both Adam Crozier – who was then chief executive – and David Davies turned up in an overt show of unity with the coach.
I respected the FA’s stance and thought they called it right. People expect the England manager to be completely devoted to the job and some would take that as far as not allowing him a personal life. We all suffer from time to time from unwanted attention in the media and in some cases it’s also unfair or unwarranted.
None of the players had any doubts about the way he would handle it all. I certainly didn’t and at that point I couldn’t even claim to know him that well. I knew what he was like though – from the first time I met him I realized that he was a character who was very alien to football in England. I had been part of his first squad which played in a friendly against Spain in February of 2001. When I was introduced to him in the team hotel he was very polite, quite quiet, and had clearly done his homework on the players he had selected. It was a cordial introduction though I wouldn’t say warm. He did not attempt to relate to the players the way we did with each other as some coaches do. Neither did he try to foster the type of relationship which most English players are familiar with – where the manager is an authority figure but more in a fatherly way than a head teacher. With Harry at West Ham, I was used to a boss who was very much part of our dressing room and the banter that goes with it, as well as knowing when not to cross the line that identified who was in charge. Ranieri and Mourinho have their own individual style but are similar in the way they get on with the players. Mr Eriksson, however, is quite unique in that respect. It’s not that he is the cold fish that people often portray him as – in fact he is well liked and is held with much affection among the England team. At the same time, he has maintained a certain distance from us which clearly marks out the realm of his position.
None of us knew what to expect that first time but as the years have passed there is now very little that could surprise us about the England manager. Perhaps the best way to describe him is unflappable. We knew there wouldn’t be any fireworks about what had appeared in the papers. Just because the man they described as ‘The Iceman’ had shown some passion, it didn’t mean he would explode for their benefit. In fact, he was so unaffected by the whole episode that he never mentioned it to us as an issue in any way. That’s very much his method and it didn’t affect the players in any detrimental way. Some of them actually had a laugh about it. The dressing room remains a very macho environment and the fact that the manager had shown a side of his character which hadn’t been seen before was a source of banter as well as a novelty.
Unfortunately for Mr Eriksson, that episode was the end of his honeymoon with the English media and I believe that the tide of opinion started to turn against him as far back as that September in 2002. The only response he could give that was unquestionable was actually down to the players – and they did respond, though not with my help.
It was a tiny ground in Bratislava. Even the dressing rooms were too small to accommodate the squad and coaching staff, and I found myself waiting outside in the corridor at the entrance. I was pissed off at not making the team while not even making it onto the bench made the whole episode seem pointless. I have rarely felt more of a spare part than I did that evening. There was a vending machine in the hall and we ended up eating bars of chocolate to pass the time before kick-off. The manager then appeared and started talking to me.
‘How many goals have you got so far?’ he asked.
‘Two,’ I replied.
‘You look fit and well. How you feeling?’
I wanted to say, ‘F***ing s*** actually, because I am standing in a corridor when I want to be getting ready to play.’ Needless to say I bit my tongue.
‘Yeah. Good, boss. Could do with some more games though!’
‘Your time will come, Frank. Don’t worry.’
The brief chat with him calmed me down, reassured me. Standing around feeling out of it had dredged up a lot of the anxiety I had felt about the previous World Cup, but Mr Eriksson was able to allay some of that with just a short conversation. He has a way about him, a way of dealing with people which makes you feel important even if events suggest otherwise. It’s one of his gifts as a coach.
Victory over Slovakia dampened the furore over the Ulrika affair and we returned to England to play Macedonia at St Mary’s in Southampton. This time I turned up at the stadium to find my shirt out and my name among the subs. Oh well, progress I suppose. I stayed in the squad from then on until I made an impact at the end of that season in South Africa. I was playing pretty well but the team had a strong midfield of Beckham, Butt, Scholes, and Gerrard and it was up to me to fight my way in and I knew what I had to do.
When we got back to training with Chelsea the events of two weeks earlier against Liverpool seemed miles away. We had to play away at Manchester City which sticks out in my memory for reasons good and ugly. We won convincingly and I was really pleased with the way I played and even more so with the reaction from our fans. After the game they belted out my name and the song which they have made my signature: ‘Super Frank Lampard’. It was the first time I had heard it and it was sung with so much passion that it really made me feel great. At West Ham that had never happened for me. There were only certain players who received individual adulation while others were ignored. There was no rhyme nor reason. I was buzzing with it at Chelsea though, but on this occasion it wasn’t just the adrenalin from the win – I had also settled a score of a different kind.
I awoke early on the morning of the game full of nervous energy. I had waited a long time for this day to come around. I knew what I was going to do and was determined to go through with it. I called Kutner.
‘I’m going to let Berkovic know what I think of him today,’ I told him.
‘What?’ he replied.
‘I’m going to let him know he’s in a game. I’m going to outplay him and let him know I’m angry.’
‘What are you on about, Lamps?’
I was suddenly nervous and changed the subject. I am not a vindictive person nor am I a player who uses excessive force or dirty tactics. If I had told Kuts how angry I was then he would only have tried to talk me round. I was calm. I knew what I was doing. I was going to let Eyal Berkovic know that I was angry about the lies he had told about Dad and the hurt it had caused my family. No one was going to stop me.
I had no intention of causing him harm. I am not and never have been that kind of player. I am not capable of that kind of action as a person, never mind a footballer. I just wanted to let Berkovic know I wasn’t happy, that in fact I was very upset with what he had said about Dad. I wanted to let him know I was there and that he should think carefully about making wrong and hurtful accusations about my family.
He had been quoted in the News of the World as labelling Dad a racist in his autobiography. He claimed that he’d been a victim of this during his time at West Ham and that it had been partly responsible for him leaving the club. It was a load of complete and absolute rubbish and it really offended me that he should say that and try to make that an excuse for his departure.
Berkovic left because of the incident in which John Hartson kicked him in the head during training. There was no racist element to that, just as there had been no ill treatment of him because of his nationality or religion. I saw Dad operate on a daily basis at the club and he never showed favouritism towards or prejudice against any player. He was well loved and respected by everyone at the club and never had any problems. Berkovic had also claimed that Dad would tell Harry to sub him (Berkovic) instead of me from midfield if someone was being taken off. And quite right too if he did – especially on a cold afternoon at the likes of Bolton when he was more concerned about keeping his hands warm instead of scrapping for a result like the rest of us. He is the opposite of JT and Jody – someone who is in it for himself and who would never stand side by side with you in a fight. I had nothing against Berkovic as a player – I enjoyed playing alongside him – but he caused me to feel extremely bitter when he tried to sully the reputation of Dad in such a cynical way.
I had considered other options. Talking to him wasn’t really on – he’d always been a quite arrogant person who was always right in his own eyes. Denying the allegations was fine but it’s the kind of thing which has so much stigma attached to it that even raising the subject presents its own problems. My mind was made up. I was going to teach him a lesson on the pitch.
Berkovic has always been a bit showy on the ball and I decided I would run him off a couple of times and make sure he knew what was going on. I had no experience of that kind of thing and relied on instinct to guide me. I didn’t have long to wait. Berkovic likes to hold the ball when he’s in space – he’s always been a bit greedy – and I let him get comfortable enough on it before making my move. I went for the ball and my momentum carried me through the tackle and I hit him. Have that. There was no malice or violence, no studs – just enough to send him down. I tumbled clear towards the touchline and Marcel Desailly ran towards me and hauled me to my feet.
‘What the f*** do you think you are doing?’ he asked in a low, angry voice.
He had seen the whole thing from close range. He didn’t know about my gripe with Berkovic but he had seen my eyes as I started my run at him. Marcel knew there was something going on but didn’t understand what.
‘You don’t do that kind of thing. You don’t,’ he reminded me.
The referee brandished the inevitable yellow card. ‘Fine,’ I thought, ‘I’ll take it.’ I was pleased that I had gone through with my plan. He wasn’t injured but I had hurt him enough for him to know what was going on. It’s not something I had done before or that I will repeat, as my disciplinary record shows – one red card in my entire career. I am no hooligan.
I put it behind me and it had no lasting affect on me as we tried to turn the victory at Maine Road into a habit elsewhere. Having got the whole Berkovic thing out of my system there was a sense of release. I felt I was maturing with every game that I played and even the smaller things in life seemed to give me a greater sense of self-belief. The promise I made to myself before the season started – that I would become a pivotal figure at the club – suddenly felt like a reality. Physically I felt sharper and stronger. I was also much more confident running with the ball and waiting for the right moment to make a pass.
That self-belief came through in my general play as well. In my first season I was nervous about demanding the ball partly because there were so many other great players around me. It wasn’t conscious as such but I was very aware that I had the likes of Petit and Zola around me and I almost felt like I had no right to shout for possession in their company. Now I changed my attitude. I was facing the defenders and cajoling them to give me the ball.
Dad always said that I had to make things happen. To do that you need to have the ball at your feet. He was very forthright about my options when I signed for Chelsea. ‘You can go there and play a bit of football and look good every couple of games son,’ he said. ‘Or you can shout for the ball every time you’re near it and make things happen. Only then will people say that Frank Lampard won that game or this game for us.’
I knew he was right and I knew that is what I wanted to be. Even now, if I finish a game feeling that I haven’t been as involved as I should, I will watch the TV highlights and read the reports to analyse my performance. If I haven’t scored or provided an important pass then I feel I’ve let myself down. I lost all of the inhibitions which I had dragged to Stamford Bridge from my time at Upton Park. I was becoming the player I had always wanted to be even though I found this difficult to define to other people. There were players who I admired – like Keane and Vieira – but it was their spirit and talent which inspired me rather than their actual style of play.
I didn’t want to be ‘a goalscoring midfielder’ in the mould of Robert Pires or Gus Poyet. I wanted to be a midfielder who scored goals – someone who was involved in all aspects of the play, from defending to making the final pass, as well as hitting the back of the net regularly. There weren’t that many, if any, players to look up to who were capable of that. Keane did achieve it with double figures for a few years but he was more deep lying a lot of the time. Instead, I tried to take bits from everyone else and add them to my natural strengths. Looking back, I think that combination of things is the main reason I played so many games in my first five years at Chelsea. If I were a manager I’d want a midfielder who could defend, who was at the heart of the engine of the team to drive it, as well as someone who could score and make goals. If you can demonstrate these qualities then you become indispensable. I would be happy to have a player like that.
At that time there was one more aspect I needed to perfect. I was just beginning to master the runs from midfield which have become my trademark. The extra training, the diet, and all of the aspects which had changed in my life since the transfer were coming together and making a difference. Ranieri had spent a lot of time coaching me about when I should break forward and when I should sit. It had been hard to start with, as my instinct was to attack whenever I could. I had scored forty goals from midfield at West Ham and saw Chelsea as a place where I could get more. Dad agreed, and it was his presence at home games especially which complicated my first few weeks at the club. He had just stopped being on the bench giving me instructions at West Ham and so it was still very much habit. At Stamford Bridge my parents sit in the East Stand on the first tier almost directly above the home dugout. At Chelsea, I would look to the bench and see Ranieri telling me to get closer to a man or press on. Dad would be above him gesticulating for me to make a forward run or tuck in behind or whatever. I would look at the bench for instructions out of habit and then catch a glimpse of Dad telling me to do something completely different. To his credit and despite years of habit, Dad quickly realized that he had to take second place to Ranieri. He has stopped sending overt signals but admits that in his mind he is still telling me what to do.
Some of the other lads had clocked this strange double-take phenomenon now and again and I took a bit of stick for it. Ranieri had a very personal way with his players and as I grew in importance in the team, he took me aside more and more and we talked about what he wanted me to do in a match. That kind of thing will always attract dressing room banter and the lads took to calling me son of Ranieri and referring to him as my Dad.
Whenever I got called to be given instructions by the manager, Eidur would say, ‘Lamps, your Dad wants you.’ Of course, when my real Dad turned up at games – as he does at every one – there would be two of them. That’s how I became the man with two Dads. The joking around was all part of the team spirit which was building under Ranieri and an indication of the amount of respect and affection the players had for the him.
Ranieri was very passionate about his belief in me – indeed, almost like a parent – and it showed. It actually got to the stage where he was shouting ‘Stay, stay’ almost all of the time, even in training and practice matches. I would look over in disbelief. It hadn’t clicked for me that most of my goals at West Ham had come from percentage running – making those runs all of the time though only one fifth might actually bring a goal.
What I learned was how to react to play in individual situations, to sense when I might best have the chance of a goal or not, and how to use the ball better when there was nothing else on. I have Ranieri to thank for that. He saw the potential in me when he bought me from West Ham and he made it real by curbing my naive urge to go forward regardless.
Things were looking up on the pitch as well. A run of games up until Christmas saw us beaten by Man United in the League Cup but on 21 December myself and Eidur scored and we went top of the Premiership with a victory over Aston Villa. It was a great feeling to get there and as a team we were on a high. I tend not to get carried away in situations like this, and I seemed on this occasion to have an innate sense that I shouldn’t be over-optimistic.
I arrived for training on Monday and there was a real buzz. Jody, JT and Eidur were already there in our little ‘English section’ so called because of the way the old training ground was divided up into six mini-dressing rooms. There was an Italian room, a French room and the rest of the world. It was a terrible set-up for a football club and didn’t help at all in building and promoting the team spirit. The spirit wasn’t bad but the segregation made life more difficult. There was, however, compensation in the form of the relationship that developed with Eidur, Jody, and JT. We would chat a lot about games, the club, and where we thought we were headed. It was then that I first became good friends with the lads and out of that bond – Jody later left the club – the three core lieutenants of Mourinho’s command got together. We three bridged the Ranieri era and the new one.
Eidur and I became good mates very quickly. He is a year younger than me which I still find remarkable as he has an old head on him, a sensible head. Eidur is very intelligent and inquisitive – he is always curious to know everything, whether it’s how you are doing to what you think of a certain player or team. When you arrive at a new club only certain players will bother to ask about your personal life and family, and Eidur has always been very caring in that way. We both have kids now and I learned a lot from him about that side of life before Luna was even born. He is a very genuine person and we have become best friends over the years.
One of the reasons he is so appreciated at Chelsea is for his football brain. Eidur is one of the cleverest players I have ever come across – he knows exactly what to do and when to do it. Some players who have his talent to hold the ball and dribble will waste possession trying to beat men – not Eidur. He’s far too cute and will always draw the man in to him and release the ball at the right moment. He’s a joy to play with and if I lay the ball off to him and make a run I know that he is the one guy I can rely on to knock it straight back into my path. He is the quintessential link man, but his ability doesn’t end there.
When I arrived at Chelsea I was blown away by Jimmy Floyd Hasselbaink. Anyone who ever got in the way of one of his shots will know what that means – literally. Jimmy is the most natural striker I have ever played with. He has the selfish streak which all great forwards have as well as the predator’s instinct to make him successful. He and Eidur scored fifty-three goals between them the first season I was at the club but the following year only one of them got the chance to show he could do it again – Jimmy.
I felt very sorry for Eidur. Most of the goals Jimmy scored in 2001/02 Eidur either created or had a hand in but Ranieri decided that Zola would play a few games and then Eidur would get a few and it was very disjointed. There were times when he was playing really well and scored and he would be hauled off. I couldn’t really understand it. Neither could he and I feel it held him back from making real progress, given the season he had enjoyed previously.
I understood Ranieri’s predicament: Franco is very hard to drop, as is Jimmy, and maybe sometimes Eidur lost out because he was the easy option. The way we were playing didn’t accommodate all three, so someone had to make way. Eidur and I would sit and chat about this in our ‘private’ dressing room and myself, JT, and Jody would offer support.
Elsewhere there were a number of formidable characters in the team – people like Zola, Desailly, and Petit all command respect for what they have achieved in their careers. Jimmy, on the other hand, would just demand the ball – all of the time. It took me a while to pluck up the courage but I knew that if I was to assert myself more at Chelsea I would have to stand up to him. It’s not that Jimmy was a bully or anything like that – more that he was a very big personality who carried himself with a mountain of self-confidence. When I first started training and Jimmy shouted for the ball, I would pass it. That more or less went on for my first season. He was part of the hierarchy at the club and I was the new boy trying to fit in. My ‘English’ mates had all been there longer than me and made it easier for me, but it wasn’t until I made the conscious decision to follow my instinct rather than someone else’s instruction that I began to make my own way.
‘Lamps! Lamps! Give it, give it!’ It was Jimmy again, at training.
I held onto it and let go with a shot of my own which was saved by the keeper.
‘Oi! I said give it here,’ Jimmy shouted.
‘F*** off, Jimmy.’
I could hardly believe what I had said. Neither could Jimmy. The training pitch went momentarily quiet while everyone waited for the explosion. Jimmy was well known for dealing with issues immediately. He walked towards me and I wondered if I was about to experience the Hasselbaink hairdryer. Maybe he would just kill me. He grinned – that wide, warm Jimmy grin which says everything is cool. And that was it. I was accepted. I ran back into the action and shouted for the ball more loudly than I had ever done. I was proud of myself and now I was going to prove I was right.
We were just at the beginning of the festive fixture list – a period where the championship often took a decisive turn in favour of one team or another. We went into it full of optimism. I was hopeful even though Chelsea traditionally did not stand up to this test and we had three games in six days in the league, two of them away. Ranieri called a meeting after training on Christmas Eve and mapped out his view on the coming week. We had Southampton at home on Boxing Day and then played Leeds at Elland Road before going to Highbury on New Year’s Day. He said we had a squad of nineteen players and all of us would play over those first two games. I came in to training on Christmas Day and it was apparent I wasn’t in the team for Southampton.
I went to his office to see him and he was obviously expecting me.
‘Ah,’ he said without surprise. ‘I thought you might visit me.’
‘What’s going on boss?’ I got straight to the point.
‘I want to play and I am not being big headed but I think we should play our best team and win this game. Southampton at home is a great chance to get three points, even with a horrible trip to Leeds to come.
‘If we get a win there then you never know. We’ve just gone top of the league.’
He listened to me but he had a look in his eyes which told me his mind was made up before he spoke.
‘Frank. You must be patient,’ he replied. ‘You will play at Leeds and we will have six fresh players for that match.’
I started as sub against Southampton and only came on with five minutes to go, along with William Gallas. It was a crappy game which we drew and maybe that was fair enough. They were playing okay and Gordon Strachan had them well organized. We took it on the chin and went to Leeds two days later. We brought in the players that had been rested and lost 2–0. We were s***. It was a killer – having been top of the league a week earlier, we then couldn’t capitalize and consolidate our position.
I can’t be sure that we would have beaten Southampton if we had played our strongest team – that’s an impossible call. But I have never come across a coach who said before a series of games that he was going to play this many players over the course of the matches. I am of the mentality that you play your strongest team and if they win then you play the same eleven as long as they are fit. We are professionals after all, and two games in three days should be manageable. You might be a bit tired but all teams have the same schedule at that time of year so you are up against players in the same boat. I know rotation was Ranieri’s way but in retrospect it wasn’t always the best way.
Roberto Sassi – Ranieri’s fitness coach – had a big say in who was rotated and when. It was Sassi who conducted the blood tests and training measurements and he would advise the boss on who needed a rest. This rankled me and still does. Sassi wasn’t a football man but he had a real influence and one which a lot of the players questioned.
To be fair, a few of us had a chat with Ranieri about a week later and he recognized that he had made a mistake. He was quite open about it and I respected him for admitting it. Sassi, though, would never admit he had made a mistake. Even if we had picked up three points from one of those two games we would still have been top and we might have pushed on a bit.