14

A NEW DAWN FADES

Major surgery to the squad was afoot ahead of the last season of the millennium. Gérard Houllier said farewell to Paul Ince, Jamo and Bjorn Kvarme. Somehow Liverpool’s Chief Executive Rick Parry managed to get £1.5m from Sochaux-Montbéliard for Jean-Michel Ferri, too – a player who managed a grand total of 37 minutes of football in the red shirt over the two seasons. I think Mr Parry deserves the football administrator’s equivalent of a gold medal for that one! And it was farewell to my old mate Macca, who left for Real Madrid on a free transfer. Fans will always have their own perspective on these things and it usually goes along the lines of players’ greed coming ahead of loyalty to the clubs who made their name for them and the fans who adore them. As with all things, there are usually at least two sides to any story and Macca would have felt aggrieved at the way he was made available to Barcelona the season before, only for him to be left sitting in a hotel room for 24 hours before being flown back home again without him ever speaking to anyone from Barca.

The point is not that any particular person is right and another party is wrong, but more than ever before, football is a business – and a huge, cynical, voracious business at that – and players are increasingly seen as commodities. Everything, including loyalty, has its price. If Macca came back from that Barcelona farce feeling as though he was last consideration in the trade, then you couldn’t blame him for looking out for himself when the next opportunity came along. He was off to lift domestic titles and Champions Leagues with Real Madrid, while Gérard Houllier set about rebuilding Liverpool from the ground up. Literally.

Gérard brought about some basic changes that had both immediate and longer-term impact. He oversaw the remodelling of the club’s Melwood training base, bringing in dieticians, fitness coaches, performance analysts and specialist scouts for different territories. He also brought in a new central spine – Sander Westerveld as goalkeeper, Sami Hyypia and Stéphane Henchoz in defence, Dietmar Hamann and Vladi Smicer in midfield and Titi Camara to provide a more physical foil to Michael Owen and myself up front. Later in the season, Houllier would also bring in Emile Heskey – a net spend, after sales, of around £25,000,000 and serious money in those days. Over the summer of 1999, Liverpool had sold 9.8 per cent of the club to Granada, which paid for the bigger part of this transfer splurge; suddenly, things were looking up. From my utter dejection at the end of the previous season, I felt as though this newly assembled squad was suddenly starting to look like a nicely balanced mix of experience, youth and local brio.

August 1999 felt like a real significant milestone for me, on and off the pitch. Kerrie gave birth to our first child, Madison. Talk about love at first sight! I was besotted and couldn’t wait to get back from training every day to see the baby. And, although there was no thunder-flash from the heavens, it felt like the right time to knuckle down and really prove my worth to Gérard, the club and myself. I worked harder than ever before throughout pre-season and with a new, five-year contract agreed to put all those doubts and thoughts of under-achievement to bed, headed into the season with a renewed zest and self-belief.

And it all started so well. I scored in our opening day win at Sheffield Wednesday then got an absolute belter against – who else? – Arsenal, a half-volley from the edge of the box that went in off the bar. If you could design your own goals, Minecraft-style, then I reckon I’d have a fair few of mine flying in off the bar – there’s just something dramatic and immensely satisfying about it. But, as seemed to be the pattern with me over these last few seasons, my excellent early form was just the tail wagging the dog. It goes without saying, with the Everton game coming up at the end of September, I was eager to play. Yet, deep down, I knew I was struggling with that first burst of pace, that initial head start you need in your duels against the best defenders. When I planted my foot to make a sprint, there’d be a brief, sharp pain that went away as quickly as it came. I should have gone straight to physio Mark Leather, but with all this added competition for places, I kept it to myself.

The derby game arrived and, as ever, I was busting a gut to make that crucial difference in the game that meant more to me than any other. By the time the first half ended, I knew I’d made my ankle twinge worse. Still, I said nothing. The second half started, but I only lasted another quarter of an hour before I had to limp off. In the back of my mind I was thinking, okay, it’s out in the open, now. At least Gérard and Phil Thompson can see how much it means to me to play for Liverpool. I’ve been playing through the pain barrier these last few weeks; a bit of ice, elevation and rest and the swelling will come down. I’ll come back in a couple of weeks stronger, faster and fitter …

No chance. The prognosis was a ruptured peroneal tendon, meaning I would need a small operation that, in turn, would require at least 10 to 12 weeks’ rest.

It’ll sound crackers in the context of my having just signed a new, long-term contract that would keep me at Liverpool for the best years of my career, but I just never got the sense that Gérard was 100 per cent sold on me. I’d have games when I was hitting the net and, I don’t know, his praise always seemed a little muted somehow, or qualified. It would be words to the effect of, ‘Yes, Robbie has done well in this game, now he has to show he can do it in every game.’ That sort of thing. And, partly as a result of that sort of thing, I was desperate to get back in action.

There had already been rumours that Liverpool were seriously interested in Leicester’s big young striker Emile Heskey. The last thing I wanted was to give the club an easy decision to make so I defied medical logic (and, no doubt, advice!) and got back in the team before the year was out. In the last game of the millennium, I scored the third in a 3–1 win against Wimbledon – my 150th goal in six years for Liverpool F.C. Of those, 95 had come with my left foot, 30 with my right, and 25 with my head – I think that pretty much qualifies me as being a natural, all-round striker! Disastrously, though, I felt that old familiar ankle twinge once again during that game and this time, I was out for the rest of the season. What a washout! All that hope, all that promise, and I was invalided out of the action all over again. Now, there was no question that Gérard would bring Heskey in. Michael Owen had played alongside Emile quite a few times at England Schoolboy and Under-21 level and he rated him as the ideal complement to his own, more predatory skills.

For me, it was back to a now all-too-familiar world of rehab, physio and psychological motivation. That process is a long and lonely road, and it was here that I started to think in earnest about one day moving into coaching. I’d always had an intuitive interest in the academic and technical side of the game. Anything I could pick up that might, however marginally, improve my game, I was open to it. And I’d often say to my dad that I reckoned I’d be just as good a manager as I was a striker when the time came, but in rehab, you really do focus on the big What If … and What Next … questions. So, I started on that daily slog on the journey back to recovery once again and gradually found my rhythm. It’s not that it got any easier, the grinding, remorseless routine of that first step, then the next, and the next, but it held less fear for me. The only other option was not to play again – so no option at all, in reality. I accepted the situation for what it was, gritted my teeth and got down to it – literally one step at a time.

Kevin Keegan was, by now, England manager and he was good enough to call me and offer words of encouragement. Even though his long-term plan was to blood younger players in the expectation of building a core that would stay together over the next ten years or so, there would always be a place for an instinctive, out-and-out goal-getter. He said some really nice things and I felt a whole lot better about the road ahead.

The gradual overhaul of the Liverpool squad continued over the summer of 2000, too. Some of the players Gérard shipped out had featured so little over the previous season or two that you’d half-forgotten they still played for us. Brad Friedel, Phil Babb, Stig, Rigobert Song, Stan Staunton, Titi Camara and my old mate, Dom Matteo, all left. So, too, did two of our more recent Academy products – David Thompson, a fiery and skilful winger from Birkenhead, went to Coventry and Jon Newby, who had been at the club as long as I had, left for Bury.

Among the new recruits were Christian Ziege and Markus Babbel, two highly experienced German full-backs who would surely add even more steel and maturity to our defence. Houllier also brought in Nicky Barmby and Jari Litmanen – graft, craft and creativity to support the front men. Jari’s arrival was a real coup, not least because he was rumoured to have been a childhood Liverpool fan. He had plied his trade with two of the purest footballing institutions in the world in Ajax and Barcelona. Already I was licking my lips at the idea of getting back into action and being on the receiving end of some of those defence-splitting passes Litmanen had become renowned for – and Barmby’s energy and skill were to provide even more chances, too.

Perhaps Gérard’s canniest signing of all, though, was his decision to bring Gary McAllister in from Coventry on a free. Although Gary might have missed that crucial penalty at a critical time in the England v Scotland Euro 96 tie, he was one of the coolest customers in the game and had personally ruffled our feathers quite a few times over the years with his goals and assists. Part of the management’s thinking was that, along with the creativity and emotional maturity Gary Mac would bring to the mix, people like him, Didi Hamann and Jari Litmanen would all help in developing the precocious talent that was Steven Gerrard.

Stevie reminded me very much of myself at that age. He had already shown that he had the ability to punch his weight against the very best; all that was standing in his way was his tendency, on occasion, to try that little bit too hard, resulting in some reckless tackles and the inevitable sending-off in the derby game. Everyone was excited about his potential to go all the way to the very top of the game. Now we had Gary Mac and Didi to help him decide when to make a tackle and when to hold back, when to spray a long ball and when to give it short. Between them, these two older heads were to be the perfect foil to the greatest young midfielder in years to break through at Liverpool.

I was naturally excited to get back to the coalface and play my part in this dawning of a new Liverpool – I worked like mad all summer, got myself into the best shape I’d been in years – and promptly got myself whacked in pre-season. We’d gradually been stepping up the intensity in our warm-up games and things were going well, both on a team and a personal level, when we headed into Belfast first week in August for a game against Glentoran – what could possibly go wrong? We were strolling it, 4–0 up without really having to break sweat, when their goalkeeper decided he’d come charging out and slide tackle me on the edge of the box. To this day I don’t know what he was thinking or whether he meant to do me, though plenty enough Belfast Reds told me subsequently that he was a big Manchester United supporter. What I do know is that my ankle was knackered again and I was going to miss the start of the season.

It’s hard to explain just how weird it feels to be in that situation. You’re a long-term, fully committed member of a team and a club, and you badly, badly want that team to do well. But – especially when you’re a striker – you want to be at the centre of the stage, the heart of the story. In football, you’re very quickly forgotten – especially when your teammates do well in your absence. And that’s the hardest, oddest part of the long-term injury phenomenon. Week in, week out, Michael Owen was scoring goals – odd ones, doubles, hat-tricks. When he wasn’t scoring, Emile Heskey was chipping in with his fair share, too. I was pleased for them, delighted for the team – and I was pig sick not to play any part in it.

I got back into the team towards the end of 2000, and the Cups – particularly the League Cup – turned out to be my salvation. In the back of your mind, you know that the League Cup is the lowest priority for any team that has serious designs on the big prizes. But, as I’ve been saying, to me cups are cups. Medals are what it’s all about. Plus, by then, I just wanted to play! As it turned out, one of my first games back was an encounter with Chelsea at the start of November. We were locked at 1–1 after 90 minutes but, just on half-time in extra time, I scored the winner. 2–1 to the Reds and we were in the hat for the next round draw. It felt brilliant just to be playing again and making a contribution – the only way I knew how to. The next round was even better: we won 8–0 (eight!) away at Stoke City and I bagged a hat-trick. It’s not as though we fielded a weakened side, either. This was a proper Liverpool team, staking a proper claim on the first silverware on offer that year. We beat Fulham next, to set up a semi-final with our trusty old foes, Crystal Palace. They were fantastic in the first leg at their place, winning 2–1 – but we blew them away at Anfield, with me getting our final goal in a 5–0 romp.

This led us to the first-ever League Cup final – in fact, the first final of any sort – to be played at Cardiff’s Millennium Stadium, the temporary venue for football’s biggest games while Wembley was being rebuilt. It also led me to the strange and quite moving occasion of being on the same football pitch as Dele Adebola for the first time since we were both lining up for Liverpool Schoolboys together. Dele was leading the line for Birmingham City, who were very much the underdogs against us. In the run-up to the game, myself, Michael Owen and Emile Heskey were vying for the two starting positions up front. Even though I’d led the line throughout this League Cup campaign, managers want to win cups as much as players do. It’s not unusual for the players who have done the dirty work in getting a team to a final to find themselves dropped for the big game itself – especially goalkeepers and strikers. To compound all the usual considerations, we were firing on four fronts – the FA Cup, UEFA Cup and still very much in the hunt for Champions League places.

The games were coming thick and fast and as much as everyone wants to play every game, rotation was to be a key part of managing such a congested schedule. Nevertheless, as the weekend approached, I had a pretty strong inkling I was going to get the nod. You just develop a feel for these things from the way the coaching staff interact with you. It’s not scientific, but you can generally tell whether you’re going to figure by the day before any major match. This time it was Michael Owen who missed out and, like any top player, he wasn’t happy.

There was a sobering backdrop to this incredible run of Cup success the team went on, in that our mate and club captain, Jamie Redknapp, suffered a devastating knee injury that led to him having to go to the US for total knee reconstruction. I, of all people, could sympathise with what Jamie was going through, looking on from afar as his teammates went on a spectacular, triple-headed journey at home and abroad. Jamie would be proud as punch, but with his own route back to football being a long and incredibly lonely one, he was going to have dark days and mixed feelings, too. With Jamie out for the season, I was captain and it was one of my proudest moments ever in the red shirt, leading the team out at Cardiff on 25th February 2001 for the League Cup Final against Birmingham.

As can happen when a racing certainty faces a team from the lower leagues, the opening exchanges were cagey. I had a half-chance with a header from a Vladimir Smicer cross, before the game exploded into life on the half-hour mark. Sander Westerveld cleared long, and Emile Heskey got above Darren Purse to flick the ball on. I let the ball drop past me, took one stride and thrashed it on the volley with my left foot, high into the net past Ian Bennett. It was one of those where you know it’s in the second you hit it, and I was wheeling away, both hands pumping the air, as I ran to the Liverpool bench. The first person I jumped on was Mark Leather, sort of a thank-you for all his faith and hard work in helping me get back to full fitness.

It was a glorious moment, banishing all those dark thoughts and endless hours on the road to recovery as I reeled around, taking the acclaim and savouring the moment. With Birmingham reeling, now, we thought we’d doubled our lead when Vladi got on the end of my flick on and lifted over their keeper. The net rippled – but, sadly, it was only the side netting.

The remainder of the game didn’t live up to that one fantastic moment, but while we never truly threatened to add another goal and put the game out of Birmingham’s reach, it never really felt as though we were going to let them back into it, either. Yet, somehow, as we edged closer to the final whistle, Liverpool started to retreat deeper into our own half, trying to contain and stifle Birmingham and see the last few minutes out. This played right into their hands. They could sense how much we wanted this first trophy since 1995 and they could sense, too, how our desire was affecting our play, making us stiff and tense so that even the simplest passes were going astray. Birmingham were launching ball after ball into our box, and we were clearing them straight back out to them. With seconds remaining, I was starting to believe we’d weathered the worst of it. I was going to lift the Cup and my goal was going to be the decider – then Nearly The Hero Syndrome struck again.

Urged on by their manager, Trevor Francis, Birmingham advanced one last time. Their midfielder Brian Hughes – a Scouser, who had copied my avant-garde nose strip with a homemade effort of his own – sent an evil ball skidding through no-man’s land into our box. Their midfielder Martin O’Connor turned Stéphane Henchoz in the 18-yard area – but Steph just carried right on, right through him, giving David Elleray no choice but to point to the spot. There were literally only seconds left on the clock when Darren Purse stepped up and made no mistake with his side-footed pen. I just stood there, not quite able to take it in.

In extra time, Birmingham were dead on their feet, yet they gave as good as they got. Andy Johnson could easily have earned them another penalty when – get used to this – Steph Henchoz went tonto in the box again. Somehow Elleray didn’t give it. Then, straight after that, Sander Westerveld made a miraculous, cat-like save, spooling backwards to keep out an audacious chip from Stan Lazaridis. Right at the end, Christian Ziege lobbed a beautiful cross right into my path. I did everything right with my header, getting a great connection on the ball and tensing my neck muscles to send it up and past Ian Bennett – who, somehow, managed to spring to his right and claw the ball out from under the crossbar. This one was going to penalties, and I was down to take our fifth and last kick – maybe I would turn out to be the hero, after all! Everything was on course for that to happen after Birmingham missed their first pen, and Gary Mac, Nicky Barmby and Christian Ziege calmly slotted our first three. If Dietmar Hamann scored our fourth and Brian Hughes nailed his, it would all be down to my trusty left foot to deliver the silverware.

Once more, I make no apologies for thinking like this. Footballers rarely move beyond their childhood self in this respect – it’s all about dreams of glory, and mine was to score the winning goal in a big, big final. It was all down to Dietmar – cometh the hour, cometh Hamann. There was no way Didi was letting the side down. He was German, for starters, and Germans never, ever miss penalties. He was also completely unflappable, too. Calm as you like, he stepped up, took a moment to confirm in his mind where that ball was going … and missed! Dietmar! How could this happen? Brian Hughes extinguished any last lingering hopes of Growler Glory by slotting his penalty away, leaving it to my Scouse comrade and fellow Number 23 Jamie Carragher to do the business. He side-footed his high into the net, Sander Westerveld saved Andy Johnson’s crucial kick and that was that – we won the Cup. I was proud and happy though, holding that trophy up above my head and cavorting around the Cardiff pitch in front of our fans. Things had not been great since my clash with Thomas Myhre three years previously, but maybe we had all turned a corner, now.

We were certainly going great guns in the other cup competitions and even though I’ve always found it a leap of faith to consider second, third or fourth place a ‘prize’, we were on course for Champions League qualification, too. We’d made steady progress in the UEFA Cup, beating Rapid Bucure ti, Slovan Liberec and Olympiacos, but in the New Year, some of the biggest teams in Europe who had finished third in the group stages of the Champions League dropped down into the UEFA Cup, and we were drawn against Roma. Things were getting serious. Yet, far from being daunted by a trip to the Stadio Olimpico, we gave one of our finest European performances ever. Michael Owen played particularly well, notching both goals in a convincing 2–0 win, which could have been even better if Nicky Barmby had converted a good chance right at the end.

And there was no letting up back home. Two days after getting back from Rome, we had a really tricky FA Cup quarter-final away at Tranmere Rovers, who had been on a tremendous run. They had a skilful midfield schemer, Jason Koumas – a boyhood Red whose style of play and range of passing was similar to Gary Mac’s. There was no way we would be underestimating them, especially not with another potential final now only two games away.

But having been captain for these huge games and having made a real, serious contribution to our results and our progress on four fronts, I was gutted when I found myself hooked against Man United after Danny Murphy was sent off. The game had been going brilliantly – I scored a cracker, we were 2–0 at half-time then, with about 20 minutes left, Murphy picked up a dubious second yellow for a supposed foul on Denis Irwin. As captain in what would now be a backs-to-the-wall finale, you’d have expected me to be the last one to be substituted, but my number was up. Me and Patrik Berger came off, Gary Mac and Nicky Barmby came on, and you could argue that Gérard and Phil got that one right. We held on and won the game 2–0, but I felt I needed to air my grievances.

I still don’t know whether it was a mistake that I made an appointment to speak to the manager the following morning. I wasn’t rude or confrontational, but equally I’m not so good at simply taking it on the chin if I think there’s been an injustice. I wanted to sit down with Gérard, like men, and have an open conversation with him about what it meant to me to play for this club and to have the honour of wearing the captain’s armband. I put it to the boss that the captain is the physical and symbolic leader of the team. He should never be subbed while he was still fit and able to lead his troops – and Gérard seemed to agree with me. I thought the meeting had been mature and sensible, and I felt the manager respected me for airing my views face-to-face. Maybe he did – but he dropped me for the next few games!