UNLIKE BACK HOME AT Rangers, I wasn’t a top dog in the Dutch national squad. There were ten main faces, the rest were more or less hangers-on. I was one of the latter. No worries, I was just happy to be there! I could see that guys like Frank de Boer, Phillip Cocu, Jaap Stam and Edwin van der Sar had an awful lot more experience than me.
The big shots acted accordingly, as I soon found out in Huis ter Duin, the luxury hotel in the seaside village of Noordwijk where we always gathered before an international match. There wasn’t actually such a thing as a hierarchy, but it was obvious that the important players made the rules. Take the seating arrangements: they made it quite clear that I couldn’t just sit wherever I wanted. In order not to behave like a rebel, I always waited for the last available chair.
I almost immediately sensed a few difficulties within the group. Irritations. Lots of them rotated around Edgar Davids, an unconventional chap, it’s true, although I quite liked him. The majority didn’t like the fact that he kept to himself most of the time; they thought he should be more involved in group activity. Well, my view was: different characters, different habits, boys! Edgar was a loner by nature and simply wasn’t a social animal like, for instance, Arthur Numan and Pierre van Hooijdonk. But did that make him a bad guy? Edgar was a phenomenal footballer – and that’s what counted. Same with Clarence Seedorf. A lot of players couldn’t handle his attitude, couldn’t stand the fact that, despite his tender years, he always had an opinion about everything. Well, so he should, he was an incredible footballer!
The coaches didn’t always like his attitude either. One day he clashed with Andries Jonker, trainee of Louis van Gaal at the national squad. But then, Jonker always acted like a schoolmaster who has to do everything by the book, so I could understand Clarence’s point of view.
It was Jonker’s first day as an apprentice when he said, ‘Clarence, you should walk differently.’
I thought, here comes trouble! And, boy, was I right.
Seedorf, undisputedly world-class at that time, couldn’t believe his ears. So he went towards this snotty kid – who was actually older than him but looked younger – and asked him who he was.
‘My name’s Andries Jonker.’
‘Aha. Played any football yourself?’
‘Eh, yes.’
‘At the top?’
Jonker shook his head.
‘Then shut up, will ya?’
And off he went, the only Dutch footballer who would win four Champions Leagues. But not before telling Jonker that he shouldn’t forget to put the plastic cones on the training field ‘as far away from us as possible, please!’
(To his credit, in 2014 Andries Jonker would end up as head of Arsenal’s youth division.)
I never found out why, at a certain moment, coaches decided to leave Clarence Seedorf out of the Dutch squad. Maybe they felt threatened by the enormous amount of knowledge the kid had. But it’s a shame. He ended up with a lousy 87 caps and should have had at least 150.
I liked him, from the moment we met at the under-16s in 1991. However, I didn’t think I was the right person to mediate between Clarence and the staff, all those years later. After all, at the time I had some personal problems of my own to deal with.
The Dutch press weren’t an issue. Compared to the British hellhounds they were as innocent as newborn babies. As I drove my vehicle into the parking lot at Huis ter Duin, I would see them waiting in line, ready to grab the odd quote. And every time I thought to myself, aren’t they cute? What a bunch of sweetie pies! They’re so harmless in Holland that I came to view my Orange trips as some kind of relaxation.
Another advantage: I always had a room to myself. Fantastic, in terms of preparation. After dinner, at seven, we used to stay downstairs for a bit of a chat, but in order not to get into trouble I was always back in my room way before eleven. It was a room with a lovely sea view too.
This big private room was proof of the fact that the Dutch national team meant world-class. With Rangers, we always had to share a room. I didn’t like it at all. With Zenit Saint Petersburg, Dick Advocaat managed to change that. Thank God, as I was about to share yet another room with my Turkish teammate Fatih Tekke, who had the habit of jumping out of bed at six in the morning to pray. Afterwards, he would light a cigarette and watch TV, which drove me insane.
No praying or snoring roommates in Huis ter Duin. No filthy hacks either, just a bunch of well-behaved Dutch reporters. It was always the same, on the steps leading to the hotel. They’d ask me a few standard questions, I’d give them a few standard answers and that was that. They were happy with it. Well, happy to be of service, gentlemen!
I didn’t act like a rebel within the national squad. Why would I? And how could I? The big boss was Louis van Gaal, Mr Discipline. Well, let me tell you: no one messes with him!
Apart from being Mr Discipline, he is also Mr Perfection, as Pierre van Hooijdonk found out.
Now, Pierre doesn’t like to wear socks. Inside his shoes, he’s always barefoot. So there he was, one morning in 2001, in the Sheraton Hotel at Schiphol Airport, a few days before our game against Andorra – without the obligatory white socks. When Van Gaal noticed this fashion statement he exploded. ‘That is not the agreement!’ And, believe me, the man can shout. (Little did he know that poor Pierre had almost shown up without wearing a tie either. Fixed it at the last moment in the elevator.)
But it wasn’t about bullying people. Van Gaal wanted us to be a united team. Only then can one achieve great things.
He always wanted the maximum amount of commitment and concentration from us. Mistakes were not tolerated. If you did something wrong, you were humiliated.
Here’s an example for you. Ronald Waterreus, my Rangers teammate, always did the goal kicks. He was brilliant at it. Left foot, right foot, perfect! I swear I’ve never seen anyone as good as him. Until, for no reason, one kick went completely wrong and the ball ended up near the corner flag. Just an accident, but Van Gaal wasn’t impressed.
‘This is the goddamn national team, Waterreus! If you can’t manage to kick a ball in a straight line you better go home!’
I was shocked. So all these stories about Van Gaal were true. But how? The guy must have eyes in the back of his head, I mused. He’d been facing away from the action at the time.
It made me insecure, to tell you the truth. Louis van Gaal meant the utmost professionalism, and I wasn’t used to that yet. Mind you, two years earlier I was still playing in the Dutch First Division. But, no excuses, mate! The man wanted you to be part of his squad, so you better not disappoint him.
Still, as I was now playing with Holland’s best footballers, I was a bit confused. Should I play like I always did at Rangers? I didn’t want to hurt the likes of Seedorf and De Boer. Play tough, don’t play tough? I didn’t know what to do. And, as it happened, I was using my brains more than my feet. All in all, not much came of it.
Van Gaal noticed immediately. After the training session he took me aside, put an arm around my shoulder and said, ‘Fernando, I fully understand that you’re nervous. Just one word of advice: do as you always do at your club. Do your own thing. Don’t compromise. Don’t do a little bit of this and a little bit of that, okay?’
We shook hands and I promised not to disappoint him.
More than anything else, it was the speed at which the guys played. It was so much faster than I was used to. After the first Orange training, I was totally exhausted and went straight to bed. I didn’t even have the energy to turn on the TV.
But Van Gaal’s encouraging words had an enormous impact on me. The next day I felt a lot more relaxed, and not as tired afterwards. I was on the way up.
Not a bad word about LVG from my side. The man is a phenomenon, a remarkable manager who always manages to get the best out of a player. You have to work damn hard, that’s for sure, but the end result always lives up to his expectations. Like no other – with the possible exception of Advocaat – he can make you better. And eventually you become just as fanatical as he is. A true craftsman!
As I didn’t want to screw things up – I was too damn proud of my orange shirt – I refused to hit the bottle once I was in Holland. Playing for the national team had been a childhood dream, so I was definitely not going to blow it. I still remember that day in Glasgow in 2000 when Dick Advocaat told me he had received a phone call from the Dutch FA, the KNVB. Van Gaal wanted me to play against Ireland, on 15 November in Amsterdam. World Cup qualification, phew! I was more than a little surprised, especially as things weren’t really hitting a crescendo at Rangers.
Later on, driving back to Newton Mearns, I had a smile the width of a football goal. Suddenly I saw a lot of possibilities. Fact: I was far from my best at Rangers. Yet, I had qualified as one of the best eighteen footballers in my country. So, I said to myself, ‘What will happen the moment you do play well at the club?’ I was convinced I was going to be a regular then. A comforting thought, given that the World Cup in Japan and South Korea was only two years away.
Unfortunately I wouldn’t play a single minute against Ireland. Even when right-winger Michael Reiziger was injured I had to stay on the bench. We were a goal down, thanks to a shot by Robbie Keane, so van Gaal chose a more experienced substitute, one with a strong desire to attack. So it was Clarence Seedorf in my spot, and Paul Bosvelt had to shift backwards. Half an hour before the end of the game, Jason McAteer scored – 0–2 – and I knew I would be a spectator for the rest of the night. Well, at least Jeffrey Talan and Giovanni van Bronckhorst made it 2–2, but it wasn’t enough for me to save the evening. I kept my orange shirt, but it was a small consolation.
One month later, there was the double confrontation with Cyprus and Portugal and, yes, once again I was part of the squad! It was a huge relief, I can tell you, especially because I still wasn’t doing well at Rangers. At the least, a few days away from Scotland would be relaxing.
Relaxing? Au contraire! One day before the match against Cyprus, I was injured. Even worse, I ended up in a wheelchair! So once again I had to experience the game as part of the crowd.
It was my ankle, the same ankle that was damaged all those years ago by PSV’s Ernest Faber. And it was double trouble, as thanks to the injury I didn’t miss one, but two international games! My replacement, Mario Melchiot, couldn’t have had a better week.
Anyway, I’m not the kind of person to be stopped just like that. Five weeks later I was back playing for the mighty Orange. We had to face Spain in a friendly in Seville. I came on as a substitute, aged 24 (and 111 days, for the Stattos among you). Just as I had predicted, I had made my debut in the national team before my twenty-fifth birthday.
Take that, Chris Dekker!
Yes, I was a substitute, as Van Gaal wanted to play things safe. It was a month after a painful defeat against Portugal, so tensions were pretty high. The only new player who could start immediately was Kevin Hofland. Me and my old pal Patrick Paauwe – of that hotel incident with the chicks – started on the bench.
Thirty minutes into the second half, I started my warm-up: the usual stretching and stuff, which I normally hate. Just let me get rid of my training jacket and I’ll run straight onto the pitch for you, no problem at all. But this was the national team and this was Louis van Gaal, so for a change I did exactly what I was told.
It was 1–1, with goals from Fernando Hierro and Jimmy ‘Floyd’ Hasselbaink. With fifteen minutes to go, Van Gaal sensed we could win. And it showed. The man was screaming his lungs out, acting as if he personally wanted to score. Great to see. Five minutes to go. A header by Frank de Boer. 1–2!
More important, I was sent on as a replacement for Paul Bosvelt! Okay, it was just for a few minutes, but I was in the Dutch national team! And look who I was facing. Iker Casillas! Carles Puyol! Xavi! Raúl! Luis Enrique!
I was impressed, but I couldn’t show it. Not now. I had to stay focused more than ever. No way was I going to screw this up!
The first ball I got came from the foot of Michael Reiziger. Too slow, not enough speed; it hardly reached me. One moment I was thinking, Why is he giving me such a lousy pass? The next moment I was on the grass screaming.
Sergi had hit my ankle. Merciless.
‘How are you, Fernando?’ It was the voice of the doctor. I was still on the ground, and our medic was trying to revive me.
‘I’m fine,’ I lied.
Of course I wasn’t. I was in more agony than I could handle. It hurt like hell. That bastard, Sergi! What did he think this was? A Champions League Final? It was just a friendly!
Determined not to leave the pitch, I got up after three minutes – for a total of two seconds. End of the game.
The next four weeks, in Glasgow, my ankle was wrapped in plastic filled with ice cubes. I didn’t mind. I was just happy that I’d made it into our national team. I had a cap. A virtual one, as in Holland they don’t really hand those things out, but still.
For a while, my international career was limited to those few seconds against Spain. In 2001 I didn’t play at all. My problems in Glasgow had worsened and at one stage they were way too big for me to be selected again. First, get yourself back on track again, was the message van Gaal gave me. Not easy to hear, but he was right. Now it was up to me to show the whole world that I wasn’t just a one-hit wonder.
By 2002 I was doing well again in Scotland, but things had changed in and around the Dutch national team. After failing to qualify for the World Cup van Gaal was given his marching orders. Sad for him, but not so much for me, as his successor was one Dick Advocaat! Yup, the very man who knew everything about me. The one who, like no other, was familiar with my Fighting Spirit.
Come February 2002 and there I was again, in a friendly against our English neighbours. Their squad read like a who’s who of British football: David Beckham, Frank Lampard, Steven Gerrard, Rio Ferdinand, Paul Scholes ...
I was beaming. Now this promised to be a great game! I could hardly wait.
And thanks to Dick I could start from minute one. It felt like an enormous victory – a victory over myself.
The moment I walked onto the pitch, surrounded by thousands of lads dressed in orange, was one of the happiest moments of my life. And I’ve felt the same in every single match since then. I know, I’m not like Frank de Boer who has 112 caps. Fat chance he remembers every one of those games though. I have 100 less, 767 minutes in total, but I can tell you who scored in every match and what every goal looked like.
Proud as a peacock when I walked on the pitch, proud as a peacock when I left it. It was a great game, although it ended in a 1–1 draw due to goals by Patrick Kluivert and Darius Vassell. At least I had shown the world that I was back! Thanks to my direct opponent Emile Heskey for being so big and strong. I like players like this particular Liverpool forward. Don’t fancy the small ones, as proven in my Old Firm matches with Bobby Petta.
Stay focused now, I told myself, that memorable night in Amsterdam. Don’t do anything stupid. Don’t screw it up.
But I did screw it up – big time – thanks to that old devil called booze. My career as an international would reach as far as a strip joint in the city of Minsk.
But that’s another chapter.