Read Online Gerrard: My Autobiography by Steven Gerrard - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Steven Gerrard
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clothes, ditch my uniform, have six weeks off and then start football full-time.
‘How did your exams go?’ Mum asked.
‘Yeah, fine,’ I replied, knowing I had done shite. I handed her my uniform. ‘Just pop that in the bin, please, Mum.’
A new uniform awaited me: Liverpool FC.
4
Teenage Kicks
AND SO BEGAN the best days of my life, my two years as a Liverpool apprentice, a time of banter and dreams, dressing-room fights and glorious wind-ups. Laughter all the way. As I swapped the dour school uniform of Cardinal Heenan for the bright red strip of Liverpool Football Club, my character changed as well. Gone was the shyness that accompanied me through school. At Cardinal Heenan, I always avoided getting into trouble. I hated bollockings, being sent out of classrooms, or being ordered home to face Dad. I loathed the thought of getting a telling-off or a little belt. So I behaved at school. A mischievous streak emerged the moment I set foot in Melwood as an apprentice.
At Cardinal Heenan, I never had many mates. Liverpool was different. Everyone was a friend. We all shared this unbelievable passion for football. My partners in crime were known as Boggo, Greggo, Wrighty, Bavo and Cass. John Boggan was a year below me with his own firm, but he soon became a close ally in the wind-upbusiness. Boggo, a real funny character, could talk for England; he’s now training with Accrington Stanley after losing a couple of stone. Neil Gregson was another real character, and like Stephen Wright and Matty Cass, he was always up for some banter. Ian Dunbavin, a Knowsley lad, was also in the group; Bavo now keeps goal for Accrington Stanley and to this day is a really good friend of mine. And of course there was Michael Owen, the Boy Wonder who mucked in brilliantly with us mortals. None of us could believe our luck. After the drudgery of school we were actually getting paid to live the dream of becoming footballers. It wasn’t riches. As an apprentice, I got only £50 a week; Mum was paid £160 a month to feed me. Compared to what I make now it was peanuts, but I felt on top of the world every day. The sun seemed to shine just on us Liverpool apprentices.
Because the new Academy at Kirkby was not ready until my second year on the YTS, we spent the first twelve months at Melwood, seeing all the stars. We heard the banter bubbling around the first-team dressing-room at Melwood, so we copied them. So this was the way to become a Liverpool professional: work hard, train hard, laugh hard. Jesus, did we muck about. Liverpool’s staff slaughtered me for all kinds of minor offences, but it was completely different from being coated by the teacher or Dad. I made amends in the next training session.
Pure madness reigned in the apprentices’ dressing-room. As soon as I came through the door, I started wars simply by flicking the lights off. That would be the signal for all the lads – Greggo, me, Bavo, Wrighty, Cass, Michael and everyone – to batter each other with towelsin the dark. That room staged many an ambush. Liverpool had this caretaker called Don; he was in his late forties but the fittest man ever. Don was in the gym all the time, pumping iron. Arm-wrestling was his forte. He would charge into the dressing-room and challenge the bravest apprentice to wrestle him. Elbow on the physio’s table, right hand gripping Don’s, try to muscle him over. I never could. Don was so strong. He could fight us all. Sometimes when Don entered the room, the lads gave each other the nod. Bang, lights off. ‘Let’s get him!’ We’d thrash Don with towels or throw boots at him. One day, Greggo hit Don in the head with a pair of Reebok studs. ‘LIGHTS!’ Don screamed. Nervously, I turned them back on. Jesus, Don was a mess. This huge lump rose above his eye. Don was raging. ‘I’m going to kill you!’ he shouted. He was old enough to be our granddad, and there he was, roaming angrily around Melwood with a black eye and steam coming out
‘How did your exams go?’ Mum asked.
‘Yeah, fine,’ I replied, knowing I had done shite. I handed her my uniform. ‘Just pop that in the bin, please, Mum.’
A new uniform awaited me: Liverpool FC.
4
Teenage Kicks
AND SO BEGAN the best days of my life, my two years as a Liverpool apprentice, a time of banter and dreams, dressing-room fights and glorious wind-ups. Laughter all the way. As I swapped the dour school uniform of Cardinal Heenan for the bright red strip of Liverpool Football Club, my character changed as well. Gone was the shyness that accompanied me through school. At Cardinal Heenan, I always avoided getting into trouble. I hated bollockings, being sent out of classrooms, or being ordered home to face Dad. I loathed the thought of getting a telling-off or a little belt. So I behaved at school. A mischievous streak emerged the moment I set foot in Melwood as an apprentice.
At Cardinal Heenan, I never had many mates. Liverpool was different. Everyone was a friend. We all shared this unbelievable passion for football. My partners in crime were known as Boggo, Greggo, Wrighty, Bavo and Cass. John Boggan was a year below me with his own firm, but he soon became a close ally in the wind-upbusiness. Boggo, a real funny character, could talk for England; he’s now training with Accrington Stanley after losing a couple of stone. Neil Gregson was another real character, and like Stephen Wright and Matty Cass, he was always up for some banter. Ian Dunbavin, a Knowsley lad, was also in the group; Bavo now keeps goal for Accrington Stanley and to this day is a really good friend of mine. And of course there was Michael Owen, the Boy Wonder who mucked in brilliantly with us mortals. None of us could believe our luck. After the drudgery of school we were actually getting paid to live the dream of becoming footballers. It wasn’t riches. As an apprentice, I got only £50 a week; Mum was paid £160 a month to feed me. Compared to what I make now it was peanuts, but I felt on top of the world every day. The sun seemed to shine just on us Liverpool apprentices.
Because the new Academy at Kirkby was not ready until my second year on the YTS, we spent the first twelve months at Melwood, seeing all the stars. We heard the banter bubbling around the first-team dressing-room at Melwood, so we copied them. So this was the way to become a Liverpool professional: work hard, train hard, laugh hard. Jesus, did we muck about. Liverpool’s staff slaughtered me for all kinds of minor offences, but it was completely different from being coated by the teacher or Dad. I made amends in the next training session.
Pure madness reigned in the apprentices’ dressing-room. As soon as I came through the door, I started wars simply by flicking the lights off. That would be the signal for all the lads – Greggo, me, Bavo, Wrighty, Cass, Michael and everyone – to batter each other with towelsin the dark. That room staged many an ambush. Liverpool had this caretaker called Don; he was in his late forties but the fittest man ever. Don was in the gym all the time, pumping iron. Arm-wrestling was his forte. He would charge into the dressing-room and challenge the bravest apprentice to wrestle him. Elbow on the physio’s table, right hand gripping Don’s, try to muscle him over. I never could. Don was so strong. He could fight us all. Sometimes when Don entered the room, the lads gave each other the nod. Bang, lights off. ‘Let’s get him!’ We’d thrash Don with towels or throw boots at him. One day, Greggo hit Don in the head with a pair of Reebok studs. ‘LIGHTS!’ Don screamed. Nervously, I turned them back on. Jesus, Don was a mess. This huge lump rose above his eye. Don was raging. ‘I’m going to kill you!’ he shouted. He was old enough to be our granddad, and there he was, roaming angrily around Melwood with a black eye and steam coming out
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