Read Online Gerrard: My Autobiography by Steven Gerrard - Free Book Online Page B

of his ears. ‘What have we done now?’ I said to the lads as Don charged out the room. ‘He’s off to get Roy Evans.’ Fortunately, Don didn’t go to the manager. After getting his eye sorted by the doc, Don was ready to sort us out. He rushed back into the dressing-room like a maniac. ‘He’s going to blame me,’ I whispered to Wrighty. I was not in Don’s good books at the time. ‘He’s going to kill me with his bare hands. If he gets into me, Wrighty, you had best help me.’ Luckily, Don just wanted to rant and rave. The storm passed.
    Along with torturing innocent caretakers, us YTS boys had another favourite dressing-room game. Again, the lights went off. This time the maulings were verbal not physical: Chinese Whispers. We’d sit around in a gang, thelights extinguished, and the whispers began. I might quietly tell my neighbour, ‘Greggo’s got some shocking gear on.’ Caning people was the aim of the game, and I was a master. Whispers went round the room, everyone trying to remember all the abuse. The last man switched the lights back on and recited every whisper. ‘Tell Stevie to sort his trainers out. Tell Greggo he dresses like a tramp.’ I loved Chinese Whispers. It was a brilliant chance to slaughter someone without them knowing.
    No-one was safe. Even tough guys like me were targeted. Whenever I came in with a new pair of trainers on, the other apprentices plotted their demise. The moment I headed off to the showers, the lads would cut right through the laces or tie them in unbelievable knots. One time, it took me an hour to get my trainers back to normal. Frequently, I pulled a sock on and my foot went straight through the end, which my team-mates had kindly cut off. I sat there in the dressing-room, with my toes sticking out the sock, as all the boys fell about laughing. They were so bloody sneaky. I never knew they had planned any skit against me until it was too late.
    Revenge was had, though, big-time. I was one of the ring-leaders, inflicting loads of grief on others. Sometimes it stepped over the line. Fights broke out in training through bad tackles, pushes and snarls. The changing-room was no different. If someone couldn’t take the banter or a prank, arguments would erupt. Rucks were part of my daily life. If I ruined someone’s trainers and they weren’t happy, I reacted. Pushing and shouting broke out. ‘Can’t you fucking well take a joke?’ I’d scream at Greggo or Wrighty as they stood there, steaming, holdinga pair of wrecked trainers. Emotions ran high at times. Training was so exhausting, I would be knackered, short-tempered, my head gone. A confrontational streak occasionally seized me in the dressing-room, but I never, ever got nasty violent.
    Any small room packed with competitive teenage lads will spill over. Sometimes, even the kickabouts in the changing-room got heated. We’d put one footy sock into another, twist it and push it through to make a solid ball, which we’d ping around. Michael and I always played it, belting this sock from one end to the other. Two-a-side matches were always going on, with benches for goals. Michael had the ball once, and gave me the nod that he was going to blast it at someone. His target was Roy Naylor. Michael jumped up, smacked this sock-ball across the room and sat down quickly. For once, Michael missed. Instead of Roy, Michael hit one of the goalies, Adriano Rigoglioso, on the back of the head, almost decapitating him. Michael carried on tying his trainers. Adriano turned around, his face like thunder. Matty Cass started laughing so Adriano went for him. Full-on fight. Blood everywhere. Michael sat there, shitting himself, thinking, ‘I’ve caused murder!’ As soon as we could, Michael and I scarpered. ‘You are going to have to own up,’ I told Michael when we reached somewhere safe and quiet. ‘Adriano will kill Cass.’ The next day, Michael admitted to Adriano that he was the guilty man and it was all forgotten