Free Gerrard: My Autobiography by Steven Gerrard

about.
    Loyalty was an unbreakable code in Liverpool’s YTS dressing-room. Whatever happened, however ruined your trainers were, nobody complained to the staff. If there was a fight, it would be split up. ‘Shake hands,’ came the orderfrom all the other boys. If two lads wrestled and one got cut, everyone else shouted, ‘So what? Get on with it.’ Adriano was never going to tell on Michael. Everyone respected a team-mate clearly heading for greatness. When Michael first came in, after Lilleshall, people looked up to him because he was so good as a footballer. Michael had his own sponsorship, and soon his own car. All the other apprentices knew it was only a matter of time before he was off with the first team. Michael was a class apart, we all realized that, but he was never aloof. He was one of the lads. He could have said, ‘I’m Michael Owen, fuck all youse.’ But he never did. There were no airs and graces with Michael, none of this England schoolboy superstar crap. All the banter and wind-ups often had Michael bang in the middle of it. He was clever about it, though. Michael hated getting caught. He was just focused on reaching the top.
    Greggo and Boggo were different. They were always being cheeky, and being moaned at by the staff. They were just thick, really! All Greggo and Boggo were interested in was getting in the betting shop after training, or playing on the fruit machines. I loved hanging out with Greggo and Boggo. We’d play snooker or go shopping. But when they went gambling, I kept my money in my pocket and just watched them. But I loved their company.
    One day, the management announced that us YTS boys were moving to Liverpool University’s grounds, before we eventually settled at the new Academy at Kirkby. Liverpool’s staff almost had to drag us kicking and screaming from Melwood. We loved it there, but Liverpool decided it would be best if the YTS lads andfirst-year pros were kept separate from the first team. Shit. I wanted to be at Melwood, showing what I could do in front of the Liverpool management. Melwood was the gateway to Anfield. Instead, we were packed off to some student pitches. I came back from the university on the first day and Dad immediately asked what the set-up was like there. ‘Shite,’ I replied. ‘The pitches and facilities are shite.’ It was only for six months, before Kirkby opened, but I felt like I had stepped on a snake after climbing so many ladders.
    The university offered some attractions, though. The pavilion had this dead-long corridor with all the changing-rooms facing each other. One of them Liverpool turned into the physio’s room. Once, maybe twice a week, this hilarious chiropodist called Jeremy visited and held court in the physio’s room. Jeremy was a bit different, to say the least. He was obsessed with purple. His house is purple – front door, walls, carpet, the lot. I know. I’ve been there. I’ve seen Jeremy’s Purple Palace with my own eyes. One day, Jeremy drove up to the university in his purple car and stepped out, head to toe clad in purple gear. He was unbelievable. Jeremy had his own business, but Liverpool paid him good money, and he loved the wit and chitchat.
    One day, Jeremy’s banter was so poor the lads decided to lock him up. He was in his special room as normal, gabbling away, goggles on, as he did a mini-operation on someone’s foot. ‘Jeremy’s a tit,’ I told the lads. ‘All that purple is a crime in need of serious punishing. He’s staying in that room all day.’ Imprisoning Jeremy was easy. All the rooms in the corridor could be locked from theoutside. So when his patient came out, we turned the key in Jeremy’s door and sprinted away, laughing our heads off. ‘Help,’ Jeremy shouted. Training was almost ruined because we kept smiling at each other, thinking about Jeremy. ‘Help, help.’ No-one could hear his screams. The Liverpool staff were already out on the training pitch, laying out the cones for our