Free Gerrard: My Autobiography by Steven Gerrard Page B

assignments.’ No chance. The Spice Boy label was a media creation. Jamo, McManaman and the boys didn’t take any notice of it. Those 1996 FA Cup final suits, where the players looked like ice-cream salesmen, didn’t help, but the perception that the Spice Boys weren’t professional is a myth. During my work experience and YTS, I trained with the Spice Boys and played with some of them in Liverpool’s A and B sides. They worked their bollocks off. None of the Spice Boys took the piss out of training. None of them eased off. It wouldn’t happen.
    People claimed Roy Evans wasn’t strong enough, butthat’s rubbish. Roy and Ronnie Moran, his assistant, had a relationship with the players where they could have a real go at them. Some managers were stricter than Roy and Ronnie, but the standard of training was really good. John ‘Digger’ Barnes was an absolute joke in training; I couldn’t get the ball off him. It was pointless closing Digger down. Redknapp too. When I was a YTS and invited to train with the seniors, I couldn’t get near any of them. If I gave the ball away, Ronnie or Roy were immediately on my case. ‘Look after the bloody ball!’ Everyone else did. Possession was the Liverpool creed. All the Spice Boys treated the ball as their best friend. They never surrendered it cheaply. When I got bollocked, I just wanted the ground to open up and swallow me. ‘God, this is real pressure,’ I thought as I chased McManaman or Digger around Melwood. It did my head in. I walked off the pitch at the end having looked a fool trying to tackle some of the Spice Boys. They had so much skill. I would sit in the changing-room, heaving with frustration. ‘How am I going to get to this level?’ I would ask myself. ‘Some of these players are fucking frightening.’ Even when our YTS sessions finished, me, Boggo, Greggo, Wrighty and Cass would sit spell-bound watching the first team doing shooting or pattern of play. The Spice Boys were so talented. Forget all the bullshit about Jamie and the rest being playboys first, players second. These were proper professionals.
    Fowler and McManaman were my main heroes. Part of my YTS duties involved standing outside the first-team dressing-room and getting shirts, balls and pictures signed by the first-team stars. These items were then sent tohospitals, schools or charity auctions. Whenever Fowler and McManaman walked past, I was in awe. They were local heroes. Some banter went on between the YTS and first-teamers, but I made sure I never said the wrong thing or was too cheeky. I was not intimidated, but I looked up to Fowler and McManaman so much. I never wanted them to think I was a tit. If they had caned me, I would have been devastated. The sad truth is that they probably were not even aware of me, Steven Gerrard, an unknown kid with a huge desire to copy them.
    In contrast to Robbie and Macca, Paul Ince wasn’t dead helpful to the young lads. He ordered us about. ‘Do this, do that.’ Not nasty, but you didn’t let Incey down. One morning I was hanging about on the stairs to the gym at Melwood, knocking about with Wrighty, Cass and Bavo. We were always glued to each other. The first team were coming in and we were getting a few things signed. Incey bounced in, driving his big, boss Audi. He got out, trackies pulled up to his knees, jabbering on the phone. ‘He’s got to get fined,’ I told the lads. Mobiles were banned at Melwood, but Incey couldn’t be arsed. He was so high up. Life under Roy Evans was not that strict.
    Incey walked past us, turned around and shouted, ‘Do any of you drive?’
    None of us could. I was only just seventeen, one driving lesson to my name. But that was more than the rest combined! Wrighty, Cass and Bavo went, ‘Yeah, Stevie can drive. No problem.’
    Incey threw me the keys and a piece of paper, and said, ‘Get down the shops. Get all the things on this list – plus ten ciggies. Don’t miss any or I’ll fucking kill you. Crashthe