Carra: My Autobiography (2 page)

I was lying on my bed crying.

A pair of football boots was scattered across the floor, and I was still in my soaking schoolboy strip, trying to figure out how within thirty minutes I'd gone from avoiding bruises on the pitch, in a game which ought to have underlined my growing potential, to receiving a good hiding from my dad. I'd been handed a lesson in football and in life I'd never forget. At the age of seven, my destiny was being shaped.

When players talk about defining moments they usually focus on their highlights. I could begin my story writing about European triumphs or FA Cup wins. I could recall my professional debut, or the first time I signed a contract. I could relive a watershed game when I came off the pitch and knew I'd achieve my dreams, or at the very least felt they were within my grasp.

But a career isn't so simple. Only as you get older can you reassess your experiences. Then you appreciate the impact of events you never recognized as life-changing at the time, but which made you the person you are. When my dad hurled that pair of soaking football boots at me, he probably thought he was merely handing me the punishment I deserved. It was more than that. This was the start of my becoming a footballer.

The cause of my dad's rage was a shameful performance for Merton Villa, my first team. I was already showing promise, playing in the Under-11s alongside lads three years older, but on this particular afternoon there was a reason I didn't want to play.

It was raining.

Actually, it was hail-stoning. I'd never faced torrential conditions before, and couldn't summon the desire, energy or courage to drag my drenched body around a sodden pitch. For the first and only time, I faked injury. As the first challenge came in I hit the turf, rolled around and threw in some tears to seal the deal.

'They'll have to substitute me,' my cunning seven-year-old brain conspired. 'I can go home, put my feet up and get warm.'

No substitution was needed. Philly Carragher, my dad, was on the pitch with his own hook before any decision was necessary. He grabbed my shirt, dragged me from the field, pushed me head-first into the car and drove home, leaving me in no doubt about what would follow.

Once in my bedroom, it hailed football boots. My drowned jersey felt heavier by the second as it absorbed my tears. My dad told me I'd let him down as much as myself. No Carragher was going to be seen as such a coward, especially not in public. I needed to understand the value of pride, and to learn to deal with tough circumstances. I knew the next time I played, no matter how demanding the situation, I wouldn't hide.

I hated my dad at that moment, but I've been thanking him for the punishment ever since. Since turning professional, I've played with and against players who've shown the same gutless attitude I did when I was seven. At least my age was an excuse.

Ability can only take you so far. You need character to accompany it. I was compelled to appreciate and make the most of my skills. There's a saying, 'you are what you're brought up to be', and it applies to me. The best players are a product of their environment. The attitude my mum, dad and the wider community drove into me at an early age became the foundation for how I carry myself on and off the pitch. I've been able to build my reputation on it, to export the distinctive principles of Marsh Lane, where I grew up, to the football stadiums of England and Europe.

People see where I'm from, Bootle on Merseyside, and consider it deprived. Economically it is, but there was nothing underprivileged about my childhood. I feel blessed to have been born there. I'm proud of my city and even prouder of the district where I still belong. Wearing my Liverpool shirt gives me a responsibility not only never to let myself down, but to make my family, friends, city and district proud of me. Without this outlook I would never have become a successful footballer. My heart and soul were born and bred in Bootle.

Maybe it was easier for me to develop a fighting instinct earlier than most. It was a necessity. I was lucky to be born. Everything that has followed has been a bonus.

My book of revelations begins with the most dramatic: if my mum hadn't been a Roman Catholic, I might have been aborted.

Paula Carragher was given the option of a termination due to complications halfway through her pregnancy. She was told I had spina bifida – a birth defect that affects the spinal cord. She was too religious to consider abortion, no matter how disabled I'd be. 'Our Lord told me to have the baby,' she still claims. She's very holy, my mum – at one time in her life she considered becoming a nun – and had already suffered two miscarriages before I came along. She's since had three sons – her holy trinity, if you like. That's a reward for extraordinary resilience and faith. She made all of us attend Mass every Sunday when we were youngsters, and she's still sure someone above has been watching over me from the moment I was conceived.

Unlike my extrovert dad, who pops up so much in this story you could be mistaken for thinking the title
Carra
refers to him, my mum has always chosen to remain in the background, asserting a quiet influence. But she's the rock on which my family was built. I owe everything to that agonizing decision she took thirty years ago.

Her prayers were answered, because when she had her final scan the condition was different to the doctors' diagnosis. As I hope I've proved in the years since, there's no problem with my spine. The trouble was in my stomach rather than on my back. I had a condition called gastroschisis: I was born with my bowels outside my stomach. If you ever see me changing shirts with an opponent after a match, you'll get a good view of a scar and notice the absence of a belly-button. Thirty years ago it was serious, and I spent the first six weeks of my life in Alder Hey Children's Hospital holding on for survival like Liverpool did in extra-time against AC Milan in Istanbul. Just like my cramp-ridden body in the final stages of that 2005 Champions League Final in the Ataturk Stadium, I must have looked a right state, but I managed to pull through, and it's never been a problem to me since.

So it was amid trauma that I, James Lee Duncan Carragher, was delivered into the world on 28 January 1978. James was a tribute to my granddad. I'd like to inform you I was also named after two genuine greats of the game, Duncan Edwards and Jimmy Greaves; sadly, as my dad was a fervent Evertonian throughout the dismal 1970s, Gordon Lee and Duncan McKenzie were on his mind when I arrived. McKenzie was dropped by Lee for an away defeat at Middlesbrough in the FA Cup on the day I was born, so my name shows Dad's sense of humour more than his former love of the Blues. The guardian angel my mum talks about was obviously a Kopite, dropping the first hint my destiny lay in the opposite direction to Goodison Park.

I was baptized in honour of Merseyside football, and the initiation ceremonies have continued ever since. My first memory of my dad is of him on the Wembley pitch kissing Graeme Sharp after the full-time whistle against Watford in 1984. I was six, watching
FA Cup Final Grandstand
, when he jumped on to the screen dancing like a madman. This wasn't his first time on the pitch. He confronted Everton manager Gordon Lee during the FA Cup semifinal replay with West Ham in 1980, shortly after Frank Lampard senior scored the winner. Whatever he thought of Lee, it didn't stop him naming me after him.

Football was my dad's life, and he passed it straight into me.

He managed two nearby football teams, The Brunswick, also based on Marsh Lane, and his Sunday League team Merton Villa. As soon as I could walk, I'd be standing on the touchline watching him impersonating a top-class football manager. He wore a long duffel coat, like all those charismatic bosses in the 1970s, and treated every game like it was the most important event of the week. He'd even employ the football psychology managers such as Bill Shankly were famous for. 'You're the best striker in this league, much better than everyone else,' I once heard him say to one of his forwards. 'You could score a hat-trick today.' Five minutes into the game, he'd turn away from the pitch in disgust, look at the spectators and say of the same player, 'He's a fucking shithouse!'

My football training began like this, absorbing the lively sights and sounds of the Merseyside amateur leagues, and travelling to their most notorious venues, such as Brook Vale in Litherland, Buckley Hill in Sefton, Stuart Road in Bootle, and Windy Harbour, which, appropriately, is now the site of the Liverpool FC Academy in Kirkby. As a besotted spectator, the closest I got to playing on a full-size pitch in those days was sprinting towards the goalmouth at halftime, taking advantage of the nets for a fifteen-minute game of headers and volleys.

I was mesmerized, not only by the football but by the whole culture that accompanied it: the togetherness, the banter, the aggression, the celebrations in victory, the despair and conflict in defeat. I was eased into this world, then locked into it.

Everyone loved their football, no matter what their level. In the Sunday League, anyone who turns up can get a game. If a goalkeeper enjoys eight or nine pints too many on Saturday night and fails to turn up on Sunday morning, there'll always be someone at the bar ready to step in. Mysterious hangover bugs often sweep across squads on Sunday mornings. On one occasion the manager of The Chaucer, the pub which was the focal point of my community, had no option but to turn to the untried goalkeeping talents of one of his locals.

Jimmy Smith's long-awaited opportunity had arrived.

Those who know Jimmy will tell you he's a great lad but he's also not the full shilling. Strictly speaking, he wasn't registered to play, so it was explained to Jimmy that for the duration of ninety minutes he had to pretend he was called 'Kenty' – the name of the absent keeper. Things progressed well until Jimmy conceded a penalty for an atrocious tackle, and the referee decided it was worth a booking. 'Unlucky, Kenty!' everyone on the pitch and touchline shouted loudly, reminding Jimmy of his secret identity, though not completely convinced their new recruit could maintain his act.

'What's your name, son?' asked the ref.

You could see Jimmy struggling with this tough question, trying to ensure he didn't let his teammates down.

'Kent,' replied Jimmy proudly, the sweat pouring off him as he focused on his special task.

'And your first name?'

There was a pause as Jimmy's confused mind considered the possibilities. Then his face lit up, he stiffened his back, and he confidently offered his response.

'Clark,' he said.

The referee simply wrote the name in his book and carried on none the wiser.

This incident obviously provoked laughter, but generally these games were taken as seriously as Champions League qualifiers. There's a famous quote attributed to the legendary American football coach Vince Lombardi: 'Winning is not everything, it's the only thing.' It's the opposite of the fluffy romantic notion that says 'it's not the winning but the taking part'. Lombardi later tried to distance himself from the sentiments behind his famous line, concerned things would be taken to a dangerous extreme by more cynical, ruthless coaches. Perhaps he'd heard about my dad's antics. Whenever I hear the saying now, I think of my dad's career as a manager.

He adopted the philosophy with a religious fanaticism. Several escapades earned him a season ticket at county FA disciplinary hearings. I'm not sure if hitting a referee with a corner flag, as my dad once did when upset with a decision, will ever be recognized by UEFA as a fine example of sportsmanship. The victim, George Kane, went on to referee in the Football League. Fortunately, he never got the chance to wreak his revenge on me. Another time my dad was so convinced his team weren't capable of equalizing he ordered his physio to break one of the crossbars to force an abandonment. The plot was foiled when a replacement was erected, and the game went ahead. My dad later vowed to be more respectful of officials. One day he discovered the referee for an important match several miles away in Kirkby was from Bootle, so he charitably offered him a lift on his team bus. The goodwill lasted ninety minutes. After his team's defeat my dad drove home, deliberately leaving the poor ref stranded. Never mind the FA, even the local radio station was disgusted: the incident was mentioned on Billy Butler's BBC Radio Merseyside show the following day.

The message being sent to me was clear: win by all means possible.

Life off the park was just as colourful. Marsh Lane is the type of area that has contributed to Liverpool's reputation. It's a mad mix of cynical and kind-hearted, funny yet tough personalities. The regulars of The Chaucer possessed the only degree that matters – a BA in how to be streetwise.

For generations, the people here have been bred to be survivors. Bootle was bombed to virtual destruction during the Second World War; it was the most shelled area of the country during the Blitz. Later, poverty set in because the dockyards, once the main source of employment, were abandoned. Entire communities were stricken. A grey landscape was left sandwiched between the wealthier suburb of Crosby, leading towards the middle-class towns of Formby and Southport, and the bustling Liverpool city centre two miles to the south. The residents must have felt they were being squeezed and taunted into submission. It's no wonder many of them turned petty crime into a trade. Even now the police in Bootle are seen as a hindrance rather than a help. There must have seemed no alternative to bending the law, beyond packing your bags and jumping on a boat or train, which many did. Instead of walking around feeling defeated by their circumstances, the people here kept their chins up and fought back to support their families, and they didn't care what it took. You've two choices in a situation like that: sink or swim. Ninety per cent of people here keep their head above water.