Carra: My Autobiography (33 page)

This has been the Jamie Carragher routine for years. It's only in recent times I've come to recognize the need to come to terms with what can only be described as my addiction. Football elates you one week and sends you to the depths of despair the next. As a teenager, such mood swings can be tolerated by those around you. When you've a wife and children, you've a duty to control such emotions.

Many footballers find a release by taking an interest in other sports, but you won't see me with a golf club in my hand. A snooker cue, perhaps, or you might spot me ringside at the boxing, but I've never cared about any pastime other than football. Bill Beswick, the psychologist I worked with as part of the England set-up, spelt out the need for me to broaden my interests, add balance to my life and learn when not to prioritize football. Ultimately, maturity and the building of my own family has provided me with that much-needed escape from professional commitments.

The mistakes I made in the early years of my relationship are my biggest regrets. I look back with a sense of shame I didn't put key events in our lives above all else, and also with gratitude I was given the chance to learn from those errors. To my eternal embarrassment, the biggest of these came in 2002, when I missed the birth of James.

Liverpool were playing a Champions League group match in Basel, Switzerland. It was a decisive game we had to win to qualify for the knockout stages. The baby was two weeks overdue and Nicola's checkin was scheduled for ten a.m. on the Sunday, a day before we travelled, which left twenty-four hours for the baby to be born. I spent all day with Nicola and slept in the hospital overnight awaiting the birth of our boy.

After a tiring night, the baby had still not arrived by midmorning. I had to delay leaving the hospital twice, first because the team was meant to assemble at Melwood and then to meet up with the players' coach at Anfield. I had a dilemma. Should I stay with Nicola or head to the airport to join the team? There were two signposts in front of me. I'm ashamed to say I chose professional responsibility ahead of family loyalty. I was thinking far too much about the game and not enough about the fact my life was about to change.

Part of me questioned the decision not to stay, but truthfully, there was no way I wasn't going to play in the match.

My mum was on holiday at the time, and Nicola is convinced if she'd been around she'd have made sure I remained. I think she's right. I probably would have been tied to the chair. Nicola's mum didn't feel it was her place to influence my decision. Others did, but it made no difference.

As I sat at the airport, I was given some words of advice by Danny Murphy.

'You should go back to the hospital, Carra,' he said.

Danny had a child of his own. He recognized how important my presence at the birth would be for Nicola, and could foresee how remorseful I'd be if I didn't act.

I wasn't listening.

Nicola had an emergency Caesarean, and at 3.08 p.m., just as I was arriving at the team hotel in Basel, James Lee Carragher was born, weighing in at nine pounds twelve ounces. The news triggered celebrations in Switzerland. Houllier led a toast on my behalf at the team dinner, but by now I was sensing the first tinges of regret. I was in the wrong country to appreciate the magnitude of the occasion. Nicola and I knew privately she was having a boy before she gave birth, and now I wished I'd been there to see him come into the world.

My dad and his mates hoisted a banner in the stadium in tribute to Baby James when the game kicked off the following evening.

'Why aren't I with Nicola and the baby?' I was thinking to myself. 'I haven't even seen my own son.'

While I was on the pitch, Nicola was sharing a ward with all the other new mothers. There was no special treatment because she was the girlfriend of a Liverpool footballer, and she wasn't using my name to get any extra attention. She watched as all their husbands and boyfriends turned up one by one. The only way she could see me was by staring at the television. When anyone asked where the father was, she'd tell them he was away. Her mum told her not to say that because it made it sound as though I was in prison.

Liverpool drew 3–3 in a game they had to win to stay in the Champions League. In normal circumstances our elimination would have been the focus of my attention for days.

But for the first time in my life I had concerns greater than football.

I returned to Liverpool, held my son, and realized how stupid I'd been.

Today, as in the six years since the birth, I still owe Nicola a massive apology. I badly let her down. My obsession with football affected my judgement. There was no way I should have got on that plane until James was born. It would never happen again, but like all the blunders I've made I put it down to my immaturity. I'll be eternally grateful to Nicola for putting up with this fault of mine, although I'm sure she'll admit I've changed for the better since.

Our second child, Mia, was born on 14 May 2004 in altogether different circumstances. She arrived the day before our final game of the season against Newcastle, Houllier's last as Liverpool manager, but there was no question of me being AWOL this time. If Mia had been born at five minutes past four on that Sunday afternoon when The Kop effectively waved goodbye to Houllier, I'd still have been in the hospital.

Nicola had a planned Caesarean this time, and I made sure I followed the perfect father manual to the letter of the law, wearing all the medical gear and holding Nicola's hand as all eight pounds four ounces of Mia Rose Carragher were delivered at 10.17 a.m. I was ecstatic to be the proud father of two beautiful children.

In 2005, it was time for Nicola to join James and Mia and become a Carragher. We wed at St Andrew's Church in the grounds of Western Hall in Shropshire and it was the biggest party the Carraghers and Harts could host, assisted by the double celebration of Champions League glory. That's what I tell Nicola anyway, because she has trouble recalling all the details. She had to go to bed early because the adrenalin and nerves of the day took their toll. She hadn't even had a drink because she was unwell, and still regrets missing out on the partying, which continued into the early hours.

The offers came in from
Hello
magazine for the photographs, but we weren't interested. 'I'd rather sell my photographs to
The
Kop
magazine for a pound,' I joked at the time, but there was a serious side to my response. Three of my best friends – Michael Owen, Steven Gerrard and Danny Murphy – took the magazine route, and good luck to them. There's no right or wrong way of enjoying your perfect wedding day. But what's good for one couple isn't the same for all. In our case, we weren't bothered about the extra money or security operation required when you agree to exclusive wedding photographs. We were happy enough for our mates to take as many snaps as they wanted. I'd never judge others for doing what's right for themselves. I certainly don't consider us superior in any way because we've steered clear of the relentless pursuit of fame. It's just how we are, and we're comfortable with that. We're ambitious in our determination to enjoy the best in life for ourselves and our families, but not in terms of presenting ourselves as something we're not. The people here are happy for you if you achieve a level of success, but they don't like to see it go to your head.

I'm not going to shirk the issue. As footballers, we do have to be more careful because there are women who make it a career aim to marry a top Premier League player. I've seen them interviewed in magazines or on TV shows saying it's their mission in life.

'What do you want to be when you grow up?' they're asked.

'A WAG,' comes the reply.

They want the glitz, the glamour, the wealth and the chance to hang around with famous friends. I suspect the identity of the superstar they get hitched to is the least of their concerns. Half of them probably check which club a player plays for before deciding if he's famous enough to go on a date with.

Nicola is a million miles from those kinds of girls. Her parents, Pat and John, have brought up her, her brother John and her sisters Bernadette and Elizabeth the same way as my mum and dad brought up me and my brothers. She and I would have been together even if I'd never progressed beyond the Sunday League and we were still living off Marsh Lane.

We've always followed as 'normal' a routine as possible. We still live only a couple of miles from our old neighbourhood. I used to pick Nicola up from her work at Johnsons the cleaners at 3.30 p.m. every day, drive her to her mum and dad's for her tea, head to my mum's for my tea, and then pick her up to go round to my flat later in the evening. She was earning a living rather than relying on her footballer boyfriend, and only stopped work when the two children were born. She's gone back to work now, running her own business in Liverpool (Little Day Spa, Oxford Road, Crosby). We enjoy our wealth as much as anyone in a similarly privileged position, but we've made choices that are true to our backgrounds.

James is now at an age when he's realized his father has an unusual day job. He used to see me signing autographs and wonder what the fuss was about. Now he knows. He is the opposite of me as a child. He's Liverpool mad, although he prefers Torres and Gerrard to his dad. That's the fickleness of youth for you. I'm sure he'll want to follow me into football. I'd encourage him every step of his journey if that's the case. It's the best job in the world.

He enjoys his football training twice a week and practises his skills with me every night. He's even had his first taste of Liverpool coaching. James joined the other youngsters at our Academy during the school holidays. He didn't tell anyone who his dad was. Only the coaches knew. At the end of the session they asked the kids if they knew any good Liverpool songs.

'I do,' James said. '"Team of Carraghers".'

My dad takes him to every home fixture, and I'm looking forward to the days when I'll be able to take him to all the matches, introducing him to the same football characters and fanatics I met at the same age. He's even been a mascot, when I made my 500th appearance against Luton in the FA Cup in January 2008. It was like Christmas all over again for James. 'How many sleeps before I'm a mascot, Dad?' he was asking me for weeks. It was just as well I didn't have a bad injury. He wouldn't have been able to sleep for months waiting for me to hit the landmark.

Mia takes after her mum. She's got the same nickname, Bette Davis, because of all her theatrics. We've discovered the first few minutes of the day will dictate Mia's mood for the next twelve hours, so it's important to tread carefully when waking her up. She's already attending LIPA – the Liverpool Institute for Performing Arts, also known as Paul McCartney's 'Fame' School. Nicola rehearses Mia's dance routines every night. While James has ambitions to perform at Anfield, Mia has already performed in the musical
Annie
and has her heart set on appearing in
High School Musical
. We know we've a little actress on our hands. 'I'm not going to nursery today,' she'll tell us, speaking like a four-year-old going on fifteen. She's an independent, feisty little girl. I sometimes feel like a United Nations negotiator trying to convince her to get out of bed, and even at four she won't allow anyone else to dress her. I find it hard to discipline her because I see her as my little angel.

Fatherhood has undoubtedly changed me. In fact, I'd say it's the ideal preparation for a future career in management, dealing with two very different characters and learning how to cope with their personalities. I'm a doting parent and I share the duties with Nicola, to whom I'm forever grateful for being so patient with me. My ambition for my children is that they grow up seeing Nicola and me as two of their best friends as much as their parents. That's the relationship I have with my own mum and dad.

Growing up, you hear people say how they'd die for their wife and kids, and you don't pay much attention. Once you're married and have children of your own, you feel exactly the same way. I'd do anything for my family, in the same way my parents put me and my brothers above all else. You understand and acknowledge the sacrifices made on your behalf when you have the same responsibilities thrust upon you.

When James first learned to speak, we were concerned because he developed a slight stutter. We took him to a specialist and the problem was resolved, but for weeks I couldn't sleep with worry. I'd lie awake wishing it was me rather than him. That's when I knew football was no longer my main obsession. My family is. In fact, I believe having Nicola, James and Mia in my life has made me an even better footballer. I left the naivety of youth behind me.

I've looked after myself far more since I became a family man. I take far more pleasure from a simple act like tucking my children into bed than going out on the ale with all the lads. It helps to have someone like Nicola who is an ideal mother. I have no worries when I'm away from home – the children are being looked after properly. If Liverpool are away on a preseason tour, Nicola will prepare a photo album of the children for me to look at every night. When I return, James and Mia will have spent the day preparing a welcome home card.