Good, I thought, as I realized which pitch we were on. Liverpool had done me proud. Normally we played on the B team pitch; for Lilleshall’s visit, Liverpool gave us the A team pitch, a surface as good as Anfield. Someone at the club knew how much this game meant to me. Thank you. I warmed up, went through the pre-match formalities as captain and kept staring at the ref to hurry him up.
The first whistle made the same impression on me as a bell in a prize fight. A call to arms, the signal for battle. I smashed Lilleshall’s midfield to pieces. Absolutely shredded them. No mercy. Into every tackle I poured all my frustration at being ignored by the National School. I loved the thought of their coaches standing helplessly on the Melwood touchline as I tore into their chosen ones. ‘This will show them what they rejected,’ I thought as I crunched another set of shin-pads. ‘This will make them see how wrong they were,’ I told myself as I sent another of their precious boys flying. ‘Calm down,’ the ref kept shouting at me. No chance. Those Lilleshall boys were getting it big-time. Nothing was going to stop me. How could a referee understand my pain?
Lilleshall fielded some good players, like Michael Ball, Wes Brown and, of course, my mate Michael Owen, who inevitably struck his usual hat-trick. The score was 4–3 to Lilleshall, but I settled a personal score. My performance was so good that all their players ran over at the end to shake my hand. I had battered them, but they still wanted to show their respect. Fair play. I admired them for that.‘How you never got into Lilleshall was a joke,’ Michael remarked as we walked off, the battle over. ‘You are well better than these.’ The England staff all strolled across to congratulate me. I just turned and ran to the dressing-room. I was so upset inside. There was no way I could shake hands with those who gave me so much heartache. They snubbed me. Here was some of their own medicine. Take that.
Even now, I still fume at them all. I cannot stand setbacks. The manager who never picked me for the U-15s, John Owens, is now a coach at the Liverpool Academy. I love walking past him now. Love it. I see him coming, compose myself and say ‘All right?’ as we pass. Owens thinks I have forgotten about the Under-15s. I haven’t. Whenever we bump into each other, Owens is so nice. I talk to him, all polite on the outside, all angry on the inside. I feel like pulling him in a room and asking, ‘Why didn’t you pick me? You’re wrong. Tell me the reasons to my face now, because I know the reasons you put on that letter were a load of shit. Was it really to do with my height? OK, the other midfielders might have been a bit bigger and stronger than me but none were better than me. None of them.’
Sod it. Heighway was right anyway. Would I rather have gone to the National School for two years or had two seasons of Steve’s expert training? Steve and his coaches just loved me, and I loved them. Their sessions were class. Steve and Dave Shannon did all the things I adored: possession, crossing and shooting, passing. At the end we played games that felt as important as the World Cup final. If you made a mistake, Steve and Dave had youdoing press-ups, your face going in and out above the grass as boots chased the ball around you. I raced through my press-ups and steamed back into action. I wanted to win so much, wanted to impress. This was my life. This was everything. Liverpool training meant the world. Academy football was so far removed in quality from kickabouts with schoolmates at Cardinal Heenan or friends on Ironside. Team-mates at Liverpool were on my wavelength; they could read my passes. If someone at Cardinal Heenan failed to make the right run or miscontrolled the ball, it annoyed the hell out of me. ‘They might not be as good as you, but they are your friends,’ my teachers at Cardinal Heenan told me. ‘So get on with it.’ At Liverpool, everyone was on
The first whistle made the same impression on me as a bell in a prize fight. A call to arms, the signal for battle. I smashed Lilleshall’s midfield to pieces. Absolutely shredded them. No mercy. Into every tackle I poured all my frustration at being ignored by the National School. I loved the thought of their coaches standing helplessly on the Melwood touchline as I tore into their chosen ones. ‘This will show them what they rejected,’ I thought as I crunched another set of shin-pads. ‘This will make them see how wrong they were,’ I told myself as I sent another of their precious boys flying. ‘Calm down,’ the ref kept shouting at me. No chance. Those Lilleshall boys were getting it big-time. Nothing was going to stop me. How could a referee understand my pain?
Lilleshall fielded some good players, like Michael Ball, Wes Brown and, of course, my mate Michael Owen, who inevitably struck his usual hat-trick. The score was 4–3 to Lilleshall, but I settled a personal score. My performance was so good that all their players ran over at the end to shake my hand. I had battered them, but they still wanted to show their respect. Fair play. I admired them for that.‘How you never got into Lilleshall was a joke,’ Michael remarked as we walked off, the battle over. ‘You are well better than these.’ The England staff all strolled across to congratulate me. I just turned and ran to the dressing-room. I was so upset inside. There was no way I could shake hands with those who gave me so much heartache. They snubbed me. Here was some of their own medicine. Take that.
Even now, I still fume at them all. I cannot stand setbacks. The manager who never picked me for the U-15s, John Owens, is now a coach at the Liverpool Academy. I love walking past him now. Love it. I see him coming, compose myself and say ‘All right?’ as we pass. Owens thinks I have forgotten about the Under-15s. I haven’t. Whenever we bump into each other, Owens is so nice. I talk to him, all polite on the outside, all angry on the inside. I feel like pulling him in a room and asking, ‘Why didn’t you pick me? You’re wrong. Tell me the reasons to my face now, because I know the reasons you put on that letter were a load of shit. Was it really to do with my height? OK, the other midfielders might have been a bit bigger and stronger than me but none were better than me. None of them.’
Sod it. Heighway was right anyway. Would I rather have gone to the National School for two years or had two seasons of Steve’s expert training? Steve and his coaches just loved me, and I loved them. Their sessions were class. Steve and Dave Shannon did all the things I adored: possession, crossing and shooting, passing. At the end we played games that felt as important as the World Cup final. If you made a mistake, Steve and Dave had youdoing press-ups, your face going in and out above the grass as boots chased the ball around you. I raced through my press-ups and steamed back into action. I wanted to win so much, wanted to impress. This was my life. This was everything. Liverpool training meant the world. Academy football was so far removed in quality from kickabouts with schoolmates at Cardinal Heenan or friends on Ironside. Team-mates at Liverpool were on my wavelength; they could read my passes. If someone at Cardinal Heenan failed to make the right run or miscontrolled the ball, it annoyed the hell out of me. ‘They might not be as good as you, but they are your friends,’ my teachers at Cardinal Heenan told me. ‘So get on with it.’ At Liverpool, everyone was on
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