Gerrard: My Autobiography Read Free Page B

Steve McMahon, Joey Barton, Lee Trundle, Peter Reid, Tony Hibbert, Craig Hignett and David Nugent. The town is crammed with Sunday League sides. Football is the local religion. On the Bluebell, I joined forces with seven or eight lads my age and we all became good mates, playing football every hour until our mums shouted us in. One problem bugged me: I never got a really decent game out of them. I was better than them, simple as that. I preferred games with Paul, three years my senior. Paul had around fifteen mates and their matches were full-onbrilliant. At six, I could hold my own with Paul and the other nine-year-olds. Most of Paul’s mates wanted me on their side. I loved competing against them. They accepted me because I didn’t look out of place. Paul’s mates were good players as well. Paul himself had trials at Bolton Wanderers. A kid called Danny Walker turned down a YTS at Tranmere Rovers. Paul’s gang played in a local league for an U-10 team called Tolgate, run by two fellas from the Huyton area. One day, I followed Paul down to a Tolgate match and asked the organizers if I could join in.
    ‘How old are you?’ they asked.
    ‘Seven,’ I replied.
    ‘Too young,’ they said.
    I burst into tears. ‘You’re wrong, I’m good enough,’ I said. Still no joy. That feeling of rejection burned hard inside.
    That concrete patch outside Ironside and the back-field on the Bluebell were breeding grounds for competitive players. A good touch and a tough streak were needed to survive, and I quickly developed both. I had to. Paul and his mates never held back in tackles on me, even though I was three years younger, just a scrap of skin and bones. Bang. Knock me over. No mercy. That’s how I liked it. Do it again. That’s why they used to let me play. I hobbled back into No. 10 all the time, covered in cuts and grazes from slide tackles on the concrete. I still have a scar on my face after being shoulder-charged into a fence. A nail nicked my skin. No fuss. No bother. I went in to see Granddad Tony across the road at No. 35 Ironside. He put three butterfly stitches in, neat ones, and I chargedback to the game. ‘Hurry up!’ they shouted at me. Bang. Back into battle.
    I have since bought 35 and 10 Ironside. Those houses will always be in our family. My brother lives in No. 10. There will always be Gerrards in Ironside. Granddad Tony was my dad’s dad. My mum’s granddad, Sidney Sullivan, was disabled so he lived with us for eight years, throughout my time at school. When Sidney was released from hospital after his first stroke, we got an unbelievable letter from the authorities. The message was brutal, the gist being that if someone in our family didn’t look after Granddad, the council would stick him in a home. My nan lived in Mosscroft, a couple of estates away, and she wasn’t capable of taking all that responsibility on herself. If Nan needed to pop out, Sidney couldn’t be left on his own. ‘He’s not going in a home,’ Mum said. So Sidney moved in with us. We built an extension on No. 10, giving Sidney his own en-suite shower and disabled facilities. He had a big living-room area that doubled up as his bedroom. Sidney rarely left this room. Occasionally, he wandered into our living-room to watch TV with us. Otherwise he was just happy being in that back-room.
    He endured four strokes in all. I hated seeing what the strokes did to him, disabling him down one side. Paul and I could talk to him really good after his first stroke because he was quite clear then. Communication became more difficult after his second, third and fourth strokes. His deterioration really distressed us. He was a lovely man worn away by the strokes. I preferred remembering him the way he was before he got sick, smiling and chatty. If Mum noticed Paul and I hadn’t been in to see him for abit, she was on to us sharpish. ‘Take Granddad’s tea in,’ Mum would say. ‘Go and have your tea with him.’
    Granddad was dead good with