Carra: My Autobiography Read online

  You didn't strive to keep your feet on the ground, they were stuck there as soon as you walked through the doors of a Marsh Lane boozer. If anyone was perceived to be letting his head drift towards the clouds, he'd soon be dragged back. I once saw Tranmere Rovers midfielder Kenny Irons being brought to earth with a thud when he was overheard criticizing a fellow player, with the words, 'Who the fuck do you think you are, Marco Tardelli?'

  I'd be captivated by the personalities surrounding me, although when fame arrived it sometimes felt I was being held responsible for every indiscretion of my friends. I later introduced one of my Liverpool team-mates, a certain Michael Owen, to Chaucer regular Tom Foley, and it seemed like an innocent enough meeting. Tom liked to rub his hands together – a gesture Michael later copied after scoring a famous hat-trick at St James's Park against Newcastle – and was known to 'have his fingers in one or two pies', so Michael and I ended up on the front of the News of the World due to our 'association' with someone with a criminal record. The reporters must think we have a duty to check the background of everyone we meet.

  I don't take a moral view on any of the lads I grew up with. I take people as I find them. I served my apprenticeship as a permanent touchline mascot to my dad's teams, but I earned my stripes by earning the respect of the people of Marsh Lane. I wasn't going to be allowed, nor did I want, to forget my roots because I'd made it at Liverpool. Football has never been a way of escaping my working-class background, but a means of celebrating it. These fine people still remember the young lad who stood on the touchline with his dad every Sunday. I'd never turn my back on those who made me who I am.

  Of course watching football was never going to be enough for me. I craved a piece of the action. I was supposed to wait until I was eight before I could play for the Merton Villa junior team, but I lied when I was seven to persuade the manager, Peter Halsall, to pick me. This was the beginning, I hoped, of a glorious career as one of Everton's greatest ever strikers.

  That was a distant fantasy. You've no idea how good you are, or might become, at that age. Throughout my years at St James Primary, I had no notion of the level of my talent. How could I know? You're judging yourself against lads who live in the next house or street, not the rest of the country. I was content enough starring for the school team, trying to impress the headteacher, John Rourke, whose pride in being an Everton season ticket holder meant he could immediately count on my respect.

  My secondary school was Savio High, where the most famous former pupils were Peter Hooton, the lead singer of The Farm, and former Liverpool defender Mark Seagraves. His cousin Gary, or 'Siggy', was my best mate in class. I treated my school trials in the same way as my first training sessions under a new manager, determined to show what I was capable of. And the more I played, the more I sensed how highly I was rated. I'd be in training sessions with lads my own age and the Savio High teachers would shift me to join the older boys in more organized competitive matches. Mike Dickinson, one of those teachers, was also the physio for England Schoolboys (he's now working for Everton), so I guessed he could compare me to players from across the country.

  I was still playing for fun rather than seriously considering turning professional. The first real hint I had of my ability arrived courtesy of Dad having a pint too many as I played pool in The Solly.

  'Is your lad any good?' he was asked.

  I was lining up another pot, pretending not to pay attention, but his response made me tremble with anticipation.

  'He'll play in the top division in England,' said my dad, who didn't realize that I was listening in.

  I wanted to believe him, but part of me still imagined it was the drink talking.

  Even when I was first invited to train with Liverpool the implications didn't sink in. When I was nine, I finished top scorer for the Bootle Boys side, which represented all the schools in the area. Again, I was playing in an age group above mine. (Ian Chapman was the manager of Bootle Boys. When he told me he was a Manchester United fan I jokingly said I was certain I'd learn nothing from him, but he proved me wrong and led us well.) Anfield scout Harry Hodges spotted me in the Bootle Boys team and asked five of us to train at the club, introducing me to the School of Excellence coaches Hugh McAuley and Dave Shannon, who'd have such a major influence in later years. I made sure they remembered me by turning up to train in an Everton kit and taking the nickname 'Sharpy', after my Goodison hero Graeme Sharp.

  It wasn't long before Kenny Dalglish, the Liverpool manager at the time, knew who I was too, although this had nothing to do with my performances on the pitch. Once more I had my dad to thank. The meeting of Bootle and Crosby Boys led to Carragher clashing with Dalglish on and off the park.

  Kenny's son Paul was playing for Crosby, and he was on the touchline with one of his top scouts, Tom Saunders, to show his support. It was 1–0 to Crosby when, late in the game, we were gifted a dubious penalty to equalize. Kenny wasn't impressed by the decision and had a pop at the referee. This was the signal for my dad to show his colours.

  'Keep your fuckin' mouth shut, Dalglish,' he said. 'You should know all about dodgy penalties after the amount you get at Anfield every season.'

  Before I knew it, Kenny and my dad were virtually coming to blows. Saunders had to step in to keep them apart.

  My position at Liverpool could have been precarious if Kenny's ego had been insulted, but the opposite happened. Ever since, he and my dad have laughed about it. Kenny probably thought if I was anything like my dad, no one and nothing was going to intimidate me. Reputations count for nothing in football, after all.

  Unlike any Liverpool manager since, Kenny had a hands-on approach at the club's School of Excellence, which later became The Academy. I hear Alex Ferguson does the same at Manchester United. Kenny would watch training sessions, know the names of every nine-year-old, and want to meet their families. His dedication undoubtedly brought good long-term results, ensuring Liverpool were a step ahead in signing the best young players, even passionate Evertonians like me, Robbie Fowler and Steve McManaman. Who says no if Kenny Dalglish or Steve Heighway knock on your front door? If a bright young prospect is undecided whether to move to Anfield or Goodison nowadays, I'm certain a quick visit from the current manager would seal the deal.

  By now I was becoming increasingly aware of being a level above most of my team-mates at school and in the Bootle Boys side, but this began to cause problems. Football was no longer about fun, but critical to my mood for the rest of the week.

  It was not pretty watching ten-year-old James Carragher in action. If anyone tracked down former colleagues who played alongside me as a schoolboy, I'm sure they'd hear a selection of horror stories regarding my attitude. They hated being in my team. I had no concept or appreciation of other players' limitations. Perhaps I was still lacking an understanding of my own ability, believing anyone could reproduce my form if they put their mind to it. More likely, I was intolerant of less talented footballers to a point where I could be accused of being a bully.

  I wanted to win too much. This isn't a bad quality, but at such a tender age it must have seemed a bit strange. Most ten-year-olds will play the match, go home, watch telly eating a bag of crisps and forget about it the next day. I'd think about a defeat for days. Instead of enjoying my football, I was too intense. The 'winning is the only thing' philosophy was poisoning me. There were times I was substituted for being too aggressive towards my team-mates. The influence of watching all those adult amateur league battles had sunk in too deep.

  By the start of my second year at Bootle Boys, the age rules meant I was playing alongside lads in my own year. It became even clearer to me how much better I was, and it wasn't a responsibility I carried well.

  We played Wirral first game of the new season, a team that included David Thompson, my future Liverpool team-mate. I'd decided I wanted to play centre midfield so I could dictate the play much more. It was 0–0 at half-time, so the manager ordered me back upfront and I scored a hat-trick i
n a 3–0 win. My central midfield career was over, temporarily at least, after forty-five minutes. I was a striker for the rest of the season.

  I was talking a great game on the pitch, and usually playing one too, but I was stinking places out with my behaviour. On my Anfield debut playing for Bootle Boys, I scored at The Kop end, but Heighway pulled me after the game and slated me for not being a team player. 'You need to start appreciating your team-mates,' he said. It was the second key warning of my novice career, and it hit me as much as my dad's flying boots.

  The opposition felt the heat of my anger too. As Bootle's best player, I'd often be targeted by opponents, and if I ever felt I was being provoked, I rarely bit my tongue or controlled my temper. Yet again, the conduct I'd witnessed standing on the sidelines had been embedded into my repertoire. The Sunday League was always a scally zone.

  At the start of my Merton Villa career we'd regularly lose 7–0, but we improved every season. Medals began to arrive, and personal recognition came with them. Soon we were the best team in the Bootle and Litherland District. We also won a national tournament held in Southport and moved into the stronger Walton and Kirkdale League, playing the best sides in Liverpool.

  Our rivals were a team called Pacific, who had a player everyone recognized as a top prospect, Jamie Cassidy. Jamie would have been a certain Liverpool regular if he hadn't suffered so much with injuries. He damaged his cruciate and broke his leg just after breaking into the reserves, and never fully recovered. Their striker, John Murphy, also went on to score lots of goals for Blackpool. They were a formidable side, and they beat us to the league title, but then we met each other in the Sunday League Cup Final.

  That game, held at the Long Lane playing fields in Fazakerley, meant as much to me when I was twelve as the moment Andriy Shevchenko fluffed his penalty in the 2005 Champions League Final. We won 5–4, and I scored twice. As Everton midfielder Stuart McCall presented the trophy, I revelled in a collective sense of achievement. Good as I was, it had needed a monumental team effort to win that cup. I was proud of the whole side's efforts, not only my own. Another box in the 'things to do to become a top footballer' had been ticked.

  After McCall handed me my medal, I just muttered 'Thanks' and walked back to my seat. If he'd wanted to chat longer, I could have listed all his playing statistics, how many goals he'd scored, and maybe even offered a bit of advice on what more he could be doing to live up to the standards of the great midfielder he'd replaced, Paul Bracewell – a player who inspired my gelled haircut at one time. This is because when I wasn't playing football, I wanted to be reading or talking about it.

  Every youngster in Liverpool likes to keep a stack of magazines under the bed for some quiet late-night entertainment. Shoot was my choice. Its arrival every Saturday morning was pencilled into my mind's diary. I'd collect my order from the newsagent and read every sentence. I wasn't interested in pinning posters on the wall, but in finding out any detail about every top player. I'd keep each edition for years, so I'd always have a private library for later reference. Today, I'd test my memory for games and goalscorers against anyone in the country. I studied results, fixtures and players in such depth I'm now able to answer many football trivia questions instantly. If I wasn't a footballer, I'd have gone on Mastermind, my specialist subject 'Shoot magazine during the 1980s'.

  One edition from spring 1988 still traumatizes me. I was convinced Everton had signed Ian Rush from Juventus because he was on the cover of Shoot wearing the blue kit. I ran home shouting to everyone, 'We've signed Ian Rush!', only to read the article and discover it was an April Fool joke. I wasn't laughing, and graduated to the more mature 90 Minutes shortly after.

  If I ever met one of the professional players featured in the pages of Shoot, I wasn't as surprised as some youngsters would have been because I was lucky enough to become accustomed to it. I was training twice a week at Liverpool, at the Vernon Sangster Leisure Centre – which is due to be demolished to make way for the new stadium on Stanley Park – and was used to seeing the likes of Dalglish and Everton's manager Howard Kendall on the line during schoolboy games, watching their own sons. Kendall's presence would always prompt me to try to find an extra yard. Liverpool had spotted me, but privately it was Everton I still hoped to join.

  At the age of eleven, I was given my chance.

  Ray Hall, who ran Everton's School of Excellence, had actually been pursuing me for some time, and eventually I allowed my heart to rule my head and accepted his offer. We only signed annual contracts at Anfield, so at the end of my second season I informed Steve Heighway my Liverpool career was over and my spiritual home awaited.

  Hall was excited by his new signing. A day before my first training session he called my mum to ask her the name of my favourite player.

  She didn't know. 'I think it's Tony Cottee,' she said.

  The following morning I arrived to be met by a smiling Hall.

  'I know who your favourite player is,' he said.

  'Graeme Sharp?' I replied.

  Hall's face turned white. He'd brought me Cottee's shorts as a welcome gift. I wasn't exactly gutted, but I wasn't performing cartwheels either.

  My dad warned me leaving Liverpool was a mistake. He had no intention of stopping me joining Everton; all he said was there was no reason to leave Anfield. Within a few months I realized he was right. I loved Everton, but there was no comparison in terms of the coaching, organization and standard of players, and the glory days of the mid to late eighties were over. At Liverpool, everything was focused on passing and moving. When a player tried to pick up the ball, Heighway would shout at them like they'd committed a cardinal sin. 'Are you a goalkeeper, lad?' he'd yell. 'Put that down!' I missed working with him and wanted to go back.

  I asked my dad to approach Heighway and ask if there was a chance of a return. Thankfully, Liverpool agreed. I signed my first longer-term contract when I was fourteen, on schoolboy forms.

  Phil Thompson was waiting for me at Anfield when I went there to put pen to paper. 'You'll never be as good as your arl' fella,' Thommo said. He probably still had the bruises from meetings between Kirkby and Bootle twenty years earlier.

  The only time I've left Liverpool since that day was to head to Lilleshall, the FA School of Excellence for players between the ages of fourteen and sixteen. Heighway tried to stop that happening. 'I don't want you to go,' he said. 'I know you've got to, but I believe you're the best fourteen-year-old in the country and I want to coach you here. They'd better not ruin you.' But this was my first opportunity to test myself against lads from across the country and in Europe. Besides, winning a place at Lilleshall was a huge accolade.

  Any doubts I had about my abilities were quashed as I packed my bags and headed south for the final selections, after making the cut at the North-West trials, held in Preston. I was in competition with future internationals like Frank Lampard. I made the squad of sixteen, Lampard didn't.

  By winning a place, I felt I had everything I needed to realize my ambition.

  Lilleshall was the perfect grounding for a young professional. It was like being at boarding school, but I loved every minute. They were two of the best years of my life. I suspect it was harder for my family than for me during this time. Going away from home was exciting. Other than holidays or away matches, I'd not spent any time outside Bootle. But to see me wave goodbye at fourteen, even if it was only for a while, wasn't easy for my mum. Top footballers often get a bad press because the supporters only see our wealthy lifestyle, but there are sacrifices to be made to get to the top. There's no doubt some lads find it tougher than others, and homesickness is a problem, but I didn't see Lilleshall as a hardship. I missed my family too, but never so much I wanted to leave. I saw it as character-building. It helped me grow up quicker because you had to look after yourself rather than rely on your family to do everything for you.

  The venue itself was superb. It was like living in luxury. It was a two-mile drive from the gates to the front door.
I thought I was arriving at a mansion.

  As far as I was concerned, I was joining a specialist school for footballers. We had to attend lessons and do all the usual school stuff, but we also trained with the best coaches every day and were all given our first taste of international football while we were there, so there was always something to look forward to.

  After it was shut down, critics argued it was too elitist, focusing too much on a select group to the cost of others. This doesn't make sense to me. The fact I could go from a Bootle Sunday League side to Lilleshall proved how fair the scouting system was, while even those who didn't get in didn't necessarily suffer from having to stay with their clubs. What Lilleshall guaranteed was that the most highly rated youngsters in the country were given every chance to progress, and if any of those went on to represent England, as I did, it was a success. Ray Clemence's son Stephen and Gavin McCann were the other players in my year who went on to play at the top level. My Liverpool team-mate and former rival from Pacific Jamie Cassidy was also there. We shared digs. He's responsible for my now being known as Jamie rather than James. To my family and friends, I'm still James, but during my spell at Lilleshall, Steve Heighway would refer to the 'two Jamies' away from home, so at Liverpool it's stuck.