The mental torment of life at the top
DO ENOUGH players enjoy life in the Premier League? Many people would look at that question and think about the money, adulation and fame and say it would be impossible not to enjoy life.
I want to raise this subject in respect of the ordeal Aaron Lennon has been through. My dealings with Aaron have been limited. I went to the World Cup in Germany with him in 2006 and I’ll never forget the problems he gave Ashley Cole in training.
Aaron is a quiet lad but, at his best, he is an exciting footballer who has had a good career with Leeds, Tottenham and now Everton. I don’t know him well but I do know he has suffered a dreadful ordeal. I hope he makes a full recovery.
But what he has been through got me thinking. I’ve written in these pages for the last four years and have often considered broaching the topic of being a footballer and the mental strain to which you are subjected. Now the time is appropriate.
So, can you enjoy life at the top? In my case, I’d say I endured it. Of course I had unforgettable times but there was a point during the peak years of my career when I visited Bill Beswick, a sports psychologist I knew from the England set-up, for two or three months.
I’m sure if you asked managers what my best attribute was they would have said mental strength and I needed every ounce of it to succeed. But I used to put myself under enormous pressure to perform and, eventually, I decided I needed to speak to someone away from the Liverpool FC bubble.
The pressure from within used to have an impact on my behaviour. If games had gone badly, I would take things home with me. I’d be snappy at my kids and felt constantly wound up.
On the other hand, I didn’t appreciate the impact it had on those around me.
My wife never went to many Liverpool games but if she was out on a Saturday, she would always ask someone for the score. If we had won, she’d simply be relieved that I would be coming home in a good mood.
It was hard, though, to speak to managers at Liverpool. They had enough on their plate — plus I didn’t want to do anything to leave them doubting me. I couldn’t talk to friends or family either because they couldn’t fully appreciate the demands placed on you at the top.
There were players who could leave the result at Anfield, but me? No chance. I got involved in the running of two restaurants in Liverpool to take my mind off football but, before the opening night of each one, I’d played badly. It meant I couldn’t enjoy the party. It felt like I had to punish myself.
So that’s why I went to see Bill. It got things off my chest and he helped me manage the situation better. I realised I couldn’t change and it became clear what was driving me: I carried the fear of failure into every game and always had the sense of having a point to prove.
During my peak years, I always felt Liverpool fans went to the stadium thinking, ‘If Stevie Gerrard and Carra are there, we’ll be fine’. I’d go to away games, especially the big ones at Old Trafford or Stamford Bridge, burdening myself with the idea we wouldn’t win if I didn’t play well.
Put simply, I was there to stop the goals and Stevie was there to score them. The intensity became so much that after certain big victories, like against Chelsea, you were more relieved not to have lost rather than elated to have won.
That was never there when I was younger. When you first get in the team, you are selfish in a way that you only concentrate on playing well yourself. The older you become, the more you take responsibility for the team, but it got to the stage where I felt like I couldn’t make mistakes.
THE games I hated most were the ones before an international break. What if we lost? What if I played badly? If either of those things happened, it meant two weeks of mental torment, of not being able to sleep and, in some cases, not leaving the house for two days.
Anger and bad experiences used to fuel my performances, but it was horribly draining. Even now, in retirement, people talk to me about Istanbul, Champions League adventures and the great days in Cardiff, but I can’t clear my head of the bad moments.
They are always there. I remember conceding a last-minute penalty at Upton Park, losing 3-0 at Goodison Park in September 2006, the backpass at home to Zenit St Petersburg in February 2013 that led to us being knocked out of the Europa League in my final season.
I’ll give you another example. When we beat West Ham in the 2006 FA Cup final, I should have savoured the next day when we went on an open-top bus tour around the city, but instead I sat there stewing on the own goal I had scored.
It’s part of the reason that I have yet to consider going into management. To be a successful manager, I would have to put myself through that again and I wonder whether I could do it. You can see why, then, I felt it necessary to see Bill Beswick. I’m not for one minute comparing my situation to what Aaron Lennon has been through, but I’m just trying to explain the torment to which players are subjected.
I firmly believe the pressure is getting worse, fuelled by social media. Players are logging on to Twitter or Instagram or Facebook and seeing all kinds of comments. The game is also being analysed at a level that was unheard of 20 years ago. I know because I’m part of it.
That brings me back to something Bill told me. He said: ‘The normal man on the street thinks, because you are famous, you are an extraordinary person. You’re not. You’re an ordinary person with an extraordinary talent.’
And that is the point: we are all the same. We all have the same doubts, anxieties and insecurities. More than anything, we all know life isn’t easy.