His leg stretched out invitingly… I couldn’t help myself. My studs sank into his flesh
In Day One of his explosive new book Steven Gerrard reveals how his bitter rivalry with Man Utd erupted
ON THE morning of the game, I felt like a caged animal. As I warmed up on the afternoon last March, the United fans opened their throats. They pelted me with abuse — and their favourite song echoed around the away end: ‘Steve Gerrard, Gerrard . . . he slipped on his f****** arse, he gave it to Demba Ba . . . Steve Gerrard, Gerrard . . .’
After a while, when they got bored, they swapped it for another chestnut:
You nearly won the league, you nearly won the league . . . and now you better believe it, now you better believe it, now you better believe it, you nearly won the league.
The anger in the caged animal grew and grew. United were swaggering, Anfield was very quiet. It was obvious I would come on at half-time.
We had stood off United in the first half and made very few tackles. It went against everything built into my DNA. Tackling and collisions mattered against Manchester United.
While we waited for the second half to start, I looked around Anfield, my ancient battleground, and did a last few warm-ups, rotating my torso from the hips, tugging at my shorts, impatient for the game to get under way.
The game restarted, I went in hard with a fair, but slamming tackle on Juan Mata. I cleaned out Mata, who went flying, and I won the ball.
I was involved again, immediately, as Ander Herrera came hurtling towards me to shut down space. I was too quick for him. I completed a simple pass as Herrera came flying in with his sliding tackle. His right leg stretched out invitingly on the Anfield turf. I couldn’t stop myself. Without even giving myself time to think I brought my left foot stamping down on Herrera. I felt my studs sink into his flesh just above the ankle. It had to have hurt him.
Herrera clutched his ankle and writhed around on the ground. I raised my arm above my head and gestured angrily. I was trying to deflect attention away from me. I knew I was in trouble. But I’m still a footballer and so I pointed at myself, almost in self-defence, as if to say: ‘What? Me?’ ‘Yes, you,’ referee Martin Atkinson’s walk said. I didn’t like the look of his walk. I didn’t like the look of his face.
Wayne Rooney was close by. Wayne looked at me. He knew I was gone.
As I left the pitch I asked myself: ‘What have you just done? Are you f****** stupid?’
It had taken me just 38 seconds to get myself sent off against Manchester United. Thirty- eight seconds in which I had been at the heart of every small cameo of action and ferocious display of rage. It had been, in the end, 38 seconds defined by anger and a kind of madness.
Before the Premier League game against United at Anfield on March 22, I believed I would start in what would be my final match against them.
Earlier in the season, Brendan Rodgers had given me a clear-cut message. ‘Even though I’m managing your games it’s important for you to understand that I’m trying to help you stay fresh. I can’t be flogging you every game because I won’t get the best out of you. Sometimes, I’ll give you a break and you’ll come back fresh and you’ll do well.’
Brendan then said, just as I was getting up to leave: ‘Look, I also want you to know one more thing. If we’ve got a very important game, a crucial game in the league or a cup final, then it’s obvious. You’re my No 1 pick. I put you in, and you’re my captain. What you’ve given me since I’ve walked through this door, made my mind up a long time ago. If we’ve got a big game, you’re in . . . ’
We were out of the Champions League and the title was long gone. But we were closing in on fourth place, and Manchester United at home felt like the biggest game of the season. So I felt confident I would be selected.
I trained really well on the Wednesday and felt sharper and hungrier than anyone in the squad. That night I received a text from the manager: ‘You’ve trained so well the last couple of days, can we have a chat? Can you come to my office in the morning before training?’
I was already in bed but I replied instantly: ‘Yeah no problem, thanks.’
STEVEN GERRARD today reveals the truth about last season’s brutal s t amp on Manchester United midfielder Ander Herrera.
In his autobiography My Story — serialised in today’s Sportsmail — Gerrard describes himself as a ‘caged animal’ on the bench that day against United when he was sent off just 38 seconds after coming on as a substitute.
The teams play again today in the first meeting since Gerrard’s red card against the club he admits is ‘ the enemy’ and he says: ‘Ander Herrera came hurtling towards me to shut down space. I was too quick for him. I completed a simple pass as Herrera came flying in with his sliding tackle. His right leg stretched out invitingly on the Anfield turf. I couldn’t stop myself. Without even giving myself time to think, I brought my left foot stamping down on Herrera. I felt my studs sink into his flesh just above the ankle. It had to have hurt him.
‘It had taken me just thirty-eight seconds to get myself sent off against Manchester United, thirty-eight seconds defined by anger and a kind of madness.’