I was taught to loathe United. They were the enemy

I might have sounded casual in my text but I was much more excited in my bed. I read Brendan’s text again.

‘I’m going to be back in the team here,’ I thought. ‘He’s thinking Man United, at home, massive game. He needs me for this one.’

I lay in the dark for the next hour, thinking about everything.

Brendan was in his office when I arrived at training. He started smiling as soon as I walked in and I stretched out my hand to say good morning. Brendan was still smiling as he leant back in his chair and said, ‘How are you feeling?’

‘Yeah, I’m fine, good,’ I said. ‘No problems.’

There was a little pause, then Brendan said: ‘Look, I’m desperate to get you back into the XI. But the team has done so well I’m going to go with the same lads that started the other night.’

A sudden lump formed in my throat. I looked at Brendan and, in that mad moment, I had a splitsecond decision to make. Do I have a go at him?

I went the other way. I went the right way. I decided to stay professional. ‘No problem, fine,’ I said. ‘OK?’ Brendan said. ‘OK,’ I nodded. ‘I respect your decision.’

We left it at that. I walked out and got ready for training. My mind was swimming. I couldn’t believe it. It felt to me, then, like a classic case of muscle-flexing.

My relationship with Brendan was too good for him to need to make a point to me. He was someone I respected and liked: his training sessions were among the best I had ever experienced while his manmanagement was excellent, generous and imaginative.

But I wondered if this was his way of showing the press that he was strong enough to make a difficult decision. This seemed a chance for Brendan to show his authority and send out a clear message that this was his team.

I can respect Brendan’s decision now, even if I obviously still believe it was the wrong one, because he wanted to show loyalty to everyone who had done well for him.

But it hurt me, especially because of our previous conversations and the fact that his Wednesday night text, which had been full of praise, had misled me. I’m sure he didn’t mean to give me the wrong impression but his text confirmed in my mind that I would be selected.

I had been taught to loathe Manchester United. It was drilled into our brains, hardening our hearts and conditioning our souls as Liverpool fans. It was tattooed into the head of

every Liverpool fan. We had never liked each other, as clubs or cities, but the animosity had become deeper. Liverpool had been dominant for so long; and then, finally, United took over under Alex Ferguson.

Over the years, especially when I was in the same England team alongside great United players like Paul Scholes, David Beckham, Gary Neville, Rio Ferdinand and Wayne Rooney, my feelings became more layered, but they never disappeared.

I respected Ferguson and Roy Keane and Ryan Giggs; I even respected, grudgingly, what they had achieved as a club. But you never rolled over against United. If they got one over you, you fought back. You went in harder, with just a little more crunch, just to let them know it really was personal.

For more than 26 years, I had always felt compelled to show fire towards them. They were the enemy. Their shirt is the only one I won’t allow in my house. I have a big collection of shirts I’ve swapped with other players from different clubs — but not one from United.