Carra: My Autobiography (3 page)

Those I grew up with didn't simply strike back with violence or thieving, as the stereotypes suggest. The most destructive weapon I ever saw in The Chaucer was a sharp tongue. Some of the hardest men I've met have been reduced to nervous wrecks by a witty put-down. You need to be shrewd as well as resilient where I'm from.

The unconditional belief that friends and family come first, no matter what it takes, has been passed on to sons, daughters and grandchildren. It's the Lombardi philosophy applied to real life. That's why this is the place I love, warts and all.

Many football autobiographies slip into the cliché of rags-to-riches tales, every chapter sprinkled with sentimental accounts of how a multi-million-pound player once couldn't even afford his own bootlaces when he was younger. You might be thinking my description of life in Marsh Lane in the eighties is following the trend. But mine is no story of a poor Scouser. Whatever preconceptions you may have of my childhood are wrong.

We lived in one of the biggest houses on Knowsley Road in Bootle. My mum is still there. She and my dad are grafters. They worked hard to make sure we had the best of everything, and if there was anything more to be done to make the life of their children better, so be it. I was never short of the best kits and football boots. I felt well off compared to some of the other lads in the area. One called my dad Arthur Daley, because on top of his building job he always seemed to have some scam on the go that meant we could go on our summer holidays to Spain.

His own dad, James, was a character too. 'Mr Drysdale' the drinkers in The Chaucer used to call him, after the bank manager from
The Beverly Hillbillies
who was considered tight with his cash, because he never got a round in. 'I drink in my own time,' he'd tell them. Regrettably, his wife, my Nanny Carra, was drinking in her own time too. She suffered from alcoholism. It reached such a bad stage she once mistook her poor dog for the living-room rug. 'That rug is in a right state,' she said as she was falling asleep in front of the fire. She'd picked it up and thrown it into the kitchen before she realized it had four legs.

We weren't a family of scallies though. There were a few nutters, maybe, but not scallies. My uncle, Pat Carragher, was a well-respected policeman. I thought he was a millionaire. He lived in a huge house on Victoria Road in Formby, where some Liverpool and Everton players live now. We'd turn up with our swimming costumes and towels to head straight for his sauna and jacuzzi. It was as if we were on one of our trips to Butlin's. Forget Mr Drysdale, we were like the Clampetts whenever we visited him.

The rest of the time we were more like the Royle family. When I heard one of Peter Kay's stand-up routines I could have sworn he'd visited both my nans' houses when I was little. Me and my younger brothers Paul and John spent alternate Sunday afternoons there, and later at my dad's sister Auntie Ann's. It was the same warmly familiar routine each week. We'd be outside playing football before being shouted inside to gather around the table for Sunday roast. When that was eaten, we'd fight for our speck in front of the television, munching away at the biscuits piled on a plate on the coffee table as we watched
Bullseye
. Family get-togethers saw my mum and dad's Dr Hook and Drifters back catalogue getting played to death, while I'd moan at Mum for dressing me and Paul in identical clothes, as she always did.

Paul, who is a couple of years younger, seemed to like this habit more than I did. He looked up to me when he was really young, so much so that when I started primary school and was kitted out in my St James uniform, Paul insisted on my mum buying him the same outfit. He ended up going to nursery in a school uniform he didn't need to wear for another two years. He soon stopped this fixation.

He has a shorter fuse than me, which I discovered to my cost when we were a little older. I tried to let him beat me at pool during one visit to The Chaucer, leaving the black over the pocket for a simple tap-in. Paul did a Ronnie Rosenthal and missed the sitter. His response to my laughing was to belt me with his snooker cue. I'm always on my guard when we're playing pool now, just to be safe.

My dad's family might have been home to some eccentrics, but Mum's side, the Vasallos, who were originally from Malta, were just as lively. Her dad, Paul, worked on the boats, and often returned with all manner of different goodies from his journeys abroad. The family even had a pet monkey at one point. My mum's mum, Ellen, is my only surviving grandparent, and I know how much pride she takes in all her children, and her twenty-one grandkids, and her six great-grandchildren.

My mum and dad split up when I was ten, and there were fears I'd go off the rails and manipulate some sort of 'victim' status, being from a broken home. I was caught robbing sweets at school, which prompted the parish priest to come and talk to me about the perils of a life of crime. He had nothing to worry about. This was when Mum's strength came to the fore. She juggled her work behind the bar with bringing up three sons. She works in Southport as a nurse now, determined as ever to consider others before herself. Of all the people in my life, she's the one I respect most. Paul, John and I never wanted for anything as kids. Everything was done for us. Whether it was cleaning, cooking or any other housework, she waited on us twenty-four hours a day. The way we've been brought up is to her eternal credit, so when she feels proud of any of our achievements, I feel doubly pleased because it's she who made it possible.

Despite the separation, she knew I already had stability in my life, not only because of her, but because of football. My second home was the Brunswick Youth Club – the Brunny – where we'd spend every school holiday having a kick-about in the gym in the afternoon and playing pool in the evening.

My dad may have moved out of the house, but he remained as influential as ever. As I got older he'd take me to The Chaucer, or to the pub he owned, The Salisbury, otherwise known as The Solly, where in an hour I'd learn more words of wisdom and tricks than I did in a year at school. After I broke into the Liverpool first team, a bemused stranger saw me at the bar of The Chaucer and felt obliged to approach me with a word of advice.

'Do you really think you should be in here?' he said. 'This pub is terrible for drugs.'

'No it isn't,' came a voice from the other side of the room. 'You can get anything you want in here.'

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 teammates, 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 teammates 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.