Michael Owen: Off the Record

Glenn Hoddle told me early in the week that I was going to play against Chile – on the Monday night, before he announced the team to the rest of the players. He asked me, ‘Do you feel ready, because I want you to start.’ Again, I was straight on the phone to Dad, saying, ‘Don’t tell anyone, but I’m in the starting line-up on Wednesday night.’ Hoddle instilled a great deal of confidence in me by telling me at such an early stage in the build-up. No messing – bang, you’re in. That gave me the self-assurance I needed to feel I belonged.

A lot of Hoddle’s practice sessions concentrated on technique. In contrast, Kevin Keegan tried to coach or shape you as a player. Hoddle focused more on the team and tactics and tended to work with individuals on technical aspects of their game. For one session he brought in half a dozen size-three balls. For the first half hour we would just keep the size three up in the air to improve our skills. He wasn’t one of those managers who would come and wrap an arm round you. I’m not saying I needed that, but it was noticeable that Hoddle left the more human side of man management to John Gorman, his number two. Wherever Hoddle has been in management, Gorman has often followed him, and I think that might be because Glenn realizes he’s not one to develop close personal relationships with his players. Gorman would come and tell the players things, and we knew a large proportion of it was coming directly from the manager. Gorman was the messenger, so often we were communicating with Hoddle second hand.

My inclusion for the game against Chile at Wembley on 11 February was, I suppose, at the expense of Robbie Fowler, my Liverpool mate, who sustained a serious knee injury later that month in a League game against Everton. My record-breaking age at kick-off was 18 years and 59 days – an achievement that has since been beaten by Wayne Rooney. It helped that I had a lot of history to back me up. I had scored on my debut at every other international age – Under-15s, -16s, -18s, -20s and -21s. This time, though, the sequence was broken. I played in a three-man attack together with Dion Dublin and Sheringham. I had one decent chance, but my shot was saved. Marcelo Salas, who was about to join Lazio for £13 million, scored twice in a 2–0 win for Chile, but my reviews were good. I was on my way.

With my debut behind me, in March I appeared in a friendly against Switzerland in Berne, this time playing alongside Shearer for the first time, and then in another non-competitive match, against Portugal, at Wembley in April, though I only played for 13 minutes after Sheringham had been taken off. Our World Cup build-up intensified with the King Hassan Cup in Morocco in May, which turned out to be more memorable than the name of the tournament might imply.

Rooney has since deprived me of another place in history (not that I’m resentful, of course). My first senior goal for England came when I was 18 years and 164 days old, in the game against Morocco, our hosts. In between my debut and the trip to North Africa I had been sent off against Manchester United but had finished joint-top scorer in the Premiership with 18 goals. Given that this was my first full season, I could press for a place in Hoddle’s World Cup squad knowing that I’d already made a good impact with my club. You can imagine the effect those 18 goals had on my confidence.

The goal in Casablanca was perfectly timed to remove any anxiety I might have had about going to France 98 without an international goal to my name. For a striker, a goal always brings an immediate flood of relief. From the moment the ball goes in, you’re not asking questions of yourself. The pressure is off. I wasn’t in the starting lineup that day but came on when Ian Wright was injured 25 minutes into the game. I’ve watched the goal since on tape, and Dion Dublin is standing right opposite me in a better position when Steve McManaman supplies me with the pass. Really, I should have passed it, but I swear I didn’t notice Dion.

Fate, as well as the blinkers, played a role that day. I might have been taken off in that match before the goal-scoring chance came my way because I’d taken an almighty boot to the head in an earlier passage of play. There are various types of concussion, and this was nowhere near as bad as the aftermath of a blow I once took in a Premiership match at Derby County. After that incident I swore I would never use the word ‘concussion’ unless I was clinically unconscious. I had whiplash for a week. In Morocco I was more dazed and confused than concussed, though the photographs made it seem worse than it was because my head is down by my neck. People tell me I was groaning, ‘I don’t want to come off. I won’t come off.’

By the time Hoddle began deliberating over who to take to France and who to leave behind, I was confident I would be in the 22. As soon as I took part in the Morocco tournament I knew I was part of the manager’s plans. Someone asked him after my goal in Casablanca, ‘Has he made your mind up now?’ Hoddle’s reply, as I recall, was, ‘My mind was already made up.’ When I heard him say that on television, it really put the issue to bed. If the manager doesn’t fancy you, it doesn’t matter how well you’re playing, it’s just hard coco. But I always had a sneaking sense that he wanted me in, and when we got to France I was sure I would see action.

Before the tournament itself, which began on 10 June, we made the infamous visit to the La Manga resort in Spain, where Paul Gascoigne fell off the edge of the squad and into one of the most troubled phases of his life. On decision day we all had individual slots to see the manager. Mine was middle to late, and they were all five minutes each. I didn’t hear about the confrontation between Hoddle and Gazza until later, when it was the talk of the town. Hoddle’s room certainly hadn’t been trashed when I went in – or, if it had, it had been put back together and tidied up with great care. David Seaman was the one trying to bring Gazza down from the ceiling, and by the time we got to dinner it was the only topic of conversation.

My relationship with Gazza was not the sort of friendship that would lead you to talk on the phone as pals, but we did get on. When he was at Everton a few years later he called me out of the blue to ask me if I could help with his daughter’s birthday. He told me I was her favourite player, and then turned up on my drive to give her a birthday surprise. He’d told her they were going out on an errand but had pointed his car in the direction of my house. Their visit was a huge success. We finished up playing snooker upstairs and taking pictures of each other so his daughter could preserve her memory of the day. My lasting impression of Gazza is that he’s a really nice fella who could talk to anyone. There’s a kindness about him that not everyone gets to see.

As a player, he had a profound impact on me. Italia 90 was the first major international tournament I studied as a professional footballer in the making. By then I understood the game a fair bit, and I took to Gazza straight away. I wish I’d been able to play with him for England when he was in his prime. As a striker, you dream of playing with midfielders who are blessed with his kind of skill. The one regret in Gazza’s career is that we all wanted his incredible talent to last a bit longer. I suppose he applied his gift for as long as he could, but by the time I came on the scene he was no longer the force he once was.

To this day, though, I feel privileged to have been in the same England camp as him. In 10 years’ time I’m going to be able to say, ‘I played for England with Gazza,’ and that’s something special to have on your CV. I’ll say the same about playing for Liverpool with John Barnes or Stan Collymore. It makes me feel old to reminisce like this, but playing for England with Gazza is right up there on my list of personal honours. When I’m 30 and one of the senior pros, the younger players will be impressed to learn that I shared time on the field with one of English football’s finest artists. All footballers understand how special he was.

It helped that Gazza was matey with the Liverpool contingent – Robbie, Macca and Incey. The first time I went down to join the camp we had just played Chelsea on the Sunday. We didn’t reach our base until the early hours of the morning. As I’d never been there before, Robbie and Macca showed me round the hotel. Robbie took me through a door to show me the video room – where we found Gazza, at two a.m., playing on some computer game. He was waiting for his pals to show up. In those days, on the night we assembled we were allowed to have a drink and a chat with our friends. So there he was. That was the first time I ever met him. I could see straight away that he danced to his own tune.

The England squad for France 98 was full of strong characters and was a fine blend of youth and experience. La Baule, our base in France, was a fantastic setting for a training camp, but the one problem with actually taking part in a World Cup, as opposed to following it as a spectator, is that you become detached from the drama of the tournament. Hoddle was meticulous in keeping the camp closed: no disturbances, no distractions, no one allowed into the hotel. If you’re away for a month or two, the siege mentality can give rise to terrible boredom. Not meeting and mixing with people is definitely the hardest part. But in 1998 I thought the situation was normal as it was the only World Cup camp I’d ever known. Sven-Goran Eriksson is much more relaxed, and wants players to enjoy their time away. In France, though, boredom set in because we weren’t allowed to see anyone, but I don’t think it harmed us in any way. I’ve always struggled with being stuck in a hotel. For the first couple of days I like it, because it gives you a chance to clear your head and think. Soon, though, I do need to break out of the room, which can become oppressive. It’s become much harder since my children were born. I get much more homesick these days. Still, nowadays I feel a bigger part of the squad and I’m more central to the action, the card games, the conversations. After a few trips round the international circuit you move towards the front row of the social life. And in football, you have to earn the right to be there. If you demand a seat as an 18-year-old, new to the team, it really doesn’t go down too well.

There’s a hierarchy in international teams and it’s not a good idea to ignore it. In France, Rio Ferdinand and I were new recruits, which is probably why we were joined at the hip. Nowadays, I’d hate to think of any new England player saying to himself, ‘I can’t talk to Michael Owen because he’s too senior.’ But, at the same time, it’s still assumed that a youngster will start from a position of respect for those further up the line. Let me offer an example. It’s not a good idea to plonk your meal down on the table on your first evening and announce, ‘Here, listen, lads, I’ve got a great story which will amuse you.’ The response to that kind of declaration is going to be, ‘Who’s this flash Harry?’ Believe me, players do make that mistake, more so than ever these days.

I say this with a grin because I’m making myself sound ancient, but there is a noticeable difference between 1997, when I was coming through, and the current Premiership culture. At the beginning of my England career I wouldn’t start conversations; I certainly wouldn’t try to dominate them once they had begun. Now, a lot of youngsters think they’ve made it to the big time before they’re even established in the youth team. There’s a certain strutting around, and that gets a few of the older pros’ backs up. I wouldn’t intervene, though. Even though I’ve played a lot of games, I often still feel like a kid myself. I’ll voice a heartfelt opinion to a manager now, but I wouldn’t impose myself on a fellow player. I’d have to be in my late twenties to take someone aside and offer serious advice. Even then, I’m not, by nature, the confrontational type. If I saw a young team-mate throwing his weight around I’d be more likely to stew about it, thinking, ‘What a big-headed lad this one is.’ Even though I was cheeky as a kid, I’m quite shy, and Dad has instilled into me a strong sense of respect. In the early days I would never have dreamed of walking into the pool room and saying, ‘’Ere, do you fancy a game, Shearer?’ You wait to be asked.

The first instalment of our World Cup was against Tunisia in Marseille on Monday, 15 June. That day, Sky brought us news of rioting by England fans. We didn’t realize how bad it was until we saw the TV pictures and then examined the newspapers. Nowadays I would think more about something like that, worry more about our reputation and, I suppose, fret more about us being thrown out of games or even a whole tournament, but in 1998 I just thought it was a few stupid drunk fans. There’s a stronger fear among the England players these days that bad behaviour by the supporters could get the team banned from a competition. My response to hooliganism is more disbelief than embarrassment. I wouldn’t associate myself in any way with people who cause violence and disorder. We come from the same country, but there the connection ends.

In the Tunisia game itself, Alan Shearer was the number-one striker and was accompanied by Teddy Sheringham, who had done wonders for England in the preceding years. Being so young and inexperienced, I was in no position to start insisting that it was between me and Teddy for the second starting place. Now that I’m a regular, I’d resent some young whipper-snapper coming in and saying he was fighting me for my shirt. If I’d been Teddy, I’d have said, ‘Hang on, don’t you remember Euro 96?’ Nevertheless, Shearer was the number-one goalscorer, so the only way I could have played was if Teddy’s position slipped.

We beat Tunisia comfortably, 2–0, and I got on for six minutes. I knew that wasn’t going to be my best chance to impress. The moment Teddy was withdrawn in Marseille, I knew it was to save him for the next match. I didn’t need to waste time wondering whether I would be starting against Romania the following Monday. Besides, I was too busy trying to live down the embarrassment of a partially televised golf day during which, on the first tee, I hit my opening drive about 10 yards and had to put up with everyone falling about laughing. What they didn’t show was my second shot, which landed about six feet from the pin.

After the comforting win in Marseille came a hard landing in Toulouse. When we were losing against the Romanians in our second Group G match, the logic of Marseille was reversed. I knew my chance had come: 17 minutes to contribute, to prove my worth. When the team is trailing, a back-up striker is offered a chance to fundamentally alter the game he’s been studying from his position on the bench. Against Tunisia, when I came on we were two goals up and simply keeping possession. I was unlikely to score in those circumstances. It was simply my welcome to the World Cup. But sometimes, coming on as substitute in a game in which your team is behind is a no-lose bet, because you’re sent on more in hope than expectation. Similarly, if you are winning it can be a no-win scenario, because the manager doesn’t require anything from you beyond ball retention and basic discipline. Not so against Romania. That night we were in trouble. A goal under those circumstances, I knew, would carry extra weight.

We’d gone one down shortly after the break to a goal by Viorel Moldovan, and I can remember warming up behind the goal, gazing up at the clock and thinking, ‘There’s half an hour to go, maybe he’s going to bring me on.’ I was concentrating on the game in front of me and thinking about what I might do to change its course. I couldn’t stop looking at the bench. I was waiting for the wave. But the clock kept ticking, and the thought took hold of me, ‘He’s not going to bring me on here!’ Then, ‘He’s not going to give me enough time!’ As a striker, you want at least 15 minutes to make your mark. Time crawled on until there were 20 minutes left and I started to think I’d missed the boat. Then I saw a hand go up from the bench and I was rushing back to the dug-out to take my chance.

My first goal in a World Cup has a special place in my heart. When Alan Shearer crossed the ball, it took a little bounce off a Romanian defender and sat up as if on a golf tee. Lovely. As soon as I struck it there was no possibility of the goalkeeper forcing it out. Take it from me, it’s an astounding sensation to score in a World Cup. A while later, I hit the post from 25 yards. Shooting from that far out isn’t something I normally do; it frustrates me when team-mates shoot from an impossible range. But by then I felt I could beat the world. I thought I could go on and win the game on my own. I was wrong. I assumed we had secured a draw, so the winning goal from Dan Petrescu in the final minute gave us a mighty shock.

Four members of my family were there to see my first World Cup goal: Mum, Dad, Andy and Lesley. It sounds incredible, but I didn’t get to see them, even after the game. They made the effort to come and support me but there was no face-to-face contact for us all to remember. Security is always the main issue. A World Cup really is a long stint without seeing those you’re closest to. It was only when we were no longer in the tournament that families were reunited, so you can imagine how closely the players are bound together. They only have one another. And, as I said, the 1998 World Cup came too soon for me to feel part of the hierarchy, so the sense of isolation was especially sharp. Still, better, maybe, to have confronted those feelings of homesickness early in my career.

In his book, the controversial World Cup diaries, Hoddle wrote that he’d always planned to start me against Colombia in the last group game, on the basis that their defence was vulnerable to pace. This was not something he confided to me at the time. Even after my goal against Romania I considered myself only fifty-fifty to make the starting line-up for our final group game. He certainly never gave me the nod in advance.

Still, true to his word, the Colombia game in Lens on Friday, 26 June was my first full 90 minutes in an international tournament. I played adequately but didn’t get many chances to score. Having opened the door against Romania, my intention was to stay on the right side of it for the rest of the competition. When we came off the pitch I was flying because we’d qualified, but I still hadn’t made sure of my place for the much tougher games ahead. The first time I felt ‘Right, I’m part of this starting eleven’ was when I scored against Argentina in the second round. From that moment on I felt as though I was an integral part of the England team. I wonder how many other people can trace such a huge breakthrough in their lives to a single act.

The other big story before the showdown with Argentina was, of course, David Beckham being left out for the games against Tunisia and Romania. The difference between David and me was that I didn’t go into the tournament expecting to be in the first eleven, whereas it was a shock for him not to be picked. His club career was more developed than mine, though England were blessed with a strong, settled midfield. Darren Anderton was coming off a big tournament in 1996, and it was a tough part of the team to break into. Nevertheless, when Beckham didn’t make it you could tell he was angry and resentful. I could see from his face that he wasn’t happy. In contrast, I didn’t have that same sense of deflation.

I never developed the impression that Beckham disliked Hoddle, I just thought he was annoyed at being left out of the side. In fact, as it turned out he was fuming, but there seemed no reason to suspect that there was any deeper personality clash. I’m no longer sure my limited interpretation was accurate, but this is how it seemed to me at the time. Hoddle used the word ‘focus’ a lot in relation to the way David applied himself to training and to games. Plainly that phrase had negative connotations. The manager didn’t like us reading newspapers, so I had to rely on Mum and Dad to tell me what was being said in the press. The bulletins about me were good and my parents were always cheerful. ‘You should see what people are saying and writing,’ they would say. ‘They’re all saying you should be in the team.’ I couldn’t make myself believe it.

Where David was concerned, I just thought it was the old chestnut of a player being upset at being ignored. At that point in his career he was a much quieter and more private lad. He was already going out with Victoria, or Posh Spice, and a lot of the time he was on the phone to her, or retreating to his room so he could talk to her in private. He was never one to be seen in the pool room, in a card school or watching every game on TV. He was especially close to Gary Neville. But my earliest image was of him being in his room, talking to Victoria, who was jetting all over the world pursuing her Spice Girls career.

Our lives were taking shape. For both David and me, that World Cup was the start of a whole new story. We now have very different lives, but with England we’ve travelled a single road and been through plenty of dramas together. And at the end of June 1998 we were about to be pushed into the roles of hero and villain, however misleading those labels were.

6 Wonder Goal (#ulink_5ad07a39-cb72-5d54-8521-499a4dc53417)

My story should probably have a line down the middle, drawn on 30 June 1998, the night England played Argentina in St Etienne in my first World Cup. Before that day I was an 18-year-old striker trying to establish himself for club and country; after that date I couldn’t play a round of golf or get into my own home without it being a public event.

I can trace much of my good fortune in football to the evening when I lined up in one of the best England teams I’ve represented. And I will always be grateful for the praise and the warmth of the English public when I returned home to a new life. It’s a fallacy to think you can build a career around one goal, and I like to think I’ve achieved a few things before and since. But that Argentina game taught me something about myself and started a process that has given me and my family financial security for life.

In the camp, we knew throughout the group stage that we had a good chance of running into Argentina in the next round – which was frustrating, because no World Cup contender wants to be playing the really big opponents as early as the last 16. Not that we’d been in a position to be choosy: after losing to Romania, we had to beat Colombia just to be sure of going through. Equally, we knew we could beat them. We weren’t remotely scared of them or their reputation. I don’t think there was any team in France that caused us to be afraid, because we had a really good team that summer. We had a stronger sense of identity than in any year I’ve known, though we really fancied our chances in Japan and South Korea four years on. At Euro 2000, in contrast, there was no buzz and no confidence in the team – nor in my own heart.

In 1998 I felt we had a real beast of a team – mature, talented and robust – so we didn’t shrink in the face of Argentina, even though they were able to call on such talents as Ariel Ortega, Juan Sebastian Veron, Gabriel Batistuta and Claudio Lopez. We just wanted to bring them on. For the second game in a row I was named in the starting eleven, which Glenn Hoddle announced as follows: Seaman, Gary Neville, Adams, Campbell, Anderton, Beckham, Ince, Le Saux, Scholes, Owen and Shearer.

In St Etienne in southern France that night there was an explosive start to the most dramatic match of the tournament. Very early on in the game I remember noticing how deep Argentina were defending. They were sitting way back, as if they were petrified of our pace up front. ‘Tactically,’ I thought, ‘there’s something wrong here.’ Every time I received the ball I fancied my chances of causing havoc. They were giving me so much room between the midfield and defence that I had lots of time to crank up my runs. I also felt they were scared to throw in a proper tackle.

They went 1–0 up with a penalty from Batistuta after Diego Simeone had tripped over David Seaman’s outstretched hands. Penalties are one of the touchiest subjects in modern football. It’s hard to discuss them sensibly because the slightest ambiguity in the words you use will have people looking for sinister motives. Being awarded a penalty is an art, but not in the sense that you have to ‘win’ them dishonestly. The English are only just learning that you can force defenders to make incorrect or inaccurate tackles, which you can then exploit. You have to make the other team make mistakes and capitalize on them. That’s not the same as simulation or deception, which I despise.

Let me explain. For Batistuta’s penalty, nobody will ever convince me that he was incapable of staying on his feet. The truth is that he was waiting for Seaman to dive at his legs before he made his downward move. As soon as our goalkeeper slid in, Batistuta toe-poked it past him, caught Seaman with his foot and then went down. But I’m not denying that it was a penalty; neither am I saying that I wouldn’t have done the same. If the keeper or a defender is going to be enticed into throwing himself at you, you have to be saying, ‘Come on, I’m in your penalty area, come and kick me if you think you can do it within the laws. Kick me at your own risk.’ Batistuta was well within his rights, but there’s no doubt in my mind that he was playing for the penalty.

When I was running into their box around four minutes later, I was more checked than kicked, which is probably why people questioned the referee’s decision to award a penalty. If that foul had been committed outside the area, nine times out of ten you’d have been given a free-kick; in the area, it has to be a stone-cold certainty for the referee to point to the spot. So I’m still not certain mine was a penalty. It remains one of those contentious ones. But what I will say is that if you are racing into a penalty area, especially with the light frame I had back then, then you can’t keep your balance if you are kicked or checked when you are moving at breakneck speed. In those situations, every muscle in my body is being propelled in one direction, and there is only one aim in my head: to score. As much as I was waiting for someone to throw himself at me in St Etienne, if no one had gone near me I would have carried on running and then tried to score.

I’ve been taught this from my earliest days as a kid and as a footballer. If you’re galloping 20 yards from the box and bearing down on goal, don’t run alongside the opponent. If two players are running straight, like Olympic sprinters sharing a lane, it’s easy for the defender to flick out a boot and knock the ball away. If you knock it across their path diagonally, they’ve either got to slow down to let you through, time their tackle perfectly or bring you down. It’s a simple lesson that every forward is taught. If strikers didn’t entice their opponents into kicking them in the wrong areas of the field it would be easy to be a defender. We would all be one.

Contrary to the speculation at the time, Hoddle did not tell me to go down if I was nudged in the penalty area. A theory grew up that the England manager was telling his players to fall over at the slightest provocation. There was no such instruction to me. I like to maintain that on a football pitch I’m as honest as they come. But I still insist that forcing a penalty is a skill, distinct from cheating. If you asked him privately, Hoddle might say that he developed a more complex view of the issue when he was playing abroad with Monaco. There aren’t many people who would fly into the penalty area, absorb a daft challenge from a defender and then struggle to remain upright against all the physical odds. The alternative is to be the beneficiary of the defender’s error. You’ve got to win games. This is our living. If you asked 98 per cent of the English population, they would say I was right to go down in St Etienne. They might modify that opinion long after the game is over, but at the time you can bet they were screaming for the penalty.