Carra: My Autobiography by Jamie Carragher, Kenny Dalglish Read Free Book Online Page B

game means to him. Even if he's having a nightmare, he'll never hide.'

We didn't hide in Munich for the first leg of that Cup Winners' Cup semifinal. I was out there with my dad, my Uncle Peter and their mates Tommy Valo and Davey Mull, sampling the delights of the European away-days that would become part of my life.

'Have you come here for a fight?' we were asked by the Germans when we arrived.

'No, we've come to show you how to play football,' we'd say back.

Everton fought as hard as usual for a 0–0 draw, and me and my dad went back to our hotel. Before long we received a call in the room from Tommy and Davey.

'We're at the players' hotel,' they said. 'Get down here.'

I saw all the Everton players, and when the team coach left I chased it down the road. Our left-back John Bailey saw me, made the driver stop the coach, and then gave me a can of Coke. It was a small gesture, but when you've travelled all that way to see your team, that kind of thing stays with you for ever. I suppose it's one of the reasons I've always got time for those who make the effort to follow Liverpool in Europe.

In the second leg, I was given my first taste of true Scouse passion on a European night. I've enjoyed plenty of similar occasions as a Liverpool player, but as an Everton fan, nothing beat that semi with Bayern Munich. The Germans didn't know what hit them, other than a lot of Everton boots and plenty more heart and soul. Only English fans, maybe only Scousers, create an atmosphere like that. And only in the 1980s could players like Andy Gray get away with volleying German defenders up the arse for ninety minutes like he did that night.

Sharpy was my hero, but I loved Kevin Sheedy too. Had Sheedy played in my era, David Beckham would be considered the second greatest deadball expert in Premier League history. At home to Ipswich in that 1984–85 season, Sheedy put one freekick to the keeper's right only for the referee to disallow it. Not a problem. He placed the retake to the left to put Everton ahead. It finished 2–2. I was awestruck.

I've also Sheedy to thank – or should that be blame? – for providing me with my first lesson in the fickleness of supporters, something I've also become used to as a player. It came during the FA Cup semifinal against Luton in 1985. I was the unofficial chairman of the Sheedy fan club, and he played in that game after being out injured for a few weeks. Kevin Richardson had been deputizing and playing well, but Kendall brought Sheedy straight back.

It was obvious he wasn't 100 per cent fit, and he wasn't having a good afternoon. The fans standing near me were crucifying his performance, no matter what he did. If he lost the ball, they'd shout; if he passed to a teammate, they'd still criticize him. As his biggest fan, I took all the stick he was taking personally. I prayed for just one chance with a freekick. When it came, I knew what would happen next. I rehearsed my celebration in my head like a military operation. Sheedy stepped up and kept his part of the bargain with another sweet left-footer, and I put my plan into action. The fans were ecstatic. I turned towards those who'd been slaughtering him as if they were all Luton fans and screamed my approval directly into their eyes. Of course, they were oblivious, celebrating as much as the rest of us, but to me Sheedy's freekick had delivered a message loud and clear to his critics: keep your thoughts to yourself next time.

Sheedy's equalizer kept Everton in the competition, and Derek Mountfield's winner allowed me to fulfil my first important football mission. As the jubilant supporters celebrated, seven-year-old James Carragher found himself on the pitch, jumping on the backs of the Everton players. 'I'll be on the television tonight!' I sensed triumphantly as I returned to my standing position.

Eddie Cavanagh had a youthful new member of his exclusive club.

As I got older, it didn't matter where or when Everton played, I'd be there.