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Totally Frank: The Autobiography of Frank Lampard
Frank Lampard
Chelsea and England footballer Frank Lampard charts his life story from childhood to young West Ham apprentice to multi-millionaire world footballing celebrity and lynchpin of the national team. Includes a full account of the 2005/06 season and the 2006 World Cup finals in Germany.One of the best footballers in Britain today, and the 2005 Footballer of the Year, Lampard has been applauded by fans, managers and fellow players alike. A vital cog in the midfield engine room for Chelsea and England, he is poised to become one of the true legends of the game.The young lad from Romford was born into a football family. His father, a former West Ham star, saw the raw talent in his boy at an early age and was unstinting in his determination for him to succeed. The hard work paid off and Frank Jr kept it in the family by signing to West Ham in 1995, then managed by his uncle Harry Redknapp.Since transferring to Chelsea in a blaze of controversy, he silenced any critics and proved himself indispensable to his club. No-one his age has played more Premiership football than Lampard, and no-one played more at Chelsea – in fact, he has broken the record for number of consecutive appearances for the Blues. He also holds the record for most goals scored in a season by a Premiership midfielder.In his book, Lampard opens up on his early years, how he dealt with the fame and fortune that has come his way since becoming a key member of the England side, his frank opinions on former England boss Sven-Goran Eriksson and his manager at Chelsea Jose Mourinho, fascinating insights into Roman Abramovich and revealing tales on his current team-mates.He reveals both the privileges and the pressures of being one of the 'golden generation' of England players. He gives a fascinating inside account of World Cup 2006 in Germany, and describes the disappointment of not fulfilling the dream of bringing the biggest prize in football back to England.
Totally Frank
My Autobiography
Frank Lampard with Ian McGarry
For the ones I loveElen & Luna, Mum, DadNatalie and Claire
Table of Contents
Cover Page (#ua82b12e5-8ef3-5a77-94bb-9f5162681f70)
Title Page (#ufcd45727-e00b-5f9b-ab37-c594cb7a2191)
Dedication (#uf08b1d67-29f9-5c85-bda0-e726cfd00b4a)
INTRODUCTION NOT THE END OF THE WORLD (#ucf63ae9b-b58d-5b1b-b4dd-7acad9051e68)
CHAPTER 1 LAMPARDS AND REDKNAPPS (#u9ceca6bc-9a18-5bcf-92cd-5a9b81196b68)
CHAPTER 2 THE ACADEMY OF FOOTBALL (#u79d8a9eb-8ba9-5969-a0d7-0784b2000e8b)
CHAPTER 3 MAGIC MOMENTS (#u129339f2-950d-505b-a1b0-ce10e93d31bc)
Photographic Insert (#u4053343d-c148-595c-abd2-0b93e542eaaf)
CHAPTER 4 END OF THE AFFAIR (#u8f56cfba-a4ee-5ba7-b6bf-aa581150f3a3)
CHAPTER 5 BLUE ISTHE COLOUR (#u64621b4c-6303-5f82-a399-8b197017603d)
CHAPTER 6 LOVE MATCH (#ua0b4c31b-dbc9-509c-8a98-5c4916fa4ee8)
Photographic Insert (#u9fec12da-c8c9-52a4-883b-fcb29569433a)
CHAPTER 7 ROMAN’S EMPIRE (#u45009325-00ca-5ded-a712-2596b78d8f08)
CHAPTER 8 EURO 2004 (#ud9da09e7-bf83-58d8-9c26-d0bc7027a90d)
CHAPTER 9 THE SPECIAL ONE (#u2a3a01b5-06d9-56cd-ba1d-c05ea8405660)
CHAPTER 10 EARNING RESPECT AT STAMFORD BRIDGE (#ue3407930-5bec-56de-bbe4-606b5ee9ffa3)
Photographic Insert (#u7437ad22-21d2-5e7f-b137-a3b21a6df6e8)
CHAPTER 11 GERMANY 2006 (#u234b0205-3abc-5d1c-b413-778ecc38d266)
POSTSCRIPT TEENAGE CANCER TRUST (#u57c4c02d-467f-5407-8a62-ef660f17d7f5)
CAREER RECORD (#u275eb165-570c-5af7-857f-d2e01fa81bf0)
INDEX (#u8dcaff64-f02a-5710-a64c-59f88d48bfe8)
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS (#u8efa729c-7dfe-5d4c-8c71-521e61d33a56)
Copyright (#ub40c48cd-28aa-5482-bc80-53359227ec48)
About the Publisher (#u581e16e1-8080-505c-9b1e-8544a12ca08a)
INTRODUCTION NOT THE END OF THE WORLD (#ulink_e795aeb1-0d76-5b0e-ad82-681da7787da2)
IT’S a long walk. Those who have done it say it can be a harrowing experience just making your way to the penalty spot in a shootout situation. I know how tortuous it is. The second you break from the arms of your team-mates and take the first step you are very much alone, wondering where the journey will end.
For a footballer, there can be few trips in life as significant as the 60-metre path towards a moment that will remain with you as long as you live – like the walk down the aisle to be married or a sombre march to say a final goodbye to a loved one who has died. In those circumstances, though, at least you know what to expect.
The long walk to take a penalty invokes a similar intensity of emotion but without a pre-determined outcome. It’s the World Cup quarter-final and the hopes of your family, friends, and team-mates, never mind those of a nation, weigh on your shoulders as you propel yourself towards destiny.
I can hear the cheers of the England fans as they try to encourage me – doing their best to ignore the nerves which make their voices tremble slightly. I focus my gaze on the white rectangle ahead. Not such a hard target. Twenty-four hours earlier I practised for this moment in the Gelsenkirchen Arena. Bang, goal. Bang, goal. Bang, goal. Bang, goal. Four from four after training. I knew what to do.
Back at the hotel I watched a DVD of the Portugal keeper Ricardo in action to discover his method of dealing with a penalty. However, his actions were too chaotic to act as a guide so it was a case of choosing a corner and steering it in. I had done this for Chelsea and England many times before. Stamford Bridge, Old Trafford, Camp Nou. Kick taken, goal scored.
I had been in exactly the same position two years earlier, in the Estadio da Luz, Lisbon, and at the same stage of the competition in Euro 2004. Portugal again. Ricardo again. Same long walk to the penalty area and same pressure. Bang, goal. I knew what to do.
Despite popular opinion, there is no certainty about a penalty kick. There is no divine right which favours the kicker or keeper on every occasion. I know this from history and statistics. I also know from experience – joyful and bitter. I missed one against Hungary at Old Trafford in our first warm-up match three weeks previously. It was my first failed penalty for England – not a pleasant experience. Still, only a friendly, so better to get it out of the way.
Since then I had practised regularly. England teams have traditionally taken stick for not placing enough emphasis on penalty technique but we were very assiduous. Every member of the squad took spot-kicks in training. As the elected penalty taker in normal play, I practised more than anyone else. I always do.
Fifty to be precise. I like to keep track. Fifty kicks and only two saved. Forty-eight successful strikes from a possible fifty. It had become slightly embarrassing because Paul Robinson and David James had only managed one stop apiece. They are both great keepers but I was very sharp – and confident.
As a squad we even practised the walk from the halfway line: familiarized ourselves with the solitude, the silence inside your head, the pressure mounting with every step. The only thing I hadn’t prepared for was being first up in the shootout. That honour belonged to Wayne Rooney before he was red-carded in the second half after a spat with Cristiano Ronaldo.
No time for ‘what if’, only what is. This is our chance to make the semi-final, to avenge the defeat in 2004. This is England’s year. This is our time. I look at the referee who signals that I must wait for his whistle. Fine. I’m in no hurry. Ricardo tries to catch my eye but I’ve seen his tricks before. I place the ball on the mark and turn my back to measure the run-up.
I decide to strike low left. That’ll do it. Left and true. Left and true. I see the shot fly into the bottom left corner in my mind. I approach the ball and open up my body slightly. The strike leaves my boot but it’s not how I pictured it, not quite wide enough, not hard enough. The keeper dives across and gets behind it. It’s blocked. It’s gone. Gone.
I feel numb. I look up to the night sky and see the moon. Luna. In an instant all that has been bad in my career concentrates into a single drop of poison inside my head. Scoring an own goal in my first-ever game aged five. A defeat in the final of a schools cup. Abused and hounded at West Ham. Defeat in the FA Cup final by Arsenal. Elimination in the semi-final of the Champions League.
I’m gagging but there’s no vomit – only sickness. I begin the walk all over again. I hear the jeers from the Portuguese. I look to my team-mates, still locked arm-in-arm but now heads bowed as I walk the desperate walk.
A few hours later I am at the bar in the team hotel in Baden-Baden. I order a beer. Everyone else has gone to dinner but I am too nauseous to eat. The lads filter in a few at a time. We have a drink and the conversations start. Adrenalin pumps through my veins still and even though I am exhausted I can’t rest. Everyone who played is the same. We pore over every detail of the match, vent our frustration about events, the decisions, Ronaldo.
I turn on my phone and a flood of messages come through. It’s not my fault, they say. Keep your chin up. You’ll come back from this. They are meant in kindness but it’s the last thing I want to hear. When I go to bed I’m still wide awake. I watch myself hit the penalty again. Bang, save. Bang, save. Bang, save. F***.
I return to England exhausted. As we drive through west London I count the flags in the houses and on the cars. The sun is shining but the streets are deserted. The deflation has hit hard and I know how they feel. I don’t want to show my face either. We get home. I speak to my Mum and Dad. More commiseration. There’s no need. I know I’m not a villain and there’s no one harder on me than myself.
Mum tells me to be kind to myself. I fall into bed and hope that I can rest. I sleep but the moment I struck the penalty is never far from my mind. I look around the stadium and everywhere the red and white which blazed during the match is doused with gloom. John and Rio are sitting on the turf sobbing, inconsolable. I’m in a daze and though people come to speak to me I can’t hear the words.
I feel someone touch my face. Softly at first and then harder. There’s a weight pressing on my chest and then gentle slaps. I open my eyes to see if I’m awake or still dreaming. Luna is lying on top of me scrambling around. Elen stands beside the bed smiling.
‘Daddy,’ says my little girl. ‘Daddy!’
I repeat the name to her: ‘Daddy! Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!’
Luna smiles her broadest smile and laughs with excitement. She knows. I laugh. Elen laughs and Luna laughs some more. She has said her first word and her timing couldn’t have been more perfect. If only I had taken after my daughter!
Thirty-six hours since the time of my darkest despair and now the light comes flowing back into my life. When I missed that penalty I thought it was over. When we missed the third I knew it was. I have never felt so low and I never want to know that depth again. There were moments after we lost to Portugal when it felt like the end of the world. It wasn’t. It was the end of the World Cup.
With one word from my baby daughter I realized the true value of life and the blessings I can count in mine. I have a successful career – never more so than in the past two years when I have won the top honours the game can bestow. There is a new season to look forward to and the challenge of winning more with Chelsea as well as qualifying for Euro 2008. There is also my work with the Teenage Cancer Trust and most of all my good fortune to be surrounded and supported by my family, my fiancée and my little girl. Football will always be an important part of my life but my family is my life. In reading my story I think you will understand.
CHAPTER 1 LAMPARDS AND REDKNAPPS (#ulink_8cbec8d5-40e0-5bac-aacc-f57906b74f91)
EVER since I was a child I have tried to reach heights that seemed above me. One was a bird cage in the back garden of my Aunt Sandra’s house in Bournemouth. It was perched about twenty feet above the lawn and had been lovingly made by my grandad. Grandad was good with his hands. He was a carpenter by trade and often turned to crafting bits and pieces for his daughters. It was a beautiful thing made from wood and while nothing was actually kept inside it Aunt Sandra was very fond of it – as well as being proud of her well-kept garden. I loved going to visit her and Uncle Harry because it was the perfect mix of the things which were most important to me – family and football. Harry was a very imposing character even then, though later he would become a major figure in my life as my manager when I signed as a professional with West Ham United.
My Dad, who became Harry’s assistant at Upton Park, and my Mum, who’s Sandra’s sister, would pack me and my sisters into the car and we would head for the south coast. Natalie is the same age as my cousin Mark and similar in nature, and those two get on really well. My other sister Claire is a little younger but we all enjoyed our trips to see the Redknapps.
For me, the best bit was playing football with my cousin Jamie. He’s five years older than me and so as a child I was always looking up to him – literally. We would happily play out the back for hours on end without much interruption from the adults or our siblings.
Jamie and I played keep-ball and I would chase him around the garden trying to get it off him. I followed him all over the place but he would just shield the ball, shrug me off and then knock it past me. It didn’t matter, I just loved to play. I would sometimes get a touch on it but Jamie would keep control and I kept coming back for more.
I was a determined little bugger. Always running hard and snapping at his heels. I wouldn’t let it go or give up but when we got tired we moved on to Jamie’s special game. He placed the ball on a particular spot at an angle to the bird cage and then would try and hit the target.
First it was his turn and then mine. I was hopeless, too small to even get the ball high enough to threaten the thing. Jamie, though, was becoming a real nuisance to it. Wherever he put the ball down, whichever spot I chose for him, he rattled the wooden frame to its core with every single kick.
The poor thing was battered to bits before we knew it and Aunt Sandra wasn’t pleased but Jamie and I just kept playing.
I was in awe of him. He was always trying new tricks and flicks and worked hard on his ‘keepy uppy’ and juggling. He was quite obsessed with it and was always practising. I was never into that sort of thing and even now I don’t bother with it, which at times has caused me a little embarrassment.
I turned up to shoot a television commercial for Pepsi in Barcelona where the director had the best players in the world at his disposal. He was American and I’m not sure he really knew his ‘soccer’. Before I arrived to film my part, guys like Ronaldinho had mesmerized him with their footwork while Thierry Henry had flashed through a special routine.
The director was clearly impressed. I got stripped, walked on set and waited for instructions.
‘Ok Frank,’ he said. ‘Do what you do.’
I just looked at him.
‘Do what?’ I asked.
‘You know. Your signature move. What you’re famous for.’
I thought about it for a second.
‘I tackle. I shoot. I score goals from midfield.’
It wasn’t the answer he was looking for but neither is football all about tricks and flicks. Ronaldinho and Henry are fantastic players who can do amazing things with a ball. I admired what Jamie could do when we were kids but I was already being taught the basics of my trade and they didn’t include any fancy stuff. Dad had a very clear vision of what would make a successful modern footballer.
Mum insists that I was holding and kicking a ball as soon as I was able but Dad was busy making sure that I was going in the right direction. He played in the garden with me, teaching me how to kick properly, and encouraged me to be more confident.
At the time, I wasn’t really aware of who my Dad was beyond the familiar surroundings of our house and family. Playing football with a West Ham and England defender is not everyone’s experience as a toddler but to me it was just messing about with my Dad the same as any other boy my age.
I would always prefer to kick the ball back and forth with him or my sisters rather than join in with a group of other kids. I was a shy child and quite self-conscious. As a result, it took quite a bit of persuading on Dad’s part, and a lot of courage on mine, to agree to take part in my first-ever game.
We walked to Gidea Park which is only five minutes from my parents’ house in Romford. I thought we were just going for our usual kickabout in the open space and it’s only in retrospect that I realize he had arranged the whole thing. There was a local team training and playing there and Dad spoke to the coach and asked if I could join in.
I was excited and very nervous. The kids who were playing five-a-side were bigger than me and looked about seven. I was just five. The coach’s name was Chris Snowskill and his son, Daniel, was already playing. I was invited on to the pitch and made quite an impression.
It was silly but I was so enthusiastic I couldn’t help myself. Someone gave me the ball and I just turned round, saw the goal and battered it in. It was instinct. Basic instinct. I was well pleased with it and looked at my team-mates for some recognition. I realized something was wrong. It took a few seconds. Then I twigged from the way they were looking at me that I had scored an own goal. I was so embarrassed. The other kids were asking, ‘Who is this little kid who scores own goals?’
I played out the match but was upset afterwards at my mistake. I was just so excited to be there and humiliated that I had messed it up. That day is my first memory of playing football. My first and, even now, quite painful recollection. Even so, it could barely have been more important.
The team I had joined was called Heath Park and the club would become an integral and important part of my life for the next decade. I played the next week, even though, strictly speaking, I was too young. It didn’t matter to me and as it turned out, I stayed a year behind because I stuck with the same group of lads. It was a great education and a lot of fun. At Heath Park we won the league almost every year and when we didn’t it would be won by our great rivals in the area – Senrab.
Essex has proven to be a rich breeding ground for footballers and my era was no different. Senrab were more from the East End of London and had a bit of a rough edge to them. They were mainly working-class boys who were desperate to make it as footballers while Heath Park was slightly different. We were Essex lads.
Heath Park and Senrab have become quite famous as the clubs where players who have gone on to be a success began their careers. Ashley Cole, Ledley King, Lee Bowyer and J. Lloyd Samuel all cut their teeth at Senrab while a talented lad by the name of John Terry also started out there. John was three years younger than me so we never actually played against each other but even back then I began to hear things about him: how good he was, how strong he was.
Where I grew up, football was in people’s blood. It was part of their DNA and it was certainly in mine. People talked all the time about the game and were interested in it at all levels. Nowadays, kids under ten go to academies which are part of professional clubs to train and learn. Others attend courses run by clubs or the Football Association. When I was that age, Sunday football was the academy.
It seemed that more often than not when we played Senrab in the league that they would beat us but if it was a cup game then we would win. Fortunately, we had a habit of winning most of our games and when we won the league it was usually because we were more consistent than them. Our strength was in our team spirit. They had a few more ‘individuals’ and enjoyed playing that way but the rivalry between us was intense. Players were loyal to each club and people would talk about who was the best and who might make a career in football.
There was always a buzz about who the next professional player was going to be and at Heath Park it wasn’t Frank Lampard. Michael Black was a team-mate of mine and everyone was sure that one day he would be a famous footballer. Michael was skilful, good with the ball and hard to beat. He was the best of the bunch – the Essex Wayne Rooney of his day. Whenever we played a game the would score or be man-of-the-match. I looked at Michael and made a decision. I wanted to be that good. In fact, I wanted to be at least as good and hopefully get better. That was how I felt at that age and I realize that it’s been a recurring theme in my life and career.
Between Heath Park and Senrab we dominated the area and most years we carved up the trophies between us. I enjoyed my share of the spoils even if being the youngest of three kids and the only boy meant I had the smallest room in the house. That didn’t stop me from getting it kitted out with shelves all around and I had all my trophies and medals stockpiled above me as I lay in bed.
We trained during the week and played at weekends. Our coaches would work on our fitness and try to develop our understanding of the game. When we played matches, though, it was more than just the manager’s voice I heard from the touchline.
Almost everyone’s Dad (and Mum) would turn out. Each would have different and constant advice for the team, which they would shout at will. You might think my Dad would have been at the centre of this scrum of tactical wit. What with his background and knowledge, the others would be quiet and let him speak. Not a bit of it.
He would deliberately stand behind the other parents, collar up and stay deadly silent. He was aware of the reaction he would provoke if he were to hog the touchline and shout the odds. More important, he knew how self-conscious I would be if he were to do that. Just knowing he was watching was enough to make me nervous so he became quite adept at pretending he wasn’t there.
There were times when he hid behind a tree or a fence so that I couldn’t see him. He must have looked a bit odd traipsing around the shadows like some football Inspector Clouseau. He couldn’t keep up his disguise for long though. When I got home he would ask me how I had played. I would say ‘pretty good’ only to have him disagree. He would mention something I could have done better or a chance I should have taken and I realized that he had been there after all.
Dad has always been my football touchstone, my coach and critic, an inspiration and aggravation. I have an awful lot to thank him for even if sometimes I hated him. I knew from that very early age that I wanted to be a footballer. It was all I wanted. Dad knew it too and I think he wanted it just as much, perhaps more in those days.
He introduced me to certain training regimes which he knew would build up my physical strength and also instil a mental discipline essential to becoming the very best you can. Some of it was fun, though not for Mum. Dad would put mats down in different positions on the floor of the lounge in our house, then he would get a ball and throw it low down where I had to catch it and get up immediately when he would already be throwing it again in another direction. We would keep at it for ages until I needed a break. Mum would storm through the door shouting at us.
‘Keep the noise down,’ she’d say. ‘And stop messing the place up.’
We’d stay very still. And silent.
‘Honestly, you two think this place gets clean by itself.’
When it was safe to speak, Dad would get in his retort.
‘It’s important for him to be as agile as possible,’ he’d say in the hope that his reason would register against Mum’s protest about the housework. Mum turned on her heel and closed the door, pretending to be annoyed. We’d smile knowingly at one another and start again but it wasn’t all good fun.
When Dad was at West Ham as an apprentice he bought himself a pair of running spikes which he wore when he practised his sprinting after training with the rest of the squad. I didn’t inherit his shoes but I did get the habit. I think I was about ten when I started my ‘spikes’. I would go into the garden and run the length and back repeatedly. It was important to start the sprint with a burst because that’s what helps you catch an opponent or allows you to get away from your marker.
