LITMIR.BIZ

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had always been a number 9, right the way through my FA Youth Cup years, but I was about to say goodbye to the centre-forward’s traditional number. I was number 18 in the full Liverpool squad to begin with, but the following year, when John Barnes was retiring, Ronnie Moran, the assistant coach, approached me one day and asked, ‘Do you want the number 10 shirt next year?’ Robbie Fowler was number 9, and plainly he wasn’t going to be giving up his jersey any time soon, so I moved up to 10. Funnily enough, I went through the same routine with England. Alan Shearer was the resident number 9 at international level and there was no chance of getting that one off him. So it was number 10 twice. And I’ve held it ever since.

      Ten is, of course, a special number for a footballer, because everyone associates it with Pelé, Zico and Maradona. But in the English game the number 9 has a particular association. It’s the old symbol of the strong and determined centre-forward. Not that I get too fussed about these things. The number on your back provides no clue as to how many goals you’re going to score. It’s numbers on the board that count.

      Peter Robinson had already been telling my dad for some months that I ought to appoint an agent, but at the time I was still only 16 and was initially reluctant to take one on. Still, Peter was adamant. ‘Michael will need an agent,’ he told Dad. Dad then spoke to Simon Marsh of Umbro, who had been supporting me since I was 15. Simon said he knew someone who might be ideal, and suggested both sides meet without knowing who the other one was. So, on my seventeenth birthday, with my new number 18 shirt with Owen on the back, the door opened and Simon and Tony Stephens walked in. My parents were there, too, and they sized up Tony to see whether he was the right man. They had a gut feeling that he was the one for me. Because Tony didn’t know much about me he wanted to go away and do some research, but Mum and Dad stopped him and said, ‘Well, we want you, so we want to know now whether you want us.’ They didn’t like the idea of him going off to think about. So he said yes there and then. Tony already had David Platt, Dwight Yorke, Alan Shearer and David Beckham on his books (this was before he merged himself into the big SFX organization).

      Tony was impressive when we began talking to him more. I soon forgot that he had asked for more time to think about taking me on. I knew I could prove to him that he’d made a good decision. Ninety-nine per cent of the public don’t know what Tony looks like. If his picture appears in the paper he kicks himself because he tries to avoid being photographed. He never gives interviews. Most agents can’t wait to shout their mouths off to get business, but he does everything privately and low key. That’s a plus point I really value. His experience at the negotiating table is invaluable too. He has arranged huge transfer deals for Shearer, Platt, Yorke and, of course, Beckham. But that’s not the main reason I’m with him. If ever you have a problem, he seems to be the ultimate authority. It doesn’t matter what the topic is, he’s always knowledgeable. If you’re ever in trouble he knows all the right people. Life’s about contacts half the time, and Tony’s are second to none. He’s very rarely proved wrong. He’ll select deals that fit with your image and he’ll never send you down the wrong line. Shearer and Beckham, for example, were aimed in totally different directions. I couldn’t see Alan doing a deal with Brylcreem or a sunglasses company. It’s all very well saying, ‘It’s easy when you’ve got good clients,’ but it’s still possible to make big mistakes. Sure, Tony has all the right ammunition, but he knows how to use it.

      The first contract I signed was with Malcolm Douglas from the watch company Tissot, who I’m still proud to be with. I was really pleased to attract their interest when I was on £500 a week, and I like the people associated with the company. Umbro’s support enabled me to buy my first car. Simon Marsh and Martin Prothero were there from the very beginning and became really good friends and golf partners. Jaguar were another good contact of Tony’s. Alan Shearer joined them first, and Beckham and I then signed similar deals. I’ve been driving a Jaguar since I was 18. I get two free ones every year. Walkers Crisps is another firm I linked up with – and they even named a flavour after me: Cheese and Owen. My first substantial soft-drinks contract was with Lucozade Sport. I’ve also written a column in the News of the World with Dave Harrison, a trusted friend, and had a link with Topps, who make sticker cards for kids. I was with Yamaha for a while, too, and I now have an arrangement with a Japanese suit company, Aoyami, as well as Vivid Imaginations, who make children’s football toys, and most recently Persil and Asda. My dad’s personal favourite is my annual calendar deal with Danilo.

      Four months after my visit to Peter Robinson’s office, and with only a handful of reserve games behind me, I was summoned for a first-team trip to Sunderland. Initially I was under the care of Ronnie Moran, the head coach. Ronnie loved the kids. ‘Don’t worry, son, you’re only young, it’s just down to experience. Make sure you learn.’ That’s what he would say to us, and it was exactly what we needed to hear at that age. He treated us so well, and knew absolutely everything about the game. Sammy Lee, who played in some of the greatest Liverpool teams, was also around. Ronnie left the club when Roy Evans left, in November 1998, and after that the men in charge were Patrice Bergues, then Jacques Crevoissier, then Cristian Damiano, who was previously with Jean Tigana at Fulham. Since Ronnie, we’ve had two coaches on account of the increased numbers in the squad. When I first joined, Sammy was the reserve-team manager; then he became the main first-team coach before leaving Anfield in the summer of 2004 to take up a post at the FA.

      ‘Bring your gear, just in case there are any injuries,’ Ronnie added before that mid-April 1997 Sunderland game. A few hours later he told me I was in the first-team squad. I assumed, of course, that I’d been included for educational purposes. It was just to give me a look round, so I told Mum and Dad not to bother making the long journey north, and didn’t ask for any tickets. Roy Evans, the manager, duly announced his team, and naturally I wasn’t included, but when it came to calling out the substitutes I suddenly heard my name. In those days we were allowed to have a mobile phone with us until we entered the dressing room an hour before the game. I didn’t own one, but I did manage to borrow one from a team-mate and called my parents from the centre of the pitch. Dad said, ‘It’s only an hour until kick-off – shall we try to get up there for the second half?’ I told them not to bother, which turned out to be the right call. It wasn’t the sort of game in which a reserve striker gets on.

      Next time out for me was Wimbledon away on 6 May, and I was on the bench again. This time a fresh striker was needed in the later stages of the game. We were 1–0 down, and with about half an hour to go the manager said, ‘Go and get warmed up.’ I rose, shook myself down and took a couple of steps. I’d jogged about 10 yards when Wimbledon scored again. I didn’t have time to reach the corner flag before I heard a shout of ‘Michael!’ As I turned they were gesturing at me to get ready to go on. So no warm-up; just straight into the thick of it for my League debut.

      To run on to a football pitch in a Liverpool first-team shirt for the first time is a massive moment in anybody’s life. It’s one of those crests that is instantly recognizable across the world. But as a kid that day, I didn’t think of Bob Paisley and Bill Shankly and all those European Cups; I was living for the moment. I looked around and saw Stan Collymore beside me and John Barnes just in behind. It was only after the game that I thought, ‘I’ve actually played for Liverpool Football Club today.’ Scored, as well, because I got off to the best possible start. It was the kind of goal I’d been scoring for 10 years. I was looking for gaps when Stig Inge Bjornebye played a perfectly weighted ball which I barely had to touch. I just ran round the outside of it and placed it in the corner. For the remainder of that game I felt just great – fresh and dangerous. The downside was that we couldn’t set up an equalizer.

      It was in the next game five days later, when I started against Sheffield Wednesday in a match we needed to win to reach the Champions League, that I started to feel vaguely important. I was 17, and they were showing how much they believed in me. I was so proud, running out at Hillsborough as one of the starting eleven. I can remember the whole day vividly. Sheffield Wednesday’s pitch is massive and I was exceptionally tense. Twenty minutes into the match I was struck by horrendous cramp. I’d never had it before, and I’d always assumed it was something that tended to attack in the eightieth or ninetieth minute. It started in my calf, then spread to my hamstrings, my groin and my thighs. By half-time I felt as if I had cramp in every muscle. It must have been

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