It is quite a while since Anfield was the name that used to draw me to my job like no other; a place where you could not help but write well because its legend and the people who breathed its air demanded it of you. Frankly, in all of football, it had a sacred scent unlike any other.
I was reminded of this, both in a sharp and warming sense, on the flight to Shanghai for the recent Masters Cup tennis tournament, because I had invested the best £18.99 of the year on Carra, My Autobiography and once I had picked it up, the next six hours of the flight passed so satisfyingly, I did not even notice the bumps.
Jamie Carragher made his debut for Liverpool the year my football correspondent days drew to a close and has played more than 500 times in the shirt since. He has seen the identity of the club he loves eaten away at, he has played for three managers, Roy Evans, Gérard Houllier and Rafael Benítez, into whose strengths and weaknesses he delves fascinatingly. He is the embodiment of the one-club man — though his first love, he confesses with images to prove it, was Everton — but does not know if his career will end at Liverpool because he will go on “until my body can take it no more”.
Carragher’s autobiography is not the usual “life-story before he is even wet behind the ears” job. He says that he would have waited longer to tell it but there were things he wanted to get off his chest and the upshot is a story so grippingly strong and full of insight, it should be the template for any player tempted to burst into storytelling the minute they score their first goal for England.
Carragher is a man of his people and it is for them, especially, he writes. “We all dream of a team of Carraghers,” the Kop sings to the tune of Yellow Submarine. He yields to no man in his love for them — though their verbal attacks on certain players from other clubs are criticised — nor they, apparently, for him. If this book is not bought for you, treat yourself to it.
I was reminded of this, both in a sharp and warming sense, on the flight to Shanghai for the recent Masters Cup tennis tournament, because I had invested the best £18.99 of the year on Carra, My Autobiography and once I had picked it up, the next six hours of the flight passed so satisfyingly, I did not even notice the bumps.
Jamie Carragher made his debut for Liverpool the year my football correspondent days drew to a close and has played more than 500 times in the shirt since. He has seen the identity of the club he loves eaten away at, he has played for three managers, Roy Evans, Gérard Houllier and Rafael Benítez, into whose strengths and weaknesses he delves fascinatingly. He is the embodiment of the one-club man — though his first love, he confesses with images to prove it, was Everton — but does not know if his career will end at Liverpool because he will go on “until my body can take it no more”.
Carragher’s autobiography is not the usual “life-story before he is even wet behind the ears” job. He says that he would have waited longer to tell it but there were things he wanted to get off his chest and the upshot is a story so grippingly strong and full of insight, it should be the template for any player tempted to burst into storytelling the minute they score their first goal for England.
Carragher is a man of his people and it is for them, especially, he writes. “We all dream of a team of Carraghers,” the Kop sings to the tune of Yellow Submarine. He yields to no man in his love for them — though their verbal attacks on certain players from other clubs are criticised — nor they, apparently, for him. If this book is not bought for you, treat yourself to it.
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