Totally Frank
My Autobiography
Frank Lampard with Ian McGarry

For the ones I love Elen & Luna, Mum, Dad Natalie and Claire

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

Dedication

INTRODUCTION NOT THE END OF THE WORLD

CHAPTER 1 LAMPARDS AND REDKNAPPS

CHAPTER 2 THE ACADEMY OF FOOTBALL

CHAPTER 3 MAGIC MOMENTS

Photographic Insert

CHAPTER 4 END OF THE AFFAIR

CHAPTER 5 BLUE ISTHE COLOUR

CHAPTER 6 LOVE MATCH

Photographic Insert

CHAPTER 7 ROMAN’S EMPIRE

CHAPTER 8 EURO 2004

CHAPTER 9 THE SPECIAL ONE

CHAPTER 10 EARNING RESPECT AT STAMFORD BRIDGE

Photographic Insert

CHAPTER 11 GERMANY 2006

POSTSCRIPT TEENAGE CANCER TRUST

CAREER RECORD

INDEX

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Copyright

About the Publisher

INTRODUCTION NOT THE END OF THE WORLD

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

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.

Almost every day I would do spikes. Mum got very annoyed because she had grown a beautiful lawn of lush green grass and there I was ripping it to shreds. Sometimes I did it with Dad’s supervision, sometimes not. If Dad had been out and he found me in my room doing homework or watching TV he would always ask me, ‘Have you done your spikes?’ I was quite proud when I could say yes. When I couldn’t, he wouldn’t be forceful. Instead, he had a great knack of suggesting that if I didn’t do them then bad things would happen. Not punishment of any kind. Oh no, worse – I wouldn’t get quicker, more agile or have more stamina. In other words, I might come up short when it came to making the grade as a player.

For me, that threat was enough. Out I went no matter the weather and did my spikes. I still did them even after I turned professional. I used to hide them at West Ham’s Chadwell Heath training ground because I was embarrassed but after training, when all the other older pros had gone home, I would run up and down outside the gym. Dad would sometimes catch sight of me from his office across the way and I would see him smile or nod. I became quite superstitious about it. Of course, it didn’t help having Dad ask me all the time – even when I was in the West Ham first team. That was the thing with Dad. He didn’t want to have to tell me. He wanted me to do it of my own accord.

It wasn’t just me he affected in that way though. When Rio Ferdinand and I were apprentices at West Ham he would take Rio after training and do an hour’s practice on his heading. Rio is an incredibly talented footballer. He can do things with his feet that a lot of ball players would struggle to. But when it was decided that he should be a defender, he wasn’t the best with his head. Dad coached him and after a while Rio took it upon himself to find someone else to help him practise. The most important lesson was mental discipline and all of the players at the very highest level have it.

Gianfranco Zola used to hit more than a hundred balls every day after training was finished at Chelsea. When everyone else headed for the showers Franco stood in front of the goal and concentrated for a while longer. Bang, bang, bang. He was like a metronome. Even he, one of the most sublimely talented footballers I have ever played with, knew he needed to practise. It’s common among the elite and rare among the ordinary. Wayne Rooney does it when we are training with England. So do I.

Dad introduced me to that, was instrumental in instilling it, and it has been crucial to my development. Now I come across young kids who think because they have a contract with Chelsea they have made it. They drive nice cars and can’t wait to get into them and speed off after training. There are some good ones who will hang around and do a bit extra. I often stay on and practise shooting or free-kicks and one or two of the academy lads want to learn. They’ve got a chance of making it. I did my spikes and my agility training. I also practised in the park with the ball for hours.

Even before I signed for West Ham my Dad would take me to Chadwell Heath when the players had a day off and he would work on different aspects of my game. He would smash balls off the wall of the gym and make me stand with my back to the wall. I had to turn when I heard the ball rebound and react to whatever came my way. Dad knew that agility was a big part of succeeding in the middle of the park and I had to bring the ball under control. At times it was the last thing I wanted to do. Especially when it was freezing in the wind and miserable with rain. I still went though. He was obsessed with that kind of thing and in turn he made me obsessed. I was only 14 at the time.

I remember Tony Cottee was the man at West Ham then and Dad told me that Tony’s Dad had brought him to the ground and done the same thing that we were doing. It was his way of goading me into trying even harder, a sort of ‘He did it and look where he is’ kind of thing. I remember thinking that if Tony Cottee did it then I wanted to do it. It wasn’t usual to do that kind of work with a 14-year-old and I realized even then that my life was different from other kids. Most boys that age would never take up that kind of training but I was fortunate that Dad saw weaknesses before they were even there.

He was ahead of the game for that reason. He had a vision of how football was going and where it would eventually end up. When he played in the seventies, the game was much slower and less technical, athletic and competitive. It was completely different. Teams are tactically more aware now as well as physically stronger and my Dad, unlike a lot of others, saw that coming. He told me I had to increase my pace and strength. He would go on and on at me and I got fed up and angry with the constant nagging. When I was eleven I played in a game which hadn’t gone well. Dad was angry with me but I didn’t know what I had done wrong. He sat me down and got a pen and paper and explained to me how important it was when you played in midfield to cover runners. Before then, if someone played a one-two around me I would try to intercept the ball and the guy running would get played in behind me.

It’s the kind of thing that most kids don’t get coached on until youth level and there I was having it drilled in to me aged eleven. Covering runners is not fun and was probably the last thing I wanted to do. I was like every other kid who just wanted to get the ball and play without thinking about the consequences of the guy running in behind me. As you get older though, you realize their importance defensively and it gave me a head start.

I was already a very competitive child. Hardly surprising given my Dad’s career though my Mum was always the one who encouraged me to keep going and do better. Right from the start Dad was great at identifying the things I should work on and needed to improve but it was Mum who told me I should do it for myself. There is a photograph from that time which was taken at one of the summer schools. Even now Mum reminds me of it. I was not a good-looking child by any stretch and there’s me with my chubby little face and geeky teeth. ‘Who would have thought that you would be the one who ended up playing for Chelsea and England?’ she likes to say.

I am not alone in our family in having the honour to have played for my country. Dad played for England as did my cousin Jamie. When we were growing up, I can’t say that it felt unusual to be surrounded by people who were so immersed in football. How could it be? It was mostly all I had known and I just assumed that every family was like mine. I was wrong.

Bobby Moore used to come to our house to see Dad. I would walk into the lounge and the two of them would be there chatting about West Ham and football, with Mum fussing around with tea and biscuits. It never occurred to me that the man who had lifted the World Cup as captain of England was sitting on my couch.

Even when we went to Uncle Harry’s it didn’t really register that there was something very different, very special about my family. It was just us. I used to go to their house in Bournemouth on holiday every year and it was like going to the beach. My cousin Mark was also a very good footballer but his career was cut short by a bad knee injury. Whenever we all got together we talked about football. There were exceptions but not many.

Summer down at the Redknapps was a great season and they had a big party for Jamie’s birthday. The whole thing was over two days and when I turned up I was star struck. A few of the Liverpool boys were there, including Robbie Fowler. Trevor Sinclair was there too, though there was no doubt who the stars of the day were. It was the time of the infamous ‘spice boys’ and the lads had turned out in force. Jamie was very trendy and always first with new fashions. Quite a few times I got back from Bournemouth and told Mum what she needed to be buying to make me look good. On this particular occasion the lads were in Ralph Lauren shirts and tailored jeans.

There was a big barbeque in the garden of the house and it was crazy. There were gorgeous girls everywhere and, of course, Jamie was the king, the one they all wanted to talk to. It was an incredible sight. Jamie was cruising around with his mates, talking to everyone. I, on the other hand, felt a bit self-conscious. I was a lot younger and would not have blamed Jamie if he hadn’t even noticed that I’d turned up. Thing is, though, he always had time for me. I can’t imagine that too many big cousins who were in his position and at that party would have but he was very much like a big brother. When you grow up with someone like that you are always looking to them to set the standard and example. I went on my first boys’ holiday to Cyprus with Jamie, Don Hutchison and couple of Jamie’s mates from Bournemouth. I’m not sure how I ended up going at 17 but I persuaded my Mum it would be okay.

I had already been to Bermuda with my parents that summer. Dad did some coaching out there with former West Ham striker Clyde Best. I put some suntan oil on my face when I was there and came out in a big rash. I couldn’t believe it. I was going on holiday with Liverpool’s pin-up boy and his mates and I looked a real mess. They were brilliant though. He didn’t need the responsibility of having his little cousin there but he looked after me despite my beetroot face. While we were there we went into the main square of the town and before we knew it there was a huge crowd of people asking for autographs and to have pictures taken with him.

He was being really nice to everyone who approached him. I know now that it can become a nuisance. After all, you are there with your mates and trying to relax. In fact, I have seen players in that situation react very differently. I’ve seen some be very rude and tell people to get lost and the like – especially after a couple of beers. But Jamie was polite and it set something going in me. I thought that if I ever got to that level then I wanted to be like him. I appreciated how he was dealing with everyone. It was a lesson I wanted to be able to emulate. There’s no doubt that the more famous you become the harder it is to have time for everyone. Even now, you can be in a rush or have the baby in your arms and the last thing you want to do is sign an autograph but I think about Jamie in that square and what it taught me.

There was something about Jamie – he could cope with the demands and the pressure even though he was only 22 at the time. He just handled it and got on with things. We didn’t get to spend too much time together because of the distance between us when he lived in Liverpool but he always had good advice for me on the phone and I could call him whenever I wanted. He always had time for me and wanted to know how I was doing.

Even when I was 18 I was still learning from him. He came to train at Chadwell Heath when he was recovering from an injury while he was at Liverpool. We had a goal painted on a wall in the gym and in the corners of the goal were circles no bigger than the size of a ball. Each circle had a different number attached so that the top right corner was 1 and bottom right 2 and so on. Jamie and I wandered in there after I had finished a session and started messing around. He lined up a shot and shouted a number.

‘One.’ And the ball flew dead on target.

‘Four.’ Different corner. Same result.

‘Two.’ And again. And so on.

It was my turn. I was lucky to hit the goal never mind a circle. Jamie didn’t laugh or take the piss. He stopped me and started lining my body up and then gave me some advice. That was Jamie all over. Always wanting to help. I guess because of that it was quite weird when we came up against each other on the field.

I played against Liverpool with West Ham and we were head to head in midfield. He went in hard on me and it was a little bit over the ball on the knee. He got up straight away, panicked that he had hurt me. Like me, he is very family orientated and I would not have thought for a moment that he had tried to do me but he was concerned that I was okay.

The tables were turned a few years later when we faced each other again when he was at Spurs. I caught him with my studs and almost ruined his good looks with a scar. I remember feeling the same panic he must have felt all those years ago. He ended up with about thirty stitches in his mouth and had to have surgery. He reminds me of it sometimes. I cringe at the thought.

I love Jamie the person – our relationship as mates has really blossomed over the past few years. We speak all the time and one of the things which says a lot about his character is that despite all the difficulties he had with injuries and sheer bad luck there has never been a single shred of jealousy about him. He has been a positive influence and encouraging voice throughout for me.

Jamie is one of those people in life who genuinely wants to know about others, their thoughts and views on the game as well as on life. He makes people comfortable and that’s why he is such a natural on television and why he will succeed in management if he chooses to go into it.

Jamie was as good a role model as I could have wished for and as I got older the competitive spirit which had emerged in football began to manifest itself in just about every sport I took part in. As well as football I played cricket and was good enough to play for Essex at Under-12 to Under-15 level.

By that time my week was crammed full of sport. On Monday nights I went to Chelmsford to do nets with Essex cricket team. Tuesday was West Ham training and Wednesday was school team match or training. Thursday was Arsenal training while Friday was Tottenham and then on Saturday there was a school team game and then back to Sunday playing for Heath Park.

There was a point when I liked cricket almost as much as I did football. I was about eleven or twelve and Dad had played cricket for England schoolboys and was very good – probably better than me. He pushed me a bit but was wary that it might become as important as football. I liked it because I went to a school where they paid a lot more attention to cricket than football. I enjoyed batting and bowling. I was happy doing them and was more of an all-rounder, and that was what made me love the game as a younger kid.

At 14 I was playing in the first XI at cricket a year before I was at football which made it appear that I was better at cricket than I was at football but that wasn’t true. Maybe the cricket team wasn’t quite so good. I was a very stubborn little batsmen. I wasn’t strong enough to whack it everywhere but I was dogged. I would just block what I couldn’t hit far and stay in as long as I could – the Geoffrey Boycott type.

When I got older I had to field and that’s when I lost patience as well as interest. A lack of patience is one of my weaknesses. My Dad also started to slip into conversations the fact that professional footballers earned a lot more money than cricketers. That may sound odd but as you get older and money starts to mean something to you, it has an effect. Not just the money but the glory as well. Football is the national game and number one sport after all.

I’m not sure how far I would have gone in the game – I can’t imagine I was going to be a Freddie Flintoff – but it got to a stage when it was getting on my nerves. Mum and Dad had to pick me up at school at Brentwood and we set off on the journey to Chelmsford which took about fifteen minutes. I had to get changed in the back of the car which was a nuisance and I remember having the hump about it and started to make excuses so I didn’t have to go.

I glossed over the issue with my parents with some petty story but the the over-riding reason for quitting was my obsession with perfection. There were a few people who were better than me at cricket and I didn’t think that I could bridge the gap and that frustrated me. It was fine with football where I was good and thought that I could be better than everyone else. Being honest, that was why cricket faded out of my life. I accepted my limitations but it didn’t mean I wanted to remind myself of them every time I played.

I focused on football and at 14 went to Lilleshall for the annual trials. At the time, Lilleshall was the FA’s school of excellence for young footballers. They provided a two-year residential course which consisted of schooling as well as expert coaching. It was exciting but I was also nervous. I had broken my arm a couple of months before and I had it in my head that I wasn’t as fit as I should be. There were thirty-two kids trying out for sixteen places. We had two days of tests and training as well as playing games.

I got down to the last twenty-four which meant I was on the way. Then we did the bleep test where basically you run between two electronic markers until you drop. The highest level was around fourteen and I only managed to get to eleven. I wondered what they thought of me as a result but there was nothing I could do. I was absolutely exhausted.

The day ended and I went home to wait for the final selection process which was done by letter. Two weeks later the envelope dropped through the door. It was nerve wracking. I had tried to prepare myself for the disappointment by telling myself that my broken arm had handicapped my chances. Deep down, I knew that wasn’t true.

I was right about not getting in though. I was gutted. It was hard to accept the rejection. I was at a stage where I was regarded as one of the best players in Essex and I wanted to be the very best. To be told that I wasn’t even in the top sixteen in the country was a heavy blow. Lee Hodges, who I later played with for West Ham youths, was accepted though he decided to turn it down.

I wondered what Dad would think. In the end, he wasn’t that bothered. Lilleshall had a reputation for being very old school and the kind of coaching they utilized wasn’t necessarily what I needed. Players who have graduated from there have good things to say about it. You can’t argue with the talent of the likes of Joe Cole and Michael Owen who went there and have become top professionals. In retrospect, though, it may have been a lucky escape for me.

I had been exposed to very different methods and levels of coaching. After the age of ten I started attending academy football at West Ham, Tottenham and Arsenal. They each had their good points – and their bad.

West Ham were quite antiquated in their attitude. They didn’t really encourage you to become part of the club. There was a kind of arrogance where they just assumed that because you were a local boy who supported them then you automatically wanted to be part of their set-up. It was very impersonal. Spurs were actually the best. I had my eyes opened when I turned up to train and came across kids who were technically superior in many ways. It was all about the ball and what you could and should do with it. Not tricks but ways of beating a man on the run, or from standing still. I came up against boys there and thought ‘I want to be able to do that.’ They also had a different way of dealing with you. There was a meal after the session and everyone was friendly and encouraging.

Arsenal were something of a mix of the two. I enjoyed the coaching there though it was more physical. The people were very well trained in the latest techniques and seemed to know what they were talking about. For a few years I flitted between all three though it was clear in Dad’s mind where I would end up playing.

West Ham were in my heart, as they were in his, and I played my youth football there at the same time as I was playing for Heath Park and my school. It was hectic but I was doing what I loved. I never really stopped to think about much else though there were times when I had to.

I began to realize that after I joined a new team or club and got to know people, some kids developed a certain attitude towards me. It usually didn’t take too long. It had nothing to do with how fast I was, how good I was at football or cricket or how I spoke or looked. It was because I was Frank Lampard’s son.

The majority were fine and I made some very good friends. But some kids can be cruel and are easily made jealous and I was the son of a famous footballer. I never hid the fact of who my Dad was. Let’s face it, with a name like mine it would have been quite an act to pull off. I took a bit stick for it though and there were occasions when kids were determined to beat me at this or that because of who my Dad was.

It wasn’t just kids either. At Heath Park there was a lad called Danny who played centre-forward. He went on to play at youth level with West Ham as well and scored a lot of goals though he disappeared after a year or so. His Dad used to come along to games and would slag off everyone except his lad. He would always have a dig at me because I was ‘Lampard’. It really got on my nerves. I remember one game his son scored seven and I got eight but all he could shout was ‘Come on Lampard, pass the ball!’

Michael Black and I would just slag him off on the quiet. It was our way of dealing with it, though one day Michael had enough and told him to ‘F*** off.’ He was only 13 and this guy was silenced for the first time. I preferred to just stay quiet and get on with my football. To be honest, I didn’t really mind most of the time. I got used to kids reacting in different ways. When I turned up for a football game or athletics meeting most people were absoluetly fine but there was the odd time when I sensed someone was looking at me a bit differently.

I was shy but I wasn’t ashamed. Far from it. And in a way, it worked in my favour because it made me more determined to do well. Not to prove them wrong but to prove to myself that I was better – better than them and better than the cheap shots about my Dad.

I was already good at football but that wasn’t enough for me. I wanted to be good at everything. I concede that it may not have been the most healthy attitude at times. On one occasion I remember I was due to do a cross-country run after school and was so obsessed with how well I would do that I got a stress headache. It got worse throughout the day and was really thumping by the time I was changed and ready to race. I should have told the teacher and just abandoned it. But no, I was determined. I did it and I won but at the end I was just hanging in there.

It wasn’t all about winning all of the time. I dropped in and out of other sports with the fashion just like most kids of that age. I had fun doing other stuff and hanging out with my friends but I can’t deny that the desire to win was something which burned fiercely within me. Like the time I scored the own goal, there are other episodes which stand out in memory which I realize instilled in me the competitive edge which has been so essential to my development as a footballer and as a person.

When I was about seven I was due to run a 200-metre race. There was a another lad there who was bigger than me and was expected to stroll through it. I looked at him and thought I could take him. I was determined to beat him. The race went off and I fell a bit behind and then disaster struck; I fell over half way through it from trying so hard to keep in touch. I was distraught and had to be picked up off the track.

It was hard to get over. I was still in tears when I got home, and spent the rest of the day upset and hiding in my room. No one could talk me out of it. I was embarrassed but worse still, I knew what it was to fail.

Sport was extremely important in my life and usually came first for me but I was aware that I needed more than just games to get on in life. I suppose for a lot of boys who go on to become professional footballers schooling gets tucked away with your old uniform. My experience was a bit different.

Dad earned a good wage as a player and he and Mum wanted me to have a better start in life. I was sent to a fee-paying school to get a good education that would help me decide for myself what I wanted to do. Going to Brentwood was a great opportunity and one I’m glad of.

It’s quite a posh school which has a bit of a reputation for producing high achievers. Sir Robin Day, and the comedian and actor Griff Rhys Jones went there as did Noel Edmonds. It was quite daunting to arrive at a place where the motto is ‘Virtue Learning Manners’, especially when you’re a footballer’s son from Essex.

It was a lot less stiff than I expected and I adapted quite quickly. My childhood – especially my craving for football – was undiminished by the fact that I went to school with kids who had been brought up without the obsession with football which I knew as the dominant force in my life. There was a real mix of different kids – some had parents who worked in the City, others were well off because their Dad happened to have done well in the building trade. I brought a strong sense of my own identity along with my determination. I was still an Essex boy with working-class parents who loved nothing more than football.

It was a new and interesting environment. None of my neighbours went there and I had a different outfit to some of the other boys around my street – including shorts and a cap in summer. It was very traditional but after a while the embarrassment wore off. Well, almost.

My parents felt a bit uncomfortable with some of the others at my school and they weren’t really the type to get involved in meetings or administration. It didn’t bother me except for one particular instance when it would have been nice if they had been paying attention to what was going on.

Mum took me in the car to school as usual but as we drove through the gates I realized that something was very wrong. All the children were wearing a different uniform. Well, actually, they all had the same uniform on – neat black shorts and shirts. It was just me who was wearing something completely different. I ducked down in the car like some kind of criminal and told Mum to keep driving. Why was I still in tweed blazer and trousers? Apparently, the uniform had changed for spring term but no one in our house had noticed. I was mortified and had the day off school while Mum went out and bought the new outfit.

She still laughs about that and it’s a silly story but there is a serious point to it – people took the piss out of me because of where I went to school. All my Heath Park mates certainly did – mainly because I went to school on Saturdays so when everyone else was going out to play football with their mates or heading off to a game I was sitting in a classroom learning French and algebra.

It was very annoying. Like most kids, at one stage I really had the hump with school but I am thankful for what I experienced there and I made a lot of friends. My view of the world is a lot more rounded than it might have been and I think Brentwood played a big part in that.

On the whole, I was a pretty good student. There were a few minor scrapes that every kid has, though bizarrely the only real problem I had was the fact that I made the football first XI when I was in fourth year. A few of the older boys resented me for it. I was still just a young kid but I was good enough to play and I think some of the others were hoping I would fall on my face.

I didn’t. They let me know how they felt at the end-of-year school dance when a couple of the older lads sauntered up to me to ask what I was doing there. It was more of a threat than an invitation to explain so I ignored them. I had done nothing wrong except put a few noses out of joint by being good at football. I was punching above my weight – something I have done most of my life.

The teacher in charge of our school team was a nice guy from Oldham called Chris Boukley and he took me under his wing and encouraged me to play even when the older lads were trying to intimidate me. Some kids tried to make an issue of my background being different to theirs but I had my own group of friends and I wasn’t the only kid from ‘new money’. There were quite a lot of us at Brentwood, and at football we used to play away games at the really posh schools like Eton. It was a very different world to mine. There were children from very wealthy and privileged families at my school but it was nothing like Eton.

You find your own way and make your own society in those kind of situations and I didn’t hang out much with that crowd. We talked about politics and history but we still played football at lunchtime. I enjoyed learning but football was still my main ambition in life. Having to attend lessons on Saturday was difficult for me as was the fact that I played for the school team but was also playing at youth level for West Ham. It was only a matter of time before the two would clash. When they did, it was spectacular and the fallout was excruciating.

Dad bunked me off school so I could play an FA Youth Cup tie for West Ham. I never really thought much of it at the time. I was desperate to play of course and presumed I could get away with it. Anyway, my Dad was taking me. I played, we won the match and had a good game. Perfect, I thought. Wrong. I went to school the next day and there was a horrible buzz going about that I had been found out. The school team had also had a game the day before – the quarter-final of a cup competition. They lost, turning my absence into a major scandal when it might have been a minor irritation.

I sat in class like a condemned man waiting to be sentenced. I was guilty all right and if anyone doubted it they only had to look at my face. I was hoping for the best but knew it was a real issue when the headmaster marched into the room and shouted ‘Lampard! Come with me.’

I was taken to his office and sat there ashamed and silent. He fetched a copy of the local paper and spread it in front of me. I was puzzled. Then I noticed a photograph of me playing for West Ham in all my glory. There goes my excuse that I was sick then. They took truancy very seriously, as they did loyalty and responsibility to the school and your fellow pupils. He told me that I had let down the school, my team-mates and myself. He didn’t need to rub my face in it. I knew already. Worse was to come. He sent me to see Mr Boukley to apologize.

I really liked him. He had paid me a lot of attention when I first arrived and had made me feel like I could succeed even when I had doubted myself. I was dreading the meeting. Of all the people that the headmaster had pointed out that I had disappointed he was the one I felt worst about. The rebuke was pretty brief but I was upset with myself after I saw Mr Boukley.

I was also pissed off that I got two hours’ detention on Saturday afternoon – the worst possible. They made me write an essay that might teach me a valuable lesson: ‘How Loyalty is More Important than Self-Interest’. I thought about it for a while and decided that I could be clever too: ‘It’s true, loyalty is very important but sometimes you have to look after your own interests because no one will do it for you,’ was my conclusion. I was quite pleased with myself. My teacher, however, didn’t find it so entertaining and got the right hump.

As far as the academic side went, I studied pretty hard while I was there. I was no fool and I guess the desire to succeed came across in class as well. I got ten GCSEs – an A⁺ in Latin, three As, five Bs and one C – grades I needed to go on and study for my A levels. The school tried to put a case to me that I should stay on and I was promised that I would captain the football first XI. Mr Boukley made the point that it would be good for me regardless of my football ambitions to get a sound academic base. I could get my A levels and still go on to play football afterwards.

I thought long and hard about it. I got good grades in my exams and enjoyed studying French and Spanish. I went home and spoke to Dad. I had known for a couple of months that there was an apprenticeship for me at West Ham and that seemed the obvious thing to do. More than anything I wanted to play football, to be a footballer. But, when it was put to me that I should continue learning, it did turn my head.

My Dad turned it back. He was adamant I should take up the offer at West Ham. I didn’t need that much persuading. I think I might have got bored with school. I wanted to play football more and more. I entertained the idea of staying on just in case I didn’t make it in football and ironically, that was partly because all my life my Dad had told me how hard it was to become a professional player. It was what I had always wanted. It’s true that when the school offered me a different option I wavered a bit but not enough. Dad was very clear: if I didn’t do my apprenticeship then I wouldn’t learn the real basics of the game. You need to know the background in football even when it means scraping the mud off of other people’s boots and scrubbing the dressing room floor. Hardly the glamour of the professional game but essential.

It’s easy for me to say I have no regrets. I don’t. A lot of my mates went to a rival school and they went on and did A levels and then on to university. I have more experience now and I can honestly say that I’m not a great believer in further education for subjects other than science and technical ones. The likes of medicine and law are essential and clear about what they aim to achieve. I don’t mean to sound snobby or judgmental but I went and stayed with some mates when they were at university and I didn’t like the way they were living. There seemed to be a lot of time spent doing very little and experimenting with smoking dope and stuff and I have to admit that on that basis I wouldn’t necessarily send my kids to university.

A lot of them didn’t know what they wanted to do when they went to university and changed their minds a few times in the process. I realize that higher education can be of great benefit and is quite a privilege but I also think it can be a bit of a waste of time unless you apply yourself. It can also give you bad habits in life. I have this argument, even now, with my mate Billy Jenkins who spent five years at Durham University. We have known each other since we were five – he is the son of the former West Ham physio Rob Jenkins and we’ve always been close.

School was definitely enough for me as far as that academy was concerned. It was a positive experience and it gave me confidence as a person. Now I have an interest in the front of the newspapers – in politics and world affairs – as well as the back pages and football.

When I was a young professional I looked at players who had more to offer than just the stereotypical image of someone who is not very bright but earns a lot of money. I realized that people respect you if you have a bit more substance, if you are more than just another football player. It’s important to be aware of more than football but unfortunately in our profession life can be very sheltered and being ignorant of the world is easy.

You get some kids who can’t handle those who speak in a different way from them and react badly. I like to hold my own in conversation about politics and have been up until five in the morning with some of my mates arguing the issues of the day like Tony Blair’s policies or the war in Iraq. I enjoy that kind of banter as well as all the football kind and I make no apology to anyone about the fact that I have interests which extend beyond training and ninety minutes of football. When I speak in public I am confident and, I like to think, quite articulate. For a footballer, that can be quite unusual. There is an unfortunate image of footballers – particularly some of the younger ones – as people who can barely string a sentence together. That may work okay in the dressing room but football is an integral part of society and maybe the clubs and the FA could take more responsibility for their younger players and the way they present themselves.

The schooling I had made me more fortunate but I still had to apply myself. My parents were not so lucky, though just as I had Dad as my football role model, he had one also. His grandad was a player in the army and so was his Uncle George. Dad was brought up with football and even as a five-year-old was playing with boys who were nine. It was part of the culture. Where he came from there were only three career options for any lad making his way in the world. You could work in Tate and Lyle’s sugar refinery in the docks at Silvertown, you could live off your wits making money where you could, or you could become a professional footballer. Those were the only ways to better yourself and he decided at a young age that he wanted to be a footballer. He, like me, was frightened that he might not make it. At 15 he signed for West Ham when all his mates went to work in the docks. He earned £5 per week which was the same as those who were carrying sacks for a living.

The single-mindedness and determination which I have developed in my life and career were there in Dad. Even when he was a youth and might have been able to get away with going out for a beer with his friends, he would stop himself from the temptation because football was too important.

I had a different upbringing but we both took the decision very early in our lives that we wanted to make a career in football. He has always impressed on me the importance of doing things right, of being dedicated to achieve success. A lot of professional players whose Dads were also pros would be lying if they said they were not hard done by as children in terms of the way they were pushed.

I was pushed and Dad has never denied that. I always responded to his demands of me, not always in the way he wanted but he has a knack of knowing how to get the best out of me. He has put me through some really rough times. He never shied away from criticizing my performances and there have been occasions when I think he went too far. He admits that too. There have been screaming matches after games – times when he has had to drop me home and then go off to walk around the park near the house to calm down because things got out of hand between us in the car.

The worst I remember was after a defeat when I was about 14. We had a furious argument about the game and how I had played. I don’t recall the detail but when we got back I was in tears. He tried to calm me down and took me to Gidea Park and we walked for about twenty minutes. He could see I was inconsolable and knew my Mum would bollock him when she saw me in that state. I managed to breathe deeply and got rid of the tears and we went back to the house.

Of course, there was no point in trying to hide it. Mum could sense there was something wrong but I ran to the bathroom, locked the door and got in the bath. I couldn’t contain myself and was crying my heart out. I was still sobbing half an hour later. Mum has always been very perceptive in how best to handle me in situations like that. She knew there had been an almighty row and left me to get it out of my system before coming to talk to me. Eventually I emerged and she calmed me down. It wasn’t just about what had happened in that particular match. At that time I was plagued by the insecurity that I might not make it in football.

Being told by Dad that I had played crap was bad enough. But being told every single fault in your performance by someone who had made it and knew what it took was worse. Mum helped me a lot in that respect and however substantial the debt I have to my Dad in helping me in my career I owe just as much to her for picking me up when I was down. She knows what to say and when. When to leave me alone to figure things out for myself and the right moment to reassure me when situations seem impossible. I don’t blame my Dad for what he did. I know it was for the right reasons: for me, to make sure that I achieved my potential and realized my ambitions.

I also think some of what drove him to push me so hard was the fact that his Dad was not around to motivate him in the same way. His father was killed when he was only two years old when the truck he was in was involved in an accident with a bus about half a mile from where they lived. His grandad replaced his Dad as the male figure in his life, aided by his Uncle Ken. The insecurity which he suffered about whether or not he would make the grade came from not having his father around. Ironically, some of mine came from my Dad always being there.

My Mum is the counterbalance. She has a way about her that makes her capable of coping with anything. She has seen me take all kinds of vile abuse from supporters as well as achieve a lot of success but she is very down to earth and calm and has maintained the same level through all of it. When it’s been bad she has been there with the right kind of support. There have been times when I was younger when I would have a bad game and my Dad was too harsh on me – partly because he was such a strong character. Mum could provide balance with the right words and when things were going badly at West Ham she heard a lot and but never let on and always tried to shield me from it.

She is the ultimate proud Mum who is very protective of me and I can only imagine how hard it’s been for her on occasions when people have been slagging me off around her and she has had to bite her tongue and remain dignified. I have needed that in my life as much as I have been lucky to have Dad to teach me and drive me on in my career.

Dad is very thick-skinned and you need that to be a professional footballer. I have a bit of that in me but I have my Mum’s nature which makes me a bit more sensitive in certain circumstances. We have both learned to develop a stronger side to our personality especially through everything that happened at West Ham and that has made the bond between us stronger.

The fact that I have two sisters who have also enjoyed the same levels of support and affection that I have makes me wonder even more at just how Mum achieves it. My sisters Natalie and Claire and I are very close. We had our childhood skirmishes the same as every family but they are both older than me and were very protective towards me when we were teenagers. Despite winding me up and calling me Wurzel Gummidge when I first spiked my hair, they would look after me when I first started to socialize in Essex.

Only four years separate the three of us but that felt like a big gap when I was about 12 and hated everything about the female race. All I wanted was to kick a ball around which was very annoying for two girls who were becoming young women. And they let me know it.

We all lived at home for a long time and while we would get on each other’s nerves at times my childhood was quite ordinary but also idyllic. We did everything together. Christmas is a very special time for everyone and in our house we always had my grandparents round and it just felt right. Actually, it felt like that on any given Sunday when Mum had all of us for dinner.

That was part of her secret. No matter the arguments or fall-outs, and no matter who they were between, Mum knew the importance of bringing us all together. Every night the Lampards would sit down and eat dinner at the same time. Every night. There were some exceptions but no excuses. It worked.

As I grew up I began to appreciate Natalie and Claire more. They were very understanding towards me even though I could often be the annoying little brother. Because of the football and, I suppose, because I was the only son, Dad had always paid me a lot of attention. He was great with them too but there must have been times when they felt a bit left out. Remarkably, Mum would mediate and negotiate through all of this.

I’m glad they persevered with me and I distinctly remember my feelings change towards them when I was 15. There is a time when most boys finally start to appreciate their sisters for who they are. I did and fell in love with them. After that, there hasn’t been a moment when I have not felt their love and support. Not once.

As the youngest in the family, I looked up to them and respected them and I was lucky that I learned how much it meant to have them at quite a young age. Natalie can be quite combative and there were a few instances when she got involved with punters at West Ham when they were slagging me off. It’s not just fans though. She loves football and has very strong opinions and it’s not unusual for her to call me after an England game and say ‘Why did Eriksson take you off when so and so was s***?’

We are lucky because we still spend a lot of time together with our partners and our children and the environment we grew up in has very much continued and grown bigger. Mum has been the central figure in our family life and still is now with the grandchildren whom she is very much involved with.

Life, however, can become quite heated at times in a family which is as competitive as ours but she is a very calming influence. If I have had a bad game then I would always call Mum whereas I don’t want to speak to Dad. He will only tell me the things that I did wrong and I punish myself enough for them. Not with Mum. She might not even talk about football with me but having a conversation with her just helps me get some balance back. It’s not that she doesn’t have an opinion or isn’t passionate about my football. I know that she has had arguments with Harry if I wasn’t playing at West Ham. They wouldn’t be straightforward ‘Why’s my boy not getting a game?’ either. She was more subtle than that. She would just throw in a remark about some other midfielder who maybe wasn’t playing so well and Harry would suddenly pick up what she was getting at. She wasn’t alone. One evening her Dad – Pop to me – was at Harry’s house for dinner at a time when I wasn’t getting a game. Pop had been talking football with Harry and working his way towards the subject of me and why I wasn’t in the team. Eventually, he ran out of patience and asked outright.

‘So Harry, why’s young Frank not getting a game at the moment?’ Pop asked.

‘Because I say so, that’s why. He’s not Maradona, your grandson,’ Harry replied.

I quite liked Harry’s comeback. Hearing those stories helps me better understand the emotion involved for every one of my family when it comes to football. I don’t hold any grudges. Far from it. It makes me proud that I come from stock which is so passionate about football and is not afraid to express it. With Pop I can see where Mum got her sharp wit and she can be equally blunt as Pop when she chooses to be.

We were sitting at a table in the Royal Lancaster Hotel the night I was named Football Writers’ Player of the Year in 2005 and a journalist who had been particularly nasty in print about me during my first year at Chelsea was sitting talking to her. He was saying how well I had done and so on. She listened politely, nodding her head in appreciation until he had finished and then just cut him down with one sentence: ‘You didn’t always say that about him though did you?’

It’s not in my nature to be confrontational. It’s not in her’s either but when it comes to protecting her children she will do whatever she judges to be right. I have only ever had one row with Mum. We were in a shopping centre and I was being a little brat, wanting to do something that she didn’t. We had words and fell out for about twenty minutes until I went crying to her saying that I didn’t want to row with her anymore. And we haven’t since, not even in the worst moments when I have done something stupid or am being stubborn. When the News of the World published the story of me and a few other players cavorting on video with some girls while on holiday in Ayia Napa my Mum didn’t shout at me. Dad did. He came down on me like a ton of bricks though I couldn’t tell you what he said. But I do remember very clearly what happened with Mum.

I was sitting in the bathroom of my flat feeling sick as a dog and sorry for myself. Mum phoned and said that footballers who get involved in stuff like this end up in the gutter with their career down the drain. She was very emotional, not crying but I could tell how upset she was from the tone of her voice. I can honestly say that her reaction had more effect on me than anything else about the whole business.

I am very proud of what I have inherited from my parents. My Mum’s perception, humanity and sensitivity have helped me become the person I am whereas I would never have become a footballer had it not been for my Dad’s ambition, hard work and vision. You need to find the middle ground.

I was always worried that I might not make it and it gives me extra pleasure now knowing what I have achieved. I knew I would never lose the tag of ‘somebody’s son, somebody’s nephew’ while I was at Upton Park. It’s hard enough to emerge from the shadow of other people when it’s just your team-mates and peers.

I was always measured against my own flesh and blood but I feel differently now. I know how proud my family are of me. And, just as important, how proud I am of them.

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