early in the morning on a weekday. Any other time of day was impossible; I couldn’t do something as simple as duck into a fitting room and try something on. It got to the stage that if we wanted to go to the cinema we would turn up in the dark after the film had already started so that no one would see me. We started doing that after one occasion when people had seen me go in or had noticed me sitting alongside them. At the end, loads of mobile phone messages later, there was a huge crowd of people waiting by the doors for me to come out. When I mentioned it to my team-mates in the Spain squad, the ones who played in England told that it would never happen over there.
You do get used to it and you do learn to live with fame, though. Two more events also shot me into the public eye. The first happened when I made my debut for Spain in a friendly against Portugal on 6 September 2003; the second started off as a joke but ended up becoming a big deal and making me even more
recognisable. I was eating with my friend Dani Martín, lead singer of the band El Canto del Loco, and he asked me to appear in a video alongside the actress Natalia Verbeke. It was great fun. Now when I see a video on the television I have some idea of what went into it. Not even half of what you do ends up in the video; we did so much filming and in the end it seemed so short. I was there until late one night and Dani didn’t finish until dawn. There must have been a thousand takes, but I was delighted with the final product. The same thing happened when another Spanish group, Café Quijano, came to Las Rozas to play us the song they had written to accompany the Spanish national team at Euro 2004. I was the first to leap on the stage and grab a guitar. And I can’t play a single note.
That wasn’t the only time Dani has got meinto trouble. I must confess, I went red when he called me up onto the stage during one of their concerts in Fuenlabrada. But the worst was what happened to us in a shopping centre in northern Madrid one day. I don’t even go to shopping centres often but one day I went with him to a shop that a friend of his owned. I had no idea what going shopping with a pop star was like but I soon found out. In a flash, we were surrounded by people. We couldn’t even get out of the shop. In the end, the shop assistant had to shut the place and call in security to clear people out while we escaped through the back door.
They say you know you’re famous when you end up on Spitting Image, and that happened to me too when Canal Plus’s Noticias del Guiñol made a Fernando Torres puppet. I also went on one of Spain’s most successful comedy shows, a programme called 7 Vidas. I played myself in a scene with two fantastic actors, Gonzalo de Castro and Santi Rodríguez. The episode was called ‘My Worst Friend’s Wedding’ and although I felt out of place and very nervous, it was wonderful to be able to go on my favourite show.
As I got more famous, my world got smaller and smaller. I had breakfast at the same cafeteria every morning, alongside a petrol station where a number of my Atlético team-mates met. We then switched and started going somewhere else—a lovely Argentinian patisserie right by the club’s training ground. After work, we would stop at a bar for a soft drink near my house and then I’d go home
to rest, and every now and again I’d pop into Madrid for a hamburger, just to make a change from the normal footballer’s diet and my usual routine.
What we did with our spare time changed from week to week. We’d flip from tenpin bowling virtually every day to endless games on the PlayStation. If the weather was good, I’d go round the heath near my parents’ house on the quad bike that the Spanish Football Federation gave each of the players for qualifying for Euro 2004 in Portugal. Or I’d set up a kickabout with my mates on a tiny 20 x 8 metre pitch in my parents’ garden. We called it the Flori Stadium after my mum, who’s the one that has to put up with us. Sometimes we’d play away, though, and arrange a kickabout in my neighbourhood and play against the kids there. They were great matches.
Whatever you do, fame means you end up retreating into ever smaller spaces with your closest friends, loyal people you can trust. When you think about it, you realise you can better control your life from those places that have always been yours. What’s the point of living in a big city if you can’t enjoy it?
‘There are two great teams in Liverpool: Liverpool and Liverpool reserves.’
It was Michael Robinson who quoted Bill Shankly’s famous remark to me, reciting the words of the manager whose footballing philosophy revolutionised Liverpool Football Club and changed its history forever. Michael, a former Liverpool player and now a commentator on Spanish television, had become my chaperone for the day as we went round the Anfield museum together for a TV documentary. I had been living in the city for six months but I hadn’t yet found the time to see one of the jewels in the Reds’ crown, although I had been able to take a tour of the stadium with some friends who’d come out from Spain to visit me.
I was struck by the special recognition reserved for the achievements of former players, the men who made the club great. That cold February morning in 2008 Michael explained to me how much Kenny Dalglish Corner means to fans—the area set aside for the European Cups Liverpool so brilliantly won. He also explained the significance of the memorials erected in memory of those fans who so brutally lost their lives at Hillsborough and the mosaics produced in honour of the those who, with their love, fidelity and pride helped to carry Liverpool’s name beyond the city gates. If there is one thing that has really stood out for me since I’ve been in England, it’s the huge human tide of Liverpool fans. It’s incredible. I have never seen a single Liverpool fan criticise a player, even when the team has lost. Every player dreams of fans like that; here at Anfield, we’ve got them.
Six months had passed since that special day at Anfield in July 2007 when my signing was announced to the press. An afternoon’s rain had given way to bright sunshine on Merseyside. I didn’t know the drill, so Benítez explained what would happen during my presentation. ‘It’s not like it is in Spain,’ he said. ‘Normally, we unveil our players quietly, almost privately, at Melwood. But because you cost so much, we’re going to have to open Anfield.’ I had seen Liverpool players presented before. I remembered Luis García and Xabi Alonso’s first day. I knew that I wouldn’t have to go out in full kit, boots and all, and do kick-ups on the pitch so that photographers could capture the moment and send the image round the world, as happens in Spain. I seemed to remember Luis and Xabi simply posing in tracksuits, holding Liverpool scarves, and I was wearing a suit and smart shoes, ready for my press conference. But soon I found myself in a small room slipping off my jacket, shirt and tie and pulling on the red shirt of Liverpool. It was the first time I’d worn the shirt of any other club apart from Atlético. I looked at myself in the mirror: there I was in red. I was still wearing No. 9 but I was transformed.
I looked down; my trousers and shoes hadn’t changed. Wearing a football shirt and smart trousers and shoes, looking a bit strange, I walked down the corridor towards the mythical tunnel that leads to the Anfield pitch. Rafa stopped in front of the ‘This is Anfield’ sign. ‘Shankly put that here so that everyone knew exactly where they were,’ he said. ‘You’ll hear Shankly’s name a lot at this club.’ He was right. The previous night I’d started reading the books and watching the DVDs on Liverpool’s history that I’d been given to help me learn about the club. Shankly, Paisley, Dalglish…just some of the names I had managed to commit to memory in the last few frenetic days. And, as we climbed the stairs, Shankly popped up again as Benítez told me a story about him and Kevin Keegan.
We sat in the stands at Anfield, flashes going off all around us. I was wearing a short-sleeved shirt and I felt a chill. I thought to myself: ‘And it’s supposed to be July!’ I turned to Rafa and said: ‘Wow, it’s cold!’ ‘Cold? Here? It’s never cold here,’ he replied with a grin. I looked up and saw the exact image of what I had always imagined an English stadium to be: small,
