Michael Owen. Strange guy.

Mark

'I don't get nervous because I know I have ability to deliver'

By Matthew Syed
Our correspondent on the steely-eyed passion that brings the mentality of an assassin to Michael Owen's goalscoring talent

MANY have contended that Michael Owen’s cold, detached persona is merely a façade that has been erected to shield an essentially shy person from an intrusive media. The truth, however, is more surprising and, in many respects, more intriguing. Owen is glacial through to his bones.

For more than an hour I was in vain pursuit of the England striker’s soul. When was the last time you wept, I asked. “I don’t,” he responded, unblinkingly. When, in that case, did you last experience joy? An important goal, perhaps, or on your wedding day? “No, not really. A goal gives you a ten-second buzz, but I would not describe it as joyful,” he said. “And my wedding was really an opportunity to see everyone I knew and have a bit of a party.”

It is rapidly apparent that, like Frederick Forsyth’s Jackal, Owen’s detachment is both authentic and pivotal to his success. “It probably helps that I do not have emotional highs and lows,” he said. “I get over disappointments very quickly and don’t get fazed easily.” Not even before World Cup matches? “No, I don’t really get nervous because I know that I have the ability to deliver.”

Compare this imperviousness to national expectation with the angst exhibited by, for example, Tim Henman.

I met the 26-year-old Newcastle United forward, who remains confident that he will recover from his foot injury in time to lead England’s attack at the World Cup finals in Germany next month, in a hotel suite on the outskirts of Newcastle. Like many, I was instantly struck by his youthfulness. Indeed, it is borderline comical that someone who has carried a nation’s hopes for so long looks like a sixth-former, but beneath that boyish exterior beats a heart of ice.

Perhaps Owen’s preternatural matter-of-factness is most vividly revealed by his hostility to the arts. “I have only ever watched five movies in my life,” he said when I asked if he used them as a way to escape from the pressures of professional sport. “I tried Sea Biscuit but fell asleep after five minutes. I cannot watch something that is not real. Sometimes I feel myself getting hooked for a couple of minutes and then something will click that will remind me that it is fictional and I have to switch over.

“I think I have tried to read seven or eight books. Some last one chapter, some last eight. But I have never read a whole one [book]. I never watch soaps or anything like that. I only watch game shows, documentaries and live sporting events. I cannot even watch football highlights because I feel that I have missed what really happened. It has to be real for me to get into something.”

Aristotle conjectured that an inability to engage with the abstract is suggestive of inner anxiety. In the case of Owen it is the reverse.

He does not need art as a way of escape (what Denis Healey termed a hinterland) because he never feels trapped. It is as if he were born with an inbuilt immunity to the trials and tribulations otherwise known as real life. “I don’t need to switch off because I never really switch on,” he said.

It was hardly a surprise when Owen confessed that his pre-match preparation consists of little more than lacing his boots. “I don’t go into a corner and do mental exercises or anything like that,” he said. “I literally put my boots on and get out on to the pitch. Thinking too much would complicate matters. It just all seems to come naturally. Before a big match I get an extra buzz, but I remain confident because I have always succeeded.”

You can almost hear the click of the assassin’s rifle.

Those who have experienced the dark night of the soul will be envious of Owen’s genteel passage through life. When we discuss mortality and existential meaninglessness, he remains as impassive as ever. “I have thought about death, but it does not bother me; there is nothing you can do about it,” he said. “David James [the Manchester City goalkeeper] is always on about philosophy. We often room on England duty. I sometimes think I am not interesting enough for him.”

I suddenly warmed to Owen. He is beginning to open up (verbally, if not emotionally). We start to banter about women and he quizzes me about the nightlife in southwest London and why I am still single. “Do you find that a lot of the conversations in nightclubs are a bit shallow?” he said. I nodded. “David [James] is like that. He could pull just about anyone, but can’t fall in love unless the girl has lots to say for herself.” Unsurprisingly, Owen is antithetical towards mushy romance. “When I go on holiday I could not go away with just my wife,” he said. “She knows what I am like. I would just find it so boring. I have to go with at least eight people. If my whole family or some of my friends don’t go, it is holiday cancelled.”

This is hardly the stuff of Shakespeare, but then one doubts that Romeo, with his tendency to reach for poison when things are going badly, would have made it as a Premiership striker. It is only when I ask Owen about his relationship with his father that he exhibits something approaching passion. “My Dad [Terry, a former Everton winger] never said ‘you are going to be a footballer’ or anything like that, but just by looking in each other’s eyes we knew that is what I would do.

“When I was growing up I could feel my self-belief growing when he was around. Just his presence was enough. He probably did not intend it but he moulded me into a fierce competitor and a winner.

“There would be a bin and I would have an apple core and he would say, ‘Go on, throw it.’ You would lob it and get it in the middle. He would not say anything, but just his look would be enough: ‘That’s my boy.’ It’s probably a rare thing to have so much respect for your dad. I did not want to let him down, whether it was playing badly at football or smashing a window. It was not fear of getting a clip, it was a fear of failing him. He
was my hero.”

The relationship remains rock solid. “He is always coming over and spending the day with me,” Owen said. “We are best mates, we love going around with each other. It is not like we are agony aunts to each other or anything. But if he were having problems with my Mum, I am the first person he would talk to. He has probably missed four games in my whole life and I have played around 3,000. That is the other thing that always makes me feel good — the feeling that your dad’s there, taking time out to be with you.”

Owen paused, surprised at this sudden burst of loquaciousness. He confessed that it is rare indeed. “I suppose I am — not cold exactly, but a very focused person,” he said. “I don’t flare up very often, but when it happens I come down very quickly. My Mum is the one who tends to get both barrels — you hurt the people you love, I suppose — but within 30 seconds the dust has settled and we carry on as if nothing has happened. I hate it when there is resentment in the air.”

I was left with the impression of a thoughtful young man whose innate equanimity has smoothed his path to sporting success and protected him from the unforgiving glare of the media spotlight. His love of gambling, which made front-page news, is not about ego-bolstering, nor is it a substitute for the buzz of scoring goals. It is, as Owen contends, merely something to ward off boredom — like the Jackal’s interlude at the hotel in the French countryside.

“Men of cold passions have quick eyes.”

And unerring boots.

Mark

OWEN ON HIS ANFIELD RAP
NO REVIEW of the season would be complete without a few words on my return to Anfield on Boxing Day.

For weeks before the Liverpool-Newcastle fixture I wondered what it was going to be like. I suppose you could say it’s a bit like having a fight with your brother. But I didn’t enjoy the experience one bit. Above all, I didn’t enjoy being beaten 2-0 by my old team-mates.

Much was made of the chants and songs directed at me. I ought to point out that most of them simply expressed typical Scouse humour: “You should have signed for a big club!” and “Where were you in Istanbul?” They weren’t abusive. But when you’re being beaten 2-0 by your old club and your team’s not playing well, it’s just horrible. I felt ten inches smaller than I am.

Though I wasn’t offended by the teasing, some Liverpool fans took the trouble to write to me and say they had been sickened by the chants. People phoned and apologised — people high up.

I would have loved the Anfield crowd to give me a round of applause. I think my mum was a little hurt.

But at least I understood the sense of humour. I’ve spent most of my life around Liverpudlians and the club and I recognised that sense of mischief.


OWEN ON HIS PAIN IN SPAIN
ABROAD, you go through phases of missing things. Being in a hotel room for so long after joining Real Madrid was murder.

For 3½ months, Louise, Gemma and I were in a businessmen’s hotel in a quiet area where there were no parks for our daughter to run around. I felt awful leaving for work at 10am every day. Coming back at 1pm, I’d often find them bored to tears. So we went out about in Madrid, locating the parks and all the landmarks. Even then it would be lights out for Gemma by 7.30pm and Louise and I would tiptoe round in the pitch black.

Moving into a house was an absolute must and we couldn’t get through the door quickly enough. We settled into the Madrid life, though relying on phone calls to discover what’s going on back home is always hard.

In the darker moments I missed my family, my house, my old team-mates, the golfing, my dogs, the whole English package — even the rain. I had Gemma and Louise to take care of as well, so it’s fair to say I hadn’t appeared entirely happy with my new life.

Inside I was determined to make a go of it, but the Madrid public might have found me a bit subdued. It was a vicious circle.


OWEN ON THE ‘FAKE SHEIKH’

I PICKED up the News of the World one Sunday morning to find Sven-Göran Eriksson plastered all over the front and back pages, having been lured by undercover reporters into discussing some of the England players and his employment prospects after the World Cup.

My phone had been switched off overnight, so I’d had no warning. Reading it, I suddenly saw my name and the quotes attached to it and thought: “Oh no, I’m in trouble here with the Newcastle supporters.”
I turned my phone on and straightaway Sven called me to explain that he’d been deceived. He was at pains to say that he hadn’t said anything negative about me and even joked that he’s advised the undercover journalists to buy me one day! “It came out wrong and I can only apologise,” he said.

I then spoke to the chairman, Freddy Shepherd, who said he totally understood. Things get twisted. I hadn’t spoken to the England manager about my time at Newcastle. The only conversation with him was when I was still at Real Madrid and I was asking him what my position would be if I stayed in Spain. I discussed that issue with him in broad outline. At no point did I ever say I was unhappy at Newcastle.

Can you imagine me going to the England manager and saying: “I hate it here, but the money’s great”? What would he think of me? I would never say that. To him or anyone else. Or even think it.

Sven was probably just trying to tell his hosts that Newcastle had offered a lot of money for me at a time when I was expressing a desire to go back to Liverpool and it simply came out wrong.

I wasn’t sure how to respond publicly. I didn’t want to start a big debate about it and give the story legs. But now I can finally tell the Newcastle fans how Sven’s words came to be interpreted in that way. At the time, I just had to take it on the chin.

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