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LIVERPOOL, ENGLAND — The training facility of the Liverpool Football Club can be found in the Mellwood district, smack dab in the middle of town, but few mere mortals here have ever caught more than a glimpse behind its walls. A handful of fans climb on top of dumpsters to watch their heroes at work beyond the high, grey stone fence, and a small pocket of others brave the cold mist in the hopes that a player might stop to provide an autograph. One holds up a sign: "Stevie G - Help me get laid by signing a shirt for my girlfriend."
Stevie G would be Steven Gerrard, local boy, hero, Member of the British Empire, England midfielder, holy of holies. On the way out to Mellwood, passing a crèche set up in front of a local car dealership, the driver offers that's it's not the arrival of the baby Jesus they celebrate this time of year in Liverpool. It's the birth of that other saviour.
In big-time international football, training facilities tend to be about as welcoming as black ops military bases, gated secret places off limits to everyone but the true insiders. Even sportswriters don't normally get past the press conference room, where once a week the manager and a player or two offer their thoughts on a coming match. So this access is extraordinary.
We stroll past the dining hall where they're setting up for the players' family Christmas party, placing bright red crackers at every place. We walk past the swimming pool into the medical wing, where various players are having their sore extremities tended to. We are in the boot room, on a terrace overlooking the practice field, in the gym. Occasionally, someone seems a bit startled at the strangers' presence, until they note the identity of the tour guide: U.S. businessman George Gillett, the co-owner, the boss.
Liverpool co-owner George Gillett has won over the local faithful with his ability to make people understand that his heart’s in the right place. (Christopher Furlong/Getty Images)
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And finally, while descending the stairs toward the entrance, Stevie G himself comes into view, nicking a Christmas chocolate bar from behind the receptionist's desk, while fellow icon, fellow homeboy Jamie Carragher looks on. It is the stuff of a Liverpudlian schoolboy's wet dream.
Greeting their employer and his guests, the lads couldn't be more polite.
"Jamie," Gillett asks, "can you show them how you speak Scouse?"
That is the distinctive, local dialect, and maybe if the question had come from someone other than the team owner, maybe if Carragher wasn't so easy going, it would have been greeted with all of the enthusiasm an African American might show if asked to demonstrate a few dance steps.
But it's also true that the more time you spend with Gillett, the more you come to understand the power of his simple, unpretentious charm. There's a sharp business mind there, and the deal-making nerves of a burglar, but what eventually won so many over in Montreal, what must win them over here, is the ability to make people understand that his heart's in the right place.
Carragher smiles and throws out a few lines, and everybody has a good laugh.
'The Americans'
They are nearly always referred to as "the Americans," an eyebrow-raised pejorative implicit in most every mention. Sometimes, for variety, it becomes "the boys from stateside," or something suggestive of cowboys or George W. Bush, but anyone reading the popular press instantly gets the message.
Who are Gillett and Liverpool co-owner Tom Hicks to own one of the great English sporting institutions? What could they possibly understand of its glorious history, its distinct culture, its beating-heart importance to the local populace? Seven of the 20 teams of the English Premier League are now in the control of foreigners, so you'd think the xenophobic novelty would have worn off by now, and the league long ago became a massive, international television-driven business built to a large degree on non-English playing talent.
Gillett has learned plenty in Montreal. How to tread lightly around a distinct culture. How to accept the inevitable slings and arrows. How sports franchises with great histories are forever competing against their own glorious past. How the real equity in a team can't be measured in the number of luxury suites, but in the loyalty and passion of the consumers. Find a club where the game is deeply ingrained, where the fans really care and where they have cared forever, and the value grows exponentially. Still, as an outsider, there is no getting around the fact that you have to win over the faithful.
"We went into a relatively hostile environment in Montreal - culturally at least," Gillett acknowledges. "We didn't come from that community. A lot of the people knew that the club was for sale and none of the locals bought it so you obviously go in with a level of suspicion. What's wrong? Your first reaction is there must be something wrong with it.
