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• 作者：溪岸 发布时间：2021-03-16 19:45:23

  摩根写给儿子的信，通俗易懂，虽然都是耳熟能详的大道理，但言辞恳切，晓之以理，动之以情，值得一看

• 作者：飞翔的兔子 发布时间：2017-03-14 16:53:04

  科普小册子。更注重于大概的宏观科普讲解，没有涉及太多晦涩难懂的小细节。随便看看就好。封面的材质感觉很微妙。

• 作者：初晨 发布时间：2023-12-21 20:33:48

  很有力量的实战手册，强推。

• 作者：之龢 发布时间：2020-12-21 13:05:37

  虽「游记」之名，多综述之实。数度往还成其行而徒多掌故，良憾事。惟参其旧事，与今之「自古以来」多相左，可资镜鉴。#感谢上海图书馆

• 作者：Grubby Shinoda 发布时间：2023-12-08 12:45:21

  #威廉·戈尔丁 3rd 人类的进化不管是生理还是社会方面，都是一段段黑暗的血肉史，所谓的“文明”只是人造产物，为将自己和“野蛮”的动物高高在上地区分开罢了。戈尔丁的这部作品或许是以文学来预言人类学的未来吧。

• 作者：yenao 发布时间：2016-06-22 12:34:49

  还是这本书写的简单直白，没有太多的高深莫测和故弄玄虚。人际关系治疗是怎么引起改变的呢？1.哀伤处理，表达被“埋藏”的感受和记忆，这个没有新意，这是精神分析的拿手好戏；2.发展新的理解，帮助患者更全面的看待事物，这个也没有新意，认知行为疗法就是干这个的；3.改变行为，改变人际的互动，角色扮演，这貌似是萨提亚的一致性沟通和雕塑技术。

  一直不太理解精神分析中的移情和反移情，“在这一类的技术中，患者对于治疗师和治疗的感觉成为讨论的焦点。治疗关系中的想法、感受、期待和行为都必须加以检验，因为它们代表了患者 在其他人际关系中感觉和行为方式的模型。”这是否是移情和反移情的真谛？

• 这本传记如果还有续集，我希望还是Donald McRae写

  作者：RDG的栗子树 发布时间：2023-11-06 15:08:32

  首先我想夸一下这本传记的笔者Donald McRae，这很可能是我看过的第一本运动员传记，出自一个南非出生、在《卫报》担任体育专栏记者的笔者笔下。在自己的网站上，Donald McRae说出版商只给了他15周的时间写这本传记，要求就是要在2015年6月下旬完成，要在SG离开利物浦的这一年出版。Donald McRae第一次见SG是2015年3月17日，截稿时间是6月26日。合上这本书的那一刻，我不由自主想查查Donald McRae到底是何方神圣，一本描摹一个35岁职业足球运动员35岁之前的全部绿茵生活以及被他自己视为绿茵生命的传记，在短短15周时间内就被笔者用如此巧妙却不失厚重的手法铺陈在世人面前，掩卷之时，既释然又惆怅，更多的可能还有不舍。

  现在看书看得很少了，说来也很滑稽，今年看的都是老书，最喜欢的是马尔克斯的几本（最爱《霍乱时期的爱情》），然后居然就是Donald McRae这本写SG的自传了，而我居然在Donald McRae这本传记中隐隐看到了一丢丢马尔克斯风——倒叙开首，在看似正叙的篇章进行中，错落有致地将回忆、插曲、难忘的点滴甚至悬念穿插其中，而我最爱的05年伊斯坦布尔之夜和06年足总杯决赛则如约而至一般在全书最后两章完美出现了，有一种又惊喜又惊艳的感觉。倒数第二章出现了06年足总杯决赛，而05年伊斯坦布尔之夜则属于最终章。我的最爱，即SG的最爱，Donald McRae太会写了。事实上，我现在突然觉得，与其说这是一本写SG的传记，不如说这是一本整本都在写对一个名字的爱的书，这个名字就是：Anfield。所以，毫无意外，全书结尾的最后一个词也只能是它：Anfield。The dark and the light, the joy and the hurt, the hope and the loss, cannot be parted. They belong together like the posts of an empty goal, in front of the Kop, at Anfield.

  回过头来才说SG。我已经想不起我对SG最初的印象是从什么时候开始的，但我还能清晰地记得2003年前后去利物浦时，在球迷礼品店门口，硕大的橱窗贴的是他和欧文高举奖杯那张大幅照片，当时的我喜欢的是欧文，留影这种事自然免不了了。居然，已经是20年前的事了。谁能想到，那个20年前因为喜欢欧文而没留意SG并在利物浦球迷礼品店门口留影的人会在20年后的某一天，在合上SG自传的一刹那片刻唏嘘。20年前，他留给我的印象还是利物浦橱窗上的一抹青春，20年后，他的名字甚至已经和Beatles一样成为了一个城市的代名词。现在我能回忆起来和SG有关的时间节点都是和英格兰有关的，最早的时间节点可能就是96年的英格兰，以及此后的每个欧洲杯、世界杯的英格兰，98年、00年、02年。。。01年英格兰绝杀德国那场五比一世界杯预选赛的DVD当年还收藏了，如今才发现SG在那一场就有进球。时间过去，我对足球对英格兰的关注不知从什么时候已变得越来减少，也可能因为认识的人都离开了吧。现在想来可能上一次关注英格兰，都已经是将近十年前的事了，因为2014年巴西世界杯的英格兰，我还能认识的人似乎就剩SG和其他一两个了。

  突然对足球再次有了兴趣可能源于上个月看了N家新拍的贝克汉姆纪录片，拍得很好，从电影角度而言，拍得非常好。所谓机缘巧合，不知怎么就开始看SG了，也是借此才重新看这个从没有关注的SG的这20年。其实说不关注，但有件事我是一直知道的，那就是，SG一直没有离开他的利物浦。记得2006年后工作的地方有个同事是利物浦球迷，总是常常和我说红军和包子。。。就像不喜欢曼联喜欢利物浦，不喜欢皇马喜欢巴萨一样，就算在不关注足球的日子里，这也是我的喜好标准。

  在遗憾没有关注SG的这20年里错过的每一个时间节点的同时，我都在努力回忆在那个时间节点的我当时在做什么：2005、2008、2012、2014。。。SG的球员岁月如果按时间段分，可以分为2004之前的青涩成长、2005前后的青春得意、2008前后的G8T9辉煌、以及不可避免的此后的迟暮。。。我喜欢2005前后的青春得意，也喜欢2008前后的G8T9辉煌，但如果这二者相比，可能还是更喜欢前者，那充满了恣意青春的无所畏惧，那身着被风鼓动着的红色战衣、拥有仿佛整个人能腾空展翅一般的巨大魅力。。。I wish I was 25 again… 就像我们所有老了的人回眸驻足慨叹一样，SG不止一次重复着这句话，因为在25岁这一年，他曾站在世界之巅，他和他的利物浦成为了欧洲之王。

  他有四个他最喜欢的足球场上的伙伴：阿隆索、托雷斯、苏亚雷斯、鲁尼，而对苏牙，他似乎格外偏疼，在自传中有多个段落讲述苏牙，着墨明显多于其他三人。之前就有人说SG对苏牙偏爱是因为他知道苏牙遇到的自己和另外三个人遇到的有所不同，和苏牙相遇时的自己已是迟暮。。。

  得与失、笑与泪、爬起与跌倒、青春与迟暮、狂喜与平静、战斗与放弃、拥趸与辱骂。。。他在伊斯坦布尔漫天烟花中得到了全世界，他在懊悔的泪水中说自己身如囚徒，他在冰天雪地拄着拐杖去看心理医生，他在利物浦无限接近英超冠军奖杯那一战后抬手臂拭泪，他抱着小女儿在他最爱的安菲尔德和所有Kop泪目挥手。。。那个硬汉，突然变得如此emotional，一切都在本书中找到了答案，一切最后也许都归于了和解。

  这是一本交融了太多感情的传记，人生有多酸甜苦辣，这其中就有多酸甜苦辣，而其中，最动人的可能就是一个人对一个城的忠诚与眷恋。他可以偶尔给BT Sport做足球评论员，但是参加詹胖的综艺却会让他浑身不自在，他只爱球场，他只爱安菲尔德。SG的故事在这本书中只写到离开利物浦。2015年后，他在美国大联盟踢球、退役、执教苏格兰流浪者、执教维拉，到现在执教沙特达曼协作，他已从本书中的三个女儿的爸爸成为了三个女儿、一个儿子的爸爸。

  这本传记如果还有续集，我希望还是Donald McRae写。

  PS 1

  A SUNDAY TIMES BEST-SELLER WITH OVER 110,000 COPIES SOLD IN HARDBACK IN THE FIRST 10 WEEKS OF PUBLICATION

  “It is rare that a book benefits from being written in haste. Yet My Story by Steven Gerrard, is one such example where, thanks to the skill of Gerrard’s co-writer, Donald McRae, the ideas and memories tumble off the page with a freshness and immediacy that is rare in the sometimes airless world of the sporting autobiography.

  Rather than taking a tedious narrative approach, the book largely picks up where Gerrard’s previous, more conventional, book left off. Contemplating life after Liverpool and England, regrets and relief pour fourth. Ultimately it is not so much the descriptions of the big moments that stay with you as the vignettes that reveal wider truths: Gerrard sitting on the sofa with a bag of Haribo sweets as he tries to recover from the trauma of The Slip, texting his physio late at night as he is wracked with pain and dark thoughts or the bittersweet abandon of dancing with his team-mates in Dubai after his final game. Highly recommended, even for non-Liverpool fans.” [Owen Gibson, The Observer’s Sports Books of the Year]

  “Steven Gerrard: My Story, written with Donald McRae, is required reading – an unflinchingly honest look at a career that won Gerrard the admiration and respect of just about everyone in the game.” [Chris Maume, Independent’s Sports Books of the Year]

  “The biggest hitter is My Story by Steven Gerrard and Donald McRae. McRae had 100 days from his first meeting with Gerrard to write the book but you wouldn’t know it by the result. He has captured the former Liverpool captain in all his morose glory.” [Irish Times Sports Books of the Year]

  “Chronicled in excellent detail by Steven Gerrard and Donald McRae” [Ian Herbert, The Independent]

  “This book is a minor miracle…you've got to admire Gerrard's honesty….McRae has done a great job, committing himself to writing 3,000 words a day in the 50 days he set aside for writing down and making a whole out of Gerrard's recollections while the great man played out his last few months for Liverpool.” [lfchistory.net]

  PS 2

  没想到这本传记一上来就把我吸引住了，从因为slip而流泪开始就很耐读。

  讲小时候这段：

  Life used to be so much simpler. My happiest days as a footballer are still vivid. They happened more than half my lifetime ago, in 1996, when I was sixteen. I spent my first of two years as a Youth Training Scheme apprentice at Melwood, mopping floors, cleaning boots and pumping up balls, in between playing football, football, football.

  It was heaven. If I could revisit any period in my career it would be those two years.

  There was no responsibility or pressure then and we were crazy about football. The YTS placement also meant I could escape the boring old slog of school. I now know that I really should have applied myself because I had the potential and intelligence to have done so much better. But, back then, I wasn’t much of a fan of school. I had a little go but I should have tried harder. I guess I had the promise of a contract to become a professional footballer. And those YTS days gave me such a sweet taste of playing football for a living. I went from dreading school every day to going into Melwood to work full-time for the club I love, surrounded by my heroes.

  I caught the bus from Bluebell Lane to the Melwood training ground in West Derby each morning. But if I got up late, which hardly ever happened because I was so keen, I needed to make a change and get twobuses. I couldn’t afford a taxi on my wages of £47.50 a week.

  I remembered that figure when, in 2014, I turned down an offer of €13.5m net to play football in Qatar for two years.

  讨厌曼联：

  But I never really thought about the Glazers and Manchester United. I’m not interested in how they go about their business. I’m not interested in them at all. If I pick up a newspaper or go online to read about football I always skip any article that’s about the Glazers or Abramovich or Sheikh Mansour. It doesn’t interest me. I already know that they’re making my life as a Liverpool player impossibly hard. I don’t need to read how they gained control of a club. I am far more interested, and worried, about the game that is played out on the field, whether it’s at Anfield or Old Trafford, Stamford Bridge or the more recently named Etihad and Emirates stadiums.

  卡拉格：

  Carra was second only to Ian Callaghan after he made his final and 737th appearance for Liverpool. I was third on the list of all-time appearances for the club but, being two years younger than Carra, I wouldn’t move past the 700-game mark until February 2015. We were the last two of the old guard of Liverpool’s one-club men.

  While English football turned itself inside out, undergoing enormous upheaval, often fuelled by greed and selfishness, Carra and I kept on grinding away. Liverpool ran through the heart of both of us. We would not be moved until, finally, our time was up. Carra had gone first, aged thirtyfive. I was thirty-three and the end was closing in on me. But I wanted to give it one last mighty tilt – for me and Carra and the whole of Liverpool.

  He was on a first-year pro contract and he was a proper big-head. Ronnie Moran used to call every new pro at Liverpool a big-head. And that was Carra. He knew I was getting my £47.50 a week and he enjoyed the fact that I was still an apprentice and he was a pro. I was having to mop up all his sweat and the mud from his boots on the dressing-room floor. It was the same old Carra, though, dishing out the verbals. He gave me loads of stick about my hair. He took the piss out of my fringe because, back then, I didn’t use any products. I used to just get out of bed and throw my fringe forward. Who cared about my hair? I was obsessed with football and no one wanted a picture of me when I was seventeen. Carra would look at my fringe and he would say the same thing every time: ‘Have you combed your hair from your arse again?’

  I got plenty of verbal off Carra and all the older players in the first-team squad in my earliest years. It’s part of football and I’ll miss it when I’m gone. That’s why I missed Carra so much in that miserable summer of 2013. No one is as aggressive or as sharp as Carra. I could have done with him by my side while I was fretting over Suárez.

  死磕曼联：

  Gary had actually said, of his past in Bury and as a boyhood United fan, ‘I was brought up in my area to hate Scousers.’ He was explaining the conditioning he had experienced – just as I had been raised in Huyton to hate all Mancs. But I respected Ferguson and Roy Keane and Ryan Giggs and so many other of their key characters. I even respected, grudgingly, what they had achieved as a club. United had their twenty league titles to our eighteen. They had also won eleven FA Cups to our seven. But we had won eight League Cups to their four and three UEFA Cups. Those two competitions didn’t compare to the one that really mattered – the premier club competition in world football. Manchester United had won the European Cup three times. But Liverpool had been champions of Europe on five unforgettable occasions. It was why, soon after Istanbul, people in this city started wearing red T-shirts which carried a clear message: Hughes to Thompson, Thompson to Souness, Souness to Gerrard.

  说自己老了：

  We beat Crystal Palace next, winning 3–1 at Anfield, with goals from Suárez, Sturridge and me. I rammed home a penalty, sending their keeper, Julián Speroni, the wrong way. Unlike Luis and Daniel, I didn’t celebrate. I had done my job and, honestly, I expect to score from a penalty every time. Instead of a Suárez shirt-lift and wrist-kiss, or a Sturridge robot-surfer dance, I just wiped the sweat from my nose. No one jumped on me. I think they knew I was too old for any of that stuff after a simple no-nonsense pen. Someone ruffled my hair and that was it. We moved on, top of the league at the end of that warm Saturday afternoon.

  又是小时候：

  I celebrated some goals on Ironside Road as if I had just hit the winner for England in a World Cup final. I was usually Gazza, wearing my England shirt with his name on the back, setting off on a mazy dribble before slotting the ball between the two dustbins which doubled as goalposts. I could also be Gary Lineker, taking a penalty in the very last minute of the final at Wembley and as soon as the ball flashed between the steel bins I would be off on a mad celebratory dash. I was an England hero, an England winner, soaking up the adulation of the whole country as I ran down Ironside Road, yelling with joy and punching the air.

  进球后的喜悦：

  I was up on my feet so quickly I could not quite believe it. I started running. And I ran so fast that no one could catch me. My head was up, my mouth was open and I spread my arms wide in celebration. I ran in the direction of the corner flag where I could see the crowd going crazy. People were jumping and screaming as I ran towards them. My arms stretched out wider as if I might fly into the heaving mass of England fans. As I neared them I couldn’t stop myself. I did a long knee-slide, skidding along the wet and glistening pitch, opening my arms once more as if I was ready to hug every single one of them. And then I was up again, grinning and pumping my right fist. It was a celebration even more abandoned than anything I had done on Ironside Road all those years ago. And this is what makes it even sweeter. The joy was deeper and more intense than I ever imagined it. This was bliss and euphoria packed with meaning. I knew what it meant. We were not only 2–0 up in the eighty-eighth minute. We were over the doubt and worry, for a while at least, and on our way to Brazil. Rooney and Welbeck finally got me. They jumped on top of me and brought down the corner flag as well. Milner, Wilshere, Lampard and everyone else leaped on top of them. I was buried beneath the pile of white shirts, not even needing to breathe because I was so deliriously happy. They climbed off eventually and I heard the noise while I still lay on my back. I was so happy as bedlam rocked Wembley. What a feeling. Wayne cuffed me playfully around the face a few times and then lifted me up on to my feet. I turned to the crowd, punched the air and shouted ‘Yes!’ like a mad man. I was thirty-three years old and I had just scored the goal that would take us to the World Cup finals. Baines hugged me, as did Phil Jagielka, two Everton players who had played with heart all night. I walked back to the halfway line, on my own again, my head down but my face still lit with happiness. Only football could make me feel this intensely alive. Only football could unleash such joy.

  弗格森的夸奖：

  Nine years earlier, in 2004, Ferguson had called me ‘the most influential player in England, bar none’ and suggested that ‘anyone would love to have Gerrard in their team’.

  Anyway, what is Fergie’s definition of ‘a top, top player’? If he means Zinedine Zidane or Andrés Iniesta or Xavi then, of course, he would be right. I’m not as good as them. But I’ve played and competed against the majority of leading players and I’ve always done all right. I’ve held my own against everyone I’ve faced. But there have been times when my Liverpool team has been inferior compared to some of Alex Ferguson’s sides and the European elite – and that was hard for me to swallow.

  Anyway, what is Fergie’s definition of ‘a top, top player’? If he means Zinedine Zidane or Andrés Iniesta or Xavi then, of course, he would be right. I’m not as good as them. But I’ve played and competed against the majority of leading players and I’ve always done all right. I’ve held my own against everyone I’ve faced. But there have been times when my Liverpool team has been inferior compared to some of Alex Ferguson’s sides and the European elite – and that was hard for me to swallow. As for Michael Carrick, I’m a big fan of him and the way he’s played for United. He’s done a terrific job. I’m a different type of player from Carrick, a natural holding midfielder. If you look at my statistics and Michael Carrick’s they’re completely different. So you can’t compare Carrick from a goalscoring point of view to me or Lampard. And you can’t really compare me and Lampard to what he can do defensively because of the difference in our midfield roles. Maybe Ferguson was frustrated that Carrick doesn’t get enough plaudits, and I think he might be right. It’s all just opinion – just as it was when Zidane was once kind enough to say that I was the best player in the world. I was happy to read it but I also knew it was just one opinion offered by Zidane on one particular day in history. Ferguson chose to make his comments about me on a different day.

  和卡拉格一起畅想：

  I hitched a lift back to Liverpool with Carra that night. It seemed like old times, me and Carra sitting together on the way back from an away game, except that we were in his car rather than on the team bus. We spoke about Liverpool and football, as always, the whole journey. We both sensed the momentum. The surge had begun. Carra joked that I might not get back in the team. Sturridge, like me, was injured. But if we could get him fit again, and keep him on the pitch alongside Suárez, we would feel unstoppable. I could hear the excitement in our voices as Carra and I finally dared speak about Liverpool winning the title. ‘Maybe this time …,’ Carra said. We fell silent for once, lost in the old Liverpool dream, as we raced through the darkness. I stared out of the window on a cold winter night. ‘Yeah,’ I said quietly, allowing myself to admit my new hope at last. ‘Maybe we can win it …’

  说贝尼特斯：

  On a basic human level I prefer a likeable manager, such as Gérard or Brendan, but in terms of football I really don’t mind working with a colder man. An emotionless and distant relationship with the likes of Rafa Benítez and Fabio Capello can sometimes produce more success. It would not be my style if I were to ever become a manager – I’d try to fuse the best of Rafa’s tactical thinking with Brendan’s skill as a man-manager – but I learnt from Benítez that it’s not really important to be close to your players. An edge can sometimes help.

  I don’t think Rafa liked me as a person. I’m not sure why but that’s the feeling I got from him. It probably started even before he spoke to me, when he met my mum. Rafa was appointed as Liverpool’s manager in June 2004 – and I was playing for England in the Euros in Portugal that summer. Even though he was being replaced by Rafa, Gérard still loved Liverpool and he remained very close to me. He and my mum flew out to Portugal to watch me play for England against Croatia – and they bumped into Rafa. Gérard introduced Rafa to my mum. Rafa shook her hand, said hello and then immediately asked her a very blunt question: ‘Does Steven like money?’ Apart from a standard ‘hello … good to meet you’ introduction, those were the first words Rafa said to my mum. My relationship with Mum is so close that I heard all about it even before my new Liverpool manager had climbed into a taxi to meet me. I thought, ‘What kind of question is that?’ but I was so impressed with Rafa’s work at Valencia I was still itching to meet him. I even understood that he was probably trying to discover what motivated me. Our working relationship was ultra-professional but his frostiness drove me to become a better player. I had a hunger to earn a compliment from him – but also a hunger to let him know that he really needed me as a player. I was coming into my prime, I was playing well and I gave him the best years of my career. Maybe he got that streak out of me because of his iciness towards me. Maybe if he had been warm and generous, I might not have had that drive to prove him wrong or to try to get some respect from him. We were like fire and ice together. Passion surged inside me, while Rafa was the strategic thinker. The distance between us meant that I lost none of my burning intensity – while the icy clarity of Rafa’s insights rarely melted. I used to think he favoured our Spanish-speakers. He was an especially big fan of South American players, which is fine. It caused no problem between us. At press conferences he might call other players by their first name, but I was always ‘Gerrard’. It was the same in the dressing room. He would read out the team and use nicknames. But, for me, it would just be ‘Gerrard’. I didn’t care what he called me. It certainly wouldn’t have made me play any better if he’d suddenly started being my mate and calling me ‘Stevie’. I just wanted to win the next game and I knew Rafa could, usually, help us achieve another victory. Rafa was the best tactical coach I worked with at Liverpool and England. When it comes to setting the team up and feeling secure and strong within a structure, he stands out for me. José Mourinho is more than a match for him but Rafa can take a team considered to be the underdogs and still find a way for them to get the win – especially when it’s in Europe over two legs. The only disappointment for me is that Rafa is the one manager I can’t lean on now. We no longer have any contact. It’s a shame because we probably shared the biggest night of both our careers – and yet there is no bond between us. But in regard to what he does on the training ground and how professional he is as a manager I can only speak highly of Rafa. If we were to bump into each other at a game or at an airport tomorrow there would be no unpleasantness, but maybe a day will come when we can actually have a deeper and friendlier conversation and reflect on everything we experienced during our time at Liverpool. We have some unforgettable experiences and memories to bind us together. Istanbul, and Champions League glory, is the obvious highlight. But the 2008–09 season, when we were top of the league at Christmas, remains vivid. It was crammed with stirring comebacks, memorable wins, strange incidents and worry. That season echoed in my head when, five years later, we were again chasing an elusive league title. We had been on such a roll in December 2013 that, out of the team for a few weeks with my hamstring injury, it seemed right to step back over Christmas, pause, and remember how well we had also been playing five years before – until trouble and strife broke out. The difficulties of late December 2008 and January 2009 were a reminder not to become cocky or complacent. Life, and football, is rarely without problems. I learnt some hard truths during that time. I think Rafa Benítez did as well.

  大篇幅讲了自己酒吧打架那次后有多后悔，还讲到小时候好多事，人非圣人：

  I was in a police cell in the early hours of the following morning. It was just the start of a twentythree-hour stretch in custody. I remember wondering how I had ended up there, when a security guard brought me the morning papers. I looked at my face and name splashed across both the front and the back pages. In the sports pages I was celebrated for my two goals and all-round play against Newcastle the previous afternoon. The front pages were grim. I was plastered across them for being a naughty boy who had been in a scrap in a bar. The shame burned inside me; but there was hurt too. I had got caught up in the kind of incident that happens every night in bars in busy cities all over the world. If my name had been Joe Bloggs I would never have been locked up for twenty-three hours. So I was disappointed with the way the police handled my arrest. But I could only blame myself for the mess. It had started innocently. On the coach home from Newcastle, and buzzing from our stonking win, I texted my best mates. I hardly ever get to have a night out with them and it felt like a rare chance to have some fun. Every one of them was up for a chilled-out celebration. There would be eight of us and we just had to settle on where we would meet. We knew I couldn’t go into the centre of Liverpool. Those days and nights had gone. I was twenty-eight years old, still young, and it seemed a shame that I couldn’t go out for a night in the heart of my home town. But as soon as you become well known in Liverpool your life has to change. Even in the daytime it’s very difficult to walk through the city centre and be left alone to get on with normal stuff – like going to the shops with Alex or having a coffee. I had not been able to do that for years. There are Liverpool fans everywhere and I understand why they want to come over and say hello or well done after a win. People are very nice to me most of the time. But I’m not so popular in the blue half of town. Everton supporters can have a right go at me sometimes. Most of them are respectful and decent but a small minority make it difficult for me to go into the city. I still manage it occasionally but I have to duck and dive, and pop in and out very quickly, staying in my car most of the time. Years ago, before I became a first-team regular, I could go to town at nine in the morning and still be there at five in the afternoon. These days I wouldn’t have a clue where to go in my own city. This is the life of a player. You have to pick your places carefully. It’s worse at night. At least the vast majority are sober in the day. Drinking can darken the mood and some people become aggressive. It’s a bit weird when someone you’ve never met starts shouting at you. You just have to accept it and, in my position, understand that you have to give up going out in Liverpool. But when you stack up the sacrifices and measure them against the lavish rewards we get it would be wrong to start complaining. We are paid extravagantly, embarrassingly well, and we receive adulation and glory. The abuse and the stick are the flipside, just as not having much of a social life goes with the territory of being a top professional sports star. We still come out of our privileged lives feeling very lucky. But sometimes, when you’re young, you just want to go to a club with your mates. You need a release. That was my mood on the Sunday night of 28 December 2008. And so I made a classic mistake and found myself in the wrong place at the wrong time. Sitting in prison the following morning, I thought: ‘Why didn’t I just go home and stay in?’ Some nights you can go out and be left alone and you’ll be fine. It can help you, as both a player and a person, to relax and let your hair down for a few hours every now and then. But if there’s an incident, no matter how small, you are going to regret it badly. Like most human beings, I’m not a saint. I haven’t made too many big mistakes, but I have learnt from all of them. I was only eleven when, with one of my mates, being silly little scallies, I tried to nick some stationery from Woolies. I needed it for school and Mum and Dad had given me the money. But we had other plans: we’d use the cash to buy a Coke and burger instead at McDonald’s. Of course, we were hopeless shoplifters, and as I was sticking pens in my pocket and paper inside my coat, the Woolies security guard clocked us straightaway. He made us give him our names and tell him which school we went to and where we lived. I was so scared of my dad finding out that I lied and gave him my aunt’s address. I ran from Woolworths to Auntie Lynn’s house. I told her what I had done. I begged her to go and see Dad and explain everything to him first. I wanted him to know how terrible I felt. It was too late. Woolies had already been on to the school and they had called Dad. He was fuming. I don’t think I had ever seen him so angry. What was I doing – robbing in shops? Mum was close by because she wouldn’t allow Dad to be too heavy on me, even if I deserved it, but she also wanted me to understand how wrongly I had acted. I knew Dad was right when he warned me that I could lose my place at the Liverpool Academy. If Steve Heighway found out, Dad said, he might decide to kick me out. I was very worried then. I would have taken the hiding my pal got from his dad. A smack on the bum wouldn’t last. But if I ruined everything with Liverpool? It would feel as if my life had ended. I accepted my punishment: a good earbashing and grounded for three days. It took a while for me to get over my guilt but at least I was never tempted to do anything so stupid again. I made another mistake as a young pro very early on when, for a brief spell under Gérard Houllier, I was breathalysed and lost my driving licence. I was not much over the limit but Gérard, a bit like my dad, really let rip. And after he calmed down he made his point. ‘If your mates want to go to a nightclub, let them. By the time you’ve finished your career you can buy a club of your own.’ I felt full of regret and, as time passed, I also found it easier and easier to avoid the temptations. It was not difficult to be disciplined because football meant so much to me. I knew that I would become a better player if I stayed in and went to bed early instead of partying with my mates. I also learnt that I could go out a few times a year and enjoy myself. I didn’t need to drink a lot. It was enough being out with my closest friends. The novelty was good enough for me.

  讲penis受伤那段实在是太逗了。

  我有slip之痛，但我永远都有伊斯坦布尔：

  In the deadness of Monaco, with darkness falling on that hushed Monday evening, the night after the terrible day before, I allowed myself to reflect more deeply. I didn’t just obsess over the slip. My mind opened up and I saw my whole career unfold in front of me. I remembered the goals against Olympiakos and AC Milan. I remembered the Miracle of Istanbul. I had played my part. But we had also got lucky that night. Milan were a better side than us, but I scored the goal that sparked the comeback from 3–0. I lifted the huge Champions League trophy that night, the greatest moment of my career. Yes, I had slipped against Chelsea. Yes, I might never win the league. But I had been the king of European football for one night. I always had Istanbul.

  Fate, and luck, had sometimes shone down on my skill and hard work. I had scored a screamer of a goal against West Ham, when Liverpool looked dead and buried, in the 2006 FA Cup final. It had been perhaps my finest-ever game for Liverpool. They called it the Steven Gerrard final these days. Who else, apart from Stanley Matthews, gets a final named after him? How lucky was I? I remembered all the derbies, and my hat-trick two years before against Everton in March 2012. That was the night Luis Suárez and I had felt unstoppable. How lucky had I been to play alongside Suárez, and Torres, and Alonso, and Rooney? How lucky was I to be going all the way from Ironside Road, in tough old Huyton, to Brazil and that summer’s World Cup? The dark and the light, the elation and the misery, belong together. Yes, I felt terrible; but at least I also knew what glory meant. Most people aren’t that lucky. Most people shuttle between more muted experiences their whole lives. Most people aren’t as lucky as I’ve been. I needed to be thankful, and not just tearful.

  说鲁尼和C罗：

  Wayne talked to me on the bus as we left the ground, all of us in pieces after losing the penalty shoot-out, and he asked me what I thought of Ronaldo’s wink. I was so angry that I told Wayne if one of my club teammates had done the same to me I would never talk to him again. Even if it had been Xabi Alonso – and I knew it would never have been Xabi’s style – there was no way I would have forgiven him.

  说罚点球：

  It was a forty-yard walk from the safety of standing in a line with my teammates, arms draped around each other, to the penalty spot. It felt like forty miles. The pressure of the situation, knowing that your whole country depended on you, and that a billion people around the world were watching you, ate away at me.

  真是神奇，2023年接近年底，我居然发现了这本多年前出的传记如此好看——

  It was the curse of growing old as a footballer. There was always another anniversary, and another echo of the past, to remind you of a faded time. There was always another game, whether it had ended in victory or defeat, to offer up an omen for today. Sometimes the anniversaries and matches, the nights and the goals, blurred like the ghosts of my past.

  要不要这么可爱啊：

  It’s still quite fun to fantasize a little. If, totally hypothetically, I was going to become Liverpool manager one day I know who I’d love to have as my assistant: Xabi Alonso or Jamie Carragher. They are very intelligent, have a deep knowledge of football and are special men. The players would respect them, the fans would like them and I think we would work really well together. I’ve never mentioned it to either Xabi or Jamie, so I think they’ll be surprised if they read about it. Xabi might go on to be a great manager himself – and so I feel a bit embarrassed admitting that a managerial fantasy would be him working alongside me.

  小傲气：

  I hate all that badge-kissing stuff when it’s done by some swanky new signing who’s just got his new hundred-grand-a-week deal at a club where he knows he will stay for only a few seasons before his agent moves him on to something more lucrative. But I felt, after seventeen years, and my share of glory and heartbreak in the colours of Liverpool, that I deserved to kiss the badge. And so, as I ran to the corner flag, I lifted the crest of the Liver bird to my lips and kissed it.

  By the time I stopped running everyone else had caught me. They jumped on top of me in the old routine. There were so many of my teammates but they felt incredibly light amid my elation. Finally, I turned to salute the sea of red. The Kop rose again in waves of colour and noise. In the last minute, in a touching gesture, Brendan gave me the signal. It was also a nod to Anfield to start saying goodbye to me. I heard them singing as I walked towards the touchline. Steve Gerrard, Gerrard / He’ll pass the ball forty yards / He’s big and he’s fucking hard / Steve Gerrard, Gerrard … I stopped to fit the captain’s band on to Jordan Henderson’s upper arm and then, slowly, I spun around so I could look at all four corners of Anfield. I applauded everyone, to say thank you. An hour later I was asked to do a BBC television interview for Match of the Day. ‘Have you scored a better header?’ I was asked. I almost laughed, but I turned it into a little smile instead. ‘Champions League final was all right, weren’t it?’ ‘I forgot about that one,’ the interviewer said, almost in embarrassment. ‘I haven’t,’ I said.

  结尾：

  I reached for the big book my Liverpool teammates had given to me in Dubai. I turned to read the message that Luis Suárez had written. I read the words written by Zinedine Zidane, and Kenny Dalglish and John Aldridge and Brendan Rodgers and Jordan Henderson and Lucas Leiva and everyone else. What had my girls said when I led the Kolo and Yaya dance? ‘What are you doing, Daddy? That’s not you …’ But as I read the words about me, from people in football I respected, I felt both nostalgic and optimistic. I was the same person that Zidane saw. The same man that Dalglish and Suárez and Henderson knew. They were all part of my story. I was the boy from Ironside Road who won the Champions League and the FA Cup and the UEFA Cup and the League Cup – if not the Premier League. I had played 824 major football matches, 710 for Liverpool and 114 for England. I was about to complete the journey from the Bluebell Estate to Beverly Hills, from Huyton to Hollywood. But I knew that I would always belong to Liverpool. I had been with the same football club for twenty-seven years, and I had played for the first team for seventeen of them. And suddenly, on that quiet Monday evening on Merseyside, I felt serene and calm. I shut the beautiful big book, full of kind words about me, and I thought of my dad. What did Dad always say when I was a kid? ‘This is where it starts. Everything you’ve done before this has gone.’ At the age of thirty-five, life was not so simple. It was deeper. It was better. I could start again, but I would carry the past, and all I had done, the elation and the pain, wherever I went. It seemed clearer than ever to me. The dark and the light, the joy and the hurt, the hope and the loss, cannot be parted. They belong together like the posts of an empty goal, in front of the Kop, at Anfield.

  ——Football, in the end, was like life. It could also be strange and difficult. They were both raw; they were both real.

  Ten things we learned from Steven Gerrard's book, My Story

  https://www.theguardian.com/football/2015/sep/23/steven-gerrard-book-my-story-hillsborough-the-slip

  https://www.donaldmcrae.com/

  作者网站

• 无从评价，那便摘录吧

  作者：Rogge 发布时间：2020-10-25 17:22:28

  1. 我们一起坐在博物馆长廊的椅凳上歇脚，看山雨、看城市的轮廓，看比我们苍老太多了的一切事景，既不是生、也不是死地那样存在，像是一切都毫无问题，也永远不会感到疲累。

  2. 我猜想，等待就是这样的一一有什么东西静静消失了，留下来的，全都变成垃圾了。

  3. 时间让在不在一起失去分别，或统摄了两者：不是伴侣的逝去或走离，而是时间本身，单纯地让每个人终成鳏寡。

  4. 倘若真能和一个人长寿以终，她将不会怀疑那是命运的赐福，但他会谦卑地感伤，她会想：因为似乎，赐福总是交托给像她这般不适当的人，才让“命运”这样的字眼，显得永远可疑。

  5. 失眠的夜，当整个房间被细雨中的熹微给洗亮，婚姻里一切事物的边角，都仿佛发散着霓虹，那总奇特的，给她一种温暖的错觉。

  6. 她看望四周，想象年老就是这样的：你的灵魂蜗居其中，格外容易知觉屋里什么是新修缮的，什么是旧模样的。你的灵魂有时快乐、有时沮丧，有时甚且回到青春的激情与躁热中，然而，这一切都不会被人瞧见。对路过的人而言，你始终就是间旧房子，静静覆盖着时间的尘埃。

  7. 那是我这辈子最快乐的时候：在她身边，静看微风穿过庭埕，整座山村被系在她的晒衣杆上，在新的一日里轻轻飘动。

  8. 我盼望自己，能有足够的耐心，信任时间，倾心相信自己并没有被遗弃。

  9. 我想像个正常人那样，罗缕记得自己曾被厚爱过，也希望自己终于学会如何，才能在心里的橱柜积存一切借来的事物、时空与温暖的沉默，像她曾经抚慰过我的那样，去照看另一个人。

  10. 我父亲生平最大的恐惧，是他常想象，有朝一日，他将重返山村，尝试将父母从坟地里挖起，装进骨瓮里带着离开。那就像抹掉自己与故乡的最后一点联系，从此他可以说，他以全世界为异域。

  11. 他知道，山村的墓园，根本就没有门；整座山村就是一片坟场。

  12. 很奇怪，他说，大榕树怕有千年百岁，农人看雨，也远不是三天五日的事了。但每当古老的大榕树晃荡着古老的雨，农人总会兴味盎然地看着，就像观看婴儿在世间的第一场好哭。

  13. 当四周都安静下来，雾受冰冷的洋面悄悄召唤，从最高的山壁卷下，沿海岸，沿岛的主街低伏，穿墙而来，随衣沾身，挥之不散。抬头仰望，天空特别高远，星斗特别无畏地奔腾到眼前，海平面上，月亮被自己的光华盛起。世界像如镜的冰原，在我心底，一定就是它犹未成为任何人故乡时的样子。

  14. 我明白，时间也只是这样悠悠缓缓地折返回来：一个人出生的地方，终于成了他们所能抵达的，最遥远的地方。

  15. 幸或不幸的是，在这注定谁都无法活着离开的世界里，记忆力也许是最终的赎还。

  16. 因而我猜想，记忆力该是最终的赎还：在距死亡一步之遥的地方，在那个最后的立足点上，每件记得的事物，都昭显出新意，因而一个人不再沉伤，也不再惶惑。至于记不住的，时间证明它并不要紧，也就理所当然不必去记得了；因而丰足，且没有缺憾。我猜想与死亡为伴的人的思维，终是这样的：你理解了所有你必须记下的。

  17. 某种程度，这个想象的确给当时的我带来安慰：你清楚记得发生过的，思索它，并且无论如何努力活下去，然后，也许，时间最终会将记忆返还给你。更大的慰藉是，当时的我恍惚察觉，也许，在命定的死亡面前，眼前再炽热的情感、再浓烈的想念，都仍算是低度开发的。更好的存有，是活成他人脑中的一则数学公式，一种纯粹的形式，一道多年以后，意义自动发酵的谜。

  18. 每日每夜如此连缀，像一个无以安眠的长夜，像世界本身，我明白自己无法活着离开了。每日每夜，剩余的时间，像是从另一道星河奔赴而来的光年，比新生还陌生，比死亡还陈旧。也许，我终于和我的路人家族重逢，活得像是与他们同在了。拿出纸笔，写下草稿。我们用每句话一出口就注定过长的方式说话，好像每句话都是遗言。我们不动问，不期望，似乎对想说点什么的我们而言，每种酣畅的快乐都显得故作天真；每种无可抑制的悲伤，都来得那样矫情。仿佛眼前仅剩的，是一张用来写遗书的白纸，而我们那样慎选字句，迟疑、无言，直到命之所终。因为再热烈的话语，都不过是我们对世界的，生疏的证言。因为时光快疾越渡平野，每日每夜，“敬启者：”我们潦草涂写，“世界太大，我无处可去。”

  19. 我以为，倘若真有神灵，他必定是个幼稚到没救了的老头，白白在这世上，浪费他那样惊人的能力。

  20. 整个房间被雨中的天色给洗亮，阳光溶在夏末的海风里。

  21. 上午，母亲踩着缝纫机，为李先生改衣服。李先生老了，身量愈变愈小。母亲为他将外出贯穿的衣物一件件改得合身，渐渐像是大号的童装，渐渐像缝回了时光。

  22. 她听完,想了一下。“嗯。”她说。“不好笑?”等看她反应的李先生问。“对。”她答。“没关系,”李先生说,“笑话会等人。”

  23. “在磨折与时光过尽，明白话语无用之后，我想告诉母亲的只是：虽然最后，终于确认了自己是如此地不成材，如此浪费生命，我仍旧感谢她，最初如此奋勇地，将我牵引到这世上。”

  24. 多年以后的我明白，所有能付诸言语的，总也显得半真半假。

  25. 雨并不沾身，只是把空气微微擦燃。

  26. 定期的会见，某种固定的拜访，像一个人专程去确认岁月犹记得渗进看顾着另一个人的四壁，在他脸上留下刻痕，代替他去杀掉他自己。

  27. 我看见父亲空望着，好像，连怎么孤独都不会了。

  28. 然后有一天，小王高高兴兴喝完果汁，咕咚咕咚从楼梯滚下，一头撞在老王背上。然后就死了。老王说，那真像一头小象穿过他的心。

  29. 朋友独自一人，把重复的歌词一句叠过一句，好像决心要在自己的纪念日里，一气揉踏生命中的所有曲折，清涤时光底层的所有暗萎。

  30. 父亲总在“明天”回来，在光影最暧昧的凌晨。

  31. 暴雨并不可怕，只要有人一同经受。

  32. 热气越过我，阳光试图掳获那些被大楼切下的焚风。

  33. 当第一阵雨落下，炽热的柏油路面点点飘起，像消散的世间之途。

  34. 在瀑流一般的玻璃上，在夹藏着星光的黑暗里。

  35. 他发现，他对岛上渐渐什么都看不准确，什么都往心里去了。

  36. 处于此地的人们，背对的，永远比面向的广漠。

  37. 他唯一能做的，是亲手将时间细细消磨、碾碎，像倒进沙漏的瓶颈，倒过规定的节点，让一天顺利过渡。

  38. 有一天，他问小偷，能不能开中央走廊头尾，那两道铁栅门的锁。小偷不屑地躺倒，说：“整个病院，只有那两个锁可以叫锁；也只有那锁喔，就算开了也没用。”

  39. 他看见雨的动线，与在雨棚顶弹跳的光。

  40. 儿时的他知道世上有饥馑，有战乱；也知道它们都发生在远方。昨日和今日没什么差别，而他也还没有长大。

  41. 世上每个陌生人都能随便搬动她，遗弃她，每个熟人都能任意经过她被弃置的地方；世上只有父亲和他，将会不时弄丢她。

  42. 他流泪，耗尽力气，想将她教训成一个世故复杂、不轻信任何人的正常人；或至少，他要他的妻子总是记得，在这世界上，从来没有人迫切的需要他们。

  43. 桌椅是别人的，时间恒常是自己的。

  44. 夕阳慢吞吞西沉，他看出雨中一切事景的寂寥，追捕一天中仅见的阳光。

  45. 夜以继日，独自迎着逆倒的风。月光下，萤火虫出游了，从今尔后，萤火虫的冷光都带着一丝花朵的香味，跑进山村人为修复白日而做的酣梦里。

  46. 死一定就是这样的：你会躺到成尸，照射在你身上的阳光会变得很重很重。

  47. 一切在记忆中，永远沐浴在某种雨后初晴的光度里。

  48. 我看见千疮百孔的千门万窗，连接成一道无以突破的光墙。

  49. 太阳在和煦地退让。风里有雨的气息，有太阳的遗迹。不知道为什么，对我而言，这世界的某些棱角，在变得模糊。

  50. 那时候尚未喝酒，杂树林里近晚的水雾，往往已令人得意地微醺，像携带着一个无笔无画的梦。

  51. 孩子的名，他愿意将自己终生最美的企望倾注其中，让所有人这么叫唤这孩子。

  52. 他镇日张着大眼睛，骨碌碌而漫无焦距地，像把什么都看年轻了。

  53. 没有什么是自然形成、不需要代价的，即便是季节的光度。

  54. 逆行的风抚过一切缭乱与横溢。

  55. 他想，这世界的一切太没有道理了，而人太容易受苦了。人都这么苦了，但人生于世，要想留下一点痕迹，却是这么艰难的一件事。

  56. 许多年后，他将以自己的方式，长成一个自己希望长成的人。

  57. 她想着在流沦于野，与孤独而死这两者间，无数的她们，经受命运无由的捉弄，终于褪尽恼人的青春。

  58. 她看向顶头的梁柱，希望孩子快快长大，如此，她也就能速速老去；顶着海风，在这破败村里，同她父母的亡灵，与这间屋子一起凋零。

  59. 像一个执拗的老少女，年年乞讨同一个既枯槁又纯真的梦。

  60. 走在无人的街上，月光将远近涤清，似乎，人们的安定感，在于能安然地离开自己的居所，否则，一切尽是漂泊。

  61. 他看见母亲静静站在火光前，看着多少未遂的日子，这样被付之一炬。

  62. 独自沿着海岸线走着，直到时间淹没那个破败的渔村。

  63. 他感觉，大约，每个自小尝过孤独滋味的人，内心深处都有一种敏锐，知道他人需索的是什么。

  64. 他想着，我并不难过，眼角湿润，只是因为我自己，被自己的一点点势必要以大量油污与废话所涂饰的真挚之梦给蜇伤了。

  65. 一个人唯一不能克服的，只有不时倾心而出的寂寞。

  66. 小小的斑蚁，瘦瘦的蜘蛛，还有一些我怎么也叫不出名字的昆虫弟兄，在被打捞起的天光里，竞逐着它们不被理解的宇宙。

  67. 我让自己很安静，盼望只要那样，世界就如此完好。

  68. 我并不知道自己有朝一日终将明白：“将来”是何等虚幻的字眼。

  69. 小王在话语的喂养下如期生长，长成一个过于认真的大男孩：慢慢地知道最复杂的道理，却总为最简单的事实脸红。

  70. 她忘了自己花了多少时间，才开始不再企盼外面的世界。

  71. 凌晨，下过一场鬼雨，无伤，世上寿命百年的还正在茁壮；朝生暮死的还正在死亡。

  72. 突然莫名感到如释重负，像是明白感觉到自己还能沉落。

  73. 窗外，无数炮弹与飞机无声起落，星火灿烂，将岛环绕得宛如永夜。