Frank Lampard - Totally Frank - The Autobiography of Frank Lampard

‘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.

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.