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List Of Illustrations

Early beginnings at Schalke. I was 19-years-old when this photograph was taken. There would be many setbacks before establishing myself in the first team. [Getty]

The start of something special. After beating Tenerife 2-0 at the Parkstadion in the semi-finals of the UEFA Cup in 1997, we really started to believe the competition could be ours. [Getty]

The first leg of the final against Internazionale was a tight affair, decided by a late Marc Wilmots goal. [Getty]

Embracing at the final whistle with Thomas Linke, a powerful defender who would continue his career at Bayern Munich. [Getty]

To Milan and the San Siro. The Schalke team did not include any star players. Ninety-minutes away from creating history. [Getty]

The first of my professional victories in a penalty shoot-out. Never believe it when someone claims the goalkeepers have nothing to lose. Teammates always expect you to save at least one kick. I stopped one and Inter missed another. Schalke were champions. [Getty]

Maybe I was too hasty in deciding to leave AC Milan in 1999. Oliver Bierhoff, my international teammate, stayed and won Serie A five months later. [Offside]

Back in Germany. Doing it my way; trying to score goals if necessary and taking on outfield players if necessary.

It is fair to say I did not gain friends by signing for Schalke’s big rivals, Borussia Dortmund. [Getty]

In Dortmund, I reached the final of the UEFA Cup for a second time in 2002. Having been crowned as Bundesliga champion the week before, this defeat against Feyenoord did not hurt as much as it might have done otherwise. [Getty]

Rivals at club level and rivals to become the national team’s number 1. Bayern Munich’s Oliver Kahn and I. [Getty]

My devoted wife, Conny. [Getty]

The Invincibles! Winning the Premier League in my first season as an Arsenal player. The title was secured at White Hart Lane, the home of Tottenham Hotspur – Arsenal’s north London rivals. [Getty]

The best of enemies. Games against Manchester United were always intense. They’d decide the course of a whole season. [Getty]

The most important in-game penalty save of my career, repelling Juan Román Riquelme’s shot in the dying seconds of the Champions League semi-final second leg in 2006. [Getty]

The last match at Highbury, such a special football ground. [Getty]

The Champions League final of 2006. A dark start to a beautiful summer.

A red card after eighteen minutes against Barcelona. [Offside & Getty]

Germany waited…another decisive save in a penalty shoot-out, this time against Argentina in the quarter final of the World Cup in Berlin. [Getty & Offside]

Dejection after an extra-time defeat to Italy in the semi-final. [Getty]

Though my frosty relationship with Oliver Kahn thawed during the World Cup to some extent, it would return later. This photograph was taken after a third-place play-off win over Portugal. [Offside]

Two more seasons in the Premier League would test my limits. [Getty]

Preparations for the 2008 European Championships in Austria and Switzerland. I would retire from the national team as the country’s number 1 goalkeeper. [Getty]

A return to the Bundesliga with Stuttgart. It would be an eventful couple of seasons. [Getty]

I had retired when Arsenal asked me to return after a goalkeeping crisis. I would play one game, a 3-1 victory in Blackpool. [Getty]

The media game with Jürgen Klopp. [Getty]

On the grass, where I like to be. With Arsène Wenger at Arsenal’s training centre in Colney. [Getty]

The Most Important Match Of My Life

THE NOTE. I HAD STUDIED IT CLOSELY BEFORE THE MATCH AND tried to memorise some of the names and information about the penalty takers. Long run-up, left corner, that sort of thing. It was like learning vocab, really – at least, that was how I tried to approach it. Sounds simple: a handful of names, a few phrases thrown in, done. But it was like in the old days at school: do the words and phrases still come to you if you are standing alone at the blackboard? My board was huge, 7.32m x 2.44m – the goal. And the lesson had already lasted 120 minutes. It was stifling hot on this early summer’s evening; I had already lost three kilos in weight since kick-off two hours ago.

On top of that, there were not thirty or forty fellow pupils sitting in this classroom of mine, glad that it was my turn rather than theirs. No, in my classroom, there was a febrile crowd of 81,675 maniacs. Even before full time, they had been whistling and booing so loudly that I had to cover my ears. Neither before nor after had I ever heard such noise. And now, as Ivan Zamorano took the ball, everything became louder. It was 1–1 after extra time as the Chilean international stepped up to the first penalty. ‘Hang on,’ you might say, ‘Chile? But the game with the note was against Argentina! We’ve known all that for ages, the Sommermärchen, a story told a thousand times: the 2006 World Cup quarter-finals in Berlin, 1–1 after extra time, with goals by Roberto Ayala and Miroslav Klose.’

Yes, quite. But there is another piece of paper in my life. And it was even more important to me than the one from Schlosshotel Grunewald, the one auctioned off for a million euros after the World Cup and donated to a German Museum of History in Bonn. Apparently, such notes belong to my success just as prayer books belong in church. The paper that helped me with the most important match of my life was written by Huub Stevens on 21 May 1997, in Milan, or was it written at Hotel Costello di Casiglio in Erba, at Lake Como? Occasionally, the details within these big moments get lost, so intense is your focus on the game.

Legends surround what is said and done before a game or in the dressing room during half-time. I must admit: the minutes in the dressing room were of no great significance to me. I did not have any particular rituals – even the order in which I put on my socks was irrelevant to me. The only exception was that I would carry on using the same gloves until I lost a game while wearing them. There was a period in England when I wore one pair 49 fixtures in a row – I had taken good care of them, so that they would not fall apart. Apart from that, I concerned myself with my boots and considered which studs to choose – the long ones? Or maybe the short ones, as the pitch was dry? Then, my thoughts centred only on the warm-up and the match. Everything else was darkness, periphery.

I remember holding the Milan note before the game. But was it written in the Guiseppe Meazza dressing room and not, after all, at the Hotel Costello di Casiglio in Erba? The German national team had resided there during the 1990 World Cup, and that was to be a good omen for us, the Schalke side, too. This one single game alone stood between us and the greatest achievement in the club’s history – the UEFA Cup. Back then, that was anything but ‘the losers’ cup’, as Franz Beckenbauer called it dismissively later on. Before the introduction of the Champions League, this was where – bar the national champions – Europe’s best sides were playing. Arsenal, Valencia, Glasgow Celtic, Beşiktaş, AS Roma, Lazio and Bayern Munich – they had all stepped up with us in autumn 1996 in the first of six rounds. We were the underdogs: for the first time in almost twenty years, a Schalke side had qualified for a European competition, and our Bundesliga form was average (we came twelfth at the end of that season). Apart from Olaf Thon and Marc Wilmots, barely any of us had any international experience; no one knew names like Yves Eigenrauch, Michael Büskens or me, Jens Lehmann. At the start of the campaign, we as players had seen to the sacking of our manager, Jörg Berger – the side had lost trust in him. No orderly circumstances any more, then, and there was little to indicate that within a few months, this team of nameless men should become legendary in Schalke history.

Our new manager came from Roda JC, our first UEFA Cup opponents, of all places. Two weeks after we had eliminated his Dutch side, Huub Stevens started with us. Rudi Assauer, our Director of Football (DoF), appointed him and it proved a lucky find. Stevens’ programme matched his haircut – the man combed his hair with a ruler and a compass. To us, he had given the decisive ‘little bit more’: more discipline, more technique, more organisation. This was topped with our irrepressible will, probably born out of spite and a feeling of inferiority. For many of us, it was the last chance to prove that we had been unfairly overlooked by managers of other big clubs. We wanted to prove that, with comradeship and better organisation, we average players were able to compete at the highest level. With Stevens, we put together a run that had never been seen in the UEFA Cup: in all our home games, we didn’t concede a single goal. ‘The sheet must stay clean,’ Stevens’ contribution to the war chest of immortal footballing lines, was created during that season: 3–0 against Roda, 1–0 against Trabzonspor, 2–0 against Bruges, 2–0 against Valencia, 2–0 against Tenerife – none of the star-filled teams had ever managed that. Finally, there were only two sides left: us and Inter Milan. It was the last time that the cup winner would be determined over two legs. We stepped up at the Parkstadion first, where we had to keep a clean sheet again if we were to stand a chance at all. And we did. Putting it nicely, it was an uneventful game. He who combs his hair with a ruler and a compass upheld his reputation and only brought on a second forward 23 minutes before full time: Martin Max. During this season, Huub Stevens simply did everything correctly – just three minutes after that change, Marc Wilmots found space 25 yards out and drilled the ball into the corner to make it 1–0. ‘S04 – one hand on the cup,’ the screen read after the final whistle.

The second leg, that would become the most important game of my life, began for me hours before kick-off – in a house of worship. There is a little chapel at the hotel in Erba; that’s where I went on the morning of 21 May 1997. Faith is something too personal to talk about much, but one thing is certain: you do not pray to God if you do not think he’s listening. Maybe, sitting there, I was waiting for guidance from above; instead, Charly Neumann walked in, one of our team officials. He had been a Schalke figurehead since those days in the 1950s when Charly, a trained baker, would bring Ernst Kuzorra – the club’s legendary pre-war striker – fresh rolls. And because you’re meant to be quiet in a house of worship, Charly, who was never at a loss for words and rarely at one for tears, sat next to me silently. Only on the way back to the hotel did it burst out of him: ‘Jeez, would you have thought we’d play here one day?’ ‘No, Charly, not at all,’ I replied, ‘But now, we have to win!’ ‘Don’t worry, the good Lord will have an eye on us,’ he reassured me.

It was routine for me to sleep before an evening game, and normally I would drift off as if by the push of a button. Later in my career, if I was playing in an evening international game, I would start thinking about it at 7 pm at the earliest, sometimes even later (and at times, I would not even be excited by the time kick-off arrived). But on this day, things were still completely different. True, I was 27 already, which by today’s standards is relatively old, but in those days, immediately after the Bosman ruling, transfers happened at a slower speed; you would stay with one side for longer, and careers rarely went off like rockets. I was not to receive my first cap until about a year later, and even after ten years at Schalke I could in no way be sure of my position as number one. So, I lay in bed in my small Erba room and stared at the wood-panelled ceiling until I knew every knot-hole by name. What if I did not play well today? Would the gaffer bin me? And then what?

An hour and a half before kick-off, we were finally at the stadium. I had phoned my family and my girlfriend, who were all in Milan and told me that the square at Milan Cathedral was packed with Schalke fans singing nonstop, all afternoon. In the end, even the Italians were applauding. We knew of our fans’ loyalty, and yet we were overwhelmed when we first stepped onto the pitch. Even today, I get goosebumps thinking of this moment: a home game, 900 miles away, 20,000 Germans. Of course, during the bus journey through the city, we had also seen Italian supporters showing us their hands with extended fingers: ‘We’ll get five!’ But over the years, things like this had only stirred my blood more. You wait, you little Italians, I’ll show you!

We played towards our fans in that first half. Maybe the blue-and-white sirens’ song had turned Italian heads; maybe we were simply better – in any case, the sheet stayed clean on the road too. Eighty-five minutes altogether, up until that throw-in just before full time on my right-hand side. Somehow, the ball cheated its way through our defence and Zamorano reacted quickest, touching a shot into the top corner. That’s no proper shot, I thought, more a sideways push. But it flew in: extra time. In such a situation, your body is so full of adrenalin that you do not feel anything – no pain, no exhaustion; but at the same time, no brilliant ideas enter your mind. We could have done with some, though, as we were now a man up. Inter’s Salvatore Fresi had been sent off. We were reluctant to take risks, and so it happened as it probably does on every ground in the world: we were making the running, but it was Inter who had the chances. There were eleven minutes left to play as a sliced shot flew into my penalty box – I went out, the ball jumped, and Maurizio Ganz lobbed it over me. Shit, I thought, watching. There are some scenes that have been burned into my memory like the final duel in High Noon, and this is one of them. I was not sure if it was going in – if it did all would be lost. Mike Büskens chased the ball, and everyone – players, officials, spectators – just stood and watched until it dropped onto the bar and Büskens was able to hoof it away. We put up the shutters and waited for the final whistle.

Penalty shoot-out, then. Goalkeeper’s hour, they call it – allegedly because the keeper has nothing to lose. But that is rubbish; the pressure on him is immense. In secret, every team expects their own keeper to save at least one. And you’re supposed to have nothing to lose? Not to mention the fact that this was my first shoot-out as a professional; my last had been with Schwarz-Weiß Essen, my youth team.

Instinctively, I did what I would do again and again in later years: I sat down at the halfway line, took a sip of water, and focused. There are colleagues who, at this stage, make jokes or provoke the opponent. You need intuition and a strong nerve in this situation; every distraction is poison. Unlike a pistol duel, this is not about speed – on the contrary, it is about who can delay the decision before the shot longest. There is a split second between the moment a taker has opted for one corner and the moment a ball is hit. There is no return for either him or the keeper. That is the instant in which I have to react. Only then do I have a chance of saving the shot. Of course, other factors play a role too. You experience a player over 90 or 120 minutes, see his course of movement, register how and where he shoots, particularly in pressure situations. And the pressure during the final shoot-out is comparable with nothing in our sport.

Ingo Anderbrügge took the first penalty for us and tucked it away: 1–0. The note. Hubert Neu, Stevens’ assistant, showed it to me again. ‘Zamorano, long run-up, left corner,’ it said. The referee blew his whistle and, indeed, the Chilean was first to grab the ball. It was a long run-up, swift, steady. That meant he was not going to make a sudden change to his decision. He would stick to his guns – or would he? Zamorano lunged, his leg moving towards the ball; I dived to my left. I saved and walked away. No high-fives with the opposing keeper now. This was a game of life and death – there was no way I could wish the opponent luck. But I watched him – and our takers. Olaf Thon scored too and I had noticed already that Gianluca Pagliuca was a typical Italian keeper, always moving early. I had my own little psychological theory: at a squeeze, the Italians were not as strong-nerved. I was, unfortunately, to experience an exception sometime later in my career. But for now, it was the turn of a Frenchman in Italian service, Youri Djorkaeff, who scored, as did Martin Max after him. Inter’s Aron Winter took the ball next. It is on now, I thought, reaching into my bag of mind games. I approached Winter, standing in front of him so he could see just how big I was. ‘I keep standing in the middle,’ I said. Was that fair? It did not matter; no one would ask me about it afterwards. Winter remained silent, watching only the ball; the pressure was on him now. I stood unmoving, standing and standing, going right at the last moment. He, however, had sussed me out and shot to my left. But Winter had opened his body too much and the ball missed the far post. Then, Marc Wilmots scored and when I saw him wheeling away in celebration, I knew that we had won.

Wins like this always prompt television reporters to ask how you are feeling. What are you supposed to say? In our case, everyone started running around, screaming senselessly at each other – all the emotion needed to come out, especially because no one could have anticipated this victory. Even Rudi Assauer, who rather enjoyed playing the tough, macho DoF, stood crying on the pitch. Really, our team was only average, and yet the cup belonged to us now. Later, we players were joined on the pitch by our wives and girlfriends. An hour after the final whistle, we took a lap of honour for the Schalke fans, who were still present and still singing. The Italians were long gone and home by this point. I will never forget the images of the fans crying with happiness, just as I won’t forget Maurizio Ganz’s shot hitting the crossbar.

The mood in the changing room after such a win is hard to describe. The rooms at the San Siro were rather ugly, no good place for celebrations. But this win was so significant to us, to the club, that the surroundings did not matter at all. All the pressure, the ambition, the desperation had fallen off us; again and again we lay in each other’s arms; some were crying. Eventually, someone started singing one of the club anthems: ‘Blue and White, how I love you’ or ‘Stand up if you’re Schalke’. The latter had been invented by a drunken fan during the quarter-final against Valencia: he had simply stood up and sung that one command, to the tune of the Village People’ ‘Go West’. Around him, ten people rose to their feet; in the end, the whole Parkstadion was standing. Since then, fans from all across the country had been singing it for their club.

At some point, amid the hubbub of feelings, a question emerged: okay, what does this match mean to me now? It was my first big victory, and that sticks to you. From now on, everyone else knew I was a winner, and that was worth a lot. What came next – the titles with Dortmund and Arsenal, the World Cup, and the European Championship – stemmed from that experience in Milan and a piece of paper, of which I do not even know where it has disappeared to. But one thing is certain: it too would have deserved a spot in the Bonn museum.