When I saw fans burning an old No 17 shirt by the Shankly Gates, it did my head in. Show some respect. Don’t you know how this is tearing me apart?… ‘Steven, don‘t go,’ Dad begged. ‘But, dad, look at the TV, fans are burning my shirt at Anfield. The club aren’t stopping them, Liverpool don’t want me any more.’… I stared at the rolling news through flowing tears. I was suffocated by stress. My energy had gone, lost during all those frustrating trips in and out of Benítez‘ office. My head was banging. I was eating paracetamol like Smarties… It was the lowest point of my career. I broke down. Panic breakdown, complete mess… Could I hand in that Liverpool armband? Could I look the father I adore in the eye again? Could I really put on a Chelsea shirt and face Liverpool in front of the Kop?… No. No. No. I couldn‘t jump over the edge of the cliff. I could see the great possibilities of Chelsea, but my heart wouldn’t let me leave Liverpool. Finally, my mind was made up. I‘d walked through the storm. At eleven p.m., I called Struan. ‘Tell Rick I want to sign, ’ I told him. ‘I want to stay. ’ Struan contacted Rick. ‘Is that offer still available?’ ‘Yes‘.‘Stevie will sign it.’ Thank God it was over. My heart stopped racing and I relaxed. I put the paracetamol away. I awoke on the morning of Wednesday 6 July with a smile on my face for the first time in weeks.
Steven Gerrard in his autobiography about the summer of 2005, when he turned down another offer from Chelsea (via bottass