sport news Jordan Henderson: I injured myself while practising penalties at the World Cup ... trends now

In one of three exclusive extracts from his new autobiography, the England and Liverpool midfielder reveals how he took part in the Russia 2018 semi-final with a tweaked groin after overtraining on his own.

It was late in Moscow. Tuesday, 3 July was about 10 minutes from turning into Wednesday, July 4 in the Spartak Stadium. I remember walking towards the penalty spot, juggling the ball with my right foot as I got to the edge of the area, trying to look calm. Actually, I was calm – relatively speaking, anyway. I felt okay because I’d practised my penalties.

We had all practised penalties. How could we not? Penalties and England in a major tournament seem to go hand in hand, and I was thinking back six years, to the night we played Italy in Kyiv in the quarter-finals of Euro 2012. I had been nervous about the possibility of being asked to step forward, but this time was different. I was ready for the situation and I felt confident.

I was the third England penalty taker in the shoot-out with Colombia. Our second-round match at the 2018 World Cup had ended in a 1–1 draw after Yerry Mina scored a last-gasp equaliser at the end of normal time. Colombia had scored their first three kicks; Harry Kane and Marcus Rashford had scored our first two.

When you start that walk forward from the centre circle, you don’t think about history. The records of our teams in previous tournaments don’t matter, and it would hardly help to start running through what happened in years gone by. So that meant I wasn’t even thinking about Gareth Southgate, our manager, who was standing on the touchline in a waistcoat with his arm on the shoulder of his assistant, Steve Holland. 

Gareth had dealt with questions about missed penalties for twenty-two years, going back to what happened against Germany in the semi-final at Euro 96 when his kick in sudden death was saved by Andreas Kopke. He, more than anyone, did not want us thinking that way and we had been taught to concentrate on positivity.

Our preparations could not have been better. We had spoken to psychologists. We were filmed practising our penalties in training and had studied the film. We had practised over and over and we knew who, statistically, our best takers were. I was one of them, and I was third in line.

So, no, I wasn’t thinking about ‘Football’s Coming Home’ or any of the scenes of wild celebration in England that we had been watching from our base near St Petersburg as we’d progressed through the group stage to this point. 

I know everyone who knew me would be sick with nerves when I began to walk forward, but it honestly never entered my head about how awful it would be if I failed with this penalty and it contributed to this journey coming to an end. I wasn’t thinking about the consequences of missing or people abusing me and singing, ‘You’ve let your country down’ – this was just another hurdle to get over.

I said that, statistically, I was one of our best takers, but something was telling me that Jamie Vardy was supposed to take our third that night. Gareth had brought him on a couple of minutes before the end of normal time, but it seemed like he had picked up an injury during extra time. Anyway, there was some reason his name was absent from the list. I wasn’t thinking about that either. No point.

I walked forward. I stopped juggling the ball and placed it down on the spot. I was feeling okay. I had adrenaline shooting through me and my mouth had gone a little bit dry, but that happens. That’s okay. That’s normal. I had a routine, and I was sticking to it. I was keeping my mind clear, using my routine to block out other thoughts and taking comfort in the routine. We had spoken about this process over and over again. I am sticking to my routine.

The last thing I wanted to be doing when I was walking up to the spot was to be thinking, ‘I can’t fucking miss this.’ I knew where I was going to put it. To his left. I was going to open my foot up and put it low in the corner. I had practised it. I’d practised it and practised it well. I followed my routine and did not waver, counting my steps back. One, two, three, four. I didn’t rush. 

I stood at the end of my run-up for a couple of seconds. Then I jogged to the spot. I ran forward and accelerated towards the point of contact. I hit the ball well. I felt it speed cleanly away from my right foot. I didn’t slip or mishit it and it felt good. But it wasn’t low. It wasn’t low enough. It was a good height for the goalkeeper – that’s what they always say when the goalkeeper saves it. And it was a good height for the goalkeeper David Ospina.

He guessed correctly. I saw his body lurch to his left. Actually, ‘lurch’ is unkind. His body darted to the left. He was agile and lithe and he got down fast – and his left hand reached for the ball. I saw his left hand hit the ball. 

I saw the ball loop up into the air, in what seemed like slow motion. I kept watching it. It spun up and it landed on the grass at the side of the goal and bounced over the advertising hoardings before it clipped a photographer who was standing there.

Ospina saved it. I had missed. Same difference. I had missed. That’s how it was going to be remembered. Jordan Henderson was the one who missed. ‘A missed penalty by Jordan Henderson saw England knocked out of the Cup tonight,’ they would say. I could hear it already. I hear someone shouting it in my head.

I turned and cursed and kept my eyes down. Inside, I was dying. My world was crashing down. Football is everything to me. England is everything to me, so if I missed a penalty in the World Cup and it meant we got knocked out of the World Cup, how was I going to cope with that? I couldn’t think as I walked back towards the red shirts waiting for me on the halfway line. 

I felt their sympathy and their dread. I walked towards Harry and Marcus. Everyone knew there was nothing they could say to make this better. I tried to remain calm but, inside, all kind of thoughts were taking over. I’d let everybody down – the manager, my team-mates, my family. In fact, I had let the whole of England down. A couple of the lads said, ‘It’s all right; it’ll be all right.’ All I was thinking was, ‘I can’t go back to England if we lose this.’

I mean, I was literally thinking that. For a few seconds, I was thinking, I’ll never go back to England – that’s it. My England career? Over. Life as it exists? Over. I was never going back. How could I go back? I’d let the whole nation down. Then hope gripped me. Mateus Uribe walked up to the spot to take Colombia’s fourth penalty. He looked nervous, too. He bent down to place the ball on the spot and kissed it before he lay it on the turf. In my head, four words began repeating over and over: please, Jordan – save it.

Uribe took a couple of deep breaths. He still looked nervous. Next thing, he ran up and smacked the shit out of the ball. Jordan didn’t save it, but it crashed against the underside of the crossbar and bounced out. Oh my God! I could breathe again; I could actually breathe again. We were back in it, and the relief was overwhelming. It’s temporary, but it’s overwhelming.

Kieran Trippier was next up.

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