"I only wanted to be the best player in the world"

Original article from France Football, published in 2021.

Welcome to Wales”, more precisely to Northop, a small village about fifteen kilometers from the Dee, the river that forms the border between the northeast of the principality and England. Our taxi driver, who has been crisscrossing this countryside for over twenty years, got lost in the maze of small roads that wind through landscapes reminiscent of a Gainsborough pastoral painting. Lower Soughton Hall, where Michael Owen (41) lives, doesn't appear on any road maps. When questioned, our driver's satellite navigation system remained silent. This Victorian manor, built on the foundations of a Tudor house, is nonetheless a listed historical monument.

It was only when Michael Owen himself came to our rescue via text message that we finally reached a black wrought-iron gate, both discreet and imposing, bearing three letters: L, S, H, the initials of the house where he has lived for almost two decades. “I bought this house the year of the Ballon d’Or, the day after we beat Germany 5-1 in Munich (September 1, 2001, with a hat trick from Owen),” he told us. He was only 21 years old at the time. A year later, he moved into the completely restored Hall with his future wife, Louise Bonsall, whom he had met at primary school when they were both just five years old.

The Letter to His Father

Everything came very early to Michael Owen: love, fame, and fortune – Lower Soughton Hall had cost him the equivalent of almost €5 million. At 8 years old, he terrorized the defenses of teams made up of 11-year-old players, displaying such talent that one of his coaches at the time managed to have the statutes of the local league changed to allow his protégé to be moved up an age group and participate in their U11 Championship. At 9, he shattered the record for goals scored in a single season in the Deeside School League, a community straddling the counties of Flintshire, Wales, and Cheshire, England. This record had previously belonged to Ian Rush, the most prolific striker in Liverpool's history; Rush had set the bar very high: 72 goals. Owen scored 97.

When he celebrated his tenth birthday (“I only wanted one thing, to be the best player in the world, and I was convinced I would be”), scouts from several of England’s biggest clubs – Manchester United, who sent Brian Kidd, Liverpool, Chelsea, and Arsenal – were lining up to see the prodigy in action. Two years later, after Steve Heighway, a four-time English champion and two-time European champion with the Reds, wrote an effusive letter to his father Terry, young Michael signed with Liverpool.

The rest followed naturally. His first call-up to the national team (28 goals in 20 matches for England’s U15 and U16 teams). Almost immediately, in 1995-96, a historic run in the FA Youth Cup, which Liverpool won for the first time in their history that season, with Michael Owen scoring eleven goals in five matches. The first professional contract followed soon after. The debut, against Wimbledon on May 6, 1997, saw the teenager score – naturally – the first of his 158 senior goals for the Reds. Thirteen and a half months later came the famous match against Argentina in Saint-Étienne in the round of 16 of the World Cup (June 30, 1998, 2-2 after extra time, 4-3 on penalties for the South Americans), the backheel that left José Chamot reeling, the goal that went down in history, which he didn't hesitate to recreate in one of the living rooms of his home a few hours after our arrival. His early years were a whirlwind. It was perhaps only natural that the child who had to grow up so fast would seek to live where only his family and friends would find him.

A Home “for Life”

The driveway leading from the property's gate to a more modest gate—that of the house itself—is almost a kilometer long, winding through a rolling landscape of meadows and ancient trees. The sharp thud of clubs striking balls on the golf course bordering the estate can be heard. The call of a woodpecker as it takes flight, accompanied by the crunch of gravel underfoot, is also audible. Lambs and horses graze in the May sunshine. All of this creates a bucolic setting where Marie Antoinette herself would have longed to play shepherdess with her companions. The master of the house himself awaits us, alone, at the entrance to his home, smiling, playing the role of host to perfection, as he will graciously comply with our photographer's wishes.

Contrary to what his regular television appearances might suggest, Owen is articulate and cheerful, much more free than the measured comments he delivers in front of the cameras would imply. He is, in a way, at home. “This is where I grew up,” he says. “My parents’ house is five minutes away. My dad is from Liverpool, but one of his last clubs was Chester City FC, and he loved this area. We kids went to local schools, so my parents decided to stay. For me, choosing to live here couldn’t have been more natural. So, when I saw a lovely house like this one for sale so close to home, I thought, ‘Wow! This is my forever home.’”

The treasures of the snooker room

His father, Terry, left such a good impression at Chester City FC that many photos of him adorn the walls of the stadium we passed before arriving at his son’s house. His son still goes there from time to time, now that the team plays in the Sixth Division. “I still have a soft spot for them,” he confesses. Had the temptation of a final hurrah at his father’s club ever crossed his mind? “No,” he replies, laughing. “I’d been a footballer long enough as it was,” a statement that might suggest Michael Owen is one of those players for whom retirement was a liberation, the beginning of a new life rather than a source of regret. But that thought vanishes as soon as you step through his door.

Lower Soughton Hall is not just a vast house where Michael, Louise, and their four children lead a peaceful, almost idyllic existence. Lower Soughton Hall is also a museum dedicated to its owner’s career. Beyond the entrance hall, several lounges, and a large kitchen where two very friendly Staffordshire bull terriers roam, a staircase with a stairwell adorned with dozens of impeccably framed jerseys leads to the inner sanctum: the snooker room where Owen has gathered the most precious mementos of his career. The embroidered caps awarded to England internationals by the FA for every match or tournament played with the national team. The jersey he wore during the 5-1 victory in Munich. The one from the FA Cup final of that same annus mirabilis, 2001, when his brace (83rd and 88th minutes) secured the trophy for Liverpool when Arsenal seemed to have it in the bag. And, most precious of all, his Ballon d'Or.

At school in a Bentley. The trophy has its own display case. Placed on a rotating pedestal so that it can—literally—shine brilliantly under the light of mini-projectors, it is the focal point of the room Owen shows to everyone he invites to his home. When he received it, however, despite the pride he felt, he didn't really grasp what the Ballon d'Or represented, as he readily admits. “For most athletes at the top,” he says, “the minute you receive an award, it becomes yours, and you start thinking about the next one. You become very greedy, I think. You get more pleasure from the journey than from reaching your destination. And you want to travel again. The problem is, you've already arrived somewhere. So, which way do you turn?”

This theme would come up often in the long conversation we had afterward, so long that it caused him to miss the race in which one of his horses was competing, and it wouldn't end until it was time for him to get behind the wheel of his Bentley to pick up three of his children from school. This theme was the fleeting nature of success, the necessity for every top-level athlete to live in a state of deprivation, to always want more, a drive he himself had felt since childhood.

The difference was that, too early in his career, when he was only 25 or 26, he understood that he would never again reach the same heights. Every sprint risked another muscle injury. He had to reinvent his game, no longer rely on his acceleration, become, in his own words, "a footballer who thinks, rather than a footballer of instinct." The Ballon d'Or now reminded him of who he had been, rather than who he could become again. And, as the years passed, he learned to cherish its value more and more.

He only learned he had won it very late, in circumstances that make him smile when he recounts them today. “It was in Rome,” he recalls, “just before a Champions League match against AS Roma (0-0, December 5, 2001). We weren’t allowed to have cell phones in the locker room. Our manager was Phil Thompson, as Gérard Houllier was still recovering from his heart attack (which had occurred on October 13th). Three-quarters of an hour before the match, Phil came up to me: “Can I have a word with you?” I followed him into the corridor, and we went where no one could see us. “The boss is on the phone.” And Gérard said to me: “I want you to know that you are the Ballon d’Or winner.”

The Ballon d’Or under scrutiny

As always when Gérard Houllier’s name is mentioned in our conversation, Owen’s tone changes, almost imperceptibly. “No one in the world was prouder than him,” he recalls. “I was caught up in my career. As soon as I received the Ballon d'Or, I told myself, "You have to win it next year." I know it sounds bad, it might seem awful, arrogant now, but I couldn't think any other way. Success gives you a taste for future success, that's what drives you. For me, it was all new. Wow! I won the Ballon d'Or, amazing! But Gérard... because of his nationality, but also because of his experience and his understanding of what that trophy represented, he knew its history, he knew who had won it before me... And, in a way, my own pleasure was intensified by that, because I knew how much it pleased him. Seeing that smile on his face when I lifted the trophy, feeling his joy... It was like I was his son. And, for me, Gérard Houllier's reaction remains, perhaps, the strongest memory.”

The moment had come for Owen to remove the trophy from its glass case. A gesture heavy with consequences, in every sense of the word. “I had no idea how heavy it was,” he says, smiling. After placing it as delicately as possible on the frame of his pool table, he recounts: “You know, three or four years ago, I was asked to participate in a promotional event in China, on the condition that I bring the Ballon d’Or with me. But I wasn’t going to put it in the hold! So I lugged this box, which weighs a ton, around for the entire trip: the journey to the airport, going through customs—they X-rayed it! (Laughs)—and the flight, the box on my lap. I’m not likely to forget that trip anytime soon.”

Carragher's advice

The year of the Ballon d'Or was 2001, the year of the five trophies won with Liverpool (FA Cup, League Cup, UEFA Cup, Charity Shield, and UEFA Super Cup), the year of the famous 2002 World Cup qualifier against Germany, which, in his opinion, wasn't necessarily his best season personally. He perhaps felt even stronger in the two previous seasons, when he won the Premier League Golden Boot at 18 and 19. "No one will ever do the same thing."

Very quickly, too quickly, his body would interrupt his irresistible rise, and the obvious pleasure he takes in reliving moments of triumph, surrounded by the mementos that preserve their memory, is inseparable from the frustrations he half-heartedly expresses. Among these reminders of the past, a Real Madrid jersey occupies a prominent place, the one he wore on April 10, 2005, when he scored one of the four goals in the Merengues' victory over FC Barcelona at the Bernabeu (4-2). Florentino Pérez intended to add another Ballon d'Or to the three other winners – Zinedine Zidane, Ronaldo, and Luis Figo – whom he had assembled in a Real Madrid team that Owen considers "one of the greatest we've ever seen, anywhere, anytime."

His friend and roommate at Liverpool, Jamie Carragher, had nevertheless tried to dissuade him from He was considering leaving for a club where his direct competitors, besides Ronaldo, would be the legend Raul and Fernando Morientes. Owen ignored the reservations of the man he calls "Carro," and is glad he did so today, even if he doesn't elaborate on why his time in Spain lasted only a year, despite having the best goals-per-minute ratio of any Real Madrid striker (his record with Real was 16 goals in 45 matches, 26 as a starter).

The end of the "exceptional" player

"I had such confidence in my abilities," he recalls. "But others had to have it in me too, and being a Ballon d'Or winner must have contributed to that. When I looked at the other players in the locker room, I told myself I was just as good as any of them. Barcelona and Real Madrid were probably the two best clubs in the world at the time. Every player who made it there had to be among the very best, and convinced they belonged. You can't afford to fail at Real Madrid. As soon as you're there, there's that pressure. And if you win the Ballon d'Or, you have to live up to it. You have a target on your back. It's like wearing the number 7 at Manchester United or the number 10 for the Brazilian national team.” Yes, that trophy is a heavy one. And difficult to bear in those years when the body becomes fragile. It’s not easy to begin a decline at 26.

It’s a subject that should be painful to discuss, and must have been painful to experience at the time, but one that Owen confronts on his own, without self-pity. “With your first injury, you tell yourself: ‘OK, I’ll be back.’ Same for the second or third. After that, it’s much more complicated. I knew that every time I launched into a high-intensity sprint, I would be vulnerable, so I was forced to change my style, to act as a relay and focus on my role as a goal scorer. I knew how to fulfill it. But I was no longer ‘apart’.” He states all this matter-of-factly, without a hint of bitterness. After all, hadn't he been one of the best players in the world for half a dozen years? The hundreds of memorabilia displayed in his personal collection are proof enough.

Other great strikers, like Thierry Henry – “The only player who ever scared me, the only one I knew I'd never be better than,” he confesses – can describe almost all their goals in detail. Owen, on the other hand, doesn't even know how many he scored and can barely recall “around fifty, at most,” without necessarily being able to specify the dates, even to within a season or two.

Jockey, the terrifying experience. What remains are these objects of fabric or metal, tangible witnesses to his success, among which he has chosen to live day by day. He has other passions today, horse racing being the foremost. Chief. Two or three times a week, when his consulting and advertising contracts allow, he visits the farm he converted into a stud farm, about a thirty-minute drive from his manor. He even tried his hand at jockeying for a charity race in 2017, at Ascot no less, finishing second in the Prince’s Countryside Trust seven-furlong Flat race, “the most exciting and terrifying experience of (my) life.” The rest of the time, he follows Florian’s fable’s precept: “To live happily, live hidden,” as long as the tabloids leave him alone, which isn’t always the case. The public’s gaze doesn’t seem to bother him, a public that has never fully embraced him the way it did Rooney or Gerrard, even when Owen was at his peak. Owen was too polished, too serious, too boring for his liking.

But even if he has no regrets, and no unfulfilled desires, there is nonetheless a touch of melancholy in him, which isn't immediately apparent, so approachable and talkative is Owen. It's only later, on the train home, two hours after shaking his hand at the door of his house-museum (“Come back soon!”), listening again to what he had told us in his living room, that a sentence strikes the ear and the mind. He had spoken it in the same tone he had used to ask if we wanted anything to drink. But, coming from the mouth of a man who is only 41, it had something terrible about it. “That's all I have now. Memories.”