Jens Lehmann exclusive: The secrets behind The Invincibles and fighting back to win the 2005 FA Cup
Read the first of three exclusive book extracts from former Arsenal and Germany goalkeeper Jens Lehmann.
Everyone had written us off already for the 2003/04 season, as Arsenal had given away the previous title carelessly and were now starting with a single new signing: an aged, crazed German goalkeeper. As usual, Manchester United were favourites to win the league, joined for the first time by Chelsea, who had been reinforced by Roman Abramovich at incredible expense. In fact, they were supposed to be solid rivals for the championship, but we were having none of it, deciding many games in the first 20 minutes by taking a 2–0 lead and refusing to give it away.
Nevertheless, on occasion, I had to take a lot of flak. Sometimes, I would play 30 or 40 yards in front of my goal, where I was able to intercept 95 per cent of balls coming in. It did also, however, lead to my making two mistakes in the Champions League, handing the opposition striker an assist with my head or similar. Moments like that make you look like Mr Bean, and since the English, whether down the pub or in the papers, interpreted every single situation of play as intensely as if it were a passage from the Bible, the exegetes soon delivered their verdict: that keeper was bonkers.
Still, I fit quite well into Arsenal’s system of play. My first season there was one of the best in all my life; I did not make a single mistake in 38 Premier League games. On English soil, Arsenal were virtually unbeatable. At the end of the campaign, we had registered a record that may never be repeated: 26 wins, 12 draws, and not a single defeat. We had accumulated 90 points, and I had conceded a mere 26 goals.
Thinking about the reasons for this incredible run today, I recall a few things in particular: firstly, the squad had been put together perfectly, a fantastic mix of young and experienced players, who all had one outstanding quality and ended up playing themselves into some sort of frenzy.
Secondly, our fitness: Chelsea, our fiercest competitors, ran out of steam towards the end, so that we were confirmed champions three days before the campaign had even finished.
Thirdly, perfect analysis of all game parameters: that season was the first time that Wenger’s coaching staff made use of Prozone, a computer program that allows examinations of both the opponent and your own game down to the very last detail. It delivers data on possession periods, sprinting abilities, fitness, distribution of players on the pitch, and so forth. Wenger knew how to use Prozone to turn both his own and the opposing side into transparent teams.
Finally, the matter of tactical education: a computer system alone is of little use if managers cannot get the findings across to their players and have them be applied on the pitch. Specific training methods exist that practise this flow of the game; at times, we would play 11 vs none. Alternatively, warm-ups could consist of 11 vs 11: one team does not defend but merely gets in the way of the other, who practises forms of passing for five or 10 minutes, with a change of sides after each goal. Everything revolves around continuous play, as if you were circling slalom poles. A different version would see the forwards and attacking midfielders play against a back four. All the while, the manger corrects every single wrong path, every pointless pass. To me, Arsène Wenger was the unrivalled master of developing the offensive game.
After all, that is what people come to see. Arsenal’s Highbury was always packed, while Chelsea’s support, occasionally, left much to be desired, despite all the stars and successes.
Unfortunately, we only managed that in domestic matches, not in the Champions League. We, who in that year had certainly been the best team in Europe if not the world, were eliminated in the quarter-finals, against Chelsea of all teams. It was one of the bitterest moments in my footballing life. We were up 1–0 from the end of the first half, when Claude Makélélé simply took aim at my goal from 30 yards in the 51st minute. The ball was a newly issued Nike specimen that came fluttering towards me like a bat p***** out of its mind. I failed to grasp it as it fidgeted between my arms and my chin, only for it to fall at Frank Lampard’s feet, who put it across the line to make Chelsea level.
We were simply flattened and in the 87th minute, Wayne Bridge made it 2–1. It was Chelsea’s first victory over Arsenal in nine years, but at that moment, this fact gave us as little solace as Chelsea’s defeat to AS Monaco in the Champions League semi-final some time later. I believe that, had we beaten Chelsea, we would have gone all the way to the final, which was eventually won by José Mourinho’s FC Porto.
Ultimately, we remained unbeaten in 49 consecutive league games. For a long while at Old Trafford it was 0–0, until Wayne Rooney went down in my area and was immediately awarded a penalty. The referee’s name was Mike Riley, and I remember him to this day. We ended up losing 0–2, our historic run broken by a dive.
One win and three draws later, we played Liverpool away, and were defeated again. It was my second-ever Premier League loss, and yet the manager comes up to me and says, ‘Jens, you’re not as fresh any more; you seem tired; I’m taking you out now. If you start having problems with your national team because of this, you may as well leave.’
Naturally, I felt completely wronged and felt like going up the wall in my anger. I would not be bullied. I was no longer a single man who could pack his bags from one day to the next: my kids had finally settled into the country after a year and a half; I could not force yet another move onto them.
On the very evening when I was pondering this, Didi Hamann phoned me; he was playing for Liverpool. ‘Listen, Jens,’ he said, ‘We need a new keeper.’ That was certainly tempting, the perpetually terrible weather in Liverpool aside. But since I had been listening to my own thoughts so carefully earlier, I declined. ‘No thanks, I want to keep trying to continue at Arsenal.’ And promptly, as if it were a sign, Manuel Almunia played poorly against Bolton Wanderers the next day. After another defeat match against Manchester United two weeks later too, I found myself back in goal.
Jens Lehmann - The Day I screamed at Thierry Henry
At the end of the season we met Manchester United in the FA Cup Final, at the Millennium Stadium in Wales. It was to be a game focused on one goal – ours. Manchester were vastly superior and had chances galore, but I was able to save them all, helped by my friend Freddie Ljungberg, who walloped the ball of the line after I had been beaten by a van Nistelrooy header from five yards. The only words hammering my skull like so many little cylinders were ‘Fight, fight.’ I knew I was going to have to deliver that day: my manager was poised to take me of the team again at the blink of an eye, and that would mean bidding London goodbye, a new school and perhaps a new country for the kids, all that rubbish. Immense pressure.
Somehow, however, we survived that half an hour and, yet again, a penalty shoot-out loomed. Dutchman van Nistelrooy took the first and scored, but was followed by Paul Scholes, and suddenly it was time for the old classic: England vs Germany. I again was the lucky one, and saved his shot. Our next four penalties went in, leaving it down to Patrick Vieira to win us the cup. He scored, and it remained his last ever Arsenal goal, as he would move to Juventus after eight years in London.
Later, tears ran down my face; of relaxation, relief, and joy. For the first time, I was voted man of the match, and marvelled at the way things had taken a turn for the better. Not three months ago, I had been perched on the bench, being tortured by thoughts of moving away. Now, through positive energy and hard work, I had pulled myself up by my bootstraps and with it, had achieved my greatest goal of the season. All decisions I had made had been the right ones.
Jens Lehmann's autobiography, The Madness is on the Pitch, is available from the publisher (deCoubertin) at a special introductory offer.
The Madness is on the Pitch by Jens Lehmann | The Telegraph Bookshop
