Frank Lampard - Totally Frank: The Autobiography of Frank Lampard

For the ones I love
Elen & Luna, Mum, Dad
Natalie and Claire

ITS a long walk. Those who have done it say it can be a harrowing experience just making your way to the penalty spot in a shootout situation. I know how tortuous it is. The second you break from the arms of your team-mates and take the first step you are very much alone, wondering where the journey will end.

For a footballer, there can be few trips in life as significant as the 60-metre path towards a moment that will remain with you as long as you live like the walk down the aisle to be married or a sombre march to say a final goodbye to a loved one who has died. In those circumstances, though, at least you know what to expect.

The long walk to take a penalty invokes a similar intensity of emotion but without a pre-determined outcome. Its the World Cup quarter-final and the hopes of your family, friends, and team-mates, never mind those of a nation, weigh on your shoulders as you propel yourself towards destiny.

I can hear the cheers of the England fans as they try to encourage me doing their best to ignore the nerves which make their voices tremble slightly. I focus my gaze on the white rectangle ahead. Not such a hard target. Twenty-four hours earlier I practised for this moment in the Gelsenkirchen Arena. Bang, goal. Bang, goal. Bang, goal. Bang, goal. Four from four after training. I knew what to do.

Back at the hotel I watched a DVD of the Portugal keeper Ricardo in action to discover his method of dealing with a penalty. However, his actions were too chaotic to act as a guide so it was a case of choosing a corner and steering it in. I had done this for Chelsea and England many times before. Stamford Bridge, Old Trafford, Camp Nou. Kick taken, goal scored.

I had been in exactly the same position two years earlier, in the Estadio da Luz, Lisbon, and at the same stage of the competition in Euro 2004. Portugal again. Ricardo again. Same long walk to the penalty area and same pressure. Bang, goal. I knew what to do.

Despite popular opinion, there is no certainty about a penalty kick. There is no divine right which favours the kicker or keeper on every occasion. I know this from history and statistics. I also know from experience joyful and bitter. I missed one against Hungary at Old Trafford in our first warm-up match three weeks previously. It was my first failed penalty for England not a pleasant experience. Still, only a friendly, so better to get it out of the way.

Since then I had practised regularly. England teams have traditionally taken stick for not placing enough emphasis on penalty technique but we were very assiduous. Every member of the squad took spot-kicks in training. As the elected penalty taker in normal play, I practised more than anyone else. I always do.

Fifty to be precise. I like to keep track. Fifty kicks and only two saved. Forty-eight successful strikes from a possible fifty. It had become slightly embarrassing because Paul Robinson and David James had only managed one stop apiece. They are both great keepers but I was very sharp and confident.

As a squad we even practised the walk from the halfway line: familiarized ourselves with the solitude, the silence inside your head, the pressure mounting with every step. The only thing I hadnt prepared for was being first up in the shootout. That honour belonged to Wayne Rooney before he was red-carded in the second half after a spat with Cristiano Ronaldo.

No time for what if, only what is. This is our chance to make the semi-final, to avenge the defeat in 2004. This is Englands year. This is our time. I look at the referee who signals that I must wait for his whistle. Fine. Im in no hurry. Ricardo tries to catch my eye but Ive seen his tricks before. I place the ball on the mark and turn my back to measure the run-up.

I decide to strike low left. Thatll do it. Left and true. Left and true. I see the shot fly into the bottom left corner in my mind. I approach the ball and open up my body slightly. The strike leaves my boot but its not how I pictured it, not quite wide enough, not hard enough. The keeper dives across and gets behind it. Its blocked. Its gone. Gone.

I feel numb. I look up to the night sky and see the moon. Luna. In an instant all that has been bad in my career concentrates into a single drop of poison inside my head. Scoring an own goal in my first-ever game aged five. A defeat in the final of a schools cup. Abused and hounded at West Ham. Defeat in the FA Cup final by Arsenal. Elimination in the semi-final of the Champions League.

Im gagging but theres no vomit only sickness. I begin the walk all over again. I hear the jeers from the Portuguese. I look to my team-mates, still locked arm-in-arm but now heads bowed as I walk the desperate walk.

A few hours later I am at the bar in the team hotel in Baden-Baden. I order a beer. Everyone else has gone to dinner but I am too nauseous to eat. The lads filter in a few at a time. We have a drink and the conversations start. Adrenalin pumps through my veins still and even though I am exhausted I cant rest. Everyone who played is the same. We pore over every detail of the match, vent our frustration about events, the decisions, Ronaldo.

I turn on my phone and a flood of messages come through. Its not my fault, they say. Keep your chin up. Youll come back from this. They are meant in kindness but its the last thing I want to hear. When I go to bed Im still wide awake. I watch myself hit the penalty again. Bang, save. Bang, save. Bang, save. F***.

I return to England exhausted. As we drive through west London I count the flags in the houses and on the cars. The sun is shining but the streets are deserted. The deflation has hit hard and I know how they feel. I dont want to show my face either. We get home. I speak to my Mum and Dad. More commiseration. Theres no need. I know Im not a villain and theres no one harder on me than myself.

Mum tells me to be kind to myself. I fall into bed and hope that I can rest. I sleep but the moment I struck the penalty is never far from my mind. I look around the stadium and everywhere the red and white which blazed during the match is doused with gloom. John and Rio are sitting on the turf sobbing, inconsolable. Im in a daze and though people come to speak to me I cant hear the words.

I feel someone touch my face. Softly at first and then harder. Theres a weight pressing on my chest and then gentle slaps. I open my eyes to see if Im awake or still dreaming. Luna is lying on top of me scrambling around. Elen stands beside the bed smiling.

Daddy, says my little girl. Daddy!

I repeat the name to her: Daddy! Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!

Luna smiles her broadest smile and laughs with excitement. She knows. I laugh. Elen laughs and Luna laughs some more. She has said her first word and her timing couldnt have been more perfect. If only I had taken after my daughter!

Thirty-six hours since the time of my darkest despair and now the light comes flowing back into my life. When I missed that penalty I thought it was over. When we missed the third I knew it was. I have never felt so low and I never want to know that depth again. There were moments after we lost to Portugal when it felt like the end of the world. It wasnt. It was the end of the World Cup.

With one word from my baby daughter I realized the true value of life and the blessings I can count in mine. I have a successful career never more so than in the past two years when I have won the top honours the game can bestow. There is a new season to look forward to and the challenge of winning more with Chelsea as well as qualifying for Euro 2008. There is also my work with the Teenage Cancer Trust and most of all my good fortune to be surrounded and supported by my family, my fiance and my little girl. Football will always be an important part of my life but my family