If the Worthington Cup felt good, the FA Cup run was truly special. We started off against Rotherham in the third round at Anfield, Emile getting a couple and Didi another. We then got a pig of a draw, away to Leeds United, a class outfit at the time. Woodgate and Ferdinand at centre-half, Bowyer and Batty in midfield, Viduka and Keane up front. Some team! And Alan Smith came on for them. They ran us ragged. Leeds’ fans were going crazy, screaming for a goal. Somehow Barmby and Emile struck in the last three minutes and Leeds were out, desperately unluckily.
I missed the fifth-round win over Manchester City but was back for the quarter-final on 11 March: Tranmere Rovers away. Across the Mersey, but still a derby. We knew Tranmere would be pumped up for our visit. No question. Tranmere live in the long shadow Liverpool cast over the region. Big brother was visiting, and this was a rare chance for Tranmere to give us a bloody nose. Short in miles, the journey still felt like a long trek into enemy territory. We knew what lay in wait at Prenton Park. We’d read the papers. We’d listened to Rovers manager John Aldridge talking about how his team would be right up for the challenge. We didn’t expect anything less from Aldo or his players. Aldo is a top man, really honest, a Liverpool legend, and as passionate as they come. He was desperate to put one over on his old club. Aldo’s no fool, though. He knew the gulf in class. Tranmere needed to drag us down to their level, and that meant only one thing: a kicking match. ‘It’s their cup final,’ Gérard warned us in the modest away dressing-room at Prenton Park. ‘Tranmere will be going for you, hard and fast. Be careful. I’ve picked an English team because this is going to be a fight. This team will be able to stand up to it. They’ll come at you immediately. Weather the storm, win the fight, then play them off the park.’
Tranmere v. Liverpool was a scrap between neighbours, so Gérard threw all his homegrown players into the fight: me, Michael, Carra, Robbie, Danny and Wrighty. An FA Cup quarter-final at an inhospitable ground like Prenton Park against opponents who wanted to carve us up was no place for foreigners like Patrik Berger. Us English lads understood what was at stake, the local pride as well as a ticket to the semis. Me, Michael and Carra had grown up aware of the amazing tradition of the FA Cup, its love of upsets. We were determined not to feel the underdog’s bite. The whole country would have pissed itself had we lost. ‘No fucking slip-ups,’ me, Michael and Carra said to each other. ‘Don’t give them a chance.’
Wound up by Aldo and their fans, Rovers came flying at us. All that stuff in the papers about them launching everything at us was true. Tranmere didn’t disappoint. Looking into the eyes of Aldo’s players at kick-off, I saw the fire burning within each of them. Their existence depended on beating Liverpool. Brilliant. This was my kind of game. A good old English scrap on a shite pitch with only the strong-hearted surviving. And Gérard’s decision to field English players paid off handsomely. Danny, Michael, me and Robbie all scored in a 4–2 victory. On a better surface, like back at Anfield, we would have creamed Tranmere 6–0. The fire soon went out of Aldo’s men, their fans as well. Tranmere supporters lacked the real intensity of Everton’s. In the end, the tie lacked edge because we knew we were a lot better than Tranmere.
My direct opponent that day was Jason Koumas, my old mate from the Vernon Sangster Sports Centre. His departure from Liverpool had been strange. Apparently, he wasn’t happy with the way Steve Heighway and Hughie McAuley used him in the younger teams. Jason wanted to be pulling the strings in central midfield but they played him out wide so he disappeared to Tranmere. He progressed really quickly there, and it was good to see him again. We always got on well. Not that I showed any mercy. I always enjoyed playing against Jason because I always get the better of him. He doesn’t like the physical side. Boot Jason early and he fades.
The semi-final draw smiled on us: we could have pulled out Arsenal or Spurs, but instead got Wycombe Wanderers, a team two divisions below us. Without any press hype, Liverpool would have walked that game. But everyone built the semi up so much that suddenly Wycombe believed they could cause a shock. In Lawrie Sanchez, Wycombe had a manager who’d stunned Liverpool in the Cup before, with that header for Wimbledon in the 1988 final.
Like Aldo in the quarters, Sanchez had his team pumped up. It pissed down at Villa Park, and we certainly made heavy weather of edging past Wycombe. They held us for seventy-eight minutes, but then Emile scored. Five minutes later, we won a free-kick in a terrific position, on the edge of Wycombe’s box. Five of us gathered around the ball. Gary Mac took responsibility.
‘I’m on it,’ he said.
‘OK,’ I said, and stepped back, out of the way.
‘All right, Macca,’ said Robbie.
We all respected Macca’s ability with a dead-ball, but Robbie had other ideas. He sneaked up and smacked the ball in the top corner. Bang!
‘Fucking hell, Robbie!’ Macca shouted.
‘Get in!’ laughed Robbie, and ran off.
Everyone thought Macca was chasing Robbie to congratulate him. Bollocks. He was trying to throttle him! Wycombe pulled one back, but it was too little, too late. Liverpool were in the FA Cup final. Class!
I couldn’t wait to celebrate. I got home, went into town, and the atmosphere was quality. All the Liverpool fans were out in force, buzzing we were going back to the Millennium. Everyone around the world would be watching Liverpool’s FA Cup final date with Arsenal – a real glamour pairing. As a kid, the FA Cup final had always mesmerized me. God, I envied the players. Now it was me. Bring it on.
The build-up to the big day, 12 May, passed in a blur. Was I actually going to the final, or just locked in a childhood dream? I had prayed for this moment. The cup final suits, the banter and interviews, the sense of expectation around the club and the city. Everyone flying. All the trivia on the telly, the speculation about line-ups, and cameras around the hotel. Non-stop rolling news, focusing on us, the finalists. The attention was unbelievable. It was like no other game ever mattered as much as this one. To think some cynics were suggesting the FA Cup had lost its magic. What a joke! Try telling that to the tens of thousands of Liverpool fans who charged down the motorway to Cardiff in May 2001, singing all the way, flags and scarves streaming from windows, a Red army on the move. Try telling that to the players, Englishmen like me, who view the famous old trophy as a Holy Grail. Our dads taught us about the Cup, sat us down on that great Saturday in May to watch, and explained that few honours can beat being the man who steps up to lift the FA Cup. Try telling the foreign lads the FA Cup means little. Their cup competitions are sideshows. Not ours. The foreign boys know all about the massive significance of the FA Cup. Didi didn’t need a history lesson; he grew up watching it. Didi’s first word in English was probably ‘cup’.
This huge anticipation meant I never slept a wink on the Friday night. As I walked out of the Millennium tunnel, into the heat of the day and the fever of our fans, I thought of past finals. I followed the footsteps of so many men who made footballing history. All the clichés of the Cup flashed through my mind. Enjoy the day, seize the moment, and all that. Cup folklore also demands that a team needs a touch of luck to win, and our 2–1 victory over Arsenal certainly proved that. Arsenal smashed us all over Cardiff for eighty-three minutes. They deserved to win. No dispute. They had the ball while we chased mocking shadows. It was a good Arsenal side, with defenders like Tony Adams and Ashley Cole, and attackers like Thierry Henry and Robert Pires. Patrick Vieira was immense in central midfield. We’ve faced each other many times, but never has Vieira played better than on that day. He was fucking magnificent, winning the ball, running midfield, setting up attacks – head and shoulders above anyone. The final was hardly a classic, it just drifted by like a lazy stream, but Patrick moved to a different, faster rhythm. He took the game by the scruff of the neck and dominated. I wanted his shirt. Badly.
When Freddie Ljungberg scored I thought that was it. Game over. Dream dead. Shake Vieira’s hand and go home. Loser. Try again. Arsenal were too good for us. How they w
ere leading only by Ljungberg’s goal, I don’t know. Well, I do actually. Stéphane Henchoz played like a goalkeeper for us for a while, unofficially sharing the handling duties with Sander. Fortunately for Liverpool, referee Steve Dunn did not notice his hand-balls. Thank God. We’d have been 2–0 down by half-time if Dunn had awarded nailed-on penalties, more if Arsenal had taken the chances they kept creating.
Everyone expected Arsenal to chew us to pieces and spit us out. They outplayed us, no question, but they never broke us. Liverpool had a spirit that wouldn’t crack. When Freddie’s goal went in, Arsenal got all cocky and thought they had won. But we are Liverpool. We don’t throw in the towel. Never. Our fans wouldn’t let us. I wouldn’t let us. Suddenly, with seven minutes left, a ball fell in the Arsenal box and I thought I had a chance. I swung my foot back and then brought it down and in. No contact. The ball had gone. Michael had pounced in front of me. Half-volley, full impact, past David Seaman, 1–1. Thank God Michael hit the ball before it came to me. I would probably have shovelled it over the bar. I was still going through with my redundant shot when Michael sprinted away, making for Liverpool’s fans. He did that celebratory toss-over of his, with me, Robbie and Emile grabbing him, going berserk with happiness. I couldn’t believe we were level with Arsenal.
Hold on. Keep it tight. Steady. Arsenal will hit back. Extra time seemed our aim. Then, with the stadium clock showing eighty-eight minutes, Michael did the impossible. He has this fantastic knack of scoring spectacular goals at vital moments. The ball was put between Martin Keown and Lee Dixon, and Michael was in like a flash. Nine times out of ten when Michael runs through with the ball on his right foot it ends with a goal. On his left foot, Michael still had a lot of work to do, but what a finish! Bang. Take that, Arsenal. Lightning had struck twice. Seaman was beaten, and so were Arsenal. The life ebbed from them. What a turnaround. Still to this day the Liverpool lads joke about that 2001 FA Cup final being Arsenal versus Owen. I don’t dispute we had luck on our side that day, but we also had Michael.
The final whistle sounded so sweet. I walked across to the Arsenal players, who lay scattered about like victims of a motorway pile-up. Vieira was my target. I found him, and we hugged. Two sportsmen who had hammered away at each other parted, a mutual respect deepened. But some Arsenal people were graceless in defeat. I couldn’t believe the reaction of Arsène Wenger and Ljungberg, for instance. They moaned on in the post-match interviews, saying, ‘Liverpool didn’t deserve it. We did. It should be us with the winner’s medals.’ No-one likes a sore loser, and no-one loses as sorely as Arsenal. Wenger and Ljungberg kept complaining about the hand-balls. Get real, boys. That’s football. Grow up. I’ve played in loads of games Liverpool dominated and should have won but ended up with nothing, except a nasty feeling of frustration. Unfortunately for Arsenal, their bad luck came in an FA Cup final. So what? I wasn’t interested in Arsenal’s bitter reaction. I just wanted my Vieira shirt, my winner’s medal, and to get back to the hotel to celebrate. I left Arsenal to their sour grapes and went off for some beer.
Typically, Gérard urged moderation, reminding us that the season was not over. Just four days away was the UEFA Cup final. ‘Only two beers,’ he ordered. We tried briefly to keep to the limit, honestly. Tried and failed. Two beers was insufficient to honour the FA Cup. I had a few more than a couple. All the players had a good drink. We were so happy. We weren’t thinking about the UEFA Cup, we were thinking about the FA Cup, which was now heading to Anfield. I looked around at all the other players and sensed the deep satisfaction flowing through them. They had fantasized about this moment all their lives. So we drank, and we toasted Michael. Tomorrow could wait. Tomorrow, we’d get rid of the hangovers and get ready for the UEFA Cup. But that precious night, we sat and drank and joked and revelled in our achievement. For me, that was the highlight of Liverpool’s Treble season. Nothing rivals the FA Cup.
Being French, Gérard felt differently. He was more turned on by the UEFA Cup than the FA Cup. Liverpool’s dressing-room was split between the English lads excited most by the FA Cup and the foreigners more interested in the UEFA Cup. I smiled at Gérard’s pleas after Cardiff. ‘Live like monks,’ he urged me, Carra and the rest. ‘I know you’ve won the FA Cup, but the UEFA Cup means so much.’ Gérard was obsessed with the trophy. He told us how much it weighed, and all about its history, but the UEFA Cup never raided my dreams like the FA Cup.
Europe was still a wonderful experience that season, though. The early rounds of the UEFA Cup saw Liverpool progress past Rapid Bucharest and Slovan Liberec, where Carra had the only nightmare I can ever remember him having. ‘Are you all right, son?’ Gérard asked Carra at half-time. ‘Are you not well?’ Carra was that bad. We were all pissing ourselves laughing. He was pulled, but we still got through, booking a third-round tie with Olympiakos. When we turned up in Athens towards the end of November, it was dead hostile: 50,000 loons, flares going off, and flags everywhere. The Greek fans were far away from the pitch, but they have a good arm on them. Their missiles still covered the distance. Great atmospheres like that really get me going, and I scored a glancing header off a Gary Mac corner.
Injury ruled me out of facing Roma in the fourth round, which was frustrating. I fancied playing against Francesco Totti, who’s my kind of player – a real gladiator. Fortunately, Totti was also injured so I didn’t miss out on a duel I craved. Unbelievably, Roma players slagged off Liverpool, saying they would walk all over us, which gave the lads all the motivation they needed. Beating the likes of Gabriel Batistuta and Cafu 2–0 in the Olympic Stadium gave the boys the confidence to believe the UEFA Cup could be lifted.
Next up were Porto, a really defensive side with a touch of skill in Deco and Capucho. We got the clean sheet we wanted at the Stadio Das Antas in early March, because we knew Portuguese sides don’t really travel. They were duly finished off at Anfield a week later. I hit a volley and their keeper, Espinha, pulled off a worldie save.
Not even a rabid Evertonian could accuse Liverpool of taking the easy route to the UEFA Cup – the semi-finals brought mighty Barcelona. For many players, Camp Nou is the greatest stage on earth. I was buzzing to play there. Training there on the eve of the first leg, I couldn’t concentrate. No chance. I was a tourist, looking round in admiration at this magnificent building. Carra and I kept smiling at each other. ‘Some fucking stadium,’ I said to him. Having a kickabout at Camp Nou felt a long way from playing bare-arse on Ironside. The next night, I wasn’t really bothered about the result. Just let me on the Camp Nou pitch, let me hear those 90,000 mad fans. I just wanted to enjoy the occasion, and not think about winning or losing.
Barcelona were brilliant. Pepe Reina kept goal with the assurance he now shows for Liverpool. In attack, Rivaldo and Patrick Kluivert toyed with us. Barcelona never really had a front-man; those two just moved wide and deep, letting midfielders like Luis Enrique and Marc Overmars through. My job was in the middle, and rarely have I been so exhausted mentally and physically by opponents’ unbelievable movement. Barcelona fielded Pep Guardiola and Philip Cocu behind the midfield, and whichever one I tried to screen, the other came in to receive the ball. I went dizzy trying to follow them. Barcelona gave us a lesson in pass and move, qualities supposed to be Liverpool’s hallmark. The possession stats must have been seventy-thirty in Barcelona’s favour. When Robbie came on in the second half, he asked Frank de Boer for a loan of their ball! On the few occasions we managed to get out of our half, I heard the shout from our bench: ‘Great!’ Nicking a 0–0 was a fabulous achievement. I immediately ran to Kluivert to swap shirts. I occasionally look at that shirt and remember that footballing lesson in Catalonia.
Tactically, we delivered a smart performance at Camp Nou and came away with a goalless draw, so I couldn’t understand the criticism assailing us. ‘Cautious Liverpool’ was one of the kinder headlines. So fucking what? Going gung-ho against Barcelona would have been suicide. The press, particularly in Spain, labelled Liverpool as ‘boring’.
That got under a lot of people’s skin at Anfield. It never worried me because I was building a medal collection in that 2000/01 season. One, two – count them. If Gérard had made us more adventurous that season, my haul would have been smaller. We were strong defensively and then hit teams on the counter-attack – bang, bang, you’re dead. It suited the players we had. At Anfield in the second leg we reached our first European final in sixteen years with a Gary Mac pen and then another unbelievable defensive display in the second half. Job done.
Boredom was certainly not a word used to describe the final in Dortmund on 16 May. The atmosphere was special, because we were FA Cup winners. We didn’t have the cigars out, but we certainly landed in Germany with our chests out. No matter what happened against our opponents, Alaves, Liverpool’s season was a success. I was so relaxed, I slept like a baby every night in the run-up to Dortmund. I awoke on the morning of the final to discover our wonderful fans were everywhere in Dortmund, painting the town red. The journey from the hotel to the stadium was bedlam. Massive numbers of Liverpool supporters lined the streets, cheering us on, causing traffic chaos. Just parking the bus took half an hour. The fans wouldn’t let us in. They had not seen us since Cardiff, and were determined to salute that victory. As security tried to force a way through, I looked out of the bus window and saw all the T-shirts: ‘FA Cup winners 01’ and ‘Treble 2001’. Everyone believed the Treble was now inevitable, but no-one anticipated such an extraordinary match against Alaves, the surprise Spanish package. Finals don’t come much more entertaining.
Because we had won the Worthington Cup and the FA Cup, there was no pressure on us, and we just went out and enjoyed ourselves; if we had lost to Arsenal, we would have been a lot more cautious, sitting deep, stifling Alaves and playing on the counter-attack. Within four minutes, Gary Mac lifted over a ball and Markus Babbel put us ahead – a brave header, because he received an elbow for his troubles. Gary Mac’s set-pieces were vital for Liverpool that season, and they were no flukes. Small details determine big games, and Gary Mac’s constant practice, day in day out, meant he had corners, free-kicks and penalties off to a T. He was in such good form that Gérard gave me the right flank against Alaves. Thanks a lot. Gérard took the easy option. Rather than take on a respected old pro like Gary Mac, he sent a youngster out on the graveyard shift. Complaining was pointless. Gérard wouldn’t listen, and moaning is not my style. Besides, I soon scored. I owe Michael a lot because his ball through was spot-on, inviting me to try my luck. Head down, smash it, 2–0. Alaves were no fools. They fought all the way. Ivan Alonso came on, pulled one back, but then Gary Mac slotted in a penalty: 3–1.
Gerrard: My Autobiography Page 17