That’s why we scored so early. Four minutes! When Riise megged Lamps out wide, me and Milan ran into positions. Instinct, shaped by training, took over. I was backing away to create space as Riise’s cross came in. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Milan making a run in. If I got the ball to Milan, he was through on goal. With Terry in the way, I had to keep the ball off the floor, so I put some sting into it, slightly over-hitting it to make sure it got past JT. Baros was really brave and got a touch, taking it away from Petr Cech, who brought Milan down. ‘Pen!’ I shouted. Cech had to be off. Cast-iron penalty.
Everything happened in a split-second. As Milan fell, Garcia appeared from nowhere, got this contact and put the ball in the net. William Gallas hooked the ball out. Was it in? Where’s the ref? There he is. What’s he doing, saying? Lubos Michel blew and pointed towards the halfway line. Goal! My arms went up. Celebration time. I ran towards the Centenary Stand. All Anfield shook. Liverpool fans went mental. Chelsea fans and players went into meltdown. ‘It wasn’t across the line!’ they screamed at Michel. I couldn’t tell. Even now, I still don’t know. The Slovak ref gave it because of the noise behind the goal. The reaction of the Liverpool fans, all of them leaping up and celebrating, persuaded Michel that Garcia had scored. Chelsea moaned about it. Mourinho still does. I laugh. Chelsea’s complaints are ridiculous. If it wasn’t a goal, Cech would have been red-carded for bringing down Milan. What would Chelsea have made of that? We all know how important Cech is to Chelsea. Down to ten men, facing a penalty, probably down 1–0. Is that what Chelsea wanted? Liverpool could have gone on to win 4–0. Chelsea got off lightly. They should keep quiet. All this bollocks about it not being a penalty, a sending-off or a goal. Who cares? The ref gave it. End of story.
I raced back to the halfway line, shouting instructions at the lads. ‘Keep it tight. Give nothing away. Make every tackle count. Every pass.’ I knew Chelsea would hit back. JT and Lamps wave a blue flag, never a white one. Mourinho was off the bench, yelling at his players. Chelsea were livid over the goal. Their blood boiled and they sought revenge. Time to stand firm. Anfield staged a re-run of the Alamo. We were under siege, under attack from every angle. Chelsea had players everywhere, like it was thirteen against eleven. Fuck me, I could hardly breathe I was so busy chasing around. Arjen Robben came flying on. Christ. Another fire raging. Big Robert Huth went up front. A towering inferno to put out. Chelsea, the wealthiest team in the world, a side with so much skill, were going Route One. Desperation stuff. Long balls rained down on us.
We survived because of one man – Jamie Carragher. I looked at Carra and saw a man hell-bent on not letting the lead slip. He was prepared to offer the last drop of sweat and blood in his body to get us to Istanbul. Carra knows his history and knew what it meant for Liverpool to reach the final. He did everything to prevent Chelsea ruining Liverpool’s dream. He tackled, blocked, headed. Good at the Bridge, Carra was a Colossus at Anfield. ‘If I get a booking,’ he kept saying, ‘I will miss the game.’ But he didn’t. In fact, Carra was awesome all the way through the tournament. No wonder Inter Milan were interested in him. He kept stifling some of the best centre-forwards in the world. He saw off Zlatan Ibrahimovic when we played Juventus. Didier Drogba didn’t get a sniff, either. And when Huth, the mobile mountain, came up front at Anfield, Carra handled him brilliantly, too.
I began looking around for the fourth official. How much injury time would he give. Three? Four, tops. The electronic board went up. Six minutes? Six fucking minutes! What the hell was going on? I couldn’t believe it. Honest to God, I wanted to strangle the fourth official. How can we survive? We are in trouble here. Running on empty. Shattered. I glanced at Carra. Shit. His face was stained with sweat and worry. Even heroic Carra had nothing left to give. He had dug deep so often. Liverpool were like heavyweights who had taken so many punches and now clung to the ropes. Keep going. Head the ball away. Tackle. Just find that extra drop of energy to make the run. Keep fighting. Jesus, those six minutes felt like sixty. Chelsea’s pressure was like an electric drill, hammering away at the rocks of our defence. At some point an opening would surely appear.
With seconds left, the ball fell to Gudjohnsen close in. Not Gudjohnsen. Of all Chelsea people. That was it. Goal. He can’t miss. Dream over. I couldn’t bear to watch as he made contact. Then a roar swept around Anfield. He’d missed! And it’s a goal-kick! Fuck. I smiled at Carra. ‘His shot touched my legs!’ laughed Carra. ‘It was going in. I was waiting for a corner!’
Then Michel blew for full-time. Bliss. Safety. We had hung on by the skin of our teeth. ‘We’re going to the final,’ I said to Carra as we partied on the pitch, ‘and we’re going to win it!’ Liverpool deserved to be in Istanbul. For all Chelsea’s whinging, we were the better side over the 180 minutes. Sorry, 186 minutes. I still don’t know where those extra six minutes came from.
I shook hands with Chelsea’s England lads. JT was really good. ‘Good luck in Istanbul,’ he said. At first, I wasn’t sure he meant it. But the more I thought about JT’s comment, the more I believed he probably did. John’s genuine. Still, I could see how devastated he was. All the life had drained from his face; he was gone, emotionally a wreck. Poor guy. I knew how much Europe meant to him. Chelsea wanted it badly. I heard the Chelsea lads out on the England tour in America couldn’t bring themselves to watch the final. Some people criticized them for that, for being small-minded. I didn’t. I understood Chelsea’s reaction. If they had gone through, I would have wished the England lads all the best, but I’m not sure I could have stomached seeing JT lifting the European Cup.
Back in the dressing-room, it was going mad. Everyone was dancing, hugging, punching the air and shouting. Istanbul! Final! Fucking brilliant! ‘Right,’ I shouted. ‘Into town now. Everyone.’ So off we went, the boys in their trackies, wives and girlfriends in their smart clothes, all piling down to the Living Room, a great bar. Everyone congregated there. Carra, as usual, led the dancing and singing. People were bouncing off the walls. Adrenalin made up for the tired legs. We’d won nothing, just the right to compete for the European Cup, but the lads partied like we had won it.
Only in the cold light of day the following morning, when I leafed through the papers, did it fully sink in what we had achieved. Liverpool were back in the European Cup final. Carra came over and we sat and talked, and then watched the highlights on Sky, even the extra six minutes conjured by a fourth official out of thin air. ‘Definite corner!’ laughed Carra as Gudjohnsen’s shot brushed him.
That night, I met up with John Arne Riise at the St Thomas’s Hotel in town to watch the second leg of PSV Eindhoven against Milan. ‘I hope PSV go through,’ I said to John Arne. ‘We’d have a better chance of beating PSV than Milan.’ The Italians had so many good players, like Andrei Shevchenko, Kaka and Andrea Pirlo. ‘Don’t fancy playing them.’ Over the two legs, PSV deserved to make it, but Milan pipped them at the death. As I climbed back into my car, I knew one thing: Istanbul was going to be hellishly tough.
17
The Miracle
ISTANBUL WAS MADNESS, pure, utter, wonderful madness. Scousers everywhere. In the airport, in the hotel. In bars, up trees. Everywhere. We couldn’t move. Even on the journey from Istanbul airport to our hotel, I kept looking out the window and seeing people I knew. Amazing. Kick-off was still forty-eight hours away! Whenever I stepped out of my hotel room, Liverpool fans were walking down the corridor, giving me the thumbs-up, slaps on the back. ‘All right, Stevie lad? All the best.’ Time after time. Fans booked rooms in Liverpool’s hotel, others just blagged their way in. ‘There can’t be anyone left back in Liverpool,’ I said to Carra. ‘They must all be here.’ Every time we came down to eat, we weaved through masses of Liverpool supporters. Every time we went out to train, we got stopped for photographs, autographs. I love Liverpool fans, but their invasion of our hotel became a serious distraction. Every time I tried to catch some sleep, the fans’ singing shook my room. I closed the window, pulled the cur
tains tight, and put the pillow over my head. Still it came. Song after song. ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’. ‘The Fields of Anfield Road’. It was like trying to sleep on the Kop. Old anthems mixed with new favourites, like ‘In Istanbul, We’ll Win It Five Times’ and that endless ‘Ring of Fire’ chant. Johnny Cash’s famous song played through my head every night like machine-gun fire. Dud, dud, dud, dud, dud, da, da, da. I find myself singing it now. It’s so catchy and takes me back to the madness and the miracle of Istanbul.
Even when I managed to find some quiet in my room, my mobile went crazy. Mates and family kept calling to wish me luck and to check on tickets. Tickets were bloody gold-dust; it was like a scene from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. The whole world, and certainly half of Merseyside, hunted one of those precious, reddy pieces of paper with the Champions League logo and ‘Ataturk Olympic Stadium’ on it. Sorting out tickets proved a mental job, far more difficult and time-consuming than actually preparing for the final. ‘You will each be allocated twenty-five tickets,’ Liverpool told us. Brilliant. ‘My list of names already runs to fifty,’ I told Carra. He laughed. Carra was the same. He had a whole army coming out to Istanbul. With a bit of sweet-talking here and calling in favours there, I somehow scrounged the fifty. Family got sorted first, Paul and my dad. Mum wouldn’t come, and nor would Alex. ‘You’ve got to come to Istanbul,’ I pleaded with Alex. ‘It’s the final. Special. You can’t miss it.’ Her reply was a firm no. I understood. Alex doesn’t like flying. I called up Boggo, who also hates plane journeys.
‘Come on, Boggo, you don’t know what you’re missing out on here,’ I said.
‘I can’t fly for four hours on a shit flight,’ Boggo replied.
I begged him. ‘Struan’ll sort you a good flight. Don’t worry.’
Christ, Struan was busy. Agent, travel agent, friend. His phone was red-hot. Players kept calling him to pass on good luck messages. John Terry phoned. ‘Give Stevie all the best from me,’ JT told Struan. When Stru passed on JT’s message, I was genuinely moved. JT already had massive respect from me, but he went up even higher in my estimation. We’d beaten Chelsea, but JT didn’t think of his own disappointment. Just of me. If Chelsea ever get to a Champions League final, I’ll call JT to make him aware that I’m behind him all the way. Another top man, Thierry Henry, also got a message through. Thierry and JT were my rivals, opponents I had torn into all season; now they showed their class as blokes. I’ll never forget their calls of support before Istanbul. Never. If John Terry or Thierry Henry ever find themselves in a corner off the pitch, I’ll be in there, fighting for them. I promise. When Arsenal reached the 2006 final, I was straight on to Thierry, wishing him all the best. I was gutted Arsenal never held on against Barcelona in Paris.
A year before that, Istanbul felt like a giant, overcrowded waiting-room for me and the rest of the Liverpool squad. We trained, we ate, we tried to sleep, but all we did was run down the clock until D-Day. Training was good, although we were all amazed at the Ataturk Stadium. We drove along roads into the middle of nowhere, and eventually the stadium loomed up in the distance, like a spaceship abandoned in the desert.
‘Where the hell are we playing?’ Carra said.
‘Fucking strange place to play a European Cup final,’ I agreed.
At least the journey helped kill some time.
I had to attend a press conference at the stadium with Milan’s famous captain, Paolo Maldini. As I left the lads to make my way there, Carra shouted after me, ‘If you see the European Cup, don’t touch it.’ All the boys yelled similar warnings. Footballers are a superstitious bunch. Sure enough, I walked into the press conference room and there it was, the silver trophy with the big-ear handles, standing in pride of place on a pedestal. I had to walk past it to reach my seat. ‘Don’t touch it.’ Carra’s words boomed in my head. Don’t tempt fate. Maybe tomorrow I’ll touch it, hold it and lift it to the heavens. Only then.
Christ, it was tough. As I inched past the cup that fills the dreams of everyone at Liverpool, my palms flooded with sweat. I felt it call out to me. Touch me. Feel me. I was mesmerized by it. One glinting trophy, a million memories. I thought of all those great players who’d touched it before. Kenny Dalglish, Graeme Souness, Alan Hansen. Liverpool legends. European Cup winners. I wanted it so badly. I just wanted to take it home, back where the European Cup belongs. Anfield. Somehow, I reached my seat without touching it. Carra would never have forgiven me.
I sat down and turned to Maldini, all suave and Italian. Jesus, Maldini looked relaxed. Been there, done that, got the T-shirt – a high-fashion one. I was a kid next to Maldini, an apprentice next to an experienced master. Maldini’s all right, a decent guy, but he had been in this situation so many times. It was another season, another final for this Milan great. He smiled at me. I saw his perfect teeth, caught that look of confidence in his eyes. ‘Fuck me,’ I thought, ‘Milan think they have fucking won this.’ We shook hands for the cameras. I stared at him, and then at the cup. Which of us would hold it tomorrow? Which of us would take that cup home?
Maldini cut into my dreaming. ‘Good luck tomorrow,’ he said.
Milan were the favourites. History, the bookmakers and the pundits sided with them. Everyone expected Maldini to be the captain who touched the European Cup in Istanbul. I was desperate to say to him, ‘Listen, Paolo, you’ve lifted this fucking cup four times. Just let me lift it once.’
Lost in thought, I climbed back into a UEFA car to head back to the hotel. Tomorrow would be the toughest night of my life. Fears crowded in. Meeting Maldini reminded me of the quality of opponent barring our way to the European Cup. Images flashed up in my mind like pen-pix plucked from the match programme: Andrei Shevchenko, Cafu, Kaka, Hernan Crespo. My stomach twisted in knots.
Bollocks. My natural competitive streak quickly kicked in. Respect, but no fear. We’re Liverpool. We’re not here to make up the numbers. Carra, me and the boys have been through too many scrapes, passed too many tests. Olympiakos. Juventus. Chelsea. We’d taken the hard road to Istanbul. We have nothing to lose. Nothing. I looked out the car window and saw the thousands of Liverpool fans sitting in Istanbul’s bars and cafés, singing and chatting away without a care in the world. So, Stevie lad, where’s the pressure? No matter what happens tomorrow, we will return to Liverpool as heroes. Our fans love us. We got them to a final. They are having a party. At the start of the season, Milan expected to be in Istanbul on 25 May; Liverpool expected to be on holiday. The pressure was all on Milan, not Liverpool. Let’s have a right good go and then go home.
After dinner, Carra, Didi and Sami came to my room and we talked and talked about our hopes and fears for the next day. ‘We have come this far,’ I said. ‘Let’s not fuck up now.’
The day of the game passed in a blur of nerves, snatched moments of sleep, and deep thought. Each player knew he approached the crunch-point of his career, when he could write his name in the history books. Time to go. Time for the bus. The adrenalin really flowed as we worked our way through the crowds outside our hotel. On the bus, sit back in the seat, breathe deeply.
The journey to the Ataturk was weird. Usually on the way to European away games, the sights and sounds are pretty familiar. Sirens, people hanging out of windows, giving us abuse, wanker signs, sometimes a volley of spit, a bottle or stone against the window. But this was bizarre. Because the Turks had built this new ground in the middle of nowhere there was just silence, until we started seeing our fans near the stadium. Playing a final miles from anywhere did not stop them. If Liverpool reached a final on the moon, our amazing fans would get there. The memory of all those supporters flocking to the Ataturk, walking across fields, on the hard shoulder, in the middle of the road, will never leave me. The scene resembled a pilgrimage, with 40,000 worshippers trekking miles to a steel cathedral. Liverpool fans waved at us, banged on the side of the bus. ‘This means everything to the fans,’ I shouted down the bus. ‘We can’t let them down.’
Passing Live
rpool’s support congregated on one side of the Ataturk, we drove around to the Milan side, to the main entrance. It was dead quiet there, no-one around – really weird. A few Milan fans were about, but they ignored the Liverpool coach. They were cool. Obviously, Milan fans thought they were going to walk it. I stole a last listen to my phone, read the final good luck texts from Michael and family, and switched it off. Time to focus. Time to exclude all other thoughts from my mind except beating Milan.
Rafa had not told us the team, so our dressing-room was racked with tension. About an hour before kick-off, he finally called for quiet and read out the starting eleven: ‘Jerzy in goal; Finnan, Carra, Sami, Djimi at the back; Luis on the right, Xabi and Stevie in the middle, Riise on the left; Harry and Milan up front.’ No Didi. That was my immediate reaction. I glanced across at him. Typical German, he showed no emotion. God, I felt for him. He must have been devastated not to start. Instead, Rafa picked Harry Kewell, who had been injured. I was surprised by the decision. Didi had performed really well in Europe. I assumed I would be playing off Baros with Didi and Xabi in midfield. So, yes, it was a shock that Didi was excluded. Baros starting ahead of Cissé wasn’t so much of a surprise. He played against Chelsea, and we knew Rafa preferred him. Harry was different. Rafa wanted to attack AC Milan, using Harry’s pace. If he had put in a young lad like Le Tallec, that would have been a gamble, but Harry had experience. But was he fit? No, not 100 per cent. All the Liverpool players knew that, but we also all had confidence that Harry could deliver.
Rafa was dead relaxed. The boss never came out with any great rallying cry, just some calm, last-minute instructions. ‘Keep it tight,’ he said. ‘Make no mistakes. Let’s settle and try to play our own game.’
It was time. I led the players into the tunnel, lined up, and nodded to Maldini. Shevchenko strolled over and shook hands as if I were his oldest friend. Fuck me, how laid-back were Milan? Rafa’s number two, Pako Ayestarán, pulled me for a quick word. ‘When you get out there,’ he said, ‘get the players in a huddle before kick-off.’
Gerrard: My Autobiography Page 30