I wished I’d been near a post to ease the pain in my calves. I was out wide fighting a Brazilian fire-storm called Serginho. As I chased him, I remembered the agony of past defeats like the Carling Cup final to Chelsea. I wasn’t letting this final get away. That medal was mine. Dead inside, I had to show strength to keep the team believing. Be strong. Be the captain. I kept urging everyone on. Amid all the turmoil, I also wanted to show my respect to Milan, particularly to Shevchenko, a king among strikers and a prince among men. When I tackled the Ukrainian, I helped him up. When we swapped ends after the first period of extra time, I passed him and said, ‘Good luck.’ I am not a pal of Shevchenko’s, but he captained me in that tsunami benefit game, and we got talking. Shevchenko’s sound.
He is also among the top forwards in the world, and when the ball fell to him two yards out with two minutes remaining, I thought, ‘That’s it. It really is over now. Shevchenko will never miss.’ I couldn’t believe what happened. No-one present in the Ataturk Stadium that extraordinary evening will ever understand. Shevchenko thought he had scored with a header. Jerzy blocked. Shevchenko then thought he had netted the follow-up, but Jerzy blocked again. These were freak saves, not technical ones worked on in training. Some extra force protected Liverpool in those moments. I really believe that. When Jerzy made that incredible double save, I felt someone upstairs was on our side. Milan felt that God and Lady Luck deserted them. Psychologically, the Italians were shot to pieces, and that is the worst frame of mind going into a penalty shootout.
When the final whistle went I was pulled all over the place by different emotions. There was relief and pride that we had fought back to draw, and then held on when Serginho and Shevchenko came calling. But I felt desperately nervous because pens awaited. Rafa marched across and looked at us, establishing who was confident enough to take one. ‘No,’ said Djimi. ‘Yeah,’ said Carra, typically. Carra always fancies himself at pens. Rafa also got a yes from Didi, Xabi, me, Vladi, Djibril, Riise and Garcia. From those eight, Rafa chose his starting five. I looked at the order on his list: Didi, Djibril, Riise, Vladi and me. Fifth! Thanks. The pressure is always on the fifth penalty-taker as any mistake usually means oblivion. As I thought about the additional pressure on my kick, Luis badgered Rafa. ‘I want a pen,’ he said. I was proud that so many of our players wanted the responsibility. Inside, they may have been screaming ‘No, no!’, but they didn’t hide when Liverpool Football Club needed them most.
As Mejuto Gonzalez called the teams together, the reality of pens began to sink in. Can’t get out of it now. I began preparing myself, imagining where I was going to put it. When I missed against Spurs, I said publicly, ‘I will never take a penalty again.’ I lied. Penalties are a great opportunity to score. And as captain, I must take responsibility. I must step up. ‘Fair enough,’ I’d said to Rafa, ‘I’ll take the fifth penalty.’ I’ll go and score it.
First up, I had to go across to Mejuto Gonzalez with Maldini to toss. ‘If you win the toss, go first to put the extra pressure on them,’ Carra told me as I walked to the ref. Maldini won again. What the fuck was going on? I lost three tosses that night. Did he have a double-headed coin? ‘We’ll kick first,’ said Maldini. They also had the end, which seemed a real advantage. Milan’s fans would do everything to put us off. Flares, screaming abuse, everything.
But we had our own secret weapon: Carra. Just before Jerzy set off for the goal, Carra pulled him. ‘Do the spaghetti legs,’ he told him. Jerzy looked blank. Carra got right in Jerzy’s face and began shaking his arms in the air. He explained how Bruce Grobbelaar had done a wobbly legs routine in the shootout of the 1984 European Cup final to put off Roma. I’m not sure Jerzy was up for a history lesson at that particular moment, but he understood Carra’s impersonation of Grobbelaar. My advice to Jerzy was simpler: ‘Good luck.’ Carra’s words, though, clearly impressed Jerzy, who jumped around on the line like a scalded cat. We all watched from the halfway line, arms around each other’s shoulders – a statement that we won or lost together.
Serginho was first up. Unnerved by Jerzy’s dancing, the poor Brazilian shovelled his kick into the crowd. Standing in the centre-circle, I felt the line of Liverpool bodies rise up and the hands of Garcia and Riise grip my shoulders. ‘Yes!’ I shouted. ‘Go on, Didi.’ Didi untangled himself from our line, and stepped forward. Some penalty-takers look like condemned men as they walk from the centre-circle to the spot. Not Didi. He’s German, and we all know Germans don’t miss penalties. I laughed afterwards when Didi casually remarked he had played with a broken foot. ‘Didi, you could play with two bust feet you move so little!’ I joked. But no, Didi is class, and I knew he would score. He never panics. He’s so experienced. He’s taken pens for Germany. And he nailed this one past Dida, deceiving the Milan keeper with a stutter during his run-up. Again I felt the ripple of joy course through the Liverpool line. Didi strolled back, towards his footballing family, to a row of smiling faces: Carra, Sami, Djibril, Djimi, Garcia, me, Riise, Xabi and Vladi. All in it together.
We watched transfixed as the shootout continued. Jerzy saved Pirlo’s penalty. Yes! Cissé scored. Yes! Jon-Dahl Tomasson then made it 2–1 to us, and it was Riise’s turn. ‘Yeah,’ I thought as he walked up, ‘I would definitely have him in a five.’ Riise’s got one of the best left foots in the game, like a bloody hammer. He ran in to hit the ball. Smash it. Bury it. Do like you normally do with the ball, Ginger. Belt it. Surprisingly, Riise placed it, and Dida pulled off a worldie save. Shit. My heart went out to John Arne. If he had the chance to take that penalty again, he would rip the net off, sending it flying backwards over the Milan fans. In training, if Riise ever takes a penalty or a shot from outside the box, he takes the net off. In Istanbul, he changed his mind during his run-up. When he returned to the line, looking shattered, I tried to console him. But there is nothing anyone can say in situations like that. Riise wouldn’t have heard anyway. He was lost in his own grief. Ever since Istanbul, nobody has mentioned that penalty to him. No-one would display such disrespect to a team-mate we value so highly. Anyone who has ever missed a penalty knows the pain is intense, and would rightly be livid if someone tried to banter about it. Gary Mac still does not appreciate people coming up and talking about his penalty miss for Scotland against England at Euro 96. Stuart Pearce and Paul Ince don’t either. Bloody right too. They showed the bottle to take a penalty in a brutal situation. So did Riise. No-one blames him.
When Kaka beat Jerzy to make it 2–2, it was Smicer’s turn to leave the security of the Liverpool line and make that unforgiving walk. Go on, Vladi. Surprise still coloured my thoughts as I watched Vladi go. Why did Rafa pick Smicer among the five? Vladi was leaving Liverpool after the final. Would he be right mentally? Again, Rafa got it right. My doubts disappeared into the back of Dida’s net, along with Vladi’s fantastic penalty. He strolled back kissing the Liverpool badge. Vladi told me afterwards he was cramping up. No-one noticed! Some pen, Vladi! How calm was that, sending Dida the wrong way? Top man. Wherever Vladi goes in the world, whoever he plays for, whatever he does for the rest of his life, I want him to know that I will think of him and thank him for that penalty in Istanbul, for what he did for Liverpool with his last kick for the club. It couldn’t have happened to a nicer person. Things hadn’t gone perfectly for Vladi at Liverpool. Sadly, he was always injured, or he underperformed. He did have some good games, but not enough. At least his performance in the final was a perfect send-off.
Vladi’s pen meant Shevchenko had to score. ‘He will,’ I thought as I watched him place the ball down. Usually, Shevchenko passes the ball hard into the net. Time after time. His finishing is up there with the best in the world. But his mind must have been a mess, especially after that double-miss moments before in extra time. Shevchenko looked to have the world on his shoulders as he took the ball from Jerzy, our new master of the mind games, who added to the great Ukrainian’s sense of unease by staring him down, bouncing around on his line and then moving a yard off it
. Shevchenko’s kick was weak, placed down the middle, and Jerzy saved it.
Yeeeessss! All the nerves in my body disappeared in one long scream of delight. All my anxiety at having to take the next pen went. I don’t have to take one! It’s done! It’s over! Go and party!
Looking back on the moments after Jerzy’s save is like trying to recall pieces of a dream. I was so caught up in the emotion. But every day since 25 May 2005, little memories of that night have come back to me and I am now able to paint the picture of those precious minutes. Seeing a photograph around the house or at Melwood or Anfield triggers a memory. Did I really dance like that? Did I really sing like that? Whenever I hear ‘Ring of Fire’ I’m swept back to those delirious scenes of celebration. As the picture of that night becomes clearer in my mind, my pride swells even more about winning the European Cup.
When Jerzy made that save off Shevchenko, the sprint was on to reach our amazing keeper. Carra was supposed to have cramp, but it didn’t look like it! He was first out of the blocks, followed by Finnan, Luis, Riise, Xabi, Didi, then me and the rest. I then took off to the fans. This special moment was for them. Kopites had put up with so much, spent so much. We’d repaid them. I danced around on the running track, surrounded by photographers, screaming ‘Yeeeessss!’ I looked at the Liverpool fans and saw all the banners and joyful faces. I saw some of Carra’s family, and celebrated with them. I saw Joe the Red Man, a massive Liverpool fan who I get tickets for. I saluted him and his wife. I couldn’t find my family anywhere, but I knew Dad and Paul and my mates were all in that happy throng. I read the banners, the fans’ tributes to ‘Rafa’s Red Army’ and ‘Stevie G and Carra: The Italian Job’; there was even a picture of me dressed as a gladiator. I saw grown men crying, breaking down with the emotion of seeing Liverpool back on top of Europe again. I saw fathers hugging sons who should have been at school. I saw the best supporters in the world revelling in a moment that meant the world. Never again would they hear the abuse of Manchester United fans about not winning anything important. ‘In Istanbul, we won it five times.’ Five! United had two European Cups; we had five. Our fifth trophy meant we kept the cup for good. The European Cup was coming home, and it would never leave Anfield again.
When that thought hit me, it briefly knocked all the pain out of my battered body. I’m Liverpool captain, and I have just won the European Cup. Won it back permanently for the club I love. Tears rose within me, threatening to break out. I choked them back.
Liverpool supporters tried to haul me into the crowd. ‘Stop pulling or I’ll faint,’ I screamed. No energy left to drag myself back. Finally, I escaped the fans’ embrace. But my legs had gone. I had the wobbles. Sky’s Geoff Shreeves collared me for an interview but I was lost for words, white as a sheet, swaying uncontrollably. My body had given so much over two hours that it was now giving up. Geoff asked me questions, but it was a blur. I wanted to fall to the ground, exhausted. I almost fainted. ‘I find it hard to talk at the moment,’ I told him. Too emotional to continue, I had to break off.
Slowly, I regained my senses. As people came back into focus, I noticed Shevchenko was still there on the pitch, stunned, as if turned to a statue by his penalty miss. One bad kick cannot destroy a forward of Shevchenko’s qualities in my eyes. For me, he will always be a true champion. I hobbled over and embraced him. I looked into his eyes and saw the deep distress. Poor guy. He wore a hollow, haunted look. I heard afterwards that he and the rest of the Milan players threw their medals away. I understood. I wouldn’t have a runners-up medal out on display. As I looked at Shevchenko, pictures of my own past disappointments came to mind: my own-goal in the Carling Cup final, the backpass against France at Euro 2004 – moments when I died a sporting death. My dad and Steve Heighway always taught me to take it on the chin and be gracious in defeat, and some of the Milan players, like Shevchenko, were brilliant to us. ‘Well done,’ Andrei said as we agreed to swap shirts later. Amazing. He’d endured the worst night of his life, yet there he was congratulating the man who had just beaten him. He rose even higher in my admiration. Maldini was magnificent as well, shaking my hand and congratulating me. Maldini’s class, on and off the pitch. ‘Enjoy it,’ he told me as we got ready for the presentations.
As Maldini applauded, we went up to receive our medals. As captain, I was last. When it was my turn, I collected my medal from the main men at UEFA, Lars Christer Olsson and Lennart Johansson. I kissed the medal and thought of Dad. His pride. His smiling face. ‘Thanks, Dad,’ I thought, ‘this is for you, for all the encouragement and the good advice.’ I stood there on the podium, waiting while Rafa and the other coaches were presented with their medals. The UEFA officials hung about, saying things, pointing me this way and that, as officials do. I ignored them. I had eyes only for the cup. There it was. On the pedestal. Closer and closer. Now I could touch it. No inhibitions now. No superstitions. I leant forward and kissed it gently. The silver should have felt cold, but it didn’t.
This may sound mad, but I genuinely felt the cup wanted to be with Liverpool again, going back to Anfield. Liverpool people never stopped loving the European Cup, even when it was far away. Even when it was not in our trophy room, the European Cup was always in Liverpool hearts. It’s a love affair, and that’s why I kissed the cup. I must have kissed it about ten times that night. Alex watched on telly, and when I got home she said, ‘You gave that cup more kisses in a night than you give me in a year!’ She understood, though. I kissed the cup because I wanted to show the world how much it means to Liverpool Football Club.
‘You must be happy,’ said Johansson as he prepared to hand me the cup.
‘It’s for them,’ I replied, pointing to our fantastic supporters.
Johansson seemed reluctant to part with it. Carra went ballistic. ‘Give him it!’ he screamed at the most powerful man in European football. I dug Johansson in the ribs. Hand it over, mate. It’s ours. Carra and I had seen it before at presentations, when the person handing over the trophy tries to lift it or help the winning captain raise it. No chance here. The cup was Liverpool’s. I wrestled it off Johansson and looked around, loving being in control, knowing all our players, our staff and 40,000 fans and millions more watching on TV were waiting to go through the roof. At my command, unleash heaven! I lifted the cup to the stars and the whole place went crazy. Players leaping up and down, red fireworks and streamers going off, the fans dancing madly. Magical. I held it in the air and felt at that moment everyone in the world stopping what they were doing and watching me.
I carried on kissing. Xabi got a smacker full on the lips. So did some of the coaching staff. Rafa got a massive hug. He’s not an emotional man, but if you can’t hug your manager when you’ve just won the European Cup, when can you? I blew a kiss into a television camera for Alex. Carra and I went mental in front of the photographers, dancing around and chanting ‘Ring of Fire’. Badly out of tune, but who cares? We’d just come back from 3–0 down to lift the European Cup.
Back in the dressing-room, everyone embraced, sang and carried on partying. Liverpool’s chairman, David Moores, was in tears, unable to hold back the wave of emotion, his pride getting to him big-style. I looked at him and thought, ‘Yes, this cup is for you, chairman, for all the shite you suffered at AGMs, for all the pressure people put you under. Enjoy the moment, chairman, you deserve it. Always a smile, always a good word. As a chairman, and a friend, you have always been there for me.’ On a night of special sights, here was one of the best: seeing the chairman in the dressing-room, cradling the trophy.
Liverpool’s dressing-room was mobbed. Gérard Houllier squeezed in, which surprised a few. Some people at the club muttered darkly about whether a former manager should join our moment of triumph. Not me. I was pleased. Gérard wasn’t gate-crashing. He came down to congratulate the lads and the chairman. He had earned the right. He genuinely loves Liverpool. He was so happy we had won it, he wanted to congratulate us. Why not? Given his disappointment at leaving, it takes a real man
to return and say ‘well done’. That impressed me. Other managers with different characters might have got their jealous heads on and not wanted us to win. Not Gérard. He was buzzing for us.
When I got back to the hotel, I was shattered, and slumped into a seat. Some of the lads, like Baros, shot off down to Tacsim Square to party with the fans. Our hotel was crammed with fans. My bed called to me, but thousands of people wanted a word, an autograph, a picture. Fighting back the utter exhaustion, I went to the do Liverpool laid on at the hotel. Nothing wild. A lot of the players had their girlfriends and wives around, and we just sat about talking about the game, the emotions, still trying to take it all in. We had been crap in the Premiership in 2004/05 yet here we were, crowned kings of Europe. Crazy. Why? Some of our players were more suited to European football, a less physical world than the Premiership. Our technical players got time on the ball in Europe. We never had enough aggressive players to win the Premiership, nor a target-man to give us the outlet away from home.
I couldn’t think any more. By now, bed screamed out to me. But my mates came into the hotel, so we had a few more beers, a few more laughs. Everyone raved about Kaka, who’d been sensational for Milan. ‘He was the one Milan player I couldn’t get near,’ I said. Struan came in and we talked some more. ‘I really wanted you to take the last pen, for the drama of winning the cup,’ Struan said. I was confident I would have scored, but it was good not to have to find out. Struan ran through all the messages he had received, including one from John Terry. ‘I’m buzzing,’ said JT. ‘Hairs out on the back of my neck. Tell Stevie, brilliant. I’m buzzing for him.’ JT had seen me lift the European Cup knowing it could so easily have been him, and he still wanted to congratulate me. Top man.
Gerrard: My Autobiography Page 32