Carra: My Autobiography

by Jamie Carragher

  If we weren't being accused of relying on good fortune, we were being told how dull we were to watch. This allegation plagued us. For eight months of our UEFA Cup run we sent the nation to sleep, only to rouse everyone with one of the most exciting finals ever.

  The comparisons with Arsenal's and Manchester United's style of play weren't favourable, but the criticism was harsh. We were a developing side and, first and foremost, Houllier was right to make us hard to beat. After years of analysis of Evans's side and complaints about a lack of spine, now the club was being targeted for being too reliant on discipline, structure and organization. Considering the speed with which we'd gone from being a 'soft touch' in that notorious FA Cup tie at Stamford Bridge in 1997 to heading to places like the Nou Camp and grabbing a clean sheet, some of the punditry at the time was foolish and uncharitable. Part of the problem was that all our European games were screened live on BBC1, and you can understand their hoping for a more entertaining brand of football to sustain viewing figures and justify rescheduling EastEnders.

  It's the classic contradiction in the modern game. To us and the fans, winning is entertaining. We saw each victory that season as part of a building process. We hoped in the years to come we'd develop a more fluid style, but at that point of our development, at a club that had only a League Cup win to its name in the previous eight seasons, any win would do.

  I remember saying at the time the history books would never record how we got those fantastic results on our way to the UEFA Cup Final, only that we got them. We kept a clean sheet over 180 minutes against Barcelona, and won 2–0 in the Olympic Stadium in Rome. Fabio Capello was their manager and they won the Italian league that year. We also beat the Porto side that went on to win the UEFA Cup and Champions League in 2003 and 2004 respectively, as well as Olympiakos, who are regularly in the Champions League. It was in fact the strongest UEFA Cup competition in years, packed with Champions League level sides (this was before the number of clubs from the major leagues was increased to four). They were colossal scalps for us, and although they weren't achieved by adopting adventurous tactics, we played to our strengths and did ourselves and the club proud.

  So to get back home and find the BBC telling everyone how boring we were was, to say the least, a bit irritating. I've never been one to get too prickly about media criticism, but I think this undoubtedly sowed the seeds for what followed with Houllier. He could brush off attacks on his team when we were winning, but when things started to go wrong later he became more insecure and bitter about how underrated he'd been.

  The last-sixteen tie with Roma encapsulated how the competition went for us. Clearly we were underdogs heading into it, but we combined our organization, our spirit and our skill to get through. We also had things fall our way at a crucial time.

  Ahead of the first leg on 15 February, Bergues's importance as Houllier's assistant became apparent again. Gérard told us he planned to go with an attacking formation, with Litmanen playing behind Robbie and Heskey; Michael, who'd been in and out of the side after returning from injury, wasn't going to play. Bergues influenced a rethink, and on the day of the game Emile pulled out with an injury. Michael was back in. On such details seasons are defined.

  In that game Michael began the goalscoring run which led to him becoming European Player of the Year. It also demonstrated the difference between a player like Michael and someone like Emile. If the roles had been reversed, there's no way Michael would have stepped aside to allow Emile to play in such a massive game. Emile possessed the ability to be a Liverpool player, but not the mentality. There was a spell during the course of that season when he was unplayable. Even Michael was telling me he thought Emile had become one of the best strikers in Europe, as he battered defenders and began to score regularly. We hoped he'd matured into a striker who'd dominate English football for the next decade. Unfortunately, he didn't sustain it at Anfield. His unavailability in Rome, the sort of fixture you fantasize about as a youngster, offers, to me at least, a possible hint as to why Heskey's career has drifted.

  Michael reaped the benefits in Italy. He scored twice to set us up for the controversial second leg a week later, remembered for a penalty award that wasn't given. We'd missed our own spot-kick with the score at 0–0, and after Roma went ahead it seemed they'd won a penalty for a Babbel handball. The referee appeared to award it, and had Gabriel Batistuta not run off towards the corner flag to take a quick set-piece, I'm sure the decision would have stood. Instead, the official seemed to change his mind. Naturally, our rivals feasted on the Italians' sense of injustice, but we deserved to win over the two legs.

  The same applied to the semi-final against Barcelona, where we were condemned for refusing to allow their best players the time and space to play. Rivaldo was their star man at the time, but we kept him quiet and won, thanks to McAllister's penalty in the second leg.

  'You have betrayed football, Mr Houllier,' the Spanish press told the gaffer in the after-match press conference.

  At that time in his management, he'd always have a clever response. 'They kept the ball, but we kept the result,' he said.

  He'd have the last word in the final, but the more I think about this much-used statement from Houllier, the more I understand why the fans ran out of patience later on. Liverpool's traditions are based on keeping the ball and the result. They tolerated this philosophy in 2001 because we were achieving fantastic results in only his second full season in sole control. A couple of years later, when we were still reverting to this defensive, negative style, our supporters saw no likelihood of him ever changing.

  Nobody cared so much when we sent Barca home to face their white handkerchief brigade. By this stage I was describing each win as the highlight of my career, although with games arriving thick and fast there was no chance to join the fans' celebrations. The atmosphere inside Anfield on the night of the semi-final was, up until that point, the loudest I'd known.

  Those games were the first stirrings of our reawakening on the European stage. After so many years reading about Liverpool's European nights, finally we were creating history for ourselves. Since that 2000–01 season, the classic Euro ties have been re-established at Anfield. They've become an annual event again. Eight years ago we'd waited fifteen years for a chance to recreate the atmosphere and images of the past. The club that is obsessed with revisiting former glories now had an opportunity to do so. A new generation of us had a chance to experience what the players before us had gone through. Of course, some of them would never allow us to suggest our success matched up to theirs, but for those too young to be a part of the magic of the 1960s, 1970s and 1980s, this naturally meant far more.

  The 2001 UEFA Cup Final has since been eclipsed, but at the time it was the highlight of many Liverpudlians' lives, especially those, like me, in their early twenties who'd only seen the old finals on DVD. My friends and younger members of my family had heard all the old stories about travelling to Europe, the nights out in foreign bars and invading town squares, decorating every club or café with the wittiest banners that could be dreamed up. For over a decade no Liverpool fan had had the chance to relive those sensations. We should never forget it was Gérard Houllier who first brought those times back. The sides of Roy Evans and Graeme Souness competed in Europe, but Houllier lived up to Anfield traditions by conquering it.

  Of all the trophies we won that season, the UEFA Cup meant most to him. Modern coaches value European competition more, partly due to traditions in their own country, but also because they're pitting their wits against different managers and tactics. There's an obvious vanity issue there. You can imagine them all at their UEFA coaching conferences, smiling at one another as they chat about their encounters, and privately recalling the games when they got the better of one another. In 2001, Houllier was rightly seen as one of the best coaches in Europe, and winning the UEFA Cup underlined it.

  Dortmund's Westfalenstadion was the perfect venue for us to announce our return to the European elite
– an open ground, with a Kop-like stand behind each goal. Our fans took over the stadium and made it feel like home. There were blankets of red banners across all the stands. On walking out, none of us felt we'd let the fans down.

  Our opponents, Alaves, were an unknown quantity. They'd beaten Inter Milan earlier in the competition, but we knew we were much stronger. We should have overwhelmed them on and off the pitch, and for a while it looked as though we would.

  We raced into a 2–0 lead, but our usually tight defence was unbelievably shaky on the night.

  After all the emotion and adrenalin in the build-up to the match, at some point during the first half a horrific realization dawned on me.

  I was knackered.

  The toil of the last nine months had caught up. My mind was giving my body instructions, but it wasn't able to act upon them. I've never felt so vulnerable and exposed when an opponent attacked. Most of us felt the same way. Alaves came from behind four times to take us into extra time. Their full-back, Cosmin Contra, played so well he earned a transfer to AC Milan. We made him look better than he was.

  An own-goal by Delfi Geli a minute before the end of extra time won us the cup, 5–4. Gary McAllister floated another perfect freekick into the box, and the defender unintentionally took his place in Anfield history. It was the most golden of golden goals. Yet again the 'lucky' jibes were showered on us. Yet again I ask anyone to watch that final again and try to convince me the best team didn't win.

  'This was the greatest UEFA Cup Final of all time,' everyone agreed. The BBC finally had the entertaining football they'd been crying out for. I'd certainly never played in a fixture like it, and was sure I'd never do so again. Cup finals aren't meant to go that way. They're cautious, tight, usually settled by a single goal. 'If we ever reach another European final, it'll be nothing like this,' we told ourselves.

  Over the course of that competition, as in the League Cup and FA Cup, we got our just rewards, even if we made it more difficult for ourselves than it should have been. There was always a sense we didn't get the credit we deserved, and we could never allow the extent of our achievement to sink in. No sooner had we won the UEFA Cup than we had a crucial League fixture to prepare for. It was a relentless grind of a season. We were like marathon runners, pausing to grab an energy drink every few miles before dragging ourselves another extra mile. This led to a strange, incomplete sensation following all our cup wins. We were never allowed to bask in the glory or share the full postmatch euphoria of our fans. Each Cardiff success was acknowledged by no more than a team meal, a celebratory speech from the boss which ended with the message 'keep going', and an early night ahead of preparations for a pivotal game days later. We'd simply take a deep breath and start running again.

  As young lads, I can't deny a certain level of resentment towards the manager for refusing to allow us to over-indulge on the nights of our victories, even though he was right to do so. Other coaches would have been tempted to allow us one night out, but Houllier was adamant we should wait. Usually you can prioritize certain fixtures during the course of a season and find time for a break. You find yourself out of one of the cups, or struggling in the League, and players subconsciously turn their focus on the trophies they know they can win. There was never a time to stop and reassess priorities during that 2000–01 season. Cup semis and finals were instantly followed by huge European ties or League games that would determine what for many at the club, especially the manager, seemed the most important task of all: qualification for the Champions League for the first time since the Heysel ban.

  It had been sixteen years since Liverpool last competed for the European Cup, but we knew it was only a matter of time before we returned. Financially, it was crucial we did so. The silverware brought instant rewards, but as the separation between football's elite and the rest became more apparent, the longer we missed out on the Champions League the more we risked being left even further behind United and Arsenal.

  We should have been playing in the tournament instead of the UEFA Cup in 2000–01. Stupidly, we'd failed to win any of our final three matches of the 1999–2000 season, against Leicester, Southampton and Bradford, and lost third spot to Leeds by two points. Had we beaten Bradford in the last game of the campaign we'd have pipped David O'Leary's men and deprived ourselves of the UEFA Cup. That loss in Yorkshire must therefore rank as the best of my career. There was a sense of disbelief at Valley Parade at our failure, but unlike many of our most traumatic defeats under Houllier, this really did prove to be a blessing in disguise.

  We had no intention of making the same mistake a year later, but the cup competitions were in danger of distracting us. This is when Houllier's management and organization shone. He was criticized for changing too many players – usually one or two a game – but it ensured we were fresh during the finale to the season. As Manchester United, Arsenal and Chelsea have proved over the years, rotation can work when you're changing the right players and replacing them with ones of similar quality. We were also changing like for like. The spine of the 2001 side didn't alter. The defence and Didi remained intact for the last three months. It was the 'flair' players who were kept guessing, as Steven Gerrard and Gary Mac alternated in the middle, or Stevie moved to the right, while the strikers fought for two spots.

  After a demoralizing defeat at home to Leeds on Easter Monday, we won six of our last seven League games while winning two major cup finals. It was an astonishing run, assisted by our most influential players delivering when it mattered most. We didn't just rely on one player as a match winner; throughout that spell different elements of the side grabbed the headlines.

  Against Everton at Goodison Park three days after losing to Leeds, Gary McAllister was the difference. This was the derby to beat all derbies. I think my celebrations at the end were even more manic than at Cardiff. We'd gone ten years without winning at Goodison, and how my Blue mates loved to remind me. I still believe had we not won that day we'd have had too much to do to finish third. But it was the manner of victory that was most satisfying. With the score level at 2–2, a thirty-five-yard free-kick in injury time allowed Gary Mac to beat Paul Gerrard, tricking him into thinking he'd be drifting the ball into the box instead of shooting. My Evertonian friends are still moaning about it, claiming Gary stole an extra five yards before he took the set-play – as if scoring from thirty-five yards is so much easier than from forty. I was too busy celebrating to hear their boos. I've never felt such delight at winning a Premier League fixture. Only claiming three points to win the title could ever top it. The spirit in our side must have been as thrilling to Houllier as the result itself.

  If anyone was to blame for our enforced abstinence following each trophy win, it was the fixture schedulers. In normal circumstances the UEFA Cup Final would have been the last game of the season. For whatever reason, and it was certainly the first time I'd known it to happen, a League game followed both the FA Cup Final and UEFA Cup Final. This denied us a more fitting, traditional homecoming after Dortmund and explains the sense of anti-climax in the German dressing room.

  Our epic journey ended at The Valley, home of Charlton Athletic, on 19 May. Only a win would secure our Champions League place, but at half-time we should have been at least 2–0 down. Then Robbie stepped up with a couple of goals and we romped to a 4–0 win. The Champions League spot was ours. To the money men at the club, this was as much a relief as the three trophies. I looked towards Houllier and Thompson, and there seemed to be an even greater sense of satisfaction etched on their faces than I'd seen in Dortmund. The coaching staff were hugging one another and indulging in a tub-thumping, fist-clenching celebration.

  Houllier must have felt untouchable then, and who could have blamed him? Regardless of his reputation today, that was a season when the Liverpool manager got everything possible from his players. It was impossible to have achieved any more than we did. Belatedly, all of us could now enjoy the moment and allow an alcoholic influence on the party.

&n
bsp; It felt like a career's worth of pinnacles was being condensed into three months. The climax to this campaign was one dizzying high after another, but I was so fatigued that much of it passed me by. Thousands lined the streets when we paraded the three cups on our return from London, although I was so tired I just wanted to escape from my team-mates and coaching staff, go home and reflect on my triumph with my family.

  This was on my mind as I looked across the sea of red and picked out a banner that read 23 CARRA GOLD – FROM MARSH LANE TO DORTMUND. There it was again, the enduring reminder of where I'd come from and where I was at. The pride in my achievement intensified. It also contributed to making sure I never changed the number on my shirt. I was offered a more conventional jersey when others were sold in the summers that followed. Had I taken it in 2001, it would have been an appropriate conclusion to a season that had begun with my annual worries about being sidelined but ended with a feeling I'd cemented a permanent place in the club's history. I rejected the proposal. Being 23 was more distinctive. Only Robbie Fowler had worn it before me, and I saw no reason to change, especially as the lads had gone to such a grand effort with that flag.