Gerrard: My Autobiography (36 page)

Liverpool lost the second leg 1–0 at Anfield, but so what? We were up and running, qualified for the Champions League group stage, back with the big boys again. Istanbul, the venue for the final, seemed a million miles away, though. The Turkish city was never in our thoughts in the autumn of 2004. Nor in our dreams. No-one thought it could be Liverpool’s year. Pundits and bookmakers ignored us. ‘Let’s just get in the groups and see what happens,’ I told Carra. ‘Let’s get up against some great sides. That’s when the serious stuff starts.’ And the smiles. I watched the draw with a massive grin on my face. The Champions League is like an exclusive club, and Liverpool were members again. Bring it on. Group A pitted Liverpool against three decent sides, teams I respected. Monaco boasted attackers like Javier Saviola and Emanuel Adebayor. Olympiakos had Rivaldo and Giovanni. Juan Valerón and Diego Tristán still lurked at Deportivo La Coruña. Liverpool stumbled through the group, managing only victories over Monaco at home and La Coruña away, with a point against the Spanish at Anfield. No fluency. No real finishing edge. People continued to write us off.

Our final Group A tie against Olympiakos on 8 December was effectively a play-off. We needed to win 1–0, or by two clear goals. Inevitably, Anfield crackled with atmosphere at kick-off. Kopites were in good voice, and good heart. Even when other supporters give up, Liverpool fans always believe. Like those of us preparing
for battle in the dressing-room, the Kop knew we couldn’t afford any mistakes. ‘We cannot give away a goal,’ I said to Carra before we went out. ‘If we slip up once, we’ll have a mountain to climb.’ The quality of the Champions League is so good, it’s difficult to score one, let alone three. Logic suggests such comebacks don’t happen. For Liverpool, though, this was the year of mocking logic, of classic comebacks.

Sure enough, Rivaldo scored, setting us a daunting mission. The Brazilian had not seemed a massive threat. He was in the twilight of a glittering career, going through the motions. This was not the Rivaldo whom I’d tried to mark when Barcelona beat us 3–1 at Anfield three years earlier. Rivaldo was frightening that night. Now, playing for Olympiakos, he wasn’t on the ball so much. His body language spoke of a man scratching around for motivation, his famous creative strengths clearly fading. The Brazilian certainly should never have scored. His free-kick went over our wall and sailed into the middle of our goal. Our keeper, Chris Kirkland, came sprinting out and blamed the wall. Bollocks. I was in that wall, and if a ball goes in the middle of the goal, it’s the bloody keeper’s fault. Fact. Frustration got the better of me and I was cautioned for kicking out after the ball had gone. Fuck. I’m out of the next game, I realized. Stupid yellow. Stupid goal. I get on really well with Kirky, but it was time for a bollocking. ‘Your mistake,’ I pointed out to him at the break. Then I cooled down. ‘We must stick together if we are going to turn this mess around,’ I told myself. There was no point in shredding the confidence of a young keeper. ‘Forget about it, Kirky,’ I said. ‘We’ll get the goals back.’

That season in Europe, Liverpool encountered a few crisis points, and Olympiakos was certainly one of them. The fact that our problems came in the first half at least gave us the opportunity to regroup at the break, clear the air, fill our lungs, and let the boss organize the great escape. After I had my say with Kirky, Benitez took control. He was calm. Straight away, the tactics board came out. He stood there, detailing the changes, making us more attacking. His half-time messages are always simple, always easily understood. ‘No mistakes at the back,’ Benitez stressed on this occasion. ‘Let’s have a go. We have forty-five minutes to stay in Europe. Go and show me how much you want to stay in Europe. Go and show the fans. Olympiakos are not the best side. Chances will come. If we don’t make another mistake at the back, we can win.’

Benitez’s substitutions changed the game. One of the gaffer’s many strengths is that he genuinely has a magic touch with subs. ‘Djimi off, Florent on,’ he said. Three at the back – brave! Pongolle’s impact was immediate. Released by Kewell, Pongolle poached a close-ranger after two minutes and spent the rest of the match terrorizing the Greeks, stretching them and opening space for the rest of us. Pongolle’s a super-sub. When this French kid started, he never produced the goods, but unleash him from the bench and he is transformed into a far more effective weapon. His energy and pace hurt teams, particularly when he runs in behind them.

Pongolle’s goal changed the atmosphere. After Rivaldo scored, the mood went flat. Certain parts of Anfield had presumed that was that – game over. Pongolle’s goal
brought hope. The fans were right behind us, screaming as we chased every ball, every chance. People who have been around Anfield for many years described it as the best atmosphere since Liverpool beat St-Etienne in 1977. With the Kop at fever pitch, we laid siege to Olympiakos. Still we couldn’t break through. With twelve minutes left, Benitez waved his wand again. He hooked Milan Baros, sent on Neil Mellor, and told us to bombard the Greeks. Like Pongolle, Mellor made his mark sharpish. He was buzzing around, full of confidence, determined to batter Olympiakos’s defence. Within three minutes, he made it 2–1 with a typical goal, a loose ball lashed in from close range. No finesse, just raw power in the finish. Mellor doesn’t do much in and around the box, but he scores goals. He’s done it for the reserves for years. Two goals from two subs! When I look back on that amazing season in Europe, I never forget the contribution of Pongolle and Mellor that night against the Greeks. They grafted hard, making us play with a higher tempo. Olympiakos couldn’t control us.

If Liverpool qualified, I knew I’d miss the first leg, but I had to get the team there. Can’t let the team down. Push on, tackle, fight. Don’t give up. Big players don’t hide. They don’t sulk. Michael Ballack in the semi-finals of the 2002 World Cup. Roy Keane in the semi-finals of the 1999 European Cup. Booked, but defiant. Don’t fade like Gazza at Italia 90. Fight for the team. Get them through.

Anfield was going crazy. After Mellor’s strike, we had nine minutes left to find the goal to keep us in Europe. Just one goal. One chance. One shot. As we raced towards
the Kop, I kept glancing at the electronic clock. Time was running out. We tried everything – long, short, wide and set-piece – but Olympiakos stood firm. The remaining minutes soon became seconds. Come on! Now or never. Liverpool’s strongest characters came to the fore. Xabi slid into tackles, keeping the ball in play. Carra was immense, charging into midfield, doing Cruyff turns out wide, and, suddenly, chipping a cross in to Mellor. ‘Set it, set it!’ I screamed. Could he hear? Did he know I was perfectly placed? Please! Mellor heard, and he delivered, nodding down brilliantly towards me.

Twenty-two yards lay between me and glory. Everything stopped around me, melting into a background blur. All that mattered was me and that ball. All my vision, all my concentration was focused on it as it dropped towards me. In my mind, I heard the words of Steve Heighway and the boys at the Academy. Keep the head still. Weight over the ball. Make good contact. Make the keeper work. Here goes. Bang! The ball flew away from my right foot and accelerated towards the goal. The Kop held its breath. A split-second of silence reigned, save for the sound of the net pulling at the stanchions. Bullseye! Goal! Everyone screamed it. Goal! We’re through!

Pure joy swept through my body, sending me hurtling towards the Kop. ‘Fuck the ref,’ I thought, ‘I’m going in.’ I saw the fans, saw the expression of pure passion and love of Liverpool on their faces, and thought, ‘Yeah, I’m with you, I’m one of you, I’m coming in.’ I felt my team-mates breathing down my neck to catch me. I pushed Mellor away as I headed for the fans, launching myself
into the arms of my people. My wild celebrations could easily have brought me a second yellow. We all know the rules about not leaving the pitch. To hell with that. Those laws are written in cold ink by an administrator; hot blood pumps through a goalscorer’s veins in moments of ecstasy like this. Fair play to the ref, a bloke called Manuel Enrique Mejuto Gonzalez. This Spaniard realized it was a big goal and ignored my celebrations. Anyway, I couldn’t have cared less if he sent me off. I was missing the first leg of the next round anyway.

People always remind me of that goal. Millions saw it on TV. It was a good strike, one I am incredibly proud of for its execution and significance, but it is Andy Gray’s commentary on Sky that really makes the goal. I’ve heard it since, and he goes crazy. ‘Yes! You beauty!’ Andy made the goal even more special. If you want a commentator on a really sharp goal, it has to be Andy Gray and Martin Tyler on Sky or Clive Tyldesley on ITV. Andy certainly got carried away over my volley. A Bluenose, Andy got some stick afterwards for raving about a Liverpool goal. I’ve listened to his commentary on loads of Liverpool games, and sometimes he doesn’t give us credit because he’s a Blue. Fair enough. But he summed up the emotion of the Olympiakos game brilliantly. And Liverpool deserved it. With Benitez’s subs changing the match, we were awesome in the second half. Anything felt possible after that turnaround.

I looked around the dressing-room afterwards and saw the fire of ambition in my team-mates’ eyes. It was a fantastic place to be. Smiles, handshakes, singing. With Benitez around, the dressing-room was never going to go
completely mad, but we did celebrate. Carra and I looked at each other, at the ice bath, and then at Doc Waller. Trouble.

‘Do it,’ I said.

‘OK,’ replied Carra.

Quick as a flash, we grabbed Doc Waller and threw him in the ice bath.

Dried off, and buoyed up, Liverpool were now in the knockout stage, with no margin for error. UEFA’s draw-makers threw us in against Bayer Leverkusen, the Germans good enough to have finished ahead of Real Madrid in Group B. Everybody outside Anfield considered Leverkusen slight favourites. Suspended and frustrated, I watched the first leg, on 22 February 2005, sitting alongside Struan at Anfield. Liverpool survived a couple of scares early on. Buzzing everywhere up front was Dimitar Berbatov, a Bulgarian striker who had been linked with us and who is now at Spurs. Berbatov was class, but gradually Liverpool took control. We were cruising to a 3–0 win when Jerzy made a mistake. He fumbled, Franca pounced, and suddenly Leverkusen grasped an away goal. ‘I hope that doesn’t come back to haunt us,’ I remarked to Struan as we left our seats.

Leverkusen had thrashed Real 3–0 at their BayArena home. I knew the same thing could happen to us. We just had to be professional over in Germany. Keep calm, and take our chances. From the first whistle, we destroyed them. I played off Baros, Luis Garcia was unstoppable, and we ran out comfortable 3–1 winners.

For the quarter-final draw, I nipped over to Mum’s apartment with Gratty, a very good mate of mine. Gratty’s
real name is Paul McGrattan, who’s a budding actor with dreams of being Al Pacino! As we settled down on the sofa, my text rattled into life. Carra. ‘Who do you want?’ he asked. I showed Gratty the text. ‘I can’t text him,’ I said. ‘Whoever I say, we won’t get.’ I couldn’t risk it, so I ignored Carra’s text. I couldn’t ignore the draw, though. First out of UEFA’s glass bowl was us and Juventus. ‘Shit,’ I said, glancing at Gratty. We both knew the Italians were a class outfit, certainly not one of the teams we wanted to face in the last eight. Juventus’s reputation was for being really defensive. Gianluigi Buffon in goal, with Fabio Cannavaro and Lilian Thuram the eagle-eyed sentries in front of him. Christ, they would be a tough nut to crack. Juventus were packed with world-class attacking players too, like Pavel Nedved, Alessandro del Piero and Zlatan Ibrahimovic. They were flying in Serie A, while Liverpool struggled in the Premiership.

UEFA could not have sent Liverpool down a more emotional route to the final, either. The Heysel disaster loomed large over the two legs. Inevitably. Liverpool had not met Juventus since thirty-nine supporters died at the 1985 European Cup final in Brussels. All the Heysel stuff started straight away on Sky Sports News. Everybody, it seemed, was talking about it. Liverpool never mentioned to the players how sensitive the match was. They didn’t need to. Me and Carra knew all about Heysel. We also knew Liverpool fans would give the right reaction when Juventus visited on 5 April. On the night, the Kop held up a mosaic saying ‘Memoria e Amicia’ – ‘In Memory and Friendship’. That was a nice touch. Michel Platini and Ian Rush paid a tribute towards the Juventus fans in the
Anfield Road end. The behaviour of Liverpool’s supporters really warmed my heart that night.

So much of the build-up was about Heysel, but the players concentrated on the here and now. Benitez made us watch tapes of Juventus for hours. ‘Juventus like to control the tempo, slowing it down like a chess match,’ the boss told us in our final team meeting. ‘All Juventus’s players like to have time on the ball. So we are not going to give them any. They want to slow the game down. We are going to speed it up. So go for them. Chase them. Press them. Don’t let them settle. Play at a high tempo. Juventus will hate that.’

We had to set the tone early, so I launched into Emerson, their hard-man midfielder. Take that. Juventus did not know what hit them. We were all over them, seizing a 2–0 lead through Sami and Luis Garcia within twenty-five minutes. Garcia’s strike was made by Anthony Le Tallec, a surprise starter. Le Tallec’s a good player, an attacker we believed in, but Benitez hadn’t used him much before. It proved an inspired decision, as Le Tallec gave Juventus all manner of problems. Scotty Carson pulled off a world-class save to keep out Del Piero. As we went in at the break, I looked at the Juventus faces. They were in shock. They’d expected a gentle breeze blowing through Anfield, but instead found themselves in the thick of a hurricane. Our mood in the dressing-room was of quiet confidence mixed with respect for the Italians. Benitez warned us to be on our toes. ‘Juventus will come back at you,’ he said. Cannavaro pulled one back in the second half, and we knew it would be tough the following week over in Turin.

Except I wasn’t going. Ruled out by a thigh strain, I got my mates round to the house in Crosby to have a few beers and watch the game on TV. But I couldn’t stay in the room. Every time Juventus got in our half, I walked out and waited in the kitchen until the danger cleared. ‘OK, Stevie, it’s safe now,’ would come the message from the TV room, and I’d return for a while. My nerves were being put through a shredder. I was so desperate for Liverpool to get through. When the shout of ‘That’s it, game over’ came through, I dashed back in to see all the lads in Turin celebrating the goalless draw on the pitch. ‘Fuck this,’ I thought. ‘I’m not staying in.’ Jeans on. Shirt ironed. Out to Southport. A few beers would be no problem; my damaged thigh was going to keep me out of next weekend’s match anyway. As we sped into Southport, my thumbs were working like pistons over my phone, sending congratulation texts to Carra and the boys in Turin. They were awesome.