I guess it was written in the stars really.
The European Cup final, in Rome, we always win in Rome.
Rafael Benitez held onto the European Cup as if it was his baby, and, well, it is. A third final in five years, and a second win. After the season he’d had, he deserved to be mentioned alongside Paisley and Shankly, and deep down he knew it.
A sweep around the stands showed you how much it meant. Kenny Dalglish with a grin as wide as the Mersey, John Aldridge and Phil Thompson unconscious from shock. Robbie Fowler, arrested for running up to the Mancs enclosure brandishing six fingers. This was as good as Istanbul, this was as good as Rome in 77. Rome 2009 was the time it happened, Liverpool won the treble for the first time. England’s most successful club had been backed against a wall, and they’d won it.
Just two weeks ago it was all so different. Steven Gerrard’s last minute penalty miss at Goodison meant United just needed to hold on to their slender 1-0 lead at Stoke, and the title was theres, and the double header of cup finals would take place with momentum on their side.
It was the third minute of stoppage time, Fergie frantically tapped his watch.
Ferdinand lumped the ball away and it landed at the feet of Salif Diao. Diao, on the back of one of the worst ever seasons a professional footballer has had, was booed instantly. But, rather than buckle, he suddenly grew in stature, as if the spirit of Shankly had gone through him. He sidestepped Rooney, nutmegged Giggs, played a one-two with erm, somebody else at Stoke, and all of a sudden was facing Ferdinand one on one. Ferdinand lunged in for a tackle, but Salif was away. He slotted the ball, under Van De Saar, and...and....YEEEEEEESSSSSSSSSSSS! The whole of Liverpool erupted.
It was incredible. After last minute winners by Diouf at Bolton, and Heskey at the JJB had slowed down United’s charge, all of a sudden, Houllier’s masterplan was uncovered. Salif, El Hadji, and Emile had finally repaid the £25million. 20 years since Hillsborough and Liverpool were bringing the title home. The all time league table read 19-17.
The FA Cup Final was, after that, a mere formality. The Mancs, missing Ronaldo and Tevez through suspension, never stood a hope, with a Gareth Barry free kick and a double from Torres cancelling out Owen Hargreaves early strike. All that could be heard around the country was “Na na na na na na na na (et all) Fernando Torres, Liverpool’s number nine.”
So, that was special enough. A season surely couldn’t be improved by that. But it was, the air of destiny which had followed Liverpool all season was still breezing around them.
This same air, which had seen Steve Bennett give Liverpool a nothing penalty at Old Trafford in the dying seconds. A penalty, which, when Ferguson animatedly asked “WHAT WAS THAT FOR?”, he admitted was “just for a laugh”. The same air which had seen Jamie Carragher – shifted to right back by Skrtel and Agger – invent himself as the Scouse Cafu and set up 36 goals. And that same air, which had brought home number 19, was still blowing a gentle breeze.
And so it was to be in Rome, that City of Liverpool’s most famous triumphs.
But, it was so nearly not so. After 57 seconds, Ryan Giggs volleyed United in front, NOOOO! We cried. But that wasn’t it, just before half time, two goals from Ronaldo had ended it.
“We won it fooooooourrrrrrrrrr times,” croned the inbreds.
We were shellshocked. But then, a lone voice started to sing amongst the tears and recriminations:
“Outsideeee the Shankly gates, I heard a kopite calling...”
And, within seconds, the 45,000 Liverpool fans who’d made the trip joined in. The noise echoed around the City, a noise so loud, and so passionate, it nearly arose Caesar from his grave.
Gerrard, Carragher and Alonso, the sole survivors from Istanbul, suddenly felt possessed by the memories. Gerrard walked over to Nando and said: “This is fucking yours Fernando, go get it la.”
And he did. We all know how the second half pans out, and the glorious finish, culminating in Gary Neville missing a penalty and then, tragically losing his leg in the process will be told for centuries.
As Rafa walked around the pitch with the European Cup, he noticed an almost greyed presence watching, approvingly from the Directors Box.
Before Rafa had a chance to mouth “Fuck off Parry you clown featured dipshit”, he noticed, that this was a presence that wasn’t really there. It was a presence he’d seen once before, on the 25th May 2005.
“Thanks Bill”, he whispered, to nobody but himself.
Then Carra grabbed the Cup of him, and the celebrations truly began...
