I was going through some old tapes the other day in my latest attempt to convert all of my old VHS collection into DVD format. Some home movies, plenty of Match of the Days and the odd film. As the task grew tiresome, I came across one in particular that I simply couldn’t fast forward through or throw away.
The scene is Queens Drive, Liverpool at the end of Moscow Drive by the Esso petrol station that is now a Tesco Express (what isn’t?), just over five years ago. Everything in the city is at a standstill. Everybody is talking about just one thing. The petrol station roof, the telephone box and the top of the long wall leading up towards West Derby are now just vantage points. Liverpool, the European Champions, are coming home. Flags, scarves, ready made “Istanbul” t-shirts that depict the teams that we conquered along the way. It’s a sea of red. The sun is out but no weather would have stopped the masses from seeing their heroes come home anyway.
Horns sound and the crowd is buzzing. The camera focuses on the setting when all of a sudden there is a huge roar. They’re here. In the distance the buses make their way down. Cars in front are frantically beeping; the crowd is in seventh heaven. No drug could match this high. The press bus goes past first and then comes the much-awaited moment. The Redmen. Carragher and Gerrard are stood at the front. The former with that trophy in hand. Then other faces. Faces of times gone by; better times, regardless of what fans’ verdicts of them were. Riise, Josemi, Xabi Alonso, little Luis Garcia. For many young fans, it is the first time they have ever seen their heroes in the flesh. They do their best to respond to every individual that attempts to gain their attention. They stand, looking over the top, like giants. As the bus goes on, more faces. Djibril Cisse trying his best to look the epitome of cool as usual, Igor Biscan in his trademark daze, Steve Finnan, Sami Hyypia, Djimi Traore, Milan Baros, Didi Hamann and many more. They all played their part. But then the camera catches sight of someone and attempts to zoom. The picture blurs and then suddenly focuses. The man stands with a beaming smile, stood next to his wife who is holding a young child in her arms. He is the picture of health, wearing a red tracksuit top. He waves to the adoring masses, touring the city he made happy. The city that he gave hope to. The city that he allowed to dream. The man that made it all happen. Rafael Benitez Maudes. No limelight-hogging, no extravagance. Understated, professional, humble.
A picture paints a thousand words.
As the bus goes past, the camera cuts off. White noise and then the famous VHS blue screen. And I’m sitting there in my backroom covered in blank DVDs and surrounded by hundreds of tapes and I can feel a huge lump in my throat. I can feel the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end and I can feel my eyes welling up with tears.
Now, I’m a soppy sod, I know. I don’t need telling. But the saddest part about that is that I didn’t feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, the lump in my throat and the tears in my eyes out of happiness. I have sat and watched the Sky “In My Life” montage and “Greatest YNWA” video after the win against Chelsea and bawled like a baby on plenty of occasions, believe me. But this was different.
I’ve had this image of that clean-shaven Rafa, clearly about a stone and a half lighter ingrained in my mind since I watched that tape. It’s almost as if he is a completely different person to the one that left the club back in June, just five years on from that day.
When you look back on the man’s time at this club, you could almost see it as if we were living in a hangover from that time. He was a victim of his own success. His critics used Istanbul as a stick to beat him with. But I didn’t see it like that. Even though we wouldn’t lift another major trophy under him, from that moment, the man was untouchable to me. He was a God.
I’ve been lucky enough to live throughout all of our European Cup successes. But I was just seven the first time around and although I idolised the players that brought Big Ears home in ’77, I took it for granted. ’84 was special because I was there but by then, I had become spoiled. I didn't hope for success, I expected it. So nothing captured my imagination quite like our run to Istanbul and nothing will ever compare to that night. He made me believe that anything in football was possible.
A famous French philosopher once said “You always admire what you don’t understand” and never has that quote been more applicable, for me, the way it was with Rafa. I loved him, but at the same time I admired him, I respected him and I was completely mystified by him. Rafa was unique.
Anyone that criticises him, in my mind simply didn’t “get” him. And when I hear people talk about rotation, about how much he spent on such-and-such, about where he played so-and-so, how defensive he was and so on and so forth, it really angers me. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so passionate about a subject. I’ve never felt so inclined to stick up for someone and I can’t even really explain why.
But what angers me even more was the circumstances behind his departure. I wish Roy all the best now that Rafa has gone, but I still feel like I’ve broken up from a long-term relationship and as much as Roy deserves my support, I can’t help but get angry once again when I see the people that criticised Rafa for years stick up for Roy. I constantly find myself asking the question “if we finish seventh this year, should Hodgson go?” to them and their response is always “of course not!” But that is the standard we set ourselves last year. One bad season and you have to go. It can’t be one rule for one and another for somebody else. Surely?
And the very fact the man that stood on the top of that bus five years ago – peerless – has had his reputation tarnished is unbelievably sad. While I could have a few choice words for those that fail to see anything beyond the past twelve months, I’d rather focus on the two men that stopped him in his tracks to begin with. The two men that gave the fickle masses their ammunition. The two men that tore the roads of destiny we were riding on up until February 2007.
As defiant as he was, we saw him ground down. Slowly but surely. The undermining, the lies and deceit, the false promises. It would have taken its toll on any man. And in many ways I’m glad he’s gone. Because it would have been tragic to see the man’s reputation be tarnished further. On Friday he will take his chance, managing his new side Inter, against the side that knocked us out of the Europa League last season. The team that did us a favour in truth. They gave the board the chance to see him off. I mean, how could you possibly replace the man that “only” took us to the Europa League final and hire the man whose only notable achievement in the past however many years is just that?
And as I sit here writing this, I’m glad that I’m safe in the knowledge I’ll always have the memories. As will any Red who embraced and cherished his time at the club. And if somewhere on the horizon there are better times ahead for us, nothing will ever come close to that year, that run, that night.
So here’s to that shy, unassuming so-and-so at the back of that open-top bus. You were truly one of a kind.
