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Liverpool Red Diary - part 13
Joel Rookwood
Middlesbrough, Basel, Sunderland
I really hate going to Middlesbrough - it's the bleakest,
least friendly city in the universe. And we never seem to get anything
there, save for last season's rare scraped victory, with a recent Boxing
Day defeat in freezing conditions getting pelted with coins painfully
clear in the memory. Last weekend's trip to the northeast however began
in uncharacteristically promising fashion with the Manchester derby serving
as our midday entertainment. After an arduous search, we eventually found
a 'Boro ale house that owned a TV, and watched Maine Road's last ever
derby in the curiously named 'Hairy Lemon' pub, creating our own soundtrack
with impromptu songs and spontaneous, reflective chants. The plight of
neither side is particularly relevant to us, but its always nice to see
Fergie, oh sorry - I mean 'The Right Honourable Sir Alex Ferguson' –
writhing in agony in the face of his own tactical naivety and stubborn
refusal to admit personal mistakes and rid his team of the dead wood which
is preventing them from competing for the league title.
City won the game 3-1, with the least popular man on Merseyside, Gary
Neville setting up Man City attacks with frightening regularity and former
Liverpool hit-man Nicolas Anelka getting on the score sheet, rubbing salt
into United wounds. But that was where the fun stopped, as any dreams
we had of the Middlesbrough curse being finally lifted were banished early
in the encounter that followed.
Middlesbrough are a well-organised unit, but are certainly nothing special, so for Liverpool to go to the northeast and play one up front was farcical. We went for a nil-nil draw and it looked as though we might get it. That is until England's Gareth Southgate fired home from close range with eight minutes remaining, following an uncharacteristic blunder from Jerzy Dudek. From that moment the game was over. There was no urgency injected into our approach despite the plight we found ourselves in. But most frustratingly of all, from start to finish we simply carried no goal threat. Sitting back away from home is all well and good, but if you have no inclination to attack even when the opportunity arises you're always likely to suffer defeat. But instances where Houllier commits tactical errors are few and far between, and whilst the four-point margin between second-placed Arsenal and us has been cut to a solitary point, one league defeat from thirteen certainly does not warrant cause for panic.
After the game, Boro fans gloated in their victory whilst Scouse attentions reverted quickly to the forthcoming European contest, with groups of fans bidding farewell to each other as they made their separate journeys back to Liverpool, saying simply 'See you in Basle'. It was to prove a trip none of us would ever forget.
With
Evertonians popping out of the woodwork all over the city, keen to remind
everyone of their lofty league position of fourth, Monday morning's flight
from Liverpool to Brussels couldn't come soon enough. As we arrived at
the airport, the ten people on our trip were, to my surprise, joined by
another large group of regulars, who were planning to drive from Brussels
to Switzerland. We started the trip as we meant to go on, with a five-litre
keg of ale.
We clambered off the plane, only to find we were not actually in Brussels, but in Charleroi, the scene of riotous behaviour from England fans in Euro 2000, with the capital city an hour's coach ride away. In protest, we sang for the entire coach journey to Brussels, after which we made our way towards the 'Grande Place'. On my last visit to this famous square I had promised myself I would bring a group of lads equipped with flags en route to a Liverpool European tie, to take over the immaculate square, and play football on its historic cobbles. And so upon our arrival, we did just that. Unfortunately the precise location we selected for the flag hanging happened to be immediately outside the local police station, with its inhabitants subsequently ensuring our game of football was cut short. So we headed for a nearby bar, where we were served ale in 3-foot high tubes, and we showed our gratitude by treating the customers and bar staff to a performance of a few Liverpool anthems, before heading on to another bar.
After a brief run-in with some Turkish blade merchants, we found ourselves in an Irish establishment, which always seem to feature on European trips. We had to put a considerable performance in to drown out the jukebox, but we managed it, with our efforts not going unnoticed. An American-based customer was clearly impressed, and as we got talking, we realised we knew some of the same people, from my time working in his place of residence, the Pacific Coast glamour paradise that is Malibu. He worked "in the movie business" apparently, which was no surprise, considering his choice of abode.
But when he revealed his identity, we were a little more taken aback, for it was none other than Director of 'Hannibal' and 'The Gladiator', amongst other classics, Ridley Scott, who we were frequenting with. We were suddenly not so reluctant to refuse his kind offer of a drink, with most of us having three pints from the legendary Hollywood figure. Just as we were preparing to leave the extremely agreeable British bar staff played Jerry and the Pacemakers' version of 'You'll Never Walk Alone' on the jukebox. Within seconds all ten of us were on our chairs with scarves held high, singing our hearts out to the legendary Liverpool Anthem. Acutely aware of the time, we then stumbled back into the metro station, and made for Brussels Midi station.
We caught the train south, and were hopeful of a few hours' kip before arriving in Basle. But the German border police weren't overly enamoured by our decision to relieve the train of its ale supplies. About three seconds after falling asleep, I was woken by a blow on the back delivered by some extremely amiable officials, who instructed us in no uncertain terms to leave the train. But between the ten of us, we managed to convince the police that it would be better if we remained on the train. A similar conversation transpired as we passed through the Swiss border, with the ticket inspector finding it hard to believe that we weren't responsible for the crate load of food that had mysteriously disappeared. After being kept in a room for an hour or so, we were again released, with those of us not bright enough to remove our passport from the train inspector's locker having them photocopied. On reflection I regret doing that, for I was the only one not to have had a Swiss stamp in my passport, reading 'Basle', as a momentum of our visit.
Basle at 4.30am in November is dark, dead and freezing, though having had no sleep, we managed to find shelter in a twenty-four hour sun bed parlour, as you do, until the adjacent cafe opened. Then after the strangest cup of tea available outside of Istanbul, we got some food, before going on a few random tram journeys to pass the time. For some unexplainable reason, my memory of that morning is feint, though the photos of the trip reveal the unravelling of flags in thick fog. Why we got the flags out in a primary school playground I'll never know. The next tram ride brought us to a shopping centre where we 'bought' a ball and a FCB scarf each, before making our way back into town. The slightly bemused locals pointed us in the direction of the city centre, such as it was, and we set up camp in a large square, with our collection of banners hanging from the trees. The next six hours were spent playing football, singing, eating and drinking with various people some of whom we did and some we didn't know coming over to talk, or drink or just for a kick about.
We were interviewed by countless Swiss journalists, and had our photos taken by numerous Swiss and English photographers, notably the Liverpool Echo, and were filmed by Swiss TV and Sky Sports. I am yet to see the video of us singing and playing footy in front of spectators and flags, which I have been told is an amusing site, as our inebriated state is apparently quite obvious on film. My mum must have been proud.
As the sun began to set, we felt the pull of the rapidly filling bar across the square, and made our way over, with the next couple of hours spent sat on a window ledge, half inside and half outside a bar singing Liverpool songs for onlooking Swiss fans and passers by. It was brilliantly good-natured, and the locals seemed mesmerised by our behaviour. But we soon realised that most of the Swiss fans had filed into the adjacent bar, so a handful of us went into investigate. There must have been three hundred Basle supporters in that huge bar, and every single one of them, stopped and looked at us as we entered. I went in first, and not wanting to lose face, made my way through the crowd, greeting everyone who made eye contact with me, with a handshake and a hello. We had been accepted. But for me that wasn't enough, for the reputation of our city was at stake. So that served as my motivation for standing on my seat and beginning a selection of Liverpool songs. My friends, loyal to the core, duly followed, as we sung Scouse tunes, alternating with 'we love you Basle' and 'FCB, FCB, FCB'. We had won them over, and they responded by giving us a recital of their own.
I wouldn't say we had taken that bar, in the sense that European football fans usually associate with. We didn't smash it up or its inhabitants, but the locals realised it took bottle to do what we did, and they clearly respected us for it. The ambience had been outstanding, everything you want from a European trip. Occurrences like that are why we follow our team everywhere. Little did we know however, the mood was about to decline rapidly.
We had heard various stories of trouble between fans, many of which were from primary sources, with one particular riot causing particular concern, but had encountered nothing ourselves since our invasion into Turkish territory in Brussels the previous night. But as we left the Swiss bar and made our way back to the next-door pub populated predominantly by Liverpudlians, we heard the news that one of the fans involved in the fighting had died. This was no hoax - I read the text message received by a fellow Scouser, and we were all shell-shocked.
Being in a state of shock and in desperate need of the toilet, I decided to go for a walk. As I was walking back to the bar, trouble was breaking out in another bar up the road. As I approached the bar, tables and chairs were being thrown through the bar windows. My reactions weren't at their best, but I probably should have been quicker to realise that the Liverpool fans involved had retreated down the road, leaving two of us outside the bar. Then suddenly a small army of Basle fans came out. My brain then registered what one of the Liverpool fans had said to make the rest withdraw - 'Get out, they've got guns!' So when three members of the Swiss contingent were standing five yards from me with guns in their hand, I froze. Then out of the corner of my eye, I saw a baton coming at me. Crucially I turned my head, and subsequently only received a couple of blows on the neck and shoulder, and a few more whilst on the ground, before being pulled to my feet by the man with me. We rejoined the Liverpool fans, but I made my escape down an alley and returned to my group, and escaped an arrest. They saw the lump on my face before they saw me - still I'm alive and not badly injured, so I'm lucky. But not everyone was.
What goes on between firms is none of my business, and that incident reaffirmed my view that it will never be my concern. I could get on my high horse saying, 'these people are ruining it for everyone', but even if that were my view, I'd have no right to ever express it. These people spend the same money and time as I do following Liverpool, it's just that we go to the match for different reasons, and don't always share the same mentality. Still I'd like to think that's the last time I'll be involved.
With only four out of ten of us having secured tickets, we made our way to the ground in search of touts. The organisation around the stadium was predictably poor, with the club not used to dealing with such high profile events, and trouble broke out in spurts. Thankfully though it was kept to a minimum. Then, tired of waiting in the Liverpool queue I opted to join the home fans and went in their stand, with the police letting me through to the Liverpool end when I got in the ground, where three of our party were, having got tickets by means I won't go into now so as not to incriminate anyone.
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The trip to that point had been hectic enough, but it was soon apparent that it would be nothing compared to the match that was to follow. The Saint Jakob Park stadium was electric, with the swaying, singing masses that came to Anfield last month in similar mood, only duplicated several times over. And they weren't to be disappointed. All the Swiss side needed was a point, with Liverpool requiring a win to progress, yet when the home side went a goal up after ninety seconds, the task for the Merseysiders looked ominous. We defended poorly, with our midfield, with the exception of Hamman and Smicer seemingly incapable of retaining possession or protecting the back four. Conversely the Swiss outfit looked hungry in every position.
The instigator of our downfall was undoubtedly Hakin Yakin, who set up Basle's first, converted by Argentine Julio Rossi. Indeed whenever Basle entered our half, you got the feeling they were going to score. Giminez got the second for the Swiss outfit, with our defence again carved open by Yakin. Atouba made it three-nil to the delight of the home fans and to the disbelief of the travelling Kop, tapping in from close range after Dudek could only parry a free-kick from, you've guessed it, Yakin. The unbelievable had happened. In a game we needed to win, we were three nil down inside twenty-nine minutes.
When Liverpool required four goals to beat Paris St Germain in 1997's Cup Winners Cup semi-final, the game was a classic, despite the fact that we were represented by one of the worst ever Liverpool sides. And at half time, you got the feeling that we were about to witness the sequel to that Parisian encounter. We had to go at them, and score four without conceding or we were out.
As with September's clash in Valencia we had been embarrassed in the first half, but we were undoubtedly a different side after the break. So when Murphy's goal on the hour after good work from Diou and Smicer, was followed three minutes later by a goal from Smicer himself, the fight back was in motion. But in truth it was our failure to score again until the eighty-third minute that cost us. For when Owen grabbed the equaliser, we knew we were in for a tense finale, but at the same time it was doubtful that we had enough time to find a winner. Liverpool's third was scored by Owen who converted from twelve yards after Zuberbuhler had saved a penalty missed by Owen himself, and while we pushed for a fourth, we were ultimately to be denied and heart broken.
It
has been said that this game was reminiscent of the last time we went
out of the Champions League. As with that heart wrenching night in Leverkusen,
too many wearing Liverpool colours went missing at a time when we sorely
needed them to stand up and be counted. But after seeing our side claw
back a three-goal deficit, we couldn't help but be extremely proud of
our team, and the players sensed and shared our disappointment, with Traore
and Dudek offering their shirts to the Liverpool fans as mementos. The
Liverpool keeper even kicked the ball into the away end, with one of my
accomplices lucky enough to get the ball under his coat before anyone
realised.
On my return, people expected me to be devastated, and while I was disappointed at the result, I was proud of my team's resurgence, and furthermore, I didn't expect to progress from the group having left ourselves such a mountain to climb. Basle fans were eager to rub our noses in it, and rightly so, as for them, this was a result of historic proportions. As for Liverpudlians however, in truly defiant style, we left the ground singing, "just like the team that's going to win the UEFA Cup again, we shall not be moved." I have a feeling we will do just that. And whilst we will now be swapping the annual trips to Barcelona and Rome for the likes of Thessalonica and Krakow, we're still in Europe so we can't really complain.
We were knocked out by two teams who deserved to progress and I will support them both until they themselves are dumped out of the competition. Valencia are a quality side and in my book are favourites to lift the trophy in May. Basle are unlikely to get that far, however like a Basle fan said to me before the game "You probably did not know Basle, or how good our fans are or that we could play football. Tonight we will show you." Well they did show us, and were deserving of the second place they secured.
After the game we met with the members of the group who weren't able to get into the ground as we arrived back at the train station, where we were informed we weren't going to be allowed on the train. Again we used our powers of persuasion and got on the train, where we managed to endure a fairly uneventful train ride back to the Belgian capital.
Upon arrival in Brussels, the group were despondent, and having not slept in two nights, absolutely shattered. But I was determined not to let the remaining six hours before we were due to catch our flight home be wasted. A quick trip to the tourist information office revealed a route to Anderlecht's ground, and I returned to the group and eventually managed to convince them to take a visit to the stadium. As we arrived, a man was delivering ale for the night's UEFA Cup second round tie against Midtjylland. We sneaked in through the gate he had left ajar, and then went one better by getting onto the pitch. We then played football on Anderlecht's pitch for ten minutes with the match ball from the Liverpool - Basle game, a ball that some Swiss fans would no doubt pay well in excess of £1000 for. We took penalties into the net, and sometimes the stand behind, before being asked to leave. It was 'Boys Own' stuff: another incident that rendered the trip truly legendary.
As we arrived back into Liverpool Airport, we realised that the team had also just landed, and three of us somehow managed to get ourselves mixed into their group. We were rewarded for our devious industry with thirty minutes in the presence of our heroes, as they awaited their luggage. We spoke to, shook hands with and had our photo taken with every player, as well as Houllier and Thompson, with the lucky recipient of last night's match ball getting it signed by every player, with the exception of the Germany-bound Didi Hamman. We consoled Steven Gerard, mocked Owen for missing a penalty, told Hyypia he was a legend, informed Babbel he was a hero and pleaded with Kirkland to be patient.
But the most memorable conversation was with our talisman Gerard Houllier. We spoke about the game and the trip, and I told him to never leave Liverpool. And when I asked him if we would win the UEFA Cup this year, he answered like the true politician and humble man that he is with the word "maybe". But then his number two Phil Thompson said "let's get these Scallies out of here", and whilst being called a Scal by Thommo, one of Liverpool's finest, was praise indeed, we realised it was time to leave.
We had been able to say everything we wanted to say to players, an opportunity you dream of when you are watching from the stands. It was indeed just like a dream come true, with the other passengers green with envy at our experience as we met them outside.
Friday saw the UEFA Cup draw, a competition we've virtually ignored since returning home from the final in Dortmund a year last May. But that is now our reality, and next up it's Vitesse Arnhem. We booked our flights, with the game scheduled for 12th December, only to find that Liverpool had agreed to play the away leg first at the request of the Dutch club. We were not amused, but have since booked flights for a week on Wednesday.
On Sunday Sunderland visited Liverpool, a side reborn under the leadership of Howard Wilkinson. The Mackems came to Liverpool clearly intent on frustrating the home side, and while they were booed for their ultra-defensive approach, they came for a nil-nil that would do more for them than us, and they got it. They should be congratulated for their sound tactical approach, because any side that features Phil Babb in a back four and doesn't concede has to be well organised.
The
northeast outfit was industrious, with keeper Jurgen Macho making a string
of decent saves. And in truth the performance was encouraging despite
the disappointing result. In reaction to the nil-nil draw at home to the
most defensive side Anfield has seen for some time, some seem content
to dismiss it as 'just one of those days'. But whilst we should be encouraged
by the fact we created twenty-one chances to Sunderland's none, the same
statistic reveals that we missed twenty-one opportunities. I wonder whether
finishing will be on the agenda at Mellwood this week. Lets just hope
Owen and co take their shooting boots to Fulham next weekend to prevent
this mini blip from becoming a bad spell.
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