Liverpool FC - Euro Red Diary 10

by Joel Rookwood

Bayer Leverkusen Away

Of all the teams I wanted, it was ‘them'.

With my ridiculous schedule for 2004 consisting of fifty-six flights all told, I was sure to be somewhere outrageous when the draw was made for the final sixteen of the European Cup.

This time it was rural Costa Rica, and a place devoid of hot water and electricity, never mind email and a phone line, that prevented me from finding out the draw.

So I had to wait until I was on a London-bound flight from San Jose via Texas. When I read the news printed in a stupidly big newspaper, you know, one of those broadsheet types, I nearly hit the roof.

This isn't generally considered a wise move on an aircraft, and so I managed to contain my elation and drift of to sleep, dreaming of Germany. For we had been pitted against Bayer Leverkusen once again, in what was to prove the sweetest of revenge missions.

Three years earlier, I had sat in disbelief in the Bayer Arena as Houllier's Liverpool were knocked out of Europe by a late goal rorm a Brazilian centre half. Before that untimely strike we had been six minutes away from a semi-final against a team we had beaten five times in succession, with the prospect of a Glasgow final against Real Madrid to follow. How cruel that late goal was.

Fighting back the tears, I vowed there and then not to miss an away tie again until we had our revenge over Leverkusen. Sure enough visits to Le Harve, Valencia, Spartak Moscow, Basle, Vitesse Arnhem, Auxere, Celtic, Koln, Olimpija Ljubljana, Staeua Bucharest, Levski Sofia, Marseille, AK Graz, Olympiakos, Deportivo La Coruna, and Monaco, have been clocked up before I finally found myself back in Leverkusen.

Having secured a 3-1 advantage in the first leg at Anfield, the tie was in our hands, despite what the national press had to say on the matter. As we set off a fortnight later for the small German town once again, something told me this was to prove a far more memorable excursion than our previous experience.

How telling those instincts were. We arrived the night before the game thanks to, or rather in spite of Ryan Air, who dumped us at a small airport near Dusseldorf. Of course it was after midnight before we actually reached central Dusseldorf, and of course, we had nowhere to stay once we had arrived. Safe in the knowledge that some of our mates would be better organised than us, we banked on hitting the bars and bumping into someone who would let us crash at their hotel for a couple of nights.

Miraculously the plan worked, and we found ourselves in the unfamiliar luxury of a five star hotel, but not before we had dedicated a few hours to laughing at Arsenal for getting knocked out of Europe at Highbury, again. Invincible my arse. Back at the hotel one of the lads came in to say he had seen the entire Man United game in a packed pub, with Liverpool manager Rafa Benitez as an unexpected guest. Rafa the gaffa apparently laughed when the entire establishment began singing ‘Rafa Get the Ale in', as the video footage on my mate's phone served to testify. The man is fast becoming a Liverpool legend.

Early the next morning, those of us who could be bothered getting out of bed set off to try and get on Fortuna Dusseldorf's pitch. Yet the mountain of security at the impressive arena who followed us around suspiciously, prevented this from being anything other than a pipe dream, so we had to settle for walk on their training pitch instead.

Then, with rail travel rendered unofficially free for Liverpudlians, after meeting up with the rest of the group, we were free to wander around the familiar corner of Germany. We chose unsurprisingly to explore Leverkusen and Cologne, both of which were full to the brim of eager Scousers. After a fairly random meal in a cracking Iranian restaurant we headed off in pursuit of these fellow Citymen.

Just about every Liverpool song ever written was heard being performed in the various bars in both towns, with the ones sung with the greatest passion dedicated to Rafa Benitez and Jamie Carragher… Indeed as we boarded the train from Cologne to Leverkusen for the final leg of the journey, the words ‘we all dream of a team of Carraghers' could be heard roaring from the rocking locomotive.

When we pulled into Leverkusen however, the host of Liverpudlians who had been in expectant mood all day, suddenly became a little apprehensive about the occasion. This was not surprising, as for the majority there was the little matter of getting in without a ticket to contend with. Of all the supporters present, my accomplice looked the most nervous. I wanted to wind him up more by waiting until the last minute to tell him I had got him a ticket a fortnight ago, but he looked like he had suffered long enough. So I pulled a ticket from the inside of my rapidly decaying passport, and handed it to him - though I wasn't thankful for the kiss I received in return. I think next time I'll just post him his ticket as soon as I get hold of it.

However the situation for everyone else still remained ominous. Two from thirteen guaranteed lawful entry into the ground, with kick-off looming, didn't represent the most hopeful of situations. I was heartened however, by one the groups' ingenuity. Danny, as he shall be known here - for this is his name - is somehow a steward at Anfield. And it was when we were stood outside the players entrance, that this overly calm individual revealed the details of his secret plan.

He unzipped his Lacoste tracksuit top, exposing a bright orange UEFA Champions League Stewards bib, complete with security badge. It was then that I noticed the Liverpool team bus pulling into the stadium, and Danny, leaping into action, began backing the bus into the ground, screaming broken German at anyone in his way. With the bus soon out of sight, the few of us fortunate to witness this extraordinarily cheeky stunt, were denied the opportunity to see if it ultimately proved successful. That was, until I entered the ground and saw Danny sat in the home end trying to look inconspicuous, with his top now zipped up.

To no one's surprise, least of all mine, all thirteen us were in the ground in time for kick off. Some had got in through the stadium hotel adjacent to one of the stands, whilst others had the audacity to actually pay for a ticket, but everyone, without exception got in. What was more, everyone found their way into the Liverpool end in due course, with huge spiked fences proving no obstacle for these loyal supporters. With such courageous brashness, the game that followed just had to be a classic. And when Louis Garcia grabbed two first half goals, we were further convinced of this fact. Another goal from the legend that is Milan Baros in the second half gave us an aggregate lead of 6-1, which not only inflicted some well deserved pain on our Germany hosts, but also announced our intentions in Europe's premier competition once again. Europe, look out, Liverpool are back.

The home side did manage a late consolation through someone whose name I can't be arsed looking up, though it was as meaningless as London's European Cup record. The stadium tannoy played ‘Rocking all over the world' immediately after their goal, which we proceeded to sing for the next twenty minutes. We went one step further, by cheering every touch from the Leverkusen team, booing that of each Liverpool player, and screaming ‘we want two', at rare breaks in the Status Quo rendition.

Needless to say the Germans in the adjacent stands were totally mystified by our behaviour. At the final whistle the home side proved gracious in defeat, playing ‘You'll Never Walk Alone' over the tannoy. They even joined in with us in singing the famous footballing anthem, scarves of both team colours held aloft in a memorable rendition, to which we replied with cries of ‘Leverkusen'. Revenge was mine, even if it was obtained with minimal bitterness, and more importantly, we were in the quarterfinals of the European Cup once again.

Danny however, found the reward insufficient to him personally, and decided to go one step further. “I'm getting on the pitch,” he exclaimed on the final whistle, a stunt that was on the insane side of ambitious, and saw him spend a few hours in a German police cell. Meanwhile we headed back to Dusseldorf, and the comfort of the bar at the five star hotel, basking in the glory of our team once again.

The following day we wound down with a trip to Bochum, and a walk on their pitch, but with no ball to kick round the inviting stadium, we settled for a train ride back to Cologne to meet the stragglers, and head for home, dreaming of PSV in the quarters. For let's face it, anyone else, and we've had it. One last time now, ‘We all dream of a team of Carraghers…'

Joel Rookwood

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