Liverpool FC - Euro Red Diary 11

by Joel Rookwood

Juventus Home & Away

I sat somewhat uneasily in my unwelcomingly nonflexible chair, transfixed by an infuriating computer, who's speed was becoming more exposed than that of Stephan Henchoz during an entire career as a Liverpool defender.

My impatience was easily explainable however, for I was awaiting the draw on the Internet to discover Liverpool's opponents in the quarterfinal of the European Cup. Just to be in the competition at this stage was a privilege I thought, a musing that was in itself an embarrassment for a fan of a club with such a prestigious pedigree. How times have changed for Liverpool Football Club in the post Heysel era. Twenty largely barren years have now passed since my boyhood team, who once ruled the footballing world, last competed in the final for ‘the big one'. We were beginning to dream again…

After a final bout of physical abuse aimed at my hard drive, the computer's turn of pace took me by surprise, and fired an onslaught of information at me, with the most important statistic revealing the details of my next continental destination. I had only one word in response: ‘ouch'.

Ironically, having done away with 2002 finalists Bayer Leverkusen in the previous round, we had been pitted against Italian Champions elect, and our opponents in that ill-feted cup final of 1985. So for the first time since the tragedy in which thirty-nine Italian supporters lost their lives, Liverpool were to play Juventus in what was sure to be an emotional affair.

Almost immediately the officials of both clubs sprung into action, discussing the importance of the occasion as a potential opportunity to stress the ‘friendship' between the two colossal clubs, forever linked by a devastating tragedy that changed the very fabric of both institutions. The press too made their inevitable ascent onto the bandwagon; some whistling a similar tune to that campaigned within official circles, whilst others sounded the danger horn, emphasising the potential for violence between the two sets of fans. Humanistic documentaries were aired in the days leading up to both legs, detailing the events of the disaster – and by the time the Old Lady of Turin ascended into Liverpool, you got the feeling the whole world was watching.

The first leg was a passionate encounter, with the mosaic and banner set up by Liverpool, emphasising ‘Amicizia' (friendship), meeting mixed responses from the 3000 Italians squeezed into the Anfield Road End. Whilst the majority of the visitors clapped the host's attempts to set the proper tone for the tie, a few hundred ultras at the front of the stand took a somewhat different view, turning their backs on the arm of friendship offered, and ordering other supporters to follow suit. Thankfully the Juve fans behind who clapped the gestures from the home side were unperturbed by the loons at the front, giving me a glimmer of hope for our visit to Italy in the return leg. The local response to the actions of the few however, did enough to ensure a fiery atmosphere throughout the game, which spurred the home side on immeasurably.

Nedved, Buffon, Thuram, Del Piero and co looked completely shell-shocked when they walked sheepishly off the hallowed turf at the interval. Benitez's men had overpowered the superstar eleven, and with an early goal from Hyypia and a Garcia wonder strike, the humble Spaniard further enhanced his reputation with the adoring Kop in a memorable first half. In truth it could, and maybe should have been more, such was the measure of Liverpool's dominance of the opening period. Capello, who's Roma side were similarly outplayed on an emotional night signalling Houllier's comeback from serious heart illness three years earlier, must live in fear of our little corner of north Liverpool.

The home side were in complete control, although the visitors were allowed back into the game during the second period, a passage of play culminating in a deserved goal, gift-wrapped by the inexperienced Scot Carson. So, despite the memorable first half which will live with me forever, where we tore the famous Italians apart, we left the ground painfully aware that the balance of the tie now rested in the favour of Juve going into the second leg. The trip to Italy was never going to be an especially easy one. Whilst the transport situation was not as problematic as with Sofia or Moscow, given the reputation afforded to Liverpool fans as a direct result of Heysel, we were never going to be made particularly welcome by all citizens of Turin. With this thought in mind we decided to keep our stay in the industrial heartland of Italy as brief as possible.

So instead, our six-day tour of North Italy incorporated various other cities, beginning with Genoa, where in truth we accomplished very little save for the inevitable game of football at the local ground, which on this occasion transpired at the home of Sampdoria and Genoa. We then spent a couple of days in Milan, taking in the views from the top of the impressive gothic cathedral, before enjoying a good laugh at the city's extortionate shopping culture. The main reason for including the European fashion capital on our itinerary however, was the small matter of the Milanese derby, falling as it did on the eve of the Juventus-Liverpool game. So, after checking into a hotel, owned by a charming Chinese couple whose grasp of English seemed as limited as their Italian, we rested our eyes for a few hours before leaving excitedly on the morning of game number one.

We arrived at the monstrous San Siro early that afternoon, and duly laid our flag out to let the locals, who were decked in either red or blue (the way intra-city derbies should be) know that Liverpool had arrived to knock out Turin's second side. It was an act that instigated dozens of well meaning conversations throughout the day, temporarily relieving our attention from the real objective of the day, namely to get a ticket for the forthcoming game.

To their credit, various pockets of Milan scallies tried their best to make a quick buck from the foreigners present, but soon gave up on any Liverpool fans in the vicinity. You only need to turn down a counterfeit or outdated ticket once. Having punters laugh at the terms of a potential sale doesn't do wonders for a tout's business, don't you know. Remaining externally nonchalant but internally panicked, we managed to secure tickets for an amount exceeding their official worth by only 20 Euros some fifteen minutes before kick off. Once in the ground, all indifference flittered away, as we got carried away with the passion of the crowd. Our tickets were for the blue end, which felt a little uncomfortable. However the pockets of Milan fans scattered around the Inter end weren't prevented from celebrating an incredible Shevshenko goal giving Milan a 3-0 aggregate lead, effectively killing off the tie by the interval. In truth the ‘away' side looked even more in control than the score-line suggested. ‘God help whoever gets this lot in the semi' my mate said at half time.

Now this was a massive game for both teams. In fact with PSV the likely semi-final opponents for the victors, whoever came out on top of this Milan derby would in all likelihood find themselves in the final of Europe's premier competition. And yet there was no animosity in the crowd. I was told before the game, randomly enough by a Bulgarian CSKA Sofia/ Milan/ Liverpool supporter, that the two Milanese ultra groups made a pact of non-violence some fifteen years ago. I know another red-blue derby a little closer to my heart that could sadly only dream of adopting such friendly terms.

With the second half now a mere formality, we decided to see if we could stretch the boundaries of our cultural experience, and try and bunk in the away end. To our surprise this task asked fewer questions of our blagging capabilities than we had expected. We waltzed into the Milan end, almost disappointed by the ease of the change of location. Once there however, we literally had to squeeze our way through the collection of stunning brunettes and stylishly dressed men to assume a position where both the pitch and the crowd where within sight. Expecting to see a jubilant away end dominate the second-half atmosphere, there then followed a half hour period that was set to dominate the headlines for weeks to come.

The Inter fans, appearing to their fellow citizens of a red persuasion to be gracious in their acceptance of defeat during the opening period, behaved in quite the opposite manner during the second half. Clearly disgruntled at the current plight of their club, the Inter ultras decided to take matters into their own hands and set alight to a player or two. Fair's fair, right? Only in Italy. Almost as one, scores of flares suddenly began to rain down on the famous turf, one striking the Milan ‘keeper Dida on the neck. Soon enough play was stopped, and the athletes were replaced on the field of play by fireman, who I can only assume had just clocked off from the station and hadn't bothered to remove their uniform before entering the turnstiles. It was pandemonium for a full twenty minutes.

My mate had just sent a message to his mum saying we had got into the Milan derby, who then innocently turned on the telly to see the score. She then sent a message back saying, “the ‘keepers on fire, so I thought I'm just checking you're alright.” That will teach him to text his mum… mine probably thinks I'm still stuck on that library seat.

Meanwhile back in the furnace, the home fans had been pleaded with by stadium officials on the loud speaker to refrain from throwing any more flares. If supporters agreed, then the players would return to the pitch and the match would resume for the meaningless minutes that remained - at least these were the terms as I understood them, thanks to the intervention of the almost bilingual and very amiable Milan fans around me. So everyone knew that one more flare meant abandonment… and everyone knew what was coming. The players came out, the referee's whistle indicated the restart of the game, and with hilarious predictability, fifty or more flares were lit. Then as one, they came crashing onto the pitch, and with that the referee decided he didn't want to play anymore, so picked up his ball, got on his BMX and went home. No doubt he'll retire from the game now, because that's what you're supposed to do after refereeing a match in Italy, aren't you lads. UEFA will no doubt respond with a laughable punishment for Inter too - probably a limit of ten flares per fan at the next game.

With the game coming to an abrupt end, the Milan faithful broke into song, with ‘You'll Never Walk Alone' the anthem fittingly boomed out across the San Siro, just as it was at Old Trafford in the last round, when Milan had done away with Fergie and co. Milan have sung this one since the day after the Hillsborough disaster, as a show of solidarity with Liverpool fans in the light of the tragedy that devastated the city which clings to the Mersey. I had heard this tale years earlier, but to be told in direct conversation by supporters who were clambering over each other to explain to us the history of the connection was something else.

We left the ground singing ‘Liverpool, Liverpool, Liverpool', for no particular reason, happy in the knowledge that we had just watched a memorable game of football, and one of the biggest derbies in world football. Outside the stadium we bumped into former Liverpool fullback Jim Beglin, who was commenting on the game for British television. We joked nervously about our hopes for the following evening's match, and our desire for it to prove a less notable affair in terms of crowd participation, before disappearing in opposite directions to consider the enormity of what was to come.

We arrived exhausted back at our hotel some time after 2am, only to find that our dream day was about to take a characteristic nosedive. After all, it had been far too good to be true thus far. The problem this time took the form of an American couple, who had taken residence in our hotel room. The hospitable staff had decided our two-night booking was actually only for the one night, and decided to offer the room to the next takers. They obviously considered it common practice for guests to leave their entire belongings strewn around the hotel room when checking out. The proprietors evidently thought nothing of the exchange, taking it upon themselves to ‘pack' our bags for us and flung them in a closet.

Although we felt, let's just say a little let down by the ‘service', we decided the word ‘polizei' was featuring too often in the following conversation for us to risk staying round to argue our case any longer. With the Juventus game only eighteen hours away, it seemed unwise to risk the discomfort and inconvenience of a police cell, warm though it might have been. In retrospect this option may well have proven far more appealing than that which we ended up with, a three-hour ‘sleep' on the hard floor of a brightly lit and ridiculously small 24-hour bank. We woke with the sun and made our way to the station where we caught the early morning train to Bergamo to meet the remainder of the party, who were just arriving in Italy. We then spent much of the day in a small village in between Milan and Turin drinking the day away, sensibly avoiding all the action down the road.

With all other party members in a state technically known as ‘drunk as a skunk' by 3pm, it was left to yours truly to drive the people carrier and its cargo of inebriated Liverpudlians into the battlefield of Turin. En route, the other drivers on the highway stared at me in disbelief, on account no doubt of me being blonde and not having sunglasses on. Somehow however, we survived the tirade of motorway abuse and arrived in Turin unscathed, even managing to latch on to the escort for Liverpool supporters, which directed us to the away end. As we entered the stadium of the Alps, LFC stewards handed out ‘friendship' wristbands that I had a part in designing, though in truth a helmet would have been a more appropriate accessory going into the arena. For before, during and after the game, missiles, usually in the form of plastic bottles were hurled into and out of the Liverpool end.

Pockets of Italians also illustrated their disdain for the 3000 hearty souls daft enough to have made their way to North Italy. Banners made cruel references to the Hillsborough disaster, such as “15/4/89 Sheffield: God exists” – which surely served as proof of the devil not of the Almighty – whilst others emphasised a contempt for us for the events in 1985: “English Animals” being one of a score of such flags. It was Millwall away all over again.

Despite the importance of the game, it was difficult to keep your eyes transfixed on the game, given the antics of the crowd. Pools of blood dotted around the terraces were proof that too close attention to the field of play can be detrimental to your health. People drank beer with one hand and threw smashed-up seats at opposing fans with the other. Remarkably the police and stewards did very little to prevent this, with many Liverpudlians adopting the view that ‘when in Turin do as the lunatics do'. There was certainly a very different feel about this Liverpool European crowd than there has been for a while. It felt like that of a Millwall or Man United away game, only magnified several fold.

There were certainly hundreds of older Liverpool supporters present who were actually at Heysel. Having been a boy of four watching the game in my front room in Childwall, it is difficult therefore for me to have a balanced perspective of the events at this modern day reunion. It's hard to comment on what was said, sung and thrown that night in Torino, by the older lads, but let's just say the experience wasn't the proudest moment of my life. Liverpool upset all the odds by holding out for a goalless draw to take us into the semi-finals, but I couldn't really celebrate properly. My disillusionment at my own support, lads I spend my time and money watching our team all over the continent with, was the focus for me as I left the ground. Never had I seen such hatred, such intolerance. And as if to compound these contemplations, the final whistle saw me receive a missile of my own – a full plastic bottle square on the back of the head. Despite the lack of blood, everyone around me expected an aggravated response. In silent and no doubt pointless protest however, the bottle remained on the floor at my feet.

Strange as it was, I felt a little part of me drift away in that stadium, as if my capacity to feel everything for a club or a footballing cause had been stripped from me. I love my club, but this is just a game, and sustaining injury or death is not part of the ritual as far as I'm concerned. If every game was a Juve away day, you'd probably find me in the pub watching it at home with the lads. On second thoughts, I'd more likely be in Curva Sud in the San Siro, decked in red. But as the bottle lay dormant in the gutter, much like Juve's European dream – the thoughts of the majority upon leaving the city soon turned to the semi-final, which threatens to be the biggest night of my life… well, my footballing life at least. Arrivederci Juve.

Joel Rookwood

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