by Joel Rookwood
The ruthless and relentless Chelski revolution, that now appears to dominate every football-related media publication, seems to have sprung up virtually overnight. It seems only yesterday that the west London club had a side befitting of their history; completely unremarkable. Now they are trying to take over the world, and what is worse is that the world seems to be listening. I was doing a coaching session recently in a remote corner of central Russia, where an alarming proportion of youngsters were sporting counterfeit Chelsea shirts. It's hard to think that just two years ago they would have been that of Arsenal, Man United and even Liverpool.
But now, thanks in no small part to a certain Russian billionaire, Chelsea seem to be taking the English and European game by storm… and they're winning few friends in the process.
The major of Moscow has reportedly accused the moneyman behind the revolution of 'spitting on Russia', by taking funds from his homeland and using this financial might to buy every competition they enter. The League Cup was sewn up in February, with Chelsea's first title in fifty years about to be added to the collection. And having done away with favourites Barcelona, as well as four times winners Bayern Munich, the champions elect found themselves as Champions League favourites going into their semi-final. Some argued that Milan would of course have something to say about Chelsea's chances of being the first London club to win the competition. None argued the case for the Cockney's semi-final tie proving problematic however. Defeating little Liverpool of course was a mere formality.
Whilst Chelsea have a laughable history, a non-existent identity and an eternally muted fan-base consisting of animals and aristocrats, they do undoubtedly have an excellent side, managed by a very capable manager. Sources at Liverpool tell me that the four-time European Champions were close to securing the services of the self-acclaimed 'special one', Jose Mourinho, when the now Chelsea boss was at Porto. I can only breathe a sigh of relief that the arrogant, though undeniably gifted Portuguese man of war, did not 'have the time' to meet with Liverpool representatives when his Porto side were in Manchester plotting the downfall of another failed Mancunian European campaign last Easter.
Mourinho, who is 'European Champion', don't you know, followed the roubles to West London instead in a bid to make the Monaco of England a truly dominant force. Liverpool of course, went down an entirely different path. We went with quiet humility in the form of proven pedigree in an ultra-competitive league. Rafa Benitez left Valencia as champion of Spain, and walked into the Anfield hot seat last summer, probably largely unaware of just how big a job it was. The most historic, successful and legendary club in British football - but in light of a recent mismanagement, it's now a sleeping giant.
Yet when success comes our way it is not the top goal scorer to whom the praise is principally directed. Liverpool managers are idolised more than any other club employee (United fans sing Diego Forlan's name more than Alex Ferguson's despite the latter's eight titles in the club's most successful ever period). Liverpool are completely unique in the way we treat our managers; patient, loyal and loving. For we are not soft – it is the manager who chooses the players and the system, and on him therefore the accolades are fixed.
And for Rafa the gaffer, it has been a testing debut season thus far. Despite an impressive European campaign, which has seen Liverpool reach the semi-final of the biggest competition in club football for the first time since the days of the late great Joe Fagan, and a League Cup final appearance, this has not been the most impressive season by our standards. We have suffered too many defeats, of which I've missed only one. Yet the manager will be given time to rectify the current problems. After all, the team is still principally a Houllier one, and with that in mind, our appearance in the last four of the European Cup is even more impressive. We now have a humble manager with a work ethic, tactical awareness and desire for success that is expected from a Liverpool manager.
And it is these attributes that Liverpudlians were hoping would help earn us a victory in the all-English European semi-final. With three defeats to Chelsea already this season, all by a single goal, Rafa's side, and the army of support that travelled to see them take on the Londoners were more determined than ever to halt the dismal record, at a time when it mattered most. Being drawn at home first in each of the previous two rounds clearly aided Liverpool, as buoyed on by the famous Anfield crowd we were able to virtually kill both ties off within half an hour. The last two-legged affair of the competition however asked a different set of questions… this time we had to travel away first.
It was at Liverpool's last away game of the league season that I first heard the rumour, which was being circulated around the hardcore elements of Liverpool's fan-base. The travelling Kop, unusually organised in advance, were to take London by storm, congregating at Trafalgar Square. So on the day of the first leg, the ten of us arrived at 10am, to find the place already awash with Scousers. The famous square had been taken over, with flags draped over statues. The ale was piled up and the songs were sung – this may only have been London, but to us it was just another European away day. The English capital was treated just as Lyon or Lisbon would have been, with the huge quantities of red dye accidentally slipping into the famous fountains serving as further proof.
With the volume of noise ever increasing, the Metropolitan Police, clearly expecting a mass riot, decided to rush to the scene. Yet conversely on their arrival they were left with little option but to just walk around the vicinity in total bemusement at the sea of drunken but peaceful Liverpudlians who lined the streets. The police's only task that day was instead to try and outwit a Scouser, which they of course failed to do – as well as confiscate the odd football and order naked Kopites to remove their persons from the fountains and re-introduce themselves to some clothing, which they proved far more successful in. All together now: "We're the best behaved supporters in the land…"
Scores of American tourists had followed the noise from Buckingham Palace, and came over to ask 'what we were protesting about'. In the end I gave up giving sensible answers to the ludicrous questions, and started offering some increasingly ludicrous responses instead. I think I had really lost it when I told one couple we were campaigning fiercely for the reintroduction of prohibition. However the sight of the repeated nodding of heads signalling an acceptance of the explanation, illustrated it was the gullible tourists who had actually lost it. Yet I decided to overlook their intense ignorance and remain friendly, even removing my own person from the fountain, and putting some clothes on to pose for the odd photograph.
Heartbreakingly, the festivities turned a shade sour personally for a brief moment, for somewhere in between that fountain and Stamford Bridge, as I had done in Auxere, I misplaced one of my flags: "Those who remember the past are destined to live through it again" it read. It's appeared in more newspapers, magazines and Internet sites than I could recall, and is well known amongst the supporters. But alas, it is no more. Still it only had four European Cups on it, so maybe it was lost for a reason, maybe God was trying to tell me that it would soon but outdated.
We arrived at the ground in high spirits, reminding Chelsea fans of their club's place in the history books, and giving a few lessons about the historical might of Liverpool by way of comparison. The surrounding aristocrats decked in blue either looked amused or bemused, whilst Chelsea's contingent of animals simply foamed at the mouth, probably because thy couldn't muster up any words with which to respond. You've got to love those Chelsea fans.
In the stadium Rafa's Liverpool side were resolute whilst Jose's Chelsea fired blanks, in an evenly balanced encounter. Chelsea of course were supposed to record a resounding win to take into the return leg 'app nouwf'. The fact that they didn't however apparently didn't make their place in the final any less certain. Now all they had to do was to come up the motorway, do away with the relatively cheaply assembled side who had the cheek to reach the semi-final, and then head for Turkey. Or so they thought.
The Chelsea team bus, transporting the side that had won the title during the weekend that fell between the two legs, displayed a message on the front window, which simply read 'two down, one to go'. Yet by the time I had taken my seat in the famous ground more than an hour before kick off, something told me the other side in the tie were going to have their say during the encounter that was to follow.
Indeed the twenty-five minute walk from my front door to the Shankly Gates was like no other previous trek I had made up those famous north Liverpool streets. I could compare it only with the last European semi against Barcelona four year's previously. I couldn't help but dream of a repeat of that one-nil victory. But even then, there was something that rendered this one that bit different. Watching your local side, play two miles from your house for a place in the biggest game in world football (and yes England fans, I am aware of the LESS important World Cup competition). It just doesn't get any bigger. I have had some emotional times at that ground in the twenty-one years I've been going there, but as I walked up to the stadium, knowing the eyes of all Europe would be upon us, I just knew it was going to be our night.
We all know what happened next… Liverpool took an early lead through Luis Garcia and Chelsea failed to score – again. There was no luck involved, good or bad, for either party. Both teams, both managers and both sets of fans got their just rewards. Carragher was immense, truly immense, in the heart of Liverpool's defence.
In fact his performance led Chelsea's most promising player on the night Eidur Gudjohnsen to claim the inspirational centre-half had been 'cloned' such was the extent of his presence. He simply drove us on to victory. Ninety agonising minutes were followed by an additional almost unbearable six minutes of stoppage time …and still Mourinho's side could not break the resolute Liverpool defence.
The home fans had the ground shaking to its very foundations for four solid hours, remaining deafening throughout. The away support, who by the way had just seen their side win the title, were of course muted by comparison. But no away support in the world could have made themselves heard at Anfield that night over the thunderous home crowd. And yet whilst it was the usual array of songs were thrashed out from all of corners of the ground, it was the final minute of stoppage time where the kopites really made the most noise.
Never before have I been so struck by a body of support – for during those concluding moments of the game, they were not unified in singing some tuneful hymn, but instead simply by being a wall of noise. Emily Dickinson said that "Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul, that sings the tune without the words and never stops at all."
And that was the Liverpool crowd during those tense frantic minutes. Our hope and our noise never once dwindled - and Rafa's side never once failed to respond.
I always thought my greatest night at that famous old ground would have been when watching the unforgettable title winning side of '88 sat on my dad's shoulders on the kop. But the modern game, with all its intrusive media hype, destructive commercialism, and of course for Liverpool fans, absence of a title, shocked me that night. For it provided me with what was quite simply the greatest night I have or will ever see at Anfield: Liverpool were going to the European Cup Final.
The views expressed are those of the individual author.
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