by Joel Rookwood
With the decision makers at UEFA having thrown up a trip to Spain for Liverpool to begin their defence of the European Cup, we thought it rude not to make the most of the fading summer sun, and take five days off 'work' and head for Andalusia. Four of the usual suspects were present on the trip – at least at its inception – which began with a flight to Granada. From there we picked up our hire car and headed along the coast towards the vibrant city of Seville.
Upon arrival in the place that most Scousers were stubbornly referring to as 'Betis', it was clear that the majority of our group were in favour of adopting the customary 'let's get straight on the ale' policy that inevitably comes at the beginning, middle and end of every expedition into the continent following the mighty Liverpool.
Implementing this decision however doesn't always prove unproblematic. Indeed within an hour of our entry into the pulsating Spanish conurbation, the group had been split neatly in half. This temporary divergence was of course thanks in no small part to the consumption of one or twelve too many sangrias, resulting in a couple of the lads taking a detour and enjoying some of Seville's more refined accommodation for a couple of days. Mmm, the less said the better.
As the night in question began to consider its transformation into dawn, the two of us who remained decided the opening day in Spain was all but spent, with thoughts turning to the possibility of a location in which to sleep. Of course most people would have contemplated such practicalities well in advance. Some would even go to the over-organised lengths of booking accommodation.
I know – ridiculous behaviour …how you can ever not commit such minor details of a continental football excursion to chance I don't know. You never know where an evening can take you – you may end up stuck in a hire car for the night; you may however find yourself basking in the luxury of a five-star hotel. Unfortunately, the culmination of this particular day was more closely related to the former persuasion. In fact it bore an uncanny resemblance.
So with the bar beginning to wind up for the breakfast rush, the remaining duo, realising the night had passed us by, made for the car for the routine attempt at half an hour's slumber. Then what seemed about ten minutes later, though according to my watch was more like a hundred, we were abruptly woken by an irate, elderly though impeccably presented lady knocking on the drivers window.
My Spanish is far from fluent, and yet gaining an understanding of her comments required no translator. She was evidently inquiring, and understandably so, as to why I was parked on her drive. Cue my apology in broken semi-conscious broken Spanish, followed by our attempt to find our bearings, and remove the car from the immediate vicinity, preferably locating somewhere where breakfast could be obtained without aggravating the locals further. Yes, it was just your average introduction to one of our continental excursions …and to think that most Kopites making the trip would not have even have left Liverpool by this point.
Having met up with the day trippers and those who had followed a different independent route into Seville later that afternoon, we spent the evening that followed watching a very La Liga looking Liverpool take on last season's surprise package from the Spanish league. Zenden, Sissoko, Alonso, Garcia and Josemi had all played in España's top flight, and it was this experience that Benitez chose to draw upon in order to overcome his old adversaries. The decision proved yet another master stroke from the legendary Liverpool manager.
Having got to the ground early, we parked up in close proximity to the away end and predictably made for the nearest bar. Hoards of Liverpool fans soon began arriving at the ground, utilising a host of transport modes. The two dozen horse and carts carrying inebriated Liverpudlians down the grand Avenue leading the stadium however were certainly amongst the most memorable. "In Istanbul, we won it five times" was about all I was able to understand from the party though. And I speak the same language – God only knows what the locals made of them. When we entered the ground the scene was awash with colour.
The travelling red army were powerful in voice, whilst being vastly out numbered by the multitude of Seville civilians who were of course dressed in green and white. I think there must be some unwritten rule for the supporters of teams who adopt these particular stripes, forcing them to turn up to matches decked out from head to toe in the same colour scheme. From Celtic, to St Etienne, to Yeovilflippintown. They all love a replica kit with matching accessories. It doesn't explain the Geordie phenomenon however. Still, I don't think anything would.
As we began our ascent to the away section, located up in the gods, just as we were at Barca and Valencia, we found our seats on the second row had only a plastic fence at the front saving us from falling to an impending death. Whilst the pitch may have been a long way down however, the view of the city from the vantage point we had taken up wasn't half bad. The mingling shades of blue, red and grey in the darkening sky formed a spectacular backdrop, setting the scene for another memorable victory on the road for Rafa the gaffa. Supporters had enjoyed the local alcohol-related cuisine all day, which I'm sure contributed to the notion that hiring a horse and cart as the form of transport to the ground was acceptable pre-match conduct.
On the terraces cross-cultural banter was flying across the fences, with the locals seemingly bemused at some of the remarks made to them in broken English (for most of the lads in question have struggled to master their mother tongue when drunk, never mind a foreign language). Make no mistake though, this was certainly a football-mad place, and in light of that, the Liverpool lads felt right at home.
The Kings of the continent were well represented in Spain and our enthusiasm in the stands was certainly reflected by the performance of our team on the pitch. Liverpool gave a commanding first half display, and took a 2-0 lead into the interval, thanks to well-taken goals from Pongolle and Garcia. As the home fans struggled to come to terms with the decimation of their team during a controlled opening period for the visitors, the travelling Kop sung: "Luis Garcia he drinks sangria, he came from Barca to bring us joy…", which the locals seemed to understand perfectly well. The little Spaniard, non existent too often in the domestic game, was back to his lively and inventive self in a setting where he really feels at home, in European competition.
Now Betis had to be better than their first half showing. It may have been their introductory outing in the Champions League, and against the current champions, but we had seen enough televised Spanish football to know far more was to come from the Spaniards. Liverpool had assumed complete control, barely allowing the hosts out of their own half, and yet we had a feeling however that they would adopt a different approach in the second period.
The cream of southern Spain did indeed change their approach after the interval, which bore fruition in the form of a goal. Liverpool however remained solid and stubbornly refused to allow Betis to add to their tally, securing three valuable points as a result. The following morning the local papers were full of praise for the courageous but ultimately defeated Betis side. The Andalusian response was clearly impressed with the fact that the La Liga representative had only lost 2-1 at home to the Champions of Europe, which I think said far more about Liverpool than it did about Los Verdes. Liverpool are back.
The following day, after recovering from the post match celebrations, we had an emotional reunion with a couple of old friends, which we marked with an impromptu road trip to Portugal, as you do. We had meant to get the ferry to Morocco for a more cultural daytrip, but given that Spain was proving too much of a culture shock for some, I decided the lads weren't quite ready for the delights of North Africa … or was that the other way around?
Instead we spent a leisurely afternoon and an uncharacteristically quiet night in the sleepy town of Faro, a city where I had enjoyed a slightly more energetic couple days during last summer's European Championships. We made the obligatory visit to the stadium where I had seen eventual Champions Greece in their only defeat of the competition, at the hands of the Russians.
With still greater inevitability, we produced a football out of thin air and had a little game on the Faro pitch for half an hour. The ground staff were admittedly on the annoyed side of bemused by our presence, even refusing our polite offer of a spontaneous international match on the newly laid turf. So we thanked them for their graciousness, such as it was, and left. Speedily. We then jumped in the car and headed for the marina, where we did away with culture and went for a Chinese.
On our penultimate day I managed to convince the rest of the lads that it was a good idea to head back to Seville. I mentioned that the city's other team were playing German side Mainz in the UEFA Cup, and that the Seville would once again be rocking to the beat of local footballing pride and passion. Little did the lads know however, that during our infamous and unexplained split, I had sneaked off to the stadium in question and acquired four tickets for the game.
I was a popular man indeed. That evening, as we had done prior to the Betis game, we got to the ground early and parked up outside the stadium. We even decided to ditch our own philosophy and book into a nearby hotel before entering the ground. Yes, I became everything I've ever loathed. In my defence though, leaving things to fate had not proved particularly successful for us thus far, so we had opted to take matters into our own hands for the remainder of the trip.
Now given that we had overcome Seville's enemy just two days before, I had decided to wear my Liverpool top to the match. Initially this did not appear a wise move however, for when walking around the ground, with the sunlight beginning to fade, many locals were mistaking us for Germans …and were not particularly warming to us as a result. We had pitched up in a bar outside the ground where the locals took to pelting peanuts at us. I think they were trying to tell us something. This was as a strange sensation in itself, for in English football, if you get attacked it's normally by nutters, not nuts.
Enter the group of lads who turned the experience from a potential nightmare into one of the greatest nights I've ever had in football. I had noticed that the group in question had clocked us as we were entering the bar. At first there seemed to be about ten of them, but it soon became clear their contacts stretched to virtually everyone in the vicinity. As I walked passed one of them with a drink, he asked in Spanish if we were from Liverpool. I replied in the affirmative, and from that moment we were set. We were buying ale for each other and talking about life as a supporter in our respective lands.
Now when people talk about Spanish football, some go on about the might of Real Madrid, whilst others have a soft spot for the masses who pack Barcelona's Nou Camp every week. For some loyalties lie with the recent success story Valenica, whilst there are those who will go for a Northern team like Bilbao or Deportivo La Coruna. Well having watched football in all those places, I must say that they all pail into insignificance within this context when compared to the residents of Seville. Be it Real Betis or Seville, these are real football people. And the night that followed would ensure that we were all Seville fans for life.
We did our best to understand each other, as we talked culture, history, current status, clubs, players and supporters. Of course ours was often the stronger argument, not that we were competing for status you understand, but the Seville lads did win on a couple of counts. They had grown up watching Maradona in a red shirt for example. I don't think even King Kenny could compete there. The lads not only made us feel at home, but also told everyone in the vicinity that we were the Liverpool lads responsible for knocking the old enemy out of Europe. We couldn't help but agree that the victory was ours. Yes, this is the ridiculous world of the football fan.
Unfortunately we had acquired seats at the side of the pitch, with our new found friends, as you would expect, due to stand behind the goal. So with kick off looming, we said our goodbyes and made for our respective turnstiles. Somehow however, the man who had made the initial contact with us spotted us in the ground and managed to talk the security staff into letting through the gate, enabling us to get behind the goal to rejoin our new acquaintances. Once we had fought for a spec in amongst the locals, it was like standing on the Kop in the 1980s.
Seville didn't win the game, in fact they didn't even score, but it was a great night all the same. We had two of our car tyres let down during the match, no doubt by some bitter Betis fans, but we didn't care. It was worth it just to be at that game. It was simply the most insightful experience of Spanish culture I have ever known. I was due to begin a Spanish course at night school the week I was away, and the following lesson I got a bit of a telling off for missing the introductory session. I thought about offering the teacher and my new class mates what would have proven a very reasonable explanation for not attending – but I decided against it. They wouldn't have understood anyway.
The following morning we awoke in the uncharacteristic comfort of our very own hotel beds, and spent a good hour laughing about the crazy adventure we had shared since entering Spanish territory. Before heading back to Granada for the scariest flight of my life back into Liverpool however, we grabbed that same football that had been booted around Faro and headed back to the city's two grounds for the inevitable attempt at a kick around. We must be getting good at it, for we somehow managed it at both locations within the hour. We randomly chose to repeat the ritual at Malaga's stadium en route to Granada, and upon arrival at the latter city, I insisted we finish the trip with a quick look around the Alhambra Palace. Needless to say the attempt at injecting a little culture into the expedition was not for the first time lost on the lads. Ah well, I tried.
Chelsea at home next up. Once again, I bet they don't score. Once again, I bet we don't either. Let's just hope the ref's a rednose again.
The views expressed are those of the individual author.
