Champions League 2006 -7 - Euro Red Diary 23

by Joel Rookwood

Liverpool v Barcelona - Champions League Last 16 – February 21st 2007

As the decanted dregs of the first half of Liverpool's current campaign are mulled over, 2006-07 does not seem thus far to have been sparklingly vintage. A seemingly endless trail of league losses has been the unfortunate accompaniment of two excruciating home defeats inside four days, courtesy of Arsene's Arsenal – which saw us eliminated from both domestic cups, conceding nine goals in the process.

Drawing European Champions Barcelona in the first knock-out stage of the Champions League therefore, for many represented the premature if inevitable termination of Liverpool's season. A bust-up involving Bellamy and Riise at a Portuguese 'moral boosting' training camp leading up to the first leg of the tie did little to protect the flickering flame of Liverpudlian hope. Defeat to Barcelona would serve to extinguish that flame and render the season extinct. Make no mistake, attendance at the pinnacle of this year's competition serves as the only option for a salvage mission for what has been a largely frustrating campaign.

If you believed the press however, Liverpool were a team defeated before a ball had even been kicked at the Nou Camp. Thankfully, it was not an opinion to which every Liverpool fan subscribed, as thousands of unperturbed Scousers scrambled to book flights and secure match tickets for the away leg.

In the days and hours leading up to the game the Scouse support poured into Cataluña via a variety of routes, in a total number verging on five-digits. As impressive as this statistic may have been, it did pale into quantifiable insignificance when considered that the home support ensured that the collective attendance figure would require the addition of a further zero.

Unsurprisingly for a game of this magnitude, it was a sell-out crowd. The reigning European Champions against their immediate predecessors for a chance to play in the quarterfinal of that very competition. It does get bigger than this, a fact the recent history of both clubs would substantiate, but not by much.

Our journey from Liverpool took us first to southern France en route to the least Spanish city of Spanish cities. We arrived in Barcelona thirty hours before kick off, with a collective nervousness-cum-restlessness already almost tangible amongst the inhabitants of the minibus. Inevitably we then immediately ascended on Plaça Reial, the square that Scousers just seem to instinctively gravitate towards whenever we find ourselves in this part of the world. The evening that followed was spent in an Irish bar, where we watched a distinctly average Celtic all but knock themselves out of Europe, by failing to score in their first leg at home to AC Milan.

We then proceeded to tunefully remind the locals that although they "Think they're the kings – we've won it three more times than you, you've only won two..." For Barcelona's isolated achievement in the final in Paris last May saw the club double their pitiful European Cup tally.

Their relative inferiority in this context therefore was hammered home by a travelling support ultra aware and ultra proud of its own success. A trip to Barcelona just provides us with a more favourable frame of reference in this respect than some potential opponents, with the Catalonian's bitter rivals Real Madrid serving as the eternally obvious example.

The following day we headed for the customary cultural interlude, which on this occasion involved a trip to Gaudi's impressive albeit unfinished Sagrada Familia – which as you might expect, the group tolerated rather than appreciated. A smile returned to their respective faces however, when we arrived at the next item on the itinerary, FC Barcelona.

The club's museum is free to enter on match days for those lucky enough to have secured a match ticket, and contains an incredible array of football memorabilia and photographic displays. Interestingly though, during our visit I could only find images representing two European triumphs by the Catalan 'giants'. However, for all that could be said about the club's delusions of European grandeur, they are the current Kings of the continent, a fact they boldly remind you at every opportunity.

I humbly illustrated my respect for that fact by queuing to have a photo taken with the very trophy they secured in the final last May. Well, as humble as you can be with a European Cup t-shirt on that simply says '5' on the front. The curator would I'm sure, have been none too impressed. His Madrileño counterpart however, would I suspect have been quite the opposite.

The excursion began to more closely resemble a European away trip when we arrived back at the square, which by the time of our return was already bursting at the seams. Now, if a culture serves as constantly altering compilation of attitudes and beliefs, then the cultural make-up of Liverpool's supporter group is in part a prime example of such a definitional approach.

The wide and varied illustration of our practices and mechanisms is forever diversifying to incorporate the growing list of experiences that render us so different from every other football club on the planet. Rafael Benitez's recent post-derby statement for example, namely his justifiable claim that Everton are merely a 'small club' may have angered those from the blue half of the city; it has predictably however, seen an equally fervent response from Liverpool supporters, many of whom have chosen to adopt this notion.

Some have even chosen to immortalise the statement by dedicating a new banner or two to the now famous sentiment. As a consequence, the culmination of fine craftsmanship from the needle and thread of many-a-red's ma was evident for all to see, stitching the ethos into the essence of the club's increasingly complex character: 'Everton are nothing' says it all.

Whilst some attitudes alter however, some clearly never falter, and remain instead the backbone of the club's idiosyncratic identity. I'll leave it to the reader to decide whether this notion represents an example of the former case as oppose to the latter.

Meanwhile, back in Cataluña, darkness was beginning to descend upon the coastal city. So the process of removing banners and finishing off crates began to represent collective movement, as Camp Plaça Reial considered the details of its disconnected relocation to Camp Nou.

It was noteworthy at this juncture, that levels of inebriation appeared slightly lower than normal for a continental excursion, which no doubt reflected in part the gravity of the occasion. The bulk of Liverpool's support clearly wanted to remember this one – it really, really mattered.

Now as any supporter worth their salt will tell you, an average league game in Spain will draw an impressive number of home supporters. The total in the respective away sections however is usually considerably less than what a team languishing at the foot of England's football league are capable of producing.

Or to put it another way, it would represent only about twice what Fulham generally take away. The local supporters, and by extension, the police force charged with ensuring their safety, are therefore not usually prepared for a territorial invasion from alien supporters.

In the dozen or so Spanish grounds where I've watched football, it has taken no more than a handful of stewards to keep half an eye on the coach-load of supporters who had braved the trip to the ground in question. I suppose I should not have been too surprised therefore, when my early evening turned into a classic case of 'wrong place, wrong time', as the inexperienced Barca ultras, and the overzealous Barca police decided for some reason that I should be perceived as some sort of threat.

The half-mile walk from the Collblanc Metro station to the Nou Camp was not an unfamiliar pathway. Not only was this not my first visit with Liverpool to this ground, but it wasn't even the first of the day. As we came around a particular corner however, my attempt to saunter through a sizeable group of what I soon realised were sizeable Barcelona fans proved problematic.

I was approached by one such supporter, and wasn't aware that my predicament was in any way threatened until what could only have been a baton struck the back of my left leg… repeatedly. The culprit? A law enforcement official rusty on social graces.

The crime that preceded it? I'm yet to find the answer to that very question. Nevertheless, an eight inch bruise has since all but taken over the back of my left leg, as three strikes in quick succession were the punishment for just being there. I didn't wait round for a fourth, or to ask questions about the reason for first three. I just hobbled away, feeling slightly less positive about Catalonians and slightly more determined to see my team knock the nuggets out of Europe.

The complexity of this task was compounded by our preparatory away form leading up to the game. Indeed our final warm-up match before the season's most significant encounter to date (watched by the Liverpool faithful from a great height), saw Gerrard and company succumb to a disappointing 2-1 defeat at Newcastle – who are the epitome of continental and domestic footballing mediocrity.

We were perched at a similar summit for the visit to the European Champions, with many of the travelling supporters no doubt willing to accept the same score line in front of the continent's biggest crowd, to at least present Liverpool with a fighting chance in the return leg at fortress Anfield. Precious few would have predicted a reversal of that very same score in the opening match however, particularly after the home side took the lead midway through the opening period. Indeed survival seemed a more appropriate ambition than victory during the worrying, if short, period of dominance that the home side subsequently enjoyed.

Deco gave Barca the lead with a well taken headed goal, and with the home side looking comfortable having secured a deserved advantage, our Champions League episode, and by extension, our very season, looked in the balance. The goal scorer could have added a second, and Javier Saviola really should have done likewise, but a combination of resolute defending and Cisseesque shooting meant the sides remained quantifiably distinguishable merely by a single goal.

Following the European success Barcelona achieved last season, Joan Laporta agreed a magnanimous deal on behalf of the Catalan club, which involves a percentage of their annual income (around €2million) donated to UNICEF. Whilst both the man with the girl's name and his employers should be commended for such apparently altruistic activity, it was their charitable on-field performance for which the travelling Kopites were most grateful during the remainder of what proved a famous night in Cataluña.

Liverpool are the only 'English' team to win at the famous home of the almost famous Barcelona, with the solitary victory coming courtesy of a John Toshack goal en route to European glory in 1976. It was another Welshman Craig Bellamy who set us up for this memorable win, after the much-maligned forward turned in a Steve Finnan cross on the stroke of half time.

After the interval, goal scorer turned goal provider, as Bellamy coolly transformed a missed opportunity from Dirk Kuyt into a half chance for John Arne Riise on the three-quarter mark. The Norwegian fired home from close range to give Liverpool a deserved and ultimately decisive lead.

The two goal scorers have unquestionably done much to repair the damage done in Portugal, as the outcome of this extraordinary encounter could clearly have a telling impact on Liverpool's season.

It was a massive performance and a hugely significant win, providing of course Liverpool do not allow themselves to be overturned in the home leg. However, Ronaldinho et al. will I suspect succumb to what Mourinho desribed as "the power of Anfield" in a fortnight's time. So with humility having all but escaped this eternal optimist, I'm off to book me holidays for the quarterfinals. We'll take Lyon please, Mr Platini.

Joel Rookwood

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