Liverpool FC - Euro Red Diary 6

by Joel Rookwood

UEFA Champions' League Olympiakos Away – September 2004

Having the unfamiliar luxury of a direct flight to Athens, the city in which we were actually playing, didn’t render our journey to see Liverpool play in Europe any less complex than usual. There may not have been the requirement to drive illegally through Serbia, apply for a visa to watch a game in a country about as European as the American Ryder Cup team, or blag a train journey across five inhospitable countries, as on previous European trips. However, the fact that I did not have full use of both legs was sure to render what initially seemed a simple journey, a somewhat arduous trek.

Having come out of hospital after groin surgery, which was no less painful than it sounds, I had been prescribed bed rest for three weeks. But my taking on this helpful suggestion was that, if I could get to Old Trafford the day after being discharged from hospital to see us play Man United, then travelling down the road to Athens a week later was in theory entirely plausible. I had managed to get hold of a pair of crutches, which helped me hobble around enough to stay both upright and mobile. Going to either game wasn’t advisable, but like my mum said afterwards, ‘like you were ever not going to go.’

Our ill-thought through travel plans resulted in the four of us having to get to Gatwick for a 6:00 flight on a Monday morning – the day before the game. With British transport on a Sunday night being what it is we decided to leave in plenty of time. And so we set off, with the sun beginning to set behind the Liver buildings, waving goodbye to a lazy Sunday afternoon, anticipating a lively trip to follow. The details of our means of transport between Anfield and Gatwick shall for various reasons remain a secret. Let’s just say that the intra-national journey itself proved more eventful than most excursions on the continent. Needless to say, we didn’t get to bed that night.

Our flight to the Greek capital the following morning was by contrast worryingly quiet and strangely unproblematic. Upon arrival we made straight for the Glyfada resort, which three days later would not be sorry to hear of our departure. As ever we had left Liverpool well prepared. I was decked in shorts and a t-shirt, and a tracksuit top, spanking new trainers gripping my feet. With my passport and Euros lining each pocket of my jacket, my luggage, stored in a plastic bag, consisted of a flag. Red, ale-stained and easy to throw over the shoulder. No problem.

After inspecting the hotel we headed straight for the beach. There followed a brief dip in the Aegean Sea, which I was determined to do despite the crutches, much to the bemusement of the locals, (for this was a corner of Athens clearly not often frequented by tourists). I then hobbled off with the three amigos to the bars. That evening was spent singing the names of various Liverpool players to random ‘80s pop tunes, befriending the locals, bemusing the locals and annoying the locals. In that order. Inexplicably, after an eventful evening, somewhere between the hours of four and six we mysteriously managed to relocate our hotel, where we promptly announced our arrival, and crashed out in a single room. It turned out an unnamed Paralympian basketball team and it’s coach were also among the guests at the hotel, who I’m sure were just one group to benefit from our visit. The team in question crashed out of the competition the following morning. No comment.

For of course we had arrived in Athens during the Paralympics, coming as it did on the back of the Olympic games. So when we awoke on the day of the Olympiakos game, which proved an effort in itself, two of the geekier members of the foursome decided to head for the Olympic stadium to have a look around. The remaining duo took the more sensible option of going into Athens to get bladdered with the lads who would be arriving in their droves from all corners of Liverpool… and Oslo. Typically, I was in the former camp.

Much to my embarrassment, and my compadre’s amusement, en route to the Olympic village my crutches seemed to incite a wave of politeness amongst the locals. Old-aged women were clambering to their feet on sweltering underground trains and insisting I have their seat. It was little short of humiliating. There was nothing I could do to change their viewpoint – the whole of Athens presumed I was a Paralympian as I hobbled by. Somehow I didn’t think the Greek for “I’m an injured alehouse footballer from Liverpool, not a German paralympic hero, so I’ll stand, but thanks anyway” would be needed. How very foolish of me.

Before we were to rejoin the no doubt growing party of Liverpudlians there was just one thing left we had to do in Athens… see the Acropolis. Now this assent would have been challenging for me if I had full use of both my legs. But being a German Paralymp– I mean a crippled Scouser on crutches, it was little short of lunacy to even attempt the climb. To further complicate the challenge, the kind people who were staffing the historic landmark not only forbid me to take my flag up the final leg of the journey, but also denied me use of the wheelchair lift. My admiration for the Greeks, developed when sat with them in their end in Lisbon during their quarter-final win over France in Euro 2004 was diminishing fast.

Nevertheless I made it to the top, where various like-minded, or should I say geeky Liverpudlians were posing for photographs against various components of the pale stone bastion. And it was whilst stood at the top of Acropolis hill, trying to comprehend its depth of history whilst surveying the various views its physical location provided, that I heard a strange roar go up. Indeed unmistakably, it was the unimitatable sound of Liverpudlians bellowing out ‘You’ll never walk alone’ - a deafening recital, that grew in fervour with each line. It had been a sunny day earlier on, though there was a strange mist making its way across the afternoon sky, adding to the mystery of the noise. You couldn’t see it, or tell precisely where it was coming from. It just echoed around Athens, sending a chill down the spine. Athens beware, the Liverpudlians had landed.

I parted company with my partner in crime, as I blagged my way into a queue of Japanese people in wheelchairs awaiting an assisted decent to the bottom of the hill. And as I waited, the roar grew even louder and ever more distinctive, as ‘the glory of the fields of Anfield Road’ boomed out across Athens. There was no reason to ring any of the lads and inquire as to their whereabouts. When the lift had come to an end at the bottom of the hill, I just followed the sound.

Unsurprisingly the singing led me to a bar where I saw various groups of regulars, and we drank what was left of the afternoon away in idle chit chat, mostly about how good Xavi Alonso is, before heading to the ground, each of us trying to pretend this was an important game.

We arrived at the stadium to be met with a deafening noise coming from the home support, probably situated in and around Gate 7, if the graffiti of the same name adorning every other wall in Athens was anything to go by. And when inside, what appeared a new and sterile arena probably named after some Iranian communications company when we had inspected it earlier in the day, was actually a caldron of noise. It was indeed a hostile reception… Greek hospitality at its best. Oh and the name of ground by the way? Karaiskakis. I’ve no idea what it means, but it must be said, you couldn’t get a more Greek term than that.

The one-nil defeat we were subjected to in the match that followed, after a woeful spineless display from a side who clearly haven’t learned to play away from the comfort of a roaring Anfield crowd, was in reflection not a bad result. It could and probably should have been far worse as Rivaldo and co caused havoc in the Liverpool defence. Even after the loss, and the manner in which it came, any fan would still consider failure to qualify for the next stage of the competition a huge disappointment. We are a long way from the team Benitez is building, but despite this we should have enough quality to progress.

Until this point, there was little of the game and the evening in general that was committed to memory. In fact that was the consensus of opinion that was being uttered amongst the Liverpool faithful. And then two fans decked in red, the home colour of both teams, came from the far side of the pitch into the corner where the Liverpool fans were housed for the evening. With little else to look at in what was a rapidly emptying stadium and now eerily quiet, attention seemed to turn en mass at the couple as they marched over towards us. As they approached they unravelled a banner that read ‘96+21 – Gone but not forgotten’. Just when we were all discussing the meaningless nature of the occasion, our hosts provided one of the most profound memories I’ve ever had watching Liverpool. It was a message of collective solidarity following our club’s respective footballing tragedies. The damage done to my admiration of Greek people by the idiotic Acropolis staff was all forgotten. Athenians as a result of this gesture saw their legendary status resumed.

With a return flight to England booked for 10:00 the following morning, we decided a second night without going to bed in three nights was in order. For we couldn’t risk falling asleep anywhere, even in the airport. So we spent the evening in various bars until each decided to close. When we were evicted from one, we found another, until 5am, when we delighted the staff at a friend’s hotel by propping their bar up for a couple more hours. However it was clear that the allotted drinking time of eight hours after the game clearly wasn’t enough, as we then proceeded to almost miss the flight. But a little Scouse charm directed at the airport staff, and we were checked onto our flight. In truth this is largely because they wanted us out of their airport, though this is neither here nor there. …How familiar that line has become. I wonder whether the good people of La Coruna will feel the same when we head there in November? Deportivo, brace yourselves.

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