by Joel Rookwood
Auxerre came to Liverpool a week after succumbing to a one-nil home defeat at the hands of Houllier's side, not really hopeful of causing an upset. Their fans didn't exactly turn up to Anfield in their droves, and playing with one striker, albeit a potentially lethal one, the team they came to support never looked like serving as a recipe for success.
Before the game a few French fans came into the Albert, our regular pre-match hangout, and came up to me asking if I remembered them. Apparently I had met them in France and told them to come in for a drink if they came to Anfield, which sounds like something I'd say. When they told me I was wearing a full white tracksuit I realised they couldn't have been mistaken, as there aren't many of us foolish enough to walk around sporting such ridiculous attire. Shortly before kick off we exchanged scarves before leaving for our respective ends of the ground in time for what can only be described as a low key European game.
The opponents of the winners of this game were virtually decided by half time, and with Celtic winning against Stuttgart, we were soon contemplating travel arrangements to Glasgow for the quarterfinal. It was not surprising that our attentions wavered during a fairly dismal encounter, as Liverpool's performance wasn't exactly inspiring.
In truth though it didn't have to be, as we overcame our French visitors two-nil on the night with relative ease, thanks to goals from Michael Owen and Danny Murphy. After Gerrard and Murphy struggled to really set the team alight in the opening stages, later in the half chances were created but not dispatched by Diouf and Heskey before St Michael's opener. The number ten equalled Ian Rush's European record for Liverpool, after receiving the ball from Murphy and dispatching a neat finish into the corner of the net.
Murphy's goal came moments later, with a long-range effort that slipped through the hands of the inappropriately named Cool in the Auxerre goal. The Kop behind him were unsurprisingly unsympathetic, and it was difficult to tell who was the more embarrassed, the goalkeeper or the goal scorer. Regardless of the manner in which we cemented the lead however, it was to prove the end of the European road for Auxerre this season, setting us up with a mouth-watering clash against Scottish champions Celtic. Before that though, there's the little matter of Man United at Cardiff…
It was Cup final day at the Millennium stadium, Cardiff, and tension was beginning to mount. For this was no ordinary cup final, this was Liverpool versus Manchester United.
Twenty minutes before kick off I was getting phone calls from people at home watching the build up, saying they'd seen my flag on TV. The only problem was I didn't have a flag with me - I wasn't even in the ground. But it didn't take long for the penny to drop – it must have been the flag that had disappeared in Auxerre. I wasn't angry, even though this news probably confirmed that someone had stolen my banner in France. But at that point I felt certain I was going to get it back, so all I really felt was a wave of relief.
For whoever had it in the ground couldn't hide, and before long I would retrieve my flag, and whoever had displayed it for me at Cardiff would get his hand shaken, having effectively done me a favour, saving me the job of getting in the ground early to put it up myself, letting me enjoy the occasion outside right up until kick off. Or so I thought. It was more than a day until I realised that the situation regarding the lost flag was far from resolved.
For as I sat in my front room the following evening armed with the Liverpool Echo in one hand and the video of the previous afternoon's victorious game in the other, little did I know that my Scouse heart was about to receive further punishment. The match report in the paper began, "Liverpool is our nation, football is our language. Red's Banner's tell it like it is." My first reaction was one of confused disbelief, for either the journalist responsible for the piece had not even seen the banner or if he had he had got the words wrong, because that is certainly not how mine read. "Our nation is Liverpool, our language is football" was the inscription I had painstakingly painted one bitterly cold December evening on the piece of red material, a flag destined to be mislaid on it's first outing. But the Echo writers don't make mistakes like that, so it wasn't long before alarm bells started to ring, as I searched frantically for the remote whilst hastily forcing the tape into the VCR. I would have to see the banner in question with my own eyes.
As fate would have it, the tape didn't contain the pre-match build up, on which friends had seen the banner back home in Liverpool. So I had to watch the game in its entirety, as the flag was not shown again until five minutes after full time. And suddenly, there it was. The Echo journalist was right, and I could do little else but stare at the screen in disbelief. Some one had stolen my idea, and created their own flag, having changed the words around so the statement did not concur either with the actual Houllier quote or my version of it. The man responsible is a fraud and yet was rewarded for his deviousness, having his flag screened to millions of viewers all over the world.
I was philosophical in Auxerre when learning the driver of the van to which my flag was attached had driven off with the banner still tied to the roof rack. Actually that's a lie. I didn't care, because I was too drunk to think of anything other than maintaining my balance. But when I considered the loss in a later, more sober state, I was accepting of the misfortune. Until now. One day the man will be brought to justice.
I considered not including this tale of woe in my Cup final report, on the basis that such a great day should not be spoilt by such a relatively insignificant albeit unfortunate turn of events. But I couldn't bring myself not to mention it. So I've said my piece, and got it out of the way. And now with the bitterness behind me, temporarily at least, I can sit back, relax and reflect upon yet another glorious trip to the Welsh Capital.
After an hour's sleep I was cruelly woken on the morning of the game at the ludicrous hour of 3.00am, after which we changed and headed for the Rocket, a place in South Liverpool where we were to catch our lift. There were five in the car, with others arriving on various forms of transport at different times. We got to Cardiff ridiculously early and were left with little else to do but to walk around the city and soak up the atmosphere, which makes me sound like a glory-hunting day tripper, but it was actually quite enjoyable. Pockets of Liverpool fans passed their Mancunian counterparts with no real malice from either party. No rivalry in the country is as bitter as this one, and while fans weren't exactly mingling, they weren't really causing each other problems either.
As soon as the off licenses opened we purchased supplies and continued our inebriation whilst kicking a football round by the walls of the castle, as various other parties joined us. When our group had assembled in full, we headed for a bar near the ground where other Liverpool fans had gathered.
The hours that followed were simply unforgettable, as we had a Scouse carnival in the Welsh streets surrounding the ground for what seemed like an eternity. And I don't mean that in the reversal of the 'time flies when you're having fun' notion. Quite the opposite, with time seeming to stand still, as we sang, danced and drank the afternoon away. Television cameras appeared at odd intervals when the level of excitement would rise a little before cooling down to the level of wild hysteria. The songs were repetitive as not everyone there were die hard fans and few knew more than the rudimentary catalogue of anthems, but that's what cup finals are all about. If we had a hard-core support of thirty thousand we'd never get a ticket for the game so I'm not complaining. But despite the repetitive nature of the singing it was a memorable few hours.
At various times during the festivities odd pockets of Man United fans en route to the stadium accidentally lost their way and found themselves having to walk through our group to gain access to the stadium. To prevent flare-ups a walkway through our group was made by the police, who were soaked with ale for their troubles. There was still no animosity between fans however - we just let them pass. They must have been shattered after their flights from Beijing, Bangkok and Bergen and they didn't deserve the hassle.
As we entered the stadium ourselves we climbed the mountain of stairs and took up our seats in the heavens just in time for kick off. I had been on the second row on my last visit to Cardiff, so this viewpoint wasn't quite the same. But we didn't really care, for there are no bad seats when you're at the Cup final.
In the moments before kick off I felt a huge wave of excitement, as I'm sure did everyone else. Whether it was your first game or your thousandth, whether you were a vicar or the top boy in the Urchins or the Cockney Reds, whether you were seven or seventy, you just had to be excited about a Liverpool versus Man United cup final. History was about to be made in front of our eyes, and we were lucky enough to see it without the distortion of a Sky camera getting in the way. If you've never experienced that feeling, it takes some beating I can tell you.
As the game got under way and I considered my club's chances, I had decided that a lot would depend on how United approached the game. We beat Ferguson's men on five consecutive outings until this season, but when United came to Anfield and left victorious thanks to a double brace from the talentless Diego Forlan, I wondered whether the pendulum was about to swing the other way. Would Ferguson adopt a cautious approach against the enemy, having seen the proof just months earlier that it can bear fruit, or would he stubbornly revert back to a more attacking style of play that has brought him considerable success in recent times, albeit not against Liverpool?
Well anyone who knows how stubborn the Right Honourable Sir Alec is would probably interpret that question as being rhetorical. For it wasn't long before Fergie reached for the proverbial knife to detach his red nose from his even redder face. United's approach was inexplicable yet strangely predictable, and they were simply awful. As for Liverpool, although they didn't really need to be to overcome a poor United side, they were tremendous.
Courageous in defence, and dare I say inventive in midfield. We outwitted, out battled and outplayed United who just couldn't get going. But that was admittedly after a stalemate opening period in which neither side were prepared to overcome their respect for the opposition and mount a meaningful attack.
Giggs, Van Neestillsore and Beckham all went close to opening the scoring in the first half, but it was Liverpool born Steven Gerrard who supplied Cardiff with an opening goal, a cracking effort from twenty five yards which sailed into the top corner, a goal made all the sweeter after none other than David Beckham had deflected the effort over the hapless Bartez in the United goal. Fergie's men came close to equalising but Butt's effort shortly before the interval was cleared off the line by our regular Cardiff defensive hero Stephane Henchoz. When seeing that initially goal-bound effort whistling over the Liverpool bar, you got the feeling it was going to be our day.
As the half time whistle blew, the two regular members of our group who had obtained tickets in the United end, attempted to gain access to the Liverpool end to meet us. Whilst en route to the 'lucky end' they some how stumbled upon a celebrity or two, and after getting Sir Bobby Charlton's autograph, the pair bumped into Sven Goran some one or other. I've never heard of the chap, but apparently he's quite famous. Anyway whoever he is by all accounts he doesn't take lightly to attempts of theft, as the two escapees endeavoured to relieve the man of his glasses, and were not considered popular for their efforts. Apparently the two had meant to take it in turns to parade around the ground with their newfound spectacles, but unfortunately their mission was unsuccessful. Shame really, it would have made some story. Especially after I had, in turn, robbed them.
United continued to look vulnerable in the second half, whilst Liverpool were calculated in their approach, defending patiently though wholeheartedly as if their lives depended on it, before breaking with speed and purpose on the numerous occasions when the United lads wastefully squandered possession. United under Fergie have always been strong in midfield. His defences and front lines have never been much to write home about, but in the centre they have always been potent and combative. But they looked distinctly average in the middle of the park when they badly needed inspiration.
They did create chances however, enough to win the game you could even argue. Yet Liverpool displayed a resolve that has been the earmark of the Mighty Reds under Houllier. We don't try and batter teams every week, but we are hard to beat. Even in this most woeful of seasons to date, we haven't become too accustomed to defeat.
And with Liverpool a goal up and United continuing to push for an equaliser, we sensed a second goal might come. And it did, with the unbelievably terrible Silvestre destined to make one final horrific error before getting drowned by his teammates in the bath. He carelessly relinquished possession in the middle of the park, with Hamann the happy recipient, who in turn fed Owen. Owen turned, ran and scored. Game over. The Liverpool number ten returned to his happiest of homes and struck gold yet again, finishing with aplomb after a strong run, sending the Mancs into despair and the Scousers into jubilation.
Before a concluding rendition of 'You'll never walk alone' on the final whistle, the words "Ee Ai Addio, We've won the Cup!" could be heard ringing around the Millennium stadium. And how. We sent the United fans home to Cornwall with their tails between their legs, just in time for them to swap allegiances once more this season and get down to the mega store to pick up an Arsenal shirt ready for the league title celebration in May.
As United fans poured out of the ground to begin the long homeward journey south, Liverpool fans celebrated our team's success. But whilst most of the adulation was reserved for Gerrard and Owen, we mustn't forget the contribution of a certain Mr Dudek. The Liverpool 'keeper was undoubtedly as instrumental to the win as either goal scorer. For in truth, if Barthez had been in goal for Liverpool, I doubt whether the outcome of the game would have remained the same. Dudek was in poor form earlier in the season, culminating in a calamitous performance at home against United. He was simply awful that day, and I remember commenting when he won his place back in the side at Crystal Palace how the cup final against United represented a real possibility for the Polish stopper to lay a few ghosts to rest. In Cardiff, he certainly did just that. He got the loudest cheer of the day when he led the Liverpool team to lift the trophy, collecting his richly deserved man of the match award before letting captain marvel Hyypia lift the trophy.
There then followed the celebrations, as thousands of Scousers sang and danced in our seats. One memorable moment in that melee came when the camera for the big screen focussed in on a flag with a picture of Shankly on, which got the crowd cheering simply "Shankly, Shankly, Shankly." Like the man himself, it was a moment that will never be forgotten.
We out witted United tactically, outplayed and out battled them on the pitch and out sung them on terraces. Then we deservedly took the trophy home, for a record seventh time. And as I turn full circle on this reflective prose, I'll revert back to the same note on which I began, as I consider the final aspect in which United were outdone. The flags.
Now I assumed that after such a painful defeat United would just claim they didn't care about the 'Mickey Mouse' cup anyway and try and put the sorry day behind them. But that was until I read the reaction in the following day's Manchester Evening News. With United's paltry number of pathetic St George's Cross flags and the odd banner which simply read 'MUFC' with some random town in Somerset thrown on for bad measure, it defies belief how the paper had the cheek to criticise ours. If there was one area in which the Mancs were truly embarrassed at Cardiff it was regarding the displaying of flags. And yet it was this topic on which the journalist in question based his nonsensical bitter rambling, which he himself admitted sounded like "sour grapes." He began by referring to our world famous banners as a "collection of preposterous essays." And I agree with an element of that statement - they are indeed a collection. You practically have to buy a space to put your flag up wherever Liverpool play, such is the demand for banner hanging locations. But 'preposterous essays'? Do me a favour. This really was scraping the barrel for material.
For if evidence was ever required to substantiate just how much more passionate Liverpool supporters are than their Mancunian counterparts, Sunday was it. Even before a ball was kicked, a quick glance around the Millennium stadium served as ample proof. The Scouse end was decked out in flags and banners, each one telling its own unique story: "What We Achieve In Life Echoes In Eternity", "The distance between insanity and genius is measured only by success", "Forever in our Shadow", "Owen: Weapon of Manc Destruction" were just a few. Then there was "Hillman is a Scouser", a reference to the Coronation Street (A Manchester-based soap opera) character who seems to have developed a liking for slaughtering Mancunians. There was even evidence of Liverpudlians contributing to the anti-war effort, with the words, "Don't Bomb Iraq - Nuke Manchester" inscribed on another banner.
Not an inch of available space remained on both tiers of our end of the Millennium Stadium as in typical Scouse fashion our banners spelt our unconditional love for Liverpool Football Club. The losers end, by comparison, was a complete antithesis. Any flair they might posses on the pitch - and Liverpool supporters are not too proud to admit United can play brilliant attacking football at times (though not against us) - is obviously not replicated in the stands.
And so the Liverpudlians won the battle in the terraces on the way to ultimate success in the war that followed on the pitch. And as the banners were being waved around the ground, with Liverpool outsinging our rivals you would never have guessed that it was us who arrived in Cardiff on the back of a season that has been plagued by disappointment.
If United have under performed this season, which they undoubtedly have, you can blame the players, but should sole responsibility be placed on their shoulders?
Take Ryan Giggs, one of the greatest players United and this country has seen in recent times, yet he looks set to leave the club in the summer, in the peak of his career. He's often said his greatest critics are the Manchester United season ticket holders, and it looks like the criticism he's been subjected to has gone too far in his eyes. They're just not a supportive lot over there, and I don't blame Giggs for wanting out. We'd take him with open arms, and show him what real support is, not that United would ever let him come to us. And is this an unfair judgement? Well by means of comparison, just look at the way Fowler was treated at Anfield in his twilight days at the club. Both players were superstars when they emerged onto the scenes, immediately becoming among the best performers in their respective teams at a frighteningly young age. Both also matured into respected players around the country and throughout the continent. Fowler was less effective in his last period at the club, and was sold, though regardless of his loss of form remains dear to every Liverpudlian who wouldn't allow a harsh word to be said against him. That's not the view of the majority but of absolutely every Liverpool fan. And if and when Giggs leaves, most United fans it seems will be glad to see the back of him, despite his brilliance and loyalty. It's a travesty of justicefor the player, and serves to illustrate the nature of the club and the fans to whom his given half his life.
It's this disloyalty which is a trademark of United fans, for on Sunday, they didn't only turn their back on one player, but the whole team. No one likes to see their team beaten, particularly in such a way by such bitter rivals, and while you wouldn't exactly expect United fans to congratulate their victorious opponents, surely they should have stuck around to support their players at such a low point.
If we'd have been beaten five nil I would have stayed to clap my team as they collected their medals, and I certainly wouldn't have been alone. You don't win them all, to coin an annoying and overused adage, and defeat doesn't excuse a hurried exit. But with their end empty, the United players had to suffer the indignity of collecting their losers medals in front of joyous Liverpool fans with none of their own supporters to turn to. No wonder Giggs wants out. And I wonder what was going through the minds of the likes of Van Nistelrooy and Ferdinand as they went to get their medals, both of whom went to United in search of trophies and adulation, and are yet to lift a trophy or experience anything like true adoration.
So on Sunday Liverpool supporters, having seen their team reign victorious, yet again delivered telling proof of what the world already knows. We've been called the greatest fans in the world, we've had film crews come to study us, and we've had books written on us. We've even won official UEFA awards to the effect, and in Cardiff yet again we again proved we really are the greatest fans in the world.
As for Manchester United, where do they go from here? Do they console themselves with dreams of success in other competitions this season? Not if the Manchester Evening News is anything to go by. Their reporter also, and laughably, criticised the stadium. He seemed incapable of overcoming his bitterness; going on to claim United were destined to lose because the roof was on, stating the shutting out of the sun made for an atmosphere of "Murkyside-style gloom". He then predictably went on to criticise our style of play, claiming the Liverpool team achieved its aims through "astounding tedium" and "a depressing brand of football." And the final words of wisdom, meant to send Mancunians off on a happier note after a day of despair? "…it could be worse. You could support Liverpool and be happy about the end while ignoring the means". No mention of the fact that while they've lost in a cup final, they're still in the hunt for the league and in with a chance of Champions League glory. He couldn't seem to write a sentence without referring to Liverpool, directly or otherwise.
Now I'll be the first to admit that it was sweet watching the United players go and collect their losers medals in front of thirty thousand jubilant Scousers, with only a few United fans, probably mostly 'neutrals' scattered around their end of the ground remaining. But if that were ever the crowning event of my season, my day or even my hour, then I'd know it was time to pack football in and pick something else to obsess over.
So as I conclude my reflexions of the events of last Sunday, the sweetest of cup finals, I'll refer you to one particular Liverpool banner, the sentiment of which certainly renders it worthy of a mention:
"By the grace of God: born Red."
Southampton, Blackburn, Preston & Newcastle, Birmingham City, Valencia, West Bromwich Albion, Spartak Moscow, Chelsea, The Fields of Anfield Road, Leeds United, West Ham, Middlesbrough, Fulham, Ipswich & Charlton, Vitesse, Sunderland & Villa, The Derby, Blackburn & Arsenal, Newcastle, Man City, Sheffield Utd & Villa, Southampton and Sheffield Utd, Crystal Palace & Arsenal, West Ham, Auxerre, Manchester United, Bolton, Spurs, Man Utd Again, Hillsborough Remembered, Everton, Charlton.