The succulence of the night’s emotion glowed in the young lad’s eyes. It was a mirror of the joy within his soul.
Sanctifying grace from above could not have elicited more out of that soul than what he had just witnessed taking place on the Anfield pitch before him. He was just sixteen, proud and thrilled beyond his strongest yearnings to be a party to it.
As were we all.
A few hours earlier, we had snaked our way towards our Mecca. Thirsting red hordes. Hopeful, yet not too expectant. Optimistic but alert nonetheless to the possibility of finding such optimism dashed against the impermeable rocks impregnating the superb Roma side we were about to confront. As we turned past the reassuring red-bricked façade of the old Anfield Road School, its bulbous bell tower appeared to pulse to the rhythm of the throngs passing it on the street below. Perhaps, with its unparalleled experience of these occasions the throbbing structure knew something we didn’t. Then again, perhaps it was simply the Griffin’s ‘Old Peculiar’ playing tricks again.
A minute or so later and our tributary of hopefuls met with its sister stream, flowing uphill on Arkles Lane. The confluence invoked a lifting of the spirit. We had transformed into a river of aspiration, all the mightier for our embellishment from all points of the compass. For these were souls from far and wide. Ireland, Wales and Scotland. Redmen from all over merged with the predominant Scouse variety. From England, too. Birkenhead even. A cosmopolitan river for sure, reflecting how starkly times can change from the pure Scouse of eras past. Its collective heart set on reaching that elusive ocean only the privileged few have ever set eyes on.
As we neared our destination, optimism multiplied in synch with our numbers. Snatched chants and songs punctuated the background hum under the Anfield Road stand. Shouts for spares unveiled the enormity of the event in waiting. As our stride became a shuffle hemmed in by the burgeoning crowd we watched as the burgers and hot-dogs were consumed, the flags snaffled and the rendezvous’s consummated. As the buzz intensified, touts rubbed their hands in dark corners where tickets exchanged hands. Clearly the old school tower had known something special was afoot.
For this was Anfield, after all. A mere football ground to some. A place of hallowed significance to others. Consecrated ground. Tonight it was the last chance saloon for Liverpool’s Euro seekers. From the buzz around, it was evident they would not be entering that saloon alone. A force would be with them.
We took our seats just as the Kop offered up its organized salute to Gerard Houllier and his team; both the on and off-field varieties. As our beloved anthem rang out from beneath the carpet of red and white mosaic cards cloaking the entire Kop, it manifested tangibly Anfield’s cavernous respect and stirred passions to a pitch from which they would not shift for hours to come.
But now the game could not begin soon enough. The crowd was ravenous for action. They would not be short-changed.
If Steven Gerard is not already the finest footballer in the world, it is surely but a matter of time before he is crowned so. Imagine, if you will, a hybrid of Graeme Souness, Emlyn Hughes and a Centurian tank. Throw in a few extra inches height, a Scally demeanour rounded off with a coconut scalp and you have this mighty one-man armoury. Sublime skill and touch, unerring vision and awareness, leggy gallops and surges, a Lorimer cannon shot and tackles more ferocious than Souness, Yozzer and the tank combined. This boy – man? giant? combine-harvester? – is simply irresistible. What’s more, he is ours.
Purr, purr and purr again. Drool endlessly, in fact.
His bone shattering demolition of his Roma adversary with the game barely minutes under way set the tone for the entire night. To go under, over and through your opponent all in a single clattering choreographed manoeuvre is probably defying the laws of physics. Such trivialities matter not one jot to this prodigy turned master craftsman. He did it, left his poor victim a grounded crumpled mess and was up and galloping away within seconds. At that moment you sensed the game was up for poor Roma.
The next fifteen minutes did not betray Steven Gerrard’s lead. Red shirts all but mesmerised their Latin adversaries. Spurred on by a rare, baying delirium of noise that demanded an urgency already present in abundance within the players, the ratchet was cranked up still further. The deal was simple. We sang and we roared and we yelled ourselves hoarse. Our heroes, meanwhile, simply swarmed the Roma box for all they were worth. It was some deal we were privy to.
Within six minutes the Reds had prised out a one goal penalty lead from one of at least half a dozen incisive attacks. It seemed scant reward for such magnificence and as that initial onslaught abated slightly there were those around whose minds harboured misgivings at such a slender return. Yet, in truth, the significance of that opening siege was pivotal. The die had been cast by that remorseless red tide. The underlying trend of the game had been branded unmistakably onto that swarthy Roman psyche. The Italians fought back gamely. Admirably. Yet only one winner would emerge. And they would be dressed in Red.
So it came to pass. And move. The second half again saw prodigious effort by the men in Red. Would it be sufficient, though? Probably so. We shall never be sure, of course, because of what happened next.
The unmistakable figure of Gerard Houllier parading the touchline. A cameo of our beloved Houllier past. Slighter, of course, but the same Gerard , nonetheless. Fleeting glimpses had been there earlier in the game for those alert enough to catch them. This time, however, it was for real. This was sustained. This was pre-meditated psychology surely. This one prompted renewed buzz and urgings from the crowd. Was it a Shanklyism perhaps? It matters not. The volume was cranked up yet again. The players responded with a further mighty surge of inspired play. Once again Roma could not cope with the upsurge. That rampant fusion of noise and opponents playing out of their skins once more proved too potent for the Romans. A free-kick was conceded. One of many. A Murphy floater to the far post and Emile Heskey soared and somehow hung like some huge prehistoric condor to score with a header as illustrious as any Tony Hateley ever powered into the Kop net.
I shared hugs with my sixteen year old godson for the umpteenth time, not to mention everyone else around us in that pulsating Main Stand. Friends and strangers alike bonded like scarcely before. As the hugging abated a mite, I looked into my godson’s eyes. They were eyes now far away; viewing that enchanted ocean so few ever get to see. Amidst the mayhem, I had the presence to recall the time I had first seen that secret place myself.
Thirty seven years ago on a fresh May night an unheralded Liverpool team had humbled the mighty world champions of Inter Milan amidst scenes and an atmosphere so enthralling, so beguiling I made it the Communion centre-piece of my book Faith of our Fathers. That night a communion begun six years earlier with the arrival of Bill Shankly and formulated by Second and First Division Championships and our first FA Cup victory was finally consummated on the Anfield turf. All that followed in our glorious era of endless success was underpinned by the immensity of events that night. That night, both team and crowd, along with their unique manager, had gazed out across the ocean stretching out before them.
Tonight was young Mike’s Inter Milan. Tonight was that good; that momentous in the history of this unique football club. It is a history being re-written as we look on in awe.
More to the point, of course, it was Mike’s Roma. Even more to the point it was the Roma of Gerard Houllier. Along with his wonderful football team and all its rapturous supporters. All those lucky enough to be there; the ones that helped embroider our Anfield shrine till it was awash with unbroken red and white tinsel as far as the eye could see. And also those not so fortunate to be there in person. The disenfranchised. The exiled. The infirm. Or simply the otherwise committed. For they too – all of them – were there in spirit on this night of all nights. All lending their devotion to this football club of unparalleled emotion. Tonight, together as one, we all laid down a milestone. One that will reverberate through football.
In the final reckoning it is a night that will be remembered with the same reverence as that legendary night against Inter back in ’65. Or that other wondrous night against Gerard Houllier’s compatriots in ’77. Needless to say, that old Anfield School bell tower has seen them all. It, more than anybody, knows a special occasion when it sees one. Next time I see it pulsating, I’ll let you know.
Alan is the author of Faith Of Our Fathers – a must-read for Liverpool fans everywhere.
