Gerrard: My Autobiography (37 page)

I couldn’t wait to get in to work to see the lads. I shot into Melwood the next day, and they were all there, covered in smiles. Benitez, as usual, played the achievement down, but the boys were all proud of outsmarting the Italians. Bloody right.

Talk immediately turned to Chelsea. Everyone in England had a view on this all-English semi-final. UEFA had set the pairings for the semis during the quarter-final draw, so the Chelsea semi was built up for weeks in advance. Papers, phone-ins and television shows focused on little else. We lost interest in the Premiership. Our days and night-time dreams became filled with the thought of beating Frank Lampard, John Terry and Jose Mourinho
and reaching the Champions League final. Liverpool had so much unfinished business with Chelsea. So many scores to settle. Chelsea had beaten us twice in the league and in the Carling Cup final back in February, when I scored an own-goal. A desire for revenge flowed through me, Carra and the boys. This was the big one.

The team were buzzing as we travelled down to London for the first leg at the end of April. ‘It’s good we’re away first,’ I told Carra. ‘Let’s go there, be compact, keep it tight, nick a draw, and do them at Anfield.’ That season, Liverpool had a knack of getting the right away result. Worryingly, though, I arrived in London with a problem: an abscess in my mouth. Murder. The swelling intensified the night before the match. I could feel the pussy liquid inside waiting to erupt. Food was impossible. Just the thought of anything near the abscess made me almost faint.

‘Doc, it’s fucking agony,’ I told Doc Waller.

‘Get through the game and then we’ll take you to a dentist,’ he replied, tossing me some pills.

I returned to my room and spent the rest of the evening pouring Paracetamol, painkillers and antibiotics down my throat. Sleep was impossible. I kept expecting the abscess to rupture. A fear of drowning, of choking on pus, kept me awake. The pain grew and grew. A monster lived beneath my skin and I had to kill it. I sought out the doc.

‘I don’t think I can get through this, doc,’ I said.

He gave me stronger painkillers. ‘Go and have your couple of hours’ rest and see how you feel,’ he said.

As usual, I followed the doc’s advice, but it was no good. I was now in complete agony, my mouth ready to
explode. The doc and I went to see Benitez, and he said, ‘Find a dentist quick. Get it taken out.’ Within the hour, I was lying back in a dentist’s chair, my mouth full of tools and tubes. I looked up at the dentist and wanted to ask him, ‘Are you a Chelsea fan?’ He could have done anything to the captain of Liverpool! Made me groggy for twenty-four hours. Gone to work with a pneumatic drill. I couldn’t speak, my mouth was so packed with utensils. ‘Please don’t be a Chelsea fan!’ That’s all I thought. Fortunately, he was a first-class dentist who did brilliantly for me. He drained the abscess, tidied up the mess, and sent me off to Stamford Bridge. I knocked back so many painkillers before kick-off I almost rattled every time I kicked the ball.

That first leg was cagey, but we felt the happier with a 0–0 draw. The only disappointment came when the referee, Alain Sars, booked Xabi for a challenge on Eidur Gudjohnsen, which ruled Xabi out of the Anfield return. What really angered us was that Gudjohnsen clearly conned Sars. He dived. No question about it.

‘I never touched him,’ Xabi said in the dressing-room afterwards.

‘Don’t worry, Xabi,’ I replied. ‘We’ll get through. We’ll beat Chelsea. We’ll sort Gudjohnsen out for you. Join us in the final.’

But Xabi was inconsolable, close to tears. He loves playing and felt bitter resentment towards Gudjohnsen. We all did. Xabi is a huge player for Liverpool, and a really popular guy, and a big match like Chelsea at home was made for a midfielder of Xabi’s class. We read all the allegations in the papers that Gudjohnsen told Xabi he
knew he was on a booking. True or not, that fired us up more. Chelsea were going to fucking well get it at Anfield.

The temperature was stoked further by the papers – surprise, surprise. Any tiny comment was used to spark an inferno. In the papers, Benitez singled me out as the ‘key’ for Liverpool. Liverpool’s manager heaped pressure on his captain. Fucking hell, boss, thanks very much. I don’t need more pressure. The boss thought he was helping me, giving me a boost by saying I was the ‘key’. But I wished he had never mentioned me. Leave me alone. I don’t need motivating, especially not for a Champions League semi-final against Chelsea, of all teams. Anyone whose pulse isn’t racing before such a meeting should retire. Benitez knew how ready I was. He told the world, ‘I looked into Steven’s eyes and saw the determination.’ What else would he see? I craved the chance to lift the European Cup, to put Liverpool back where we belong – at the top. The thought of getting knocked out within touching distance of Istanbul and Chelsea going on to win made me almost physically sick. Christ, there was more than determination in my eyes. Staring back at Benitez was a burning will to win. Nobody was going to stand between me and the final. Not Lamps. Not JT. Not Makelele. And certainly not that cheat Gudjohnsen. I couldn’t wait to launch my hungering body into Chelsea.

A touch of arrogance accompanied Chelsea into Anfield on 3 May, and Benitez brilliantly played on it. ‘Chelsea’s players think they are in the final,’ he told us. ‘Chelsea think they have beaten you. Now go out and show them how wrong they are. And remember Xabi.’ We also heard Chelsea booked a room, at a place called the
Mosquito, for an after-match party. Chelsea’s confidence was mentioned more than a few times before kick-off.

Chelsea did not just run into eleven stirred-up Liverpool players that night. The Londoners were hit by a whole wave of emotion rolling out from 40,000 fanatical Scousers, who could not have had a voice between them the following morning. They screamed themselves hoarse that night. Kopites knew the team had a really good chance of going to the final. It was nail-biting – they wanted victory so badly it hurt. Kopites had waited twenty-one years, and endured the humiliation of the Heysel ban and of watching Manchester United lift the trophy. Liverpool fans are obsessed with Europe. Anyone can win a title, but only Liverpool had dominated Europe. Whenever I look at the Kop, I see all the banners reminding everyone of past successes in Europe. The European Cup glides through the dreams of every Red. I saw it in the faces of the Liverpool fans that night. ‘Make Us Dream’ ordered one banner. I heard it in their songs. Get us to the final, Stevie. Lead us back where we belong.

Kopites also wanted us to remind Roman Abramovich that money isn’t everything. They saw the match as a collision of new money and history, Billionaire’s Club v. Community Club. As usual, Mourinho made a few inflammatory comments beforehand. Mateja Kezman angered Liverpool supporters even more by saying of the Anfield Roar, ‘I played at Anfield on New Year’s Day and I don’t know what this big fuss is all about.’ Just wait, mate. When Kezman came on later in the game, he had a shocker. Don’t be disrespectful. Kopites gave it to Kezman and Chelsea big-style.

I have never, ever experienced an atmosphere like it. Celtic Park was massive when we visited, but this was bigger. Running out to warm up forty-five minutes before kick-off, I couldn’t believe my eyes or ears. Anfield was three-quarters full. Usually when we warm up, Anfield’s empty. Not that night. The fans were so impatient to slaughter Chelsea and praise us that they poured out of the pubs early and streamed into Anfield. The stadium was bouncing. As I stretched my muscles, I was mesmerized by the Kop. The fans sang all the Liverpool players’ names individually and then vilified Chelsea’s players. ‘Fuck off Lampard, fuck off Lampard’ could be heard. Straight away, Liverpool fans were right on Chelsea’s back; straight away, they built us up. ‘We can’t let them down,’ I remarked to Carra, ‘and we fucking well won’t.’

We headed back down the tunnel for Benitez’s final instructions, and to get our match shirts on. Back in the dressing-room, everybody talked about our amazing fans. ‘I can’t wait to get back out,’ I said. It makes a hell of a difference, at home, knowing all the fans are completely, passionately with you.

Looking along the Chelsea line in the tunnel, I realized they had some strong characters, men like Lampard and Terry, who would not be intimidated by the hostility directed at them. Big international players, tough guys who can handle the heat. Then I wondered how their weaker team-mates might react. Would they wilt? Would they hide? Abuse chased every Chelsea player around Anfield that night. Whenever Gudjohnsen received the ball, he got the bird big-time. Every time a Chelsea player
lost possession, he was assaulted with insults. When me or Carra steamed into a Chelsea player, a roar went up. The Kop cheered every pass, every tackle. The fans’ noise worked on my body like an endless injection of adrenalin. I was so pumped up. So was everyone wearing Liverpool red that night. We flew out of the traps, tearing into Chelsea, hammering at everything they stood for, turning them inside out.

That’s why we scored so early. Four minutes! When Riise megged Lamps out wide, me and Milan ran into positions. Instinct, shaped by training, took over. I was backing away to create space as Riise’s cross came in. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Milan making a run in. If I got the ball to Milan, he was through on goal. With Terry in the way, I had to keep the ball off the floor, so I put some sting into it, slightly over-hitting it to make sure it got past JT. Baros was really brave and got a touch, taking it away from Petr Cech, who brought Milan down. ‘Pen!’ I shouted. Cech had to be off. Cast-iron penalty.

Everything happened in a split-second. As Milan fell, Garcia appeared from nowhere, got this contact and put the ball in the net. William Gallas hooked the ball out. Was it in? Where’s the ref? There he is. What’s he doing, saying? Lubos Michel blew and pointed towards the halfway line. Goal! My arms went up. Celebration time. I ran towards the Centenary Stand. All Anfield shook. Liverpool fans went mental. Chelsea fans and players went into meltdown. ‘It wasn’t across the line!’ they screamed at Michel. I couldn’t tell. Even now, I still don’t know. The Slovak ref gave it because of the noise behind the goal. The reaction of the Liverpool fans, all of them
leaping up and celebrating, persuaded Michel that Garcia had scored. Chelsea moaned about it. Mourinho still does. I laugh. Chelsea’s complaints are ridiculous. If it wasn’t a goal, Cech would have been red-carded for bringing down Milan. What would Chelsea have made of that? We all know how important Cech is to Chelsea. Down to ten men, facing a penalty, probably down 1–0. Is that what Chelsea wanted? Liverpool could have gone on to win 4–0. Chelsea got off lightly. They should keep quiet. All this bollocks about it not being a penalty, a sending-off or a goal. Who cares? The ref gave it. End of story.

I raced back to the halfway line, shouting instructions at the lads. ‘Keep it tight. Give nothing away. Make every tackle count. Every pass.’ I knew Chelsea would hit back. JT and Lamps wave a blue flag, never a white one. Mourinho was off the bench, yelling at his players. Chelsea were livid over the goal. Their blood boiled and they sought revenge. Time to stand firm. Anfield staged a re-run of the Alamo. We were under siege, under attack from every angle. Chelsea had players everywhere, like it was thirteen against eleven. Fuck me, I could hardly breathe I was so busy chasing around. Arjen Robben came flying on. Christ. Another fire raging. Big Robert Huth went up front. A towering inferno to put out. Chelsea, the wealthiest team in the world, a side with so much skill, were going Route One. Desperation stuff. Long balls rained down on us.

We survived because of one man – Jamie Carragher. I looked at Carra and saw a man hell-bent on not letting the lead slip. He was prepared to offer the last drop of
sweat and blood in his body to get us to Istanbul. Carra knows his history and knew what it meant for Liverpool to reach the final. He did everything to prevent Chelsea ruining Liverpool’s dream. He tackled, blocked, headed. Good at the Bridge, Carra was a Colossus at Anfield. ‘If I get a booking,’ he kept saying, ‘I will miss the game.’ But he didn’t. In fact, Carra was awesome all the way through the tournament. No wonder Inter Milan were interested in him. He kept stifling some of the best centre-forwards in the world. He saw off Zlatan Ibrahimovic when we played Juventus. Didier Drogba didn’t get a sniff, either. And when Huth, the mobile mountain, came up front at Anfield, Carra handled him brilliantly, too.

I began looking around for the fourth official. How much injury time would he give. Three? Four, tops. The electronic board went up. Six minutes? Six fucking minutes! What the hell was going on? I couldn’t believe it. Honest to God, I wanted to strangle the fourth official. How can we survive? We are in trouble here. Running on empty. Shattered. I glanced at Carra. Shit. His face was stained with sweat and worry. Even heroic Carra had nothing left to give. He had dug deep so often. Liverpool were like heavyweights who had taken so many punches and now clung to the ropes. Keep going. Head the ball away. Tackle. Just find that extra drop of energy to make the run. Keep fighting. Jesus, those six minutes felt like sixty. Chelsea’s pressure was like an electric drill, hammering away at the rocks of our defence. At some point an opening would surely appear.

With seconds left, the ball fell to Gudjohnsen close in. Not Gudjohnsen. Of all Chelsea people. That was it.
Goal. He can’t miss. Dream over. I couldn’t bear to watch as he made contact. Then a roar swept around Anfield. He’d missed! And it’s a goal-kick! Fuck. I smiled at Carra. ‘His shot touched my legs!’ laughed Carra. ‘It was going in. I was waiting for a corner!’

Then Michel blew for full-time. Bliss. Safety. We had hung on by the skin of our teeth. ‘We’re going to the final,’ I said to Carra as we partied on the pitch, ‘and we’re going to win it!’ Liverpool deserved to be in Istanbul. For all Chelsea’s whinging, we were the better side over the 180 minutes. Sorry, 186 minutes. I still don’t know where those extra six minutes came from.

I shook hands with Chelsea’s England lads. JT was really good. ‘Good luck in Istanbul,’ he said. At first, I wasn’t sure he meant it. But the more I thought about JT’s comment, the more I believed he probably did. John’s genuine. Still, I could see how devastated he was. All the life had drained from his face; he was gone, emotionally a wreck. Poor guy. I knew how much Europe meant to him. Chelsea wanted it badly. I heard the Chelsea lads out on the England tour in America couldn’t bring themselves to watch the final. Some people criticized them for that, for being small-minded. I didn’t. I understood Chelsea’s reaction. If they had gone through, I would have wished the England lads all the best, but I’m not sure I could have stomached seeing JT lifting the European Cup.