My Liverpool Home (16 page)

More than 70,000 filled the Stadium of Light, all screaming their support for Benfica, but Joe’s prediction came true. When Ronnie headed in after nine minutes, the heat went out of the crowd. Needing three goals, Benfica’s supporters knew the game was up, particularly when Craig Johnston scored just after the half-hour. The whistle for half-time was drowned out by boos. As we walked off, Graeme, Al and I looked at each other. The sound of derision was music to our ears. Joe’s plan for a high tempo was paying off. Liverpool ran amok, Craig darting in behind their defence time after time. Rushie and Ronnie added more goals as Benfica collapsed.

One challenge remained before Liverpool could reach the final in Rome and I suspected it would be a very physical challenge. I can honestly say I have never been in such a war zone as this confrontation with Dinamo Bucharest, masquerading as a European Cup tie. The Romanians came to Anfield on 11 April with malevolence on their minds. Sammy Lee’s header gave us the edge but Dinamo gave us an absolute battering. I was clattered, Rushie got clobbered, and make no mistake there was murder going on. Foolishly, Dinamo tried to mix it with Souness. Their captain, Lica Movila, marked Graeme for the whole game, and every time Graeme ran forward he was checked by a wee tug on his shirt.

‘No, no, one more and you’re getting that,’ said Graeme, showing Movila his hand. The warning was clear. If Movila stepped out of line again, he faced an appointment with Graeme’s right fist. Stupidly, Movila carried on niggling. As the clock hit 70 minutes, Graeme hit Movila. The ball was going out for a throw-in, everyone was looking out wide, so Graeme just punched Movila. The Romanian never saw it coming and the referee and linesmen certainly never saw it. I understand that Movila has since said his team-mates initially thought he was lying on the ground play-acting. Somehow he managed to explain through a broken jaw the price Graeme exacted for his persistent fouling. Movila was carried off and the game finished with the Romanians promising all manner of revenge on Graeme back at their place.

‘You. Souness. Bucharest,’ one of Dinamo players shouted at Graeme, making a throat-cutting sign. The Romanians lived up to their promise on 25 April, shouting at our bus and making threatening signals as we drove to the ground.

Fortunately, the police escort did their job and we reached the 23 August Stadium with windows and bones intact. Ensconced in the dressing room, I picked up the programme and had to laugh. On the front was a message: ‘Welcome FC Liverpool’. Some welcome! I knew what was coming and it certainly wouldn’t be welcoming. In his brief team-talk, Joe didn’t need to encourage us to keep calm. I was well aware that open warfare had been declared by Dinamo, and the 60,000 crammed into the 23 August Stadium screamed for Movila to be avenged. From the first whistle, Dinamo players took it in turns on Graeme. One Romanian tried to top him, another caught Charlie so hard that his dented shinpads were visible through ripped socks. Such intimidation would never faze Souey, who enjoyed the challenge.

‘You’re a bit of a masochist, aren’t you,’ I said to Souey afterwards. He smiled. Typical Graeme. Few midfielders can ever be mentioned in the same breath as Graeme Souness, because whatever the type of game, he had the qualities to deliver. If the other team wanted to take Liverpool on at football, Graeme could pass them off the park. If the opposition wanted a battle, Graeme wouldn’t flinch, as Dinamo discovered. I’ve never met anybody as competitive as Charlie, and I lost count of how many arguments the two of us had in the dressing room. After one game, Graeme was fuming because I’d gone for goal rather than pass to him.

‘You should have squared, Dugs,’ Graeme ranted. ‘Why did you shoot?’

‘Because I fancied I’d score,’ I replied. I had done, but my terse reminder that the ball ended up in the net wasn’t swaying Graeme.

‘You should have passed,’ he insisted.

‘But you’d have missed!’ I hit back. The row went on. Neither of us conceded an inch.

‘You two are unbelievable,’ said Big Al. ‘Neither of you has ever lost an argument even when you argue with each other.’

This refusal to surrender made Graeme Souness such a special player. Nobody could break Graeme. Whatever stunts Dinamo attempted that bruising evening in Bucharest, Souness carried on. When Rushie scored early, the Romanians’ venom intensified and it was a real battle out there. Dinamo knew the game was probably over, even when they equalised, so they just went about trying to settle scores. When Rushie added a second late on, the fight finally went out of Dinamo. Afterwards, Joe was delighted.

‘Dinamo met us on a day when every player was on song,’ the Boss told the Press, and we were. Dinamo also met us with the wrong tactics. These people didn’t understand that Liverpool players looked after each other. I got battered, so did Rushie, so did Graeme, but we won the war and the right to travel to Rome – via Tel Aviv!

Eight days before the European Cup final, Liverpool were invited to play a prestigious friendly against Israel. The game was serious, keeping the fitness ticking over, and it was also a relaxing trip off the pitch, very relaxing for some. Some of the boys went out drinking and when one of them stumbled, it kicked off briefly. Bruce Grobbelaar thought somebody punched Rushie and there was bit of shoving. One of the reporters on the trip spotted this and alerted a Liverpool director, Sidney Moss.

‘Mr Moss, they’re fighting in the square.’

‘Put all those supporters in jail,’ came Mr Moss’s reply.

‘Mr Moss, it’s not the supporters, it’s the players.’ Moss shrugged. He didn’t seem that bothered. It was only a skirmish anyway.

Far more important issues occupied Liverpool minds. I have no brief against Rome, a magical city, but it was a disgrace that the 1984 European Cup final was staged there. The Olympic Stadium was the home of Roma, our opponents in the final. Uefa should have shifted the final because why should one team enjoy home advantage? This surely trampled on Uefa’s principle of fair play. If the final had been scheduled for Anfield, Roma would have screamed to the high heavens, pressuring Uefa to move it. So people should have understood Liverpool’s feeling of being cheated by Uefa. It was rubbish to suggest, as some did, that Wembley was effectively a home ground for us in 1978. Bruges was as close to London as Liverpool was.

Uefa should have put different venues on stand-by and then chosen the final setting from among those clubs knocked out in the quarters. Preparing a stadium doesn’t take that long. Clubs arrange replays within 10 days, and even a World Cup has been reorganised at relatively short notice, Mexico standing in for Colombia two years after Rome. Stewards, police and stadium staff could all be made aware they were required on a certain date. The European Cup, the most important club prize on earth, was at stake, not some village fete. No club should be given an advantage as Roma were in 1984. Walking around the Olympic Stadium before kick-off on 30 May, we were left in no doubt that this was Roma’s fortress and their fans would happily resort to violence and intimidation to protect their territory. I’ll never forget the abuse, the swearing, chanting and slit-throat gestures, even the occasional missile.

Outside the ground it was worse and my anger with Uefa intensified as I saw and heard what Liverpool fans endured. In making the journey from the centre of Rome, crossing bridges and negotiating underpasses, Liverpool fans were ambushed. Bottles, bricks and stones rained down on them and some poor souls were even stabbed. Uefa never thought about this danger when persisting with the city of ‘La Dolce Vita’ as host venue. I bet it didn’t feel like the sweet life to Liverpool supporters being attacked by local
tifosi
.

Before kick-off, Joe stressed again the need to keep calm, to draw the sting out of Roma’s fire. Stepping from the dressing room into the tunnel, I looked around and Roma were nowhere to be seen. I suspected typical Italian mind games, keeping us waiting so the nerves built up. Suddenly, Sammy launched into a Chris Rea song, a particular favourite of ours.

Lawro, Al, Souey and I immediately joined in, and so did the rest, seizing on those familiar lyrics, words we’d sung a thousand times on the bus to matches, and on nights out in Sammy’s or Lawro’s wine bar. We can’t have been singing for more than a minute but it is a moment that has gone down in football history. For many people, it represented a sign of Liverpool’s complete calm before the heat of battle. Legend goes that Roma were stunned by the singing when they eventually deigned to join us in the tunnel. Their coach, Nils Liedholm, has since observed that he felt at that moment Liverpool had the psychological edge on Roma. I hate to dispel a popular belief but we were probably singing to quell the butterflies floating around our own stomachs. If it disconcerted Roma as well as relaxing us, then good.

As we emerged from the tunnel, Roma’s fans threw everything at us. Our earlier stroll around the pitch had been unchallenging compared with this. This time, we got smoke-bombs, flares and the interminable screech of klaxons. A huge banner was dragged over the heads of Italian fans, with ‘ULTRA ROMA’ in large letters and a picture of the European Cup in the middle. Watching all this, I gained the distinct impression that the locals considered the final not so much a match as a coronation. With so many Italian fans holding up flares, the stands looked like a scene from an inferno. Amid the plumes of smoke, I spotted our 20,000 supporters. Liverpool fans love a witty banner and I noted they had not left their ingenuity at home. One banner read: ‘Shanks Marmelized Milan. Paisley Munched the Gladbach. Now Fagan’s Making Roman Ruins.’ Placing Joe alongside Shanks and Bob was a splendid tribute by Liverpool’s followers.

Just before Erik Fredriksson got the game under way, I looked around and noted the quality of the opposition. Roma had classy attacking midfielders Falcao and Cerezo, who were typically cultured Brazilians; Italian World Cup-winners Bruno Conti and Francesco Graziani also graced the white shirts; but for all the talent on display, the final became mired in caution. Nealy scored for us but Roberto Pruzzo replied. Amid the sterility of the second period, it dawned on me that we were heading for extra time and penalties. I realised Roma were too terrified to attack, preferring to man the barricades. When Fredriksson blew for the end of the additional half-hour, Joe set to work preparing Liverpool for penalties.

‘Don’t worry,’ Joe said. ‘You’ve done all you can. Now do your best again.’

Joe looked at the players. This was crunch time, when he needed the strongest to step forward.

‘Who wants to take a penalty?’ Joe asked.

Nealy, Souey and Rushie immediately volunteered. Having been substituted, my evening’s work was done and I must confess to feeling little frustration at not being involved in the shoot-out. Although taking penalties was part of my job at Celtic, I never took them at Liverpool, barring one in pre-season. When Joe contemplated his potential penalty-takers, I would never have featured. Al certainly wouldn’t have taken one. He was behind me in the list and I wasn’t even eligible! During the preparations for the shoot-out, I heard Stevie Nicol talking to Joe.

‘I’ll take a penalty,’ Nicol piped up. This worried me. While admiring Stevie’s courage, I remembered with alarm his previous attempt from 12 yards, and that was messing about at Melwood.

I considered Roma to be favourites, because Brazilians and Italians were good at dead-balls. Standing between the posts, ready to defy Liverpool, was Franco Tancredi, a highly respected goalkeeper. Turning my attention to Roma’s chosen five, I saw with quiet delight their body language hardly screamed confidence for this imminent test of nerve and technique.

‘Falcao won’t take a penalty,’ I said to Craig.

‘It can’t be in his contract!’ Craig replied. ‘£300,000 a year and they want you to take a penalty! The bloody cheek!’ Joe was still busy with the players and I noticed him having a quiet word with Bruce.

‘Try to put them off,’ Joe told Bruce, who nodded, instinctively understanding what the Boss meant. How Bruce would interpret this permission for psychological warfare was his affair. Looking at Bruce, I felt hope surge through me. Bruce was a fantastic athlete, a reassuring sight as he walked to the goal-line. Sometimes Bruce was criticised in the newspapers but what I loved about him was his decisiveness – he came for crosses, missed a few, but everybody knew he was coming. Bruce was a good character, who often talked of his time in the bush.

‘Shepherd’s Bush, Bruce?’ I asked.

‘What?’

‘In London,’ I explained. Bruce would sigh, make some dismissive noise and then talk again of his time in Africa.

In games, Bruce never felt involved unless he was shouting. He’d even scream, ‘Shoot,’ at the opposition. By the time he’d got to Rome, Bruce had long negotiated a rough spell when he’d found it difficult to replace Clem. People had a question mark against him but, in the main, he was a fantastic servant to Liverpool. I’ll never forget his superstition of bouncing the ball to knock the light switch off in the home dressing room. Sometimes one of us would have to go and switch it off just to get Bruce out of the place. One day we went to Plough Lane and beat Bobby Gould’s Wimbledon.

‘Christ, I thought I had you going,’ Bobby said to me afterwards.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Didn’t you notice the light switch?’

‘No.’

‘I read Bruce likes to volley the ball until he knocks the light off, so we put a cover over the switch just to upset him.’

‘Bob, he only does it at home!’ I laughed.

Back in Rome, I knew Bruce wouldn’t let us down, but such was the tension I could hardly focus and the next few fluctuating minutes went by in a blur. Nealy should have taken Liverpool’s first as our regular penalty man but Nicol grabbed the ball. He walked up, placed the ball on the spot and fulfilled my fears by missing. Di Bartolomei put me in an even darker mood by placing his shot past Bruce. Roma had the advantage and their fans began planning their victory party. It needed cool heads to destroy these celebrations on the terraces and, fortunately, Liverpool had a cool head in Nealy, who made it 1–1, bringing Conti under the harshest of spotlights in sport.