Gerrard: My Autobiography (40 page)

Carlo Ancelotti tried to shake the corpse of his Milan side back into life. Seedorf was knackered, so on darted Serginho, who began flying down Milan’s left. Rafa reacted immediately. ‘Steven,’ he shouted. ‘Go right-back, Steven. You’ve got the legs to mark Serginho.’ Vladi had been right wing-back, but Benitez didn’t think he was good enough defensively to handle Serginho. So I got the right-back shout. Thanks, Rafa! Serginho was lively and I was close to cramping up.

As Mejuto Gonzalez blew for the end of normal time, my body was a mess. ‘Fucking hell, ref,’ I thought, ‘give a decision on points, because I’m gone.’ Cramp invaded my calves. ‘Got nothing left,’ I gasped to one of Liverpool’s masseurs, who went to work on my legs. The Ataturk pitch was massive and the air really humid. I was drained. The thirty extra minutes stretched out in front of me like a life sentence. Moments like this are when a footballer
discovers most about himself. I’ve dug deep once. Can I dig deep again? Have I anything left to give? Doubts briefly besieged me. I lay on my back, my socks rolled down, my shin-pads sticking out as the masseurs pummelled some life back into my legs. The cramp remained, eating away, but I could move and could definitely block the pain out. Thirty minutes remained. Give it all. And again. And again.

Extra time started and Serginho was coming at me again, all murderous intent and burning pace. What was he on? A bloody motorbike? I played from memory, somehow throwing myself into tackles on this bloody Brazilian. From Ironside to Istanbul, I have launched myself into tackles all my life. My body is programmed to do it. So when I was at my most exhausted, my energy gone, my brain closing down, my body followed its natural instinct and kept challenging. My long legs stretched out to get some big tackles in on Serginho. Everyone in red pushed themselves to the limits and beyond. Don’t let Milan score! Our so-called lightweight players, the flashy ones like Garcia and Vladi, battled like lions. Backs to the wall. Everyone fought. Bonds of friendship kept us together. Inevitably, Carra was a commanding presence, putting his body in the line of fire, getting blocks in, even with cramp gripping him too. An incredible desire to win consumes every fibre of Carra’s body. He’s a big leader for Liverpool, helping people, giving advice, often brilliant advice on football because he knows so much about it. Carra’s like having another captain behind me. We needed him in Istanbul big-time. He gave everything. At one point, I saw him pushing
against the post, stretching his calves to take the sting out of the cramp. Carra remarked afterwards that playing with cramp was worse than playing with a broken leg. I sympathized. We were running on empty, just relying on guts and a refusal to be beaten.

I wished I’d been near a post to ease the pain in my calves. I was out wide fighting a Brazilian fire-storm called Serginho. As I chased him, I remembered the agony of past defeats like the Carling Cup final to Chelsea. I wasn’t letting this final get away. That medal was mine. Dead inside, I had to show strength to keep the team believing. Be strong. Be the captain. I kept urging everyone on. Amid all the turmoil, I also wanted to show my respect to Milan, particularly to Shevchenko, a king among strikers and a prince among men. When I tackled the Ukrainian, I helped him up. When we swapped ends after the first period of extra time, I passed him and said, ‘Good luck.’ I am not a pal of Shevchenko’s, but he captained me in that tsunami benefit game, and we got talking. Shevchenko’s sound.

He is also among the top forwards in the world, and when the ball fell to him two yards out with two minutes remaining, I thought, ‘That’s it. It really is over now. Shevchenko will never miss.’ I couldn’t believe what happened. No-one present in the Ataturk Stadium that extraordinary evening will ever understand. Shevchenko thought he had scored with a header. Jerzy blocked. Shevchenko then thought he had netted the follow-up, but Jerzy blocked again. These were freak saves, not technical ones worked on in training. Some extra force protected Liverpool in those moments. I really believe that. When
Jerzy made that incredible double save, I felt someone upstairs was on our side. Milan felt that God and Lady Luck deserted them. Psychologically, the Italians were shot to pieces, and that is the worst frame of mind going into a penalty shoot-out.

When the final whistle went I was pulled all over the place by different emotions. There was relief and pride that we had fought back to draw, and then held on when Serginho and Shevchenko came calling. But I felt desperately nervous because pens awaited. Rafa marched across and looked at us, establishing who was confident enough to take one. ‘No,’ said Djimi. ‘Yeah,’ said Carra, typically. Carra always fancies himself at pens. Rafa also got a yes from Didi, Xabi, me, Vladi, Djibril, Riise and Garcia. From those eight, Rafa chose his starting five. I looked at the order on his list: Didi, Djibril, Riise, Vladi and me. Fifth! Thanks. The pressure is always on the fifth penalty-taker as any mistake usually means oblivion. As I thought about the additional pressure on my kick, Luis badgered Rafa. ‘I want a pen,’ he said. I was proud that so many of our players wanted the responsibility. Inside, they may have been screaming ‘No, no!’, but they didn’t hide when Liverpool Football Club needed them most.

As Mejuto Gonzalez called the teams together, the reality of pens began to sink in. Can’t get out of it now. I began preparing myself, imagining where I was going to put it. When I missed against Spurs, I said publicly, ‘I will never take a penalty again.’ I lied. Penalties are a great opportunity to score. And as captain, I must take responsibility. I must step up. ‘Fair enough,’ I’d said to Rafa, ‘I’ll take the fifth penalty.’ I’ll go and score it.

First up, I had to go across to Mejuto Gonzalez with Maldini to toss. ‘If you win the toss, go first to put the extra pressure on them,’ Carra told me as I walked to the ref. Maldini won again. What the fuck was going on? I lost three tosses that night. Did he have a double-headed coin? ‘We’ll kick first,’ said Maldini. They also had the end, which seemed a real advantage. Milan’s fans would do everything to put us off. Flares, screaming abuse, everything.

But we had our own secret weapon: Carra. Just before Jerzy set off for the goal, Carra pulled him. ‘Do the spaghetti legs,’ he told him. Jerzy looked blank. Carra got right in Jerzy’s face and began shaking his arms in the air. He explained how Bruce Grobbelaar had done a wobbly legs routine in the shootout of the 1984 European Cup final to put off Roma. I’m not sure Jerzy was up for a history lesson at that particular moment, but he understood Carra’s impersonation of Grobbelaar. My advice to Jerzy was simpler: ‘Good luck.’ Carra’s words, though, clearly impressed Jerzy, who jumped around on the line like a scalded cat. We all watched from the halfway line, arms around each other’s shoulders – a statement that we won or lost together.

Serginho was first up. Unnerved by Jerzy’s dancing, the poor Brazilian shovelled his kick into the crowd. Standing in the centre-circle, I felt the line of Liverpool bodies rise up and the hands of Garcia and Riise grip my shoulders. ‘Yes!’ I shouted. ‘Go on, Didi.’ Didi untangled himself from our line, and stepped forward. Some penalty-takers look like condemned men as they walk from the centre-circle to the spot. Not Didi. He’s German, and we all
know Germans don’t miss penalties. I laughed afterwards when Didi casually remarked he had played with a broken foot. ‘Didi, you could play with two bust feet you move so little!’ I joked. But no, Didi is class, and I knew he would score. He never panics. He’s so experienced. He’s taken pens for Germany. And he nailed this one past Dida, deceiving the Milan keeper with a stutter during his run-up. Again I felt the ripple of joy course through the Liverpool line. Didi strolled back, towards his footballing family, to a row of smiling faces: Carra, Sami, Djibril, Djimi, Garcia, me, Riise, Xabi and Vladi. All in it together.

We watched transfixed as the shoot-out continued. Jerzy saved Pirlo’s penalty. Yes! Cissé scored. Yes! Jon-Dahl Tomasson then made it 2–1 to us, and it was Riise’s turn. ‘Yeah,’ I thought as he walked up, ‘I would definitely have him in a five.’ Riise’s got one of the best left foots in the game, like a bloody hammer. He ran in to hit the ball. Smash it. Bury it. Do like you normally do with the ball, Ginger. Belt it. Surprisingly, Riise placed it, and Dida pulled off a worldie save. Shit. My heart went out to John Arne. If he had the chance to take that penalty again, he would rip the net off, sending it flying backwards over the Milan fans. In training, if Riise ever takes a penalty or a shot from outside the box, he takes the net off. In Istanbul, he changed his mind during his run-up. When he returned to the line, looking shattered, I tried to console him. But there is nothing anyone can say in situations like that. Riise wouldn’t have heard anyway. He was lost in his own grief. Ever since Istanbul, nobody has mentioned that penalty to him. No-one would display such disrespect to
a team-mate we value so highly. Anyone who has ever missed a penalty knows the pain is intense, and would rightly be livid if someone tried to banter about it. Gary Mac still does not appreciate people coming up and talking about his penalty miss for Scotland against England at Euro 96. Stuart Pearce and Paul Ince don’t either. Bloody right too. They showed the bottle to take a penalty in a brutal situation. So did Riise. No-one blames him.

When Kaka beat Jerzy to make it 2–2, it was Smicer’s turn to leave the security of the Liverpool line and make that unforgiving walk. Go on, Vladi. Surprise still coloured my thoughts as I watched Vladi go. Why did Rafa pick Smicer among the five? Vladi was leaving Liverpool after the final. Would he be right mentally? Again, Rafa got it right. My doubts disappeared into the back of Dida’s net, along with Vladi’s fantastic penalty. He strolled back kissing the Liverpool badge. Vladi told me afterwards he was cramping up. No-one noticed! Some pen, Vladi! How calm was that, sending Dida the wrong way? Top man. Wherever Vladi goes in the world, whoever he plays for, whatever he does for the rest of his life, I want him to know that I will think of him and thank him for that penalty in Istanbul, for what he did for Liverpool with his last kick for the club. It couldn’t have happened to a nicer person. Things hadn’t gone perfectly for Vladi at Liverpool. Sadly, he was always injured, or he underperformed. He did have some good games, but not enough. At least his performance in the final was a perfect send-off.

Vladi’s pen meant Shevchenko had to score. ‘He will,’ I thought as I watched him place the ball down. Usually,
Shevchenko passes the ball hard into the net. Time after time. His finishing is up there with the best in the world. But his mind must have been a mess, especially after that double-miss moments before in extra time. Shevchenko looked to have the world on his shoulders as he took the ball from Jerzy, our new master of the mind games, who added to the great Ukrainian’s sense of unease by staring him down, bouncing around on his line and then moving a yard off it. Shevchenko’s kick was weak, placed down the middle, and Jerzy saved it.

Yeeeessss! All the nerves in my body disappeared in one long scream of delight. All my anxiety at having to take the next pen went. I don’t have to take one! It’s done! It’s over! Go and party!

Looking back on the moments after Jerzy’s save is like trying to recall pieces of a dream. I was so caught up in the emotion. But every day since 25 May 2005, little memories of that night have come back to me and I am now able to paint the picture of those precious minutes. Seeing a photograph around the house or at Melwood or Anfield triggers a memory. Did I really dance like that? Did I really sing like that? Whenever I hear ‘Ring of Fire’ I’m swept back to those delirious scenes of celebration. As the picture of that night becomes clearer in my mind, my pride swells even more about winning the European Cup.

When Jerzy made that save off Shevchenko, the sprint was on to reach our amazing keeper. Carra was supposed to have cramp, but it didn’t look like it! He was first out of the blocks, followed by Finnan, Luis, Riise, Xabi, Didi, then me and the rest. I then took off to the fans. This special moment was for them. Kopites had put up with so
much, spent so much. We’d repaid them. I danced around on the running track, surrounded by photographers, screaming ‘Yeeeessss!’ I looked at the Liverpool fans and saw all the banners and joyful faces. I saw some of Carra’s family, and celebrated with them. I saw Joe the Red Man, a massive Liverpool fan who I get tickets for. I saluted him and his wife. I couldn’t find my family anywhere, but I knew Dad and Paul and my mates were all in that happy throng. I read the banners, the fans’ tributes to ‘Rafa’s Red Army’ and ‘Stevie G and Carra: The Italian Job’; there was even a picture of me dressed as a gladiator. I saw grown men crying, breaking down with the emotion of seeing Liverpool back on top of Europe again. I saw fathers hugging sons who should have been at school. I saw the best supporters in the world revelling in a moment that meant the world. Never again would they hear the abuse of Manchester United fans about not winning anything important. ‘In Istanbul, we won it five times.’ Five! United had two European Cups; we had five. Our fifth trophy meant we kept the cup for good. The European Cup was coming home, and it would never leave Anfield again.

When that thought hit me, it briefly knocked all the pain out of my battered body. I’m Liverpool captain, and I have just won the European Cup. Won it back permanently for the club I love. Tears rose within me, threatening to break out. I choked them back.

Liverpool supporters tried to haul me into the crowd. ‘Stop pulling or I’ll faint,’ I screamed. No energy left to drag myself back. Finally, I escaped the fans’ embrace. But my legs had gone. I had the wobbles. Sky’s Geoff Shreeves
collared me for an interview but I was lost for words, white as a sheet, swaying uncontrollably. My body had given so much over two hours that it was now giving up. Geoff asked me questions, but it was a blur. I wanted to fall to the ground, exhausted. I almost fainted. ‘I find it hard to talk at the moment,’ I told him. Too emotional to continue, I had to break off.

Slowly, I regained my senses. As people came back into focus, I noticed Shevchenko was still there on the pitch, stunned, as if turned to a statue by his penalty miss. One bad kick cannot destroy a forward of Shevchenko’s qualities in my eyes. For me, he will always be a true champion. I hobbled over and embraced him. I looked into his eyes and saw the deep distress. Poor guy. He wore a hollow, haunted look. I heard afterwards that he and the rest of the Milan players threw their medals away. I understood. I wouldn’t have a runners-up medal out on display. As I looked at Shevchenko, pictures of my own past disappointments came to mind: my own-goal in the Carling Cup final, the back-pass against France at Euro 2004 – moments when I died a sporting death. My dad and Steve Heighway always taught me to take it on the chin and be gracious in defeat, and some of the Milan players, like Shevchenko, were brilliant to us. ‘Well done,’ Andrei said as we agreed to swap shirts later. Amazing. He’d endured the worst night of his life, yet there he was congratulating the man who had just beaten him. He rose even higher in my admiration. Maldini was magnificent as well, shaking my hand and congratulating me. Maldini’s class, on and off the pitch. ‘Enjoy it,’ he told me as we got ready for the presentations.