Carra: My Autobiography (29 page)

There was no injustice in our victory. Chelsea had 180 minutes plus six minutes' injury time to score a single goal. They failed. Only Gudjohnsen's last kick of the match, when he volleyed across the face of The Kop goal, threatened to break our resolve. The 'Ring of Fire' chant set The Kop ablaze during those final stressful seconds, as supporters manically waved their scarves above their heads, pleading for the final whistle.

The emotion was overwhelming at the end. As I leapt for joy, I felt I'd completed my best 180 minutes in a Liverpool shirt.

It's easy to accuse Liverpool of being over-romantic when it comes to their football, but this was one of many occasions when the self-congratulation was fully warranted. As one of the banners that night claimed, we had genuinely shown there are some things money can't buy. In an increasingly cynical football world, our victory seemed to send out a message that the game was as unpredictable as ever, and all the better for it.

It was the first time Liverpool had been such overwhelming underdogs in Europe, and we used this to our advantage. Usually, semifinal wins are meaningless unless you follow it with a trophy. There was no danger of this victory ever being dismissed, no matter what happened in Istanbul. This was special in its own right. The thrill that night was as much stopping Chelsea as reaching the final itself.

As I'd suspected, every impartial viewer was supporting Liverpool. Among the first calls Stevie and I received after the game were from Thierry Henry and Patrick Vieira. Arsenal hated Chelsea as much as our fans, and they were genuinely pleased on our behalf. 'You deserved it,' they told us. It was a nice touch, and one of the reasons why there's always been so much mutual respect between Liverpool and Arsenal players during my time at Anfield.

Once we'd finished celebrating on the pitch, we couldn't get away from the ground and into town any quicker. We headed to the city centre still in our tracksuits to join the supporters for a drink on this historic night.

As I poured another beer down my throat, the conversation gradually shifted from what we'd just achieved to what might still be accomplished. We'd secured an unforeseen success, and now our sights were fixed on a miraculous one. 'It's meant to be,' the supporters told us. The more obsessed fans even listed a series of bizarre coincidences to prove conclusively that winning was our destiny. Trivial, increasingly ridiculous news events were used as a means of explaining why we'd come so far.

When Liverpool won the European Cup for the first time, in 1977, the date of the final was 25 May, the same as the 2005 final.

In every year we won it, we'd played in traditional red and our opponents in all-white, the same as the 2005 final.

In 1981, Liverpool won the European Cup in the summer of Prince Charles and Lady Di's royal wedding. In 2005, Charles married for the second time. (So did Ken and Deirdre Barlow, we were informed as the imagination of the fans went into overdrive.)

A Wales grand slam victory in 1981 and 2005 was also an indicator of Liverpool European success. Even the death of Pope John Paul II couldn't escape the superstitions. He took office in 1978 while Liverpool were beating Bruges at Wembley, but passed away just before we headed to the 2005 final.

'Everything points to a Liverpool victory,' the Scouse psychics insisted.

Fate, we'd soon realize, hadn't finished having some fun with us yet.

*

I've never allowed myself to be intimidated by an opponent. Reputations count for nothing, and I wouldn't fear any side. But when I looked through the AC Milan line-up in the weeks prior to the final it was impossible not to feel concerned about what they'd do to us if they played to their potential.

I couldn't see a weakness. Cafu and Paolo Maldini ranked not only as the two greatest fullbacks of their generation, but arguably the finest in the last century at any level. Alessandro Nesta was established as Italy's most accomplished centrehalf, while his defensive partner Jaap Stam was already a Champions League winner with Manchester United. In midfield, Andrea Pirlo and Gennaro Gattuso would be the inspiration for Italy's World Cup win a year later. Clarence Seedorf is one of the legends of the game. He was aiming to win his third European Cup with his third different club – a feat he later achieved against us in 2007. Then there was Kaká, on the verge of establishing himself as the best player in the world. And if that wasn't enough, the pre-Chelsea Andriy Shevchenko was recognized as the world's most lethal striker, and Argentina's Hernan Crespo had already commanded fees in excess of £70 million. He was one of the most expensive footballers on the planet. The pace, movement and intelligence of this duo were mesmerizing.

I knew I was playing the real deal here. This was a side at its peak; professional, talented and ruthless. Our only chance, or so we thought, was to frustrate them for as long as possible and hope to steal a 1–0 win, or get to a penalty shootout. I had some ideas about how we could achieve this and thought I could guess Benitez's tactics based on our success against Juventus. Milan had more flair than Juve, but in my experience all Italian sides tend to play the same way.

Juve used Nedved floating between midfield and the forward line and Kaká played a similar role for Milan. In fact, Kaká's position was easier to cater for tactically because he tended to stick to a central zone behind the two forwards. Nedved was more likely to drift to wider areas of the pitch, which could drag your holding midfielder – in our case Didi Hamann – out of position.

There was no question in my mind Didi was the man to nullify Kaká's threat. It had never occurred to me, or him, he wouldn't start the final. Consistently the man for the big occasion, he was one of those in the dressing room who could be trusted to deliver. Such certainty was shaken three days before kickoff when Benitez confided to Stevie he was going to pick Harry Kewell.

'I can understand that,' I remarked when informed of this secret bulletin. 'Cafu piles forward so there may be space for Harry on the left.'

Stevie shook his head, alerting me to the fact I'd misunderstood. 'Harry is playing as a striker,' he said, his voice almost quivering with disbelief.

This snippet allowed us to work out the rest of the line-up. Our success against Chelsea was based on Stevie playing behind a lone striker, protected by Alonso and Hamann. If Gerrard was now returning to a more orthodox central midfield role, either Alonso or Hamann were out.

I realized Didi was going to be on the bench and spent the next forty-eight hours trying to avoid the subject of the team while I was with him. He was one of my best mates, but there are some things you can't say on the eve of a match. I wasn't supposed to know the team until just before kickoff, but part of me wanted to speak out and tell the boss he'd got it wrong.

Even as Benitez announced his line-up in the changing room an hour before kickoff, it didn't instantly register with Didi. 'I heard him name the back four and then Stevie in midfield, and my first thought was, "I can't believe he's not playing Xabi,"' Didi informed me later.

The risk was taken. Milan expected a rigid, defensive Liverpool. Instead, we were going for it.

Despite our misgivings about the tactics, there was no sign of negativity as we headed to the tunnel. I could see players such as Gerrard, Alonso, Hyypia and Baros were ready to give the performances of their careers. Then I glanced at Djimi Traore. There was a look of nervousness on his face. I turned my head away, knowing I had to focus on my own state of mind rather than worry too much about his.

Djimi's first touch, straight from kickoff, was edgy, immediately giving away possession. His second contribution within thirty seconds was to concede a freekick in a dangerous position to the left of our box. A minute had passed, and Pirlo's freekick allowed Maldini to score.

The horror began to unfold. There's a suggestion Milan came out of the traps and battered us throughout a one-sided first half, but we played better football than many think. In terms of possession we were enjoying ourselves, and at 1–0 I wasn't as dispirited as might have been expected. Our problems were purely tactical. Italian sides excel on the counter-attack, and we continually fell into their trap. We tried to be ambitious, but the speed with which they hit us on the break was devastating. The second and third goals, which arrived shortly before halftime, were Italian works of art, crisp, incisive passing moves that would have ripped any defence apart. We didn't do much wrong, but the quality of Shevchenko and Crespo made us look ridiculous.

When the third went in, I'd never felt so helpless on a football pitch.

People ask what was going through my mind in those moments before halftime. As I walked towards the dressing room, I was suffering from a depressing combination of despondency and humiliation. I couldn't bear to lift my head up and glimpse the faces in the crowd, or the banners and red jerseys scattered around the Ataturk. I looked towards the floor and saw nothing but endless dejection. My dreams had turned to dust. I wasn't thinking about the game any more. My thoughts were with my family and friends. I was so sorry. Daft, seemingly trivial ideas scattered themselves across my mind, such as 'What will everyone at home be saying about this?' The thought of going home a laughing stock disturbed me. Never mind The Chaucer after the United defeat in 1999, it would have felt like the whole city, the whole country, even the whole world was taking the mickey out of us. There was a sense of shame to go with my sorrow. The Liverpool fans had taken over the stadium and there was nothing we could do to make amends.

I almost began to regret reaching the final. All defeating Juve and Chelsea had achieved, it seemed, was to allow AC Milan to outclass us and possibly secure the greatest ever margin of victory in a European Cup Final. They'd beaten Barcelona and Steaua Bucharest 4–0 in the 1994 and 1989 finals, and now I feared we'd create history for the wrong reasons, at the receiving end of a record defeat, by five or six. Keeping it at 3–0 and at the very least restoring some respectability was all that mattered to me now.

Nothing was said by the players as we returned to the dressing room. A mythical fifteen minutes in the Liverpool legend was upon us, but it didn't feel that way. The trickiest test in such circumstances is ensuring you don't give up. It would have been easy for us to accept our ambitions were in tatters, that nine months of toil were going to end in catastrophe. Mentally we were all over the place, but I knew it wasn't in my nature to accept this fate. No matter how bad it was, we were going to have to face up to our responsibilities.

Fortunately, there was at least one sane head in the room prepared to restore our battered spirits. In that Ataturk dressing room Rafa Benitez cemented his place in Anfield folklore.

My admiration for his handling of the situation is unlimited. Rafa's conduct rarely changed, regardless of the circumstances. His calm demeanour was never required more than now. Privately, he must have felt the same as us. He too couldn't have failed to think about his family, or what the people of Spain would be making of his side's battering. Here he was, still struggling with his English, trying to instruct us to achieve the impossible.

'Good luck,' I thought to myself.

He showed few signs of emotion as he explained his changes, but the speed with which he made a series of tactical switches showed how sharp he still was. First, he told Traore to get into the shower. That was the polite code for telling a player he's being subbed. Djibril Cisse was told he'd be coming on to play on the right side and was already getting kitted out.

As Djimi removed his shirt, an argument was brewing between Steve Finnan and our physio Dave Galley. Finnan had damaged a groin and Dave told Rafa he thought he should be subbed. Finn was distraught and pleaded to stay on. Rafa wouldn't budge. 'We've only two subs left because we've already lost Kewell with an injury,' he explained. 'I can't afford to make two now, and if you stay on I've lost my last sub.' Traore was told to put his kit back on. Then, as if struck by a moment of clarity, Benitez made an abrupt decision. 'Hamann will replace Finnan and we'll play 3–5–2,' he explained, displaying an assured conviction in his voice which, temporarily at least, gave me confidence. 'Pirlo is running the game from midfield, so I want Luis and Stevie to play around him and outnumber them in the middle so he can't pass the ball.'

The swiftness of this decision confirmed to me he may have considered this formation earlier. The same set-up had worked in Turin, although that had been a purely defensive strategy. 'OK,' part of me was thinking, 'forty-five minutes too late, but we got there in the end.' Given the circumstances, it was still a brave move.

With both Cisse and Hamann now preparing to come on, there was only one problem.

'Rafa, I think we've twelve players out there now.'

Djibril would have to wait a while longer for his introduction.

When we emerged from our desolate dressing room, I wasn't encouraged by the look of steely determination on the face of Maldini as he led his side back out. There were claims after the match of premature celebrations in the Milan camp at halftime. I was upset on their behalf by that pack of lies. Traore gave an interview after the game suggesting the Italians were cocky at 3–0, but I think he was naive in his answers and it was twirled into a fairy story by the newspapers. It simply didn't happen. Milan were far too professional for that. There was no way their captain, with all his experience, was going to allow anyone in his dressing room to take victory for granted. Nothing I saw suggested Milan were already popping champagne. I have too much respect for them even to suggest it. Even if they did, privately, believe they had both hands on the cup, who could blame them? As I headed back into the arena I was sure Milan were going to win, so were the forty thousand Scousers in Istanbul, so why shouldn't they have believed it?