Carra: My Autobiography (31 page)

But I was also careful not to milk the moment of victory. There's nothing I hate more than seeing the cup winners rub their opponents' noses in it, so part of me felt for the Milan players. Many of them were experienced enough to take the defeat with the dignity I expected. Most already had winners medals, which doesn't lessen the pain but certainly offers some perspective when you're going through the grieving process. No sooner had some of their players been handed losers medals than they dumped them. Our young reserves were delighted, snatching them up before leaving the stadium as precious souvenirs.

The party shifted from the pitch to the dressing room. There was none of the quiet reflection of the treble season there. The music played, cloudbursts of champagne drenched our shirts, and every VIP in Istanbul wanted to get in to congratulate us. One such guest I ushered in myself. Gérard Houllier and his brother Serge appeared, the former boss beaming with pride at our success. Houllier was later criticized for turning up as he did, but I wanted him there to share the evening. 'Eight or nine of this side were your signings,' I told him, pointing to Dudek, Riise, Smicer, Finnan, Hyypia, Baros, Cisse, Traore and Hamann. He still felt like 'the boss' to me and Stevie. He'd repeat this to journalists later, and be attacked for doing so, but it was true. It was my way of thanking him for his influence on my career. I was indebted to him, and although his time at the club had ended badly, a year on it was only natural I should remind him how grateful I still was for guiding me through some tough times.

Liverpool prides itself on being a family club, where every contributor to our glory, past and present, is recognized. I didn't just want Houllier partying with us, I'd have liked Roy Evans and Ronnie Moran in there too. If Kenny Dalglish had turned up, as he did when the celebrations moved to Liverpool, better still. And had they been alive, Bob Paisley, Joe Fagan and Bill Shankly could have filled a glass and toasted victory with us. That's what this club means to its former players and managers, so for Houllier to be criticized for acknowledging his impact on the likes of me and Stevie was unfair.

Not everyone shared my opinion. I know Benitez thought it was strange the ex-boss was there, but I didn't see why it should worry him. There was no way the new manager wasn't going to get the credit for our extraordinary win. John Arne Riise wasn't too impressed by Houllier's arrival either. He'd made some critical remarks about the old regime during the course of the season, and Houllier tended to remember such details. Riise had just emerged from the shower when Houllier spotted him.

'Do me a favour, John. Stop criticizing me in the press, will you?'

I wish a photographer had snapped Riise's face. There he was, enjoying the pinnacle of his career, and he's getting a dressing down from his old manager. Priceless.

'I'm going to become manager of Lyon this summer,' Houllier informed me. 'Hopefully we'll meet in next year's tournament.'

I hoped so too. An emotional return to Anfield would allow The Kop to give him a proper thank you. Perhaps so soon into Benitez's reign, with memories of Houllier's departure still vivid, it wouldn't have been so heartfelt; but if it happened now, I'm sure the healing hands of time would ensure Gérard received the applause he deserves.

Stage three of the party was in our team hotel.

'Where's the real Special One?' asked chairman David Moores as he concluded a brief speech eulogizing Benitez's tactical skills.

Prime Minister Tony Blair sent us a message telling us we'd done the country proud.

I was too busy to eat or drink. I spent most of the evening blagging as many of my mates into the hotel as possible. 'Yes, they're all with me' was my catchphrase for the evening as every Red in Bootle verified their credentials. One of those who didn't make it was a lad we call 'Cracker', who ended up sacrificing three days of partying for a few minutes on the pitch with the team. He'd run on to the turf pretending he was one of the coaching staff, and posed for photographs with the team and the cup. He got arrested and had to spend the next two nights in a Turkish prison cell, missing the hotel party and the homecoming.

Cracker wasn't the only friend of mine feeling blue in the aftermath of our success. Switching my mobile phone on gave me an opportunity to relive the fluctuating emotions of the match. At halftime I'd been bombarded with texts from the Evertonians. To say they were taking the piss is putting it mildly. It was a glimpse of what would have been in store for me had the second half followed the same pattern as the first.

As I scrolled down the phone, the messages became less frequent, and their tone changed. 'JAMMY BASTARDS' was the last one, courtesy of James 'Seddo' Sedden, a bitter Blue I've been friends with since my schooldays, whose hatred of Liverpool has never wavered despite my switch in allegiance. Seddo had called a bookmaker at halftime to check the odds of victory. He was given a price and laughed. 'What, mate? You're actually giving them a chance?' He now says he wishes he'd put a quid on us just so he could have made a couple of grand to ease his grief.

Another tale I heard was of the Evertonian who needed to get up for work at four a.m. the following morning, so he went to bed at halftime, safe in the knowledge we were beaten. He was awoken at midnight by fireworks going off. 'What the fuck's going on here?' he said, drawing back the curtains. He turned the telly on, saw us running around with the cup and thought he'd died and gone to hell.

Throughout our Turkish celebrations, my thoughts were on getting home and seeing the reaction in Liverpool. I recalled my anti-climactic feelings after our treble win, when the peculiarities of the fixture schedule denied what I'd call a traditional celebration. The scenes in town in 2001 were humbling, but I knew this would be on a far grander scale. Merseyside police warned us the city would be brought to a standstill by our homecoming. I expected around a hundred thousand people to be lining the streets as our open-top bus made its way from the airport.

It's estimated over half a million turned out for us. It seemed every Liverpudlian on Merseyside wanted to catch a glimpse of the trophy. There were even some Evertonians along the route (they're not all as bitter as Seddo). As the bus crawled past each city landmark I'd receive another text message. 'Wait until u get 2 Anfield' one would say, forewarning us of more gridlock ahead. At Anfield, we were brought to a virtual standstill, swamped by fans. My phone went again. 'Town is unbelievable' it read.

We were on the coach about four hours in total, and by the time we reached St George's Hall, our final stop in the city centre, I'd never seen such scenes. There's a famous photograph of Bill Shankly in 1974, lifting his arms to calm the thousands of fans below who'd turned out to celebrate our FA Cup win. 'Chairman Mao has never seen such a show of red power,' he said. This was even greater. It seemed people would put their lives in their hands to see us, climbing up lampposts or on to the roofs of multi-storey buildings. You found yourself frantically moving your head from one side of the bus to the next to make sure you didn't miss any of the banners or homemade European Cups people were waving.

The most spine-tingling sight of all was the look on the faces of the fans. If there were half a million people there, every single one of them was wearing the broadest of smiles. You can't underestimate the feelgood factor such a win brings to a community. Those simple expressions of joy explain why football matters so much. Whatever troubles any of us had were put to one side to share this one intoxicatingly pleasurable experience. Nothing quite brings a group of people together like winning an important football match, and even though the Evertonians may disagree, it's the whole city that reaps the reward. Because of our efforts, the name of Liverpool was seen to represent something good, positive and noble.

'It will never get any better than this,' I said to Steven Gerrard. 'No matter what we do or what we win in the future, this is always going to be the highlight for us.'

Some players rate winning the World Cup as a greater achievement, and I'll never know how it feels to compare, but as a proud Liverpudlian I know it couldn't eclipse this. I was playing for my club, my city and my people. That always meant more to me. Had I been playing for anyone else in that European Cup Final I'm sure I'd have been just as elated, but something would have been missing. I wouldn't have been sharing the euphoria with those closest to me. My family and friends would have been pleased for me, but they wouldn't have been as integral a part of it as they were in 2005. Winning with England in a World Cup Final just couldn't have given me the same sensation.

To win the Champions League with Liverpool, especially in the circumstances we did it, was as close to perfection as any homegrown player could get. That's why I wouldn't swap being a Champions League winner with Liverpool for being a World Cup winner. From a purely football point of view, the standards and demands of Champions League football are also greater than those at a World Cup. All the best managers and players compete in the Champions League; that's not the case at a World Cup. International teams aren't as strong as club sides. No matter what the country, 90 per cent of top players tend to play consistently better for their clubs than their nations. There are some worldclass players who've never even played in a World Cup.

The gulf in class between Liverpool and the AC Milan side we beat was so tough to bridge, when I watch the DVD for the millionth time I'll still be astounded we won. I still feel gutted at halftime; I want to run to the rebound when Xabi misses the first penalty; I need to remove my heart from my mouth as Jerzy makes the double save from Shevchenko. As Dudek makes the decisive stop in the shootout, I want to be back in the centre circle, preparing to run triumphantly to the supporters again. I've always analysed my matches, and none will ever fascinate me more than this one. Whenever I've three hours to kill, it'll always find its way back on to my screen.

It's impossible not to consider the importance of this win in the context of our recent history leading into 2005. When we'd walked past the European Cup as it was on parade before kickoff, we could have felt intimidated by the reflections glittering from it. If we'd indulged ourselves more than a passing glance, we might have seen images of Bob Paisley or Joe Fagan smiling back, reminding us of a glorious past we were being urged to live up to. We'd only recently re-established our credentials as a European superpower. Prior to Houllier's UEFA Cup win, the club's membership of the elite was due to a rich inheritance rather than grand modern achievements. Endless tales of Rome 1977 and 1984, Wembley 1978 and Paris 1981 diverted attention from the fact that at the turn of the millennium, on and off the pitch, Liverpool were a club needing to be dragged kicking and screaming into the twenty-first century.

It was exactly twenty years since Liverpool's last European Cup Final appearance when Benitez led us to Istanbul. Our success not only revived our reputation, it helped remove any lingering stains from the previous two decades. The supporters had endured two tragedies that defined a generation; regular cup humiliations at the hands of lower-division clubs; a series of failed multi-million-pound signings; and false dawns under honest but ultimately flawed managers. Worst of all, the sight of Sir Alex Ferguson indulging in his yearly open-top bus tour of Manchester underlined how we'd replaced our north-west rivals as the club endlessly living off former glories. Houllier deserved credit for starting the process of rehabilitation by winning the cup treble in 2001, and now Benitez had fully restored the fans' sense of self-worth. United and Chelsea may have been swapping League titles, but Benitez had not only denied Ferguson and Mourinho the prize they craved most, he'd presented The Kop with more ammunition to mock United and Chelsea. Now they could sing about how we actually owned a European Cup.

Nowadays, should any of us feel inclined to head to our club museum to give that famous trophy a polish, the only reflections staring back will be our own. It's the faces of me and my teammates that night in the Ataturk, regardless of their overall contribution during their period at Anfield, which I'll always see glinting off that silver cup. Collectively and individually, we gave everything to take possession of that prize. Steven Gerrard's performance especially took his status to another level. Before Istanbul he was world class. Afterwards, I considered him in the top four or five players in the world. He commanded the same status as Kaká and Ronaldinho now.

The winners medals weren't the last awards to be handed out after the final. UEFA host a gala evening to honour the year's top performers, from the goalkeeper through to the striker and manager. Naturally, Benitez was the coach of the year, but we had candidates all over the pitch. Gerrard beat Kaká, Ronaldinho and Lampard to midfielder of the year, and also rightly took the title as the 2005 MVP – most valuable player. I had high hopes in my category, despite the competition, and was encouraged to discover I'd been shortlisted alongside Paolo Maldini and John Terry. They're up there as defenders I admire most in the modern game. They're better players than me, and over the course of a career I'd never claim to meet their standards consistently. In 2005, however, during the Champions League run, no one could have performed any better than I did.

I was honoured to hear both Maldini and Italian legend Franco Baresi paying tribute to my efforts. Prior to that I'd never dared presume either of them had a clue who I was. I rate my two performances against Chelsea in the semifinal, and in the thirty minutes of extra time against Milan, as my finest. I was also under tremendous pressure to perform to my absolute maximum in each round. Juventus, Chelsea and AC Milan had the best strikers in the world in their line-up. Liverpool were playing one upfront, and with respect to Baros and Cisse, central defenders didn't have as much on their plate as I did facing Drogba, Del Piero and Shevchenko.