Carra: My Autobiography (30 page)

I could hear 'You'll Never Walk Alone' in the distance, and as I exited the tunnel it grew louder. It wasn't the usual version of our anthem though. There are different moments when The Kop summons Gerry Marsden's classic. Before every home game it's a deafening rallying cry, as if to inspire us to perform and frighten our opponents into submission. If we're winning in the closing stages of a huge match, it will be sung again, this time in celebration. But there are other occasions the words of the song have greater meaning, and at halftime in Istanbul the fans were singing it in sympathy more than belief. There was a slow, sad sound to it, almost as if it was being sung as a hymn. The fans were certainly praying on our behalf. To me, it was the supporters' way of saying, 'We're still proud of what you've done, we're still with you, so don't let your heads drop.' There was probably a hint of a warning in there too, as the walk back to my position felt like a guilt trip: 'Don't let us down any more than you already have.' Our coach Alex Miller's final instructions at halftime were for us to 'score a goal for those fans'. That was the mindset we had. Get one and pride might be restored.

Just as the first half is mischievously remembered as Milan taking us apart from first minute to last, the start of the second is seen as our attack versus their defence. It wasn't like that. Milan looked more like grabbing a fourth before we scored our first. Jerzy Dudek had to make a few more saves before we entered the Twilight Zone.

Then it began.

A John Arne Riise cross.

A terrific Gerrard header.

At 3–1, we had hope.

A ray of light appeared amid the previously unrelenting grey clouds. I saw Stevie run towards our fans and urge more noise. Dejection was replaced by passion again.

Vladimir Smicer almost instantly cut the deficit to 3–2. Now we added the ammunition of belief to our mission impossible.

Two features stand out about Vladi's goal. The first was my screaming at him not to waste possession with an ambitious twentyfive-yard shot. His strike record wasn't impressive, so as he pulled the trigger I was ready to give him an earful for his deluded self-confidence. The second point relates to Kaká. As our attack developed, I noticed the Brazilian stop to fix one of his shin pads. Having watched the goal a million times or more since, I'm convinced had Kaká tracked back he'd have been in a position to cut out the pass to Smicer in the build-up to the goal. At 3–1, perhaps it didn't seem so important. A split second later, I've no doubt Kaká wished he'd waited before making his running repairs. I've lost count of the number of times I've heard managers emphasizing the 'small details' that can change the course of a game. There's no finer example than that.

When Dida was beaten, I not only felt we were back in the game, our momentum was such an equalizer was inevitable. I looked towards both benches and the contrast with twenty minutes earlier was extreme. Our coaching staff and substitutes were going berserk. The Liverpool fans were screaming their approval. AC Milan's manager, Carlo Ancelotti, looked stunned. His backroom team and reserves sat motionless, slumped in their seats, showing the same frozen expressions we'd experienced when Crespo chipped in the third before halftime.

Milan restarted the game. We regained possession. This time I found myself with time and space on the ball. I spotted Milan Baros and played a precise pass. Usually I'd hang back, this time I kept rampaging forward, creating space for the attackers. Baros's clever pass sent Stevie into the box and Gattuso tripped him as he was about to shoot. Two thirds of the stadium erupted in demand of a penalty. No referee was going to argue.

While my teammates celebrated, my first reaction was to call for Gattuso's sending-off. He'd fouled Gerrard on the edge of the six-yard box and denied a clear goalscoring opportunity. In normal circumstances a dismissal would have been inevitable. My pleas left me open to allegations of unsporting behaviour. Players who try to get their fellow professionals sent off are frowned upon. I had nothing against Gattuso. My quarrel was with the injustice of Milan still having eleven men on the pitch. There's a difference between trying to get a player sent off and pointing out a mistake has been made if an opponent hasn't been given the correct punishment. Gattuso's survival meant, although we equalized, Milan were able to recover from their slump.

After arguing with the referee, my next row before Xabi Alonso's pen was with Luis Garcia. I must have looked like a man possessed, lashing out at everyone. Benitez always decided who'd take penalties before the game, and Xabi had been given the nod. For whatever reason, Luis grabbed the ball and was ready to assume responsibility.

'Fuck off Luis, this is Xabi's,' I said.

I was saving him from himself. Had he taken it and missed, Benitez – and the rest of us – would never have forgiven him.

Not that Xabi fared better, but before we had time to curse Dida's save from the spot-kick the rebound had been slammed in and we were chasing the goalscorer to the corner flag.

Milan had been hit with a six-minute tornado. As swiftly as we'd lost control of our destiny, we'd regained it.

The Italians managed to recover their composure after our torrential pressure, but their three-goal advantage had been washed away. Psychologically, we had the upper hand, but football has a peculiar way of forcing you to reassess your aims depending on how much you have to lose. We felt fearless at the start of the second half because, emotionally, we were already beaten. The pre-match nerves had gone, substituted by the feeling 'Fuck it, let's just go for it and if we go down, we go down fighting'. At 3–3, the earlier anxieties returned. Now it was time for us to put our foot back on the ball, ease ourselves back into a more orthodox pattern and stop piling forward.

I recognized we had something astonishing on our hands now, and we didn't want to let it slip again.

Logically, we should have continued to push on in the carefree manner that had led to three goals, but that was too risky for the remaining half an hour. We chose to consolidate our newly discovered sense of equality, conserve what energy we had for the looming prospect of extra-time and wait for another chance to come without forcing the issue.

In truth, I barely remember any clear opportunities in normal time after Xabi's equalizer. The final whistle was a Godsend when it arrived. We were tiring, Milan had fully recovered from their trauma, and the sooner the penalty shootout started the better so far as I was concerned.

Those additional thirty minutes were the most tense, strenuous and, ultimately, rewarding I've ever spent on a football pitch. At the end of my career, if there's one period of play I believe I'll be remembered for, it was this. We were under constant pressure. During the second period of extra time I stretched to intercept a cross and my leg cramped. Anyone who has suffered cramp will know how painful it is. Even breaking my leg didn't hurt as much. It was brief and it was instantly treatable, but I knew my body was weakening as Milan finished strongly.

Thirty seconds after the physio sent me back on to the pitch an identical pass was sent into our box and I had no choice but to stretch the same leg to make a decisive tackle on Shevchenko. As I did so, it seemed the whole world was wincing on my behalf, appreciating the physical torment I was enduring. I hadn't thought twice about throwing my body in the way. Whatever grief it was going to cause me for a few seconds was nothing compared to how I'd've felt had I hesitated and watched him score.

Courage, character, grit, willpower and raw strength – these are the virtues people have instilled into me since I was seven years old. I'd come a long way from the snotty-nosed kid who wanted to come off the pitch early because it was raining. I bet if there's one moment my dad rewinds on the DVD, it's that one. As I deflected away another goalbound Milan shot, I know he must have been prouder than he'd ever been. The strikers can have their winning goals, the goalkeepers their career-defining saves. A series of lunging tackles on the Milan strike force will be my fondest personal memories of a life in football.

We were hanging on now, assisted by the fact that Djimi Traore had overcome earlier anxieties to give the performance of his life, and also the manager's capacity to think on his feet. Milan's remaining ace was the Brazilian wing-back Serginho, who instantly found gaps on our right flank, where Smicer was playing an increasingly defensive role which was beyond his capabilities. Gerrard was moved into his third position of the game, shifting to rightback to cut off the supply. It's a tactical switch often overlooked, but in the context of the evening it was as important as many others made that night.

Regardless of our own input, we'd still need a final contribution from the fella upstairs to survive for penalties. Shevchenko headed from six yards only to be denied by a Dudek save which created one of the most enduring images of the evening. The improbable became real. A reflex movement of his wrist prevented a certain winning goal. Maradona spoke about the 'Hand of God' in the 1986 World Cup. As a Pole, Jerzy claimed it was the 'Hand of the Pope' providing divine intervention. Our keeper would dedicate his success to the recently departed John Paul II.

'That was the moment we knew we'd win the cup,' many fans commented later. I didn't. There was still more work to be done before I'd accept someone up above was wearing a red scarf. One way or another, penalties were going to provide a fittingly theatrical conclusion to the season.

Dudek is one of football's nice guys. That's fine when you want to go for a pint, but when you're looking for that extra edge which is the difference between winning the European Cup and going home devastated, it's time to offer some guidance on the finer arts of craftiness. Prior to the shootout I headed straight for Jerzy and told him to do everything possible to unsettle the Milan penalty takers. Put them off, distract them, mess with their heads. I didn't care what Jerzy did, I just wanted him to make it even more difficult to score.

'Remember Bruce Grobbelaar in the Rome shootout in 1984,' I was saying to my keeper.

Grobbelaar famously wobbled his legs on the goal-line as if he could barely stand up due to nerves. As the Roma penalty takers stepped forward, his antics seemed to have an impact as they blazed a couple of kicks over the bar and Liverpool won. He became known as 'spaghetti legs' afterwards. Also, my knowledge of the history of football, recalling how such matches had been won in the past, helped us in this situation. Years spent memorizing the contents of
Shoot
served their purpose, and my competitiveness kept my mind racing about what more could be done to influence the result. If Jerzy could make just one gesture to put off one Milan player, that could win us the Champions League. My conscience was clear. Winning was the only thing.

While I choreographed Dudek, Benitez was selecting the penalty takers.

'Do you want to take one?' he asked me.

'Definitely,' I replied.

He ignored me. Cisse, Hamann, Riise, Smicer and Gerrard were selected. Even Xabi, who'd been allocated the job in normal time, was overlooked. Benitez also refused to allow Luis Garcia a spot-kick. He was clever with his choices. If he sensed the slightest physical or mental weakness in a player, he wouldn't let him take one. Leaving Gerrard until penalty five was an astute move too. The consequences of winning or losing on his future were still apparent. Had he scored the winning pen, there's no way he'd have wanted that to be his last kick for Liverpool. Had he missed and we'd lost, he would have felt exactly the same way.

Milan's penalty takers duly faced Jerzy's strange dancing. He kept imitating a starfish, moving across his line. Did it upset the Italians? We'll never know. If it made a slight difference, that was enough to justify it. By the time Smicer stepped up to take our fourth pen, Serginho and Pirlo had already missed, while Cisse and Hamann had given us the advantage. We were two pens from winning the European Cup when Vladi struck the sweetest of spot-kicks to Dida's left. This was his last kick for the club, and the emotion showed. He kissed the badge and celebrated.

I thought he was too premature, but we knew how close we were now. If Andriy Shevchenko missed, it was over. Even if he scored, Steven Gerrard would have the chance to finish them off.

Shevchenko stepped up and hit one of the tamest pens you'd ever wish to see. Dudek saved.

What followed was bedlam. Nothing will ever beat the feeling of securing that victory. It was the most pure sense of euphoria imaginable. I ran as fast as I could towards the crowd, not thinking about my direction, or which stand to head for. Incredibly, as I got close enough to see the blissful faces of the fans, the first people I spotted were my brother Paul and cousin Jamie. In a crowd of eighty thousand I picked out two of those closest to me. There's a photograph that seized the moment: I stand hands aloft and my family is clearly in the background.

The snap of Stevie and me kissing either side of the cup is my favourite. Once we had hold of it, we never wanted to let go. We didn't need to. As five-time winners, tradition declared Liverpool got to keep the trophy. Stevie slept with it that night. I simply wanted to fill it with as much alcohol as possible and take swigs from it.