Wednesday 25 May 2005 A.D. - the day after Bob Dylan's 64th birthday and my own mother's 63rd, and on a more noteworthy front - the day our beloved club returned to the dizzying heights of European Cup success.
10:00 - Rise and shine after another fitful sleep. On with the kettle and the toaster while I log onto the laptop. Despite the restlessness, I'm calm as regards the match tonight - surprisingly calm at that.
10:05 - 16:45 Mostly taken up with reading and replying on the YNWA forums. It's amazing how much atmosphere can be generated by looking at a screen and interacting with a bunch of (mostly) strangers. It's compulsive reading, no matter how trivial or trite the threads. Sly Sports News is on my telly the whole time - I'm eager for new snippets, but it's mostly retread reports, with the odd live update.
Something in my water's telling me Baroš will start ahead of the expected Cissé.
16:45 - On with my white LFC 60s shirt and out to the supermarket to stock up for the evening. I've got Gregarious Pete (GP) and Affable Brian (AB) calling round to join Mrs von Smalls (MvS) and me for the match. GP is a part-time gooner, AB plays five-a-side... they're not going to be here for the love of LFC, but they're both from back home (Norn Iron) so they'll be up for a good evening anyway.
17:00 - In the supermarket... dilemma in the drinks aisle. Am I being premature or even tempting fate by eyeing up the champagne section?
Bugger it... whatever the result, for us to have reached the final of the European Cup is an achievement in Rafa's first season is a triumph and worth celebrating. I offer up a quick prayer in the general direction of Sainsbury's ceiling and grab a bottle of Moet Chandon rose... no half-measures on a night like this.
17:15 - The cheque book makes a rare appearance at the till. It's payday on Friday, so this is the only way to fund my decadence this evening. The cashier seems to notice my top and the champagne and flashes a grin. I wink and show her crossed fingers.
17:30 - Back at the house now, having struggled home with the case of beer, the champers and a raft of "nibbles". I switch on the radio to catch the sports news and to enjoy the build-up to the match, while I shell avocados and dice chillis for the dips.
17:40 - GP arrives, with cold beer. Hallelujah! I'm too busy to get him really pumped up for the match as I had intended. So we chat about this and that as I work.
17:55 - Time to decorate now. My YNWA "Carnage" t-shirt now goes up in one front window, my red 60s home shirt in another. GP and I shoot the breeze and I remark to him how calm I'm feeling still.
18:00 - Text message from MvS. "want anything from the offy?". She's got out of work early, in fact her office - nary a 'Pool fan amongst them - is given an early day.
18:10 - MvS arrives home, two big bottles of Bud in a bag (party on, eh?). She's missed my reply. I resume pottering around the kitchen, already on a second beer.
18:20 - Upstairs now to switch into my long-sleeved Reebok home shirt. I pause for a few moments' reflection. Willing all my energy and faith into a good performance tonight, whatever the outcome. A decent showing on the pitch is all I ask for, anything else would be a bonus.
18:30 - Rejoin MvS and GP. I'm excited and positive, for the most part. Occasionally, I stop and think of the Milan line-up and how formidable they are in each position. Every time that thought has popped up though, I call to mind how we held off in four matches against both the English and Italian champions. All is calm again.
18:39 - Txt msg: from Kahnee - team line-ups.
We exchange a few replies with our comments - so Kewell made it then, no Didi. Rafa knows best. And I fire off (and reply to) a few more texts with fellow Irish Reds, including Corkman Gerry (CG), whom I haven't contacted since New Year's Eve. LFC is always a good "icebreaker".
18:58 - I turn the telly down and crank up Elvis's version of You'll Never Walk Alone, much to the bemusement of GP and MvS. Once he's done the deed, I'm ready to sit down for the ITV coverage. Let battle commence!
19:03 - It's pregnant Gaby, Macmanamanaman in pink and "El" Tel. Good grief. The text messages are almost constant. I'd vowed to switch off the phone too.
19:30ish - Still no sign of AB. I'm getting a lump in the throat, and a swelling of pride at the pictures of the crowd. Thoughts turn to people I know are over there and I'm really regretting not being out there.
19:35ish - The opening ceremony is over. The teams are coming out. Stevie G looks focused, eyes straight ahead. He looks proud, but undistracted. My heart surges at the reception they're getting. I'm sweaty-palmed by now.
19:42 - The formalities of the parading of the teams and the anthems are over. It's time for the ref to toss the coin. I'm willing a great performance all the way. As Stevie leads the huddle, calling his teammates together, I'm itching to know what he's saying. He talked about it earlier on TV, but wouldn't give away what his final words would be before kick-off.
19:45 - And we're off. The excitement and passion for the long-awaited event is about to plateau at a new high for the next while.
19:46 - Maldini's scored! A feeling of utter surprise grips me. Just hadn't bargained on that one. Only one solution - Attack Attack Attack!
txt msg: to CG - Christ! nailbiter ahead
19:55ish - AB arrives at last. "Aw sorry, guys. I thought it was an 8 o'clock kick-off". I barely notice him at first, absorbed in the game.
A lull in play gives the chance to be a better host. MvS disappears to the kitchen, radio commentary on... in fact no one part of the house is without coverage beyond the tv room, even the shower radio is left on. She soon returns with a tray of homemade sausage rolls, prepared the night before. Nice one! I love my missus. The chips, dips and beers are taking up nearly the whole coffee table. Everyone's engrossed by the match again, in between munching and sipping.
20:08 - Harry pulls up, holding his leg. Bugger. That's the tactics shelved then. But no, Šmicer's on, rather than Didi.
txt msg: from Davey Doc (DD) - "This could be Šmicer's moment" - he's always stood up for Vladi, despite my uncertainty over our no.11
txt msg: to DD - "if he's good enuff for Rafa..."
20:26 - Luis's handball shout is waved away, Milan break swiftly and suddenly... Crespo's only gone and scored! Shocking defending, we looked amateurish then. More texts. I urge everyone in the room and on the phone to be positive.
20:31 - They're bulldozing their way past us again, it's gone to Crespo and he's clean through. Boom! 3-0. "What if we get humiliated?" I think to myself. The guests will no doubt be bemused by my boundless enthusiasm if this turns into a rout. From somewhere, I summon the belief and the faith. Memories of Emlyn, Hillsborough and Heysel jolt me back from the brink of doom. "We CAN do it." I just can't visualise how we'll do it yet, mind.
20:32 - The Red fans have gone quiet as we enter the injury period.
txt msg: to Jonesy (at the match) - "SING UP!"
I feel like we all have to be in this together or it won't happen. I doubt he'll even look at his phone, but what else can I do from here?
20:33 - txt msg: to Belfast Red Micky McCoy (MM) - "no room 4 negativity".
txt msg: a gloomy response from MM.
txt msg: to MM - "we can only deal w/wot's ahead. b strong keep the faith!"
20:40 - Trip to the bathroom. A chance to give myself a mini pep talk. "We CAN do it." is my mantra, teeth and fists clenched. Back down the stairs, touching the "This is Anfield" poster I bought outside the ground for £1. "We CAN do it!" I repeat. Into the kitchen next to pick up some more beers for the guys. MvS and I have a quiet moment. She gives me a hug, though it's clear she is mostly doing so to console me. I pull back, a little miffed. "No, we CAN do this. We can score three goals in this half. They did it, so can we. We've done it before." I assure her. I'm not going down this early or easily.
20:42 - I put the telly on mute, rather than face the dronings of Venables and co. It's time for Elvis again, louder still than last time. I hear AB and GP cheering in bemusement. I stand at the door of the living room and sing along, not caring if they reckon I'm crazy.
Once the song's over. It's back to the sofa, a sharp clap of the hands and cry "C'mon 'Pool!" Thoughts turn to a bobwright post... "Power of Constantinople, Reds, power of Constantinople!" I urge. The guys laugh, I daren't even begin to explain that choice of phrase.
20:46 - We're off again. The crowd are rallying behind the Reds. I'm so proud of their reaction and to be affiliated to such passion. I glance at AB and GP to see if they are moved. They're getting into the match more. If nothing else they sense my urgency. Didi's on for someone, so a change to our first half system has been implemented. I would love to have heard how Rafa delivered his speech. I'm recharged with confidence.
txt msg: to CG - "got elvis singing ynwa. if the king can't save us..."
txt msg: from CG - "told you b4 the king is dead."
21:04 - Stevie G's scored! He feckin' did it. I jump up, slapping GP on the knee "Game fuckin' on!". A couple of texts arrive. I'm glad I didn't switch off the phone. I need some equally passionate Reds to help get through all this.
21:06 - I'm trying to send a reply, but my credit's now run out. So soon? Ah, er... hang on Šmicer's gonna have a pop and...
"Yeeeeeeeessssssssss!" I'm hoarse now, screaming and hugging. The rest of the room is charged up now too. "We CAN do it! We can!"
21:07 - We've got Milan shellshocked and are ploughing through their midfield. They look disorientated.
21:09 - Another move forward, good work from our Milan and... GERRARD'S THROUGH, he's gonna .... PENALTY!!! "Penalty" I scream. All of us are up on our feet now. I remain standing as Xabi flits his eyes, waiting to take the kick. I'm pumped up.
21:10 - Dida's got a hand to it... OH... but Xabi's follwed up and I hope that was the back of the net, rather than the side...
"YEESSSSSSSSSS! Three goals, we've done it. We've got our three. The momentum's with us," I yell. Hugs all round in my living room. The guys beside me are now as passionately behind LFC as any time-served fan.
21:11 - txt msg: from CG - "Elvis lives".
To be honest the rest of "normal" time is a blur. I am racing on adrenalised joy. Slapping and grabbing, drinking and smoking, cheering and happy. Jamie's playing a blinder. Stevie's magnificent. Didi's composed. Djimi clears off the line. Cisse's on too. "Power of Constantinople!" We have got the momentum, Destiny wants us to win. Still the text messages come...
txt msg: from Ostrich Man - "this match is shit, i'm away for a bath ;)"
... amongst others.
Extra time looms, everyone's playing for the whistle, but there's a fair bit of injury time and we can't drop our guard. As the Spaniard blows, I dash to the bathroom. As I dry my hands, I'm at the mirror, awash with incredulous joy and belief. "We CAN do this" has become "We can DO this".
Just enough time for me to nip in and play Elvis again. The others are cheering him on fervently too.
Again, much of the action in the extra-time period seems a blur. Šmicer gets cramp - how dare he, having come on after 23 minutes. Djimi, Sami and Jamie provide a solid back wall. Jerzy's looking sharp. Stevie G's still chasing.
Carra's down injured. I despair for him. But I can see him mouthing "cramp" and he's back up in no time - driving through a wall of pain, but still determined.
It's almost headed for penalties, when Shevchenko gets a header. The Dude's down and parries. Sheva's in for the rebound "BLOCK IT JERZY! BLOCK IT!" I think to myself. I wouldn't even have had time to say those words aloud before he got his hand on to the point-blank piledriver.
The wry smile from our keeper seems to sum up what everyone must be thinking. His own disbelief at the outcome seems to be an acknowledgment that some unseen force is at work, guiding our path to the trophy. Perhaps it's Shanks, Paisley and Emlyn with 96 Red souls, plus the will of every dyed-in-the-wool 'Pool fan and a lot of newly-won devotees - who can say? There's a special energy tonight, something more magical than I can recall experiencing in 28 years of following the Reds.
And so to penalties. I think I had nominated Cissé Stevie G, Riise, Carra and Alonso in a pre-match thread. Jamie's having a word with Jerzy. What a guy! While Stevie is a worthy captain, it's almost an injustice to Carra that he doesn't wear the armband, but I bet he wouldn't even consider himself aggrieved. The Dude is looking chipper. Confident and composed - a good sign. The coin's tossed and Milan will kick first.
Jerzy's up to his mischief. Handing over the ball then jigging about on the line. Serginho races up and belts it. It's over!!! I'm up on my feet. 0-0
Didi then blows my penalty-takers predictions out of the water by stepping up for our reply... "Yes!" 0-1
Their second penalty-taker Pirlo strolls forward. The Dude hands the ball to his opponent - nice gamesmanship... and it's saved!! 0-1
I sink back into the sofa, then sit forward as Djibril steps up. Goal! No bother, well taken. "Power of Constantinople!" 0-2
Tomasson's up next, as an ambulance passes behind the goal on the running track. He scores. 1-2
Riise's next. He's going to thunder this one into the top of the net, I'm convinced. But Dida gets to it and causes me a bit of a palpitation. 1-2
I wipe my sweaty palms as Dudek continues his mind games. They score again and even up the contest, but we still have a penalty in hand. 2-2
The Smeech is next to emerge from the huddled rank of LFC players on the halfway line. "Come on Vlad" I yell, provoking another round of shouts and claps from those in my company... and it's a beauty. 2-3
Shevchenko paces forward to the box. I've almost chalked off this one as a cert and am deliberating whether our captain will be the man to round off our season with the goal that lifts us the cup. The Ukrainian strides up, hits it and... THAT'S IT! Jerzy's kept him out.
WE'VE WON THE EUROPEAN CUP AGAIN!!!!!!
The four of us dancing around the living room, incredulous and euphoric! Hugs and kisses abound.
"We did it." has become my new mantra, I just can't keep from saying it. "We did it."
I'm hoarse and choked for any discernible words. I'm transfixed by the scenes on TV. I laugh joyfully as the players race towards our "Pole in the goal". Carra, having led the way looks like he's going to floor the Dude with his embrace, but as Jerzy readies himself for Jamie's big leap, our no.23 breaks away and runs past him, while the others in the stampede give our goalie the grateful hugs I'm sure every LFC fan would love to be giving right now.
Soon the presentation ceremony gets set up. I rise to my feet to savour the moment as the players mount the podium, kissing the cup and revelling in the anticipation of it being handed over.
I'm beaming from ear to ear with pride as Steven Gerrard wipes his palms in readiness to receive the trophy. Lennart Johansson looks confused as Carra points behind him to indicate that the skipper is actually our no.8.
And there it is! The man who turned his back on Chelsea is holding the trophy in his hands - who would've thought that last summer? A blizzard of red descends upon the players and coaching staff as I continue to mutter my mantra.
"We did it"
I sit down again transfixed as Gabriel Clark interviews some of the main architects of tonight's achievement. Stevie, Carra, Jerzy and Rafa all pay their dues to one another and their team-mates, as my swollen pride continues to soar.
22:36 txt msg from forumite Des: Hahhgbgbhgagbgcgbgcgbgb
I couldn't have put it better myself, I too am an incoherent mess of joyous gratitude.
22:40 txt msg from DD: "Cant quite belive it" [sic]
He's not the only one!
22:47 txt msg from a Manc fan mate Sean, who's been rooting for us all evening: "I take it your a happy man" [sic]
Sean's the first I phone, purely because he's the only person I haven't been able to reply to by text message. While I'm on the landline, my mobile rings and it's my mate Conor from a pub in Kildare. I let out a long, high-pitched screech - the most passionate of the evening. I've got a phone in either hand trying to juggle two conversations.
The texts keep coming as I make a beeline for the chilled champagne.
"I was going to open this whether we won or lost," I assure my missus and the two lads, and I'm just so glad I'm not drowning my sorrows in Moet tonight.
I speak to DD by phone as another call comes in on my mobile. I can hear myself slur as I try to spit out the words that convey my ecstasy.
23.34 txt msg: from Kahnee - "I am singing Beatles songs. That's how happy/drunk I am"
Shortly thereafter Kahnee and I conduct a phone conversation, with him telling me the story of how his Dad's mate won us the cup by playing "Band on the Run" at key stages of the evening. It all makes sense too.
Eventually my guests depart, hangovers guaranteed for the following morning. MvS hugs me, I'm still murmuring "We did it, we did it". She goes off to bed, while I settle down in front of the TV, by now it's switched over to Sky Sports News.
I make up for those six months of being incommunicado with CG, by calling him at home and another lengthy drunken exchange ensues.
At last I'm on my own, with a pint of water to try and refresh me. I can finally savour the evening's events, re-running the key moments in my mind. That grin hasn't shifted in hours. I'm starting to feel shattered now.
As I nod off, in the early hours of Thursday morning, I'm sure my final thoughts and words are those that I've been muttering repeatedly for the last few hours...
"We did it"
