The Miracle at Istanbul

An year on from one of the greatest nights, if not the greatest, that I have experienced seems like a good time to refresh some of the memories. Especially considering I never got down to writing about it here (if you read on you might find out why) when I had followed the journey that got us there rather closely.

That night in May is something that will never be forgotten by anyone who experienced it – in person or on their television sets, just as I did. My only regret, shared, I’m sure, by thousands if not millions, is that I couldn’t be there to watch things unfold first hand. Of course, I also like to believe, like any decent self deprecator would, that if I had been there, the momentous comeback that followed the first half disaster would never have happened. You know, just like the volatility that has plagued the Indian stock markets recently would never have happened, had I not invested (by my standards) a huge amount in select scripts the day before it all began. In my mind, I’m at the center of the universe when things go wrong. But I digress.

I was in peaceful Kabul this time last year (no, I’m not being sarcastic when I say peaceful) on work related assignment and have little recollection of what I did during the day in the build up to the biggest game of my life (ya, like I was was the one going out to play). The game started and before I had settled into my cozy bed, we were down a goal. “Okay, never mind I thought. They’ve scored too early – we have 89 mins to come back.” And then Kaka and Crespo combined to make it worse – much worse. Half time came and I began to reflect on what had just happened.

I went for a walk and my initial thoughts were for the Liverpool fans, some of whom I knew personally (from Internet forums), who had spent large amounts of their savings to be there. How would they be feeling? I am ashamed to admit, but I silently thanked my friend Aseem at that instant, who had talked me out of going to Istanbul for the final (small matter of tickets, visa and schedule permitting). He had said “Istanbul? Save your money to go to a nicer place (like Paris) for some other final in the future”. To him I say (now) – where am I going to witness a final a like that, ever again. Nicer, my ass.

Back to the game at half time. I also thought of going to sleep, but rubbished those thoughts before they could go any further – I was going to see this through no matter what. Then I started to think about “the possibilities” we had going into the second half. No, I wasn’t thinking we could win it (honestly, who was? I said honestly) but I was hoping that the second half wouldn’t be like watching high school bullies against kindergarden kids in a wrestling match, like the first had been. Anything that would allow us to come out of the game with our pride intact – a goal, maybe, and a clean sheet in the 2nd half to go with it. 1-3 looked like a decent result at half-time – much better than 0-5. Find me a Red who disagrees and I’ll give you back the optimism (naivety?) I had in 1994 when I thought switching off the television set when Argentina were trailing Romania by two goals would enable them to play better. (For the record, it almost worked – Argentina did score one goal during that time – I think the fact I switched the TV back on during the match to check the score prevented them from scoring the second.)

I thought we might see Cisse come on for Traore because it’s natural to think you would bring on a striker for a defender when you are chasing 3 goals – I know that is what I would have done playing Football Manager. Imagine my surprise when I saw Didi Hamman, someone who might be categorized as a defensive midfielder, ready to enter to replace Finnan, who had a decent game, given the circumstances. A minor surprise for sure, but something I could live with, half thinking, does it really matter and half, maybe he just wants to stop the goals – fair enough, lose gracefully.

Everyone knows what happens next – Hamman practically shut Kaka out of the game (apart from one Milan chance early in the half which I can remember) and thus robbed them of the creative outlet that had worked so well for them in the first half. Ah, that is why Rafa has songs written about him and I manage to lose, even in Football Manager. Let’s talk about the goals now.

1-3

Captain fantastic scored the first from Riise’s second attempt at a cross and came up with the (now legendary) “come on” and wave of the arms, trying to get the players and the crowd up for this one. Nice try, Stevie G, I thought, but I am not getting hopeful yet – but atleast we can say we scored in the Champions League Final.

2-3

Ah, the referee didn’t see that the linesman (ok, assistant referee, fine? I hate you politically correct people) had his flag raised there and the play carries on. The ball reaches Smicer, who hits it and what?! Is that in?! Well Smicer’s running away – it must be in. It’s a goal! Wait, surely the referee will pull play back and give an offside, even though the goal didn’t directly result from that. He didn’t?! He didn’t!!! Yes!!! It’s 2-3! Surely, it’s GAME ON now.

Wait a minute. I know this feeling – ya, it’s called false hope. Surely, Milan will score a goal now and the bubble will burst. I have been here before – good things rarely happen to teams/ players I support. Move along optimism, there’s nothing here for you to see.

Penalty!

Gerrard in the box… dropped down, oh wait I think he went down rather easily – he’s going to get booked, surely, for diving. No wait, he’s given it. It’s a penalty. Gerrard and Baros are already celebrating. Hang on guys, let’s convert this one first. I know this post would seem to bring out the pessimist in me, but anyone who is a Liverpool supporter will share my sentiments on this. Murphy apart, we have a shitty recent record in converting penalties during regular time (we do just fine in the shootouts for some reason). Fowler, Owen, Gerrard – great players all, but no Liverpool supporter would bet their house on any one of them scoring from the spot.

So who’s this marching up to the spot? Alonso! Okay, fine – it’s not Gerrard (he missed a couple that season) and he looks pretty confident and we all know how composed he is. If anyone can do it, it’s him. All this time trying to silence the voice in my head, which was saying… you know what. There was an eerie silence in the room (and the city for that matter, honestly) as Alonso started his run up and I could literally hear my hear pumping – saved! “I told you so” said the ugly voice but wait, Alonso follows it up and SCORES!!!!! It’s 3-3!!! The unthinkable has happened. I was about to let out a shout (like it happens with me on most special goals) but I realized just in time that I was in a war-torn city with dozens of people including colleagues and armed security guards within an earshot (especially of a piercing shout on an silent night). Something told me that people that might come following the scream may not quite appreciate it’s historical significance in the “larger scheme of things” as I do and hence I decided (if it’s called a decision when you don’t consciously do it) to cry instead. Not quite tears (haven’t experienced that in a long long time) but little sobs of relief, joy and simply, OMFG what the hell just happened rolled into one.

Maybe I harbored hopes of getting the fourth, maybe I didn’t – I don’t remember. I just didn’t want to lose then – having come this far, I didn’t want to read stories about “Liverpool’s great comeback” with a “but” somewhere in the sentence or be termed as “great losers” or being subjected to lines like “the game of football won” – my sympathies with the West Ham fans for this year’s FA Cup Final. Anwyays, like most people I know, the next clear memory I have is of that double save by Dudek deep into injury time. And then it was down to penalties.

Again, I wasn’t too hopeful. I mean, come on, when was the last time Dudek saved a penalty for Liverpool – seriously? I couldn’t recall any for that matter. And hadn’t that Dida guy saved one from Xabi, like, an hour back? As for the shootout itself, credit to the guys who scored past Dida, because, as the save he made off Riise showed, that guy has immense reach!

I thought they might pull Dudek for a couple of the saves (I’m sure I have established myself as a pessimistic old fart by now) because he was way off the line. But they didn’t, Schev missed and we won – the sweetest feeling in a long long time and I was so happy for the fans who were there – you freakin’ deserved it! Of course, I didn’t want to thank Aseem at that time (did I mention he’s a manc?) but I did call him the next morning to let him know exactly how I felt – which was tons of joy with some disappointment at not being there.

The best part of a cup final is watching the celebrations after the game – provided your team is the one celebrating of course. The tension is no longer there, everyone’s hugging everyone and players (I am thinking you Cisse) are dancing and it so much fun – heck we even got to see Rafa’s elated face, which, if you haven’t seen (you can be forgiven because it isn’t on show too often) is equivalent to most people’s smiling-a-little face.

The Miracle at Istanbul will never be forgotten.