Istanbul 2005: Through the eyes of the supporters - John Gibbons

When people talk about “the miracle of Istanbul” I often think the real miracle was getting there in the first place. By getting there I mean the team, not the fans! More on that later…

At each stage I thought we were probably going to get eliminated as the teams got tougher and the odds stacked against us further. But unbelievably we kept getting through.

Some likely heroes and then some very unlikely ones kept popping up throughout. For every Steven Gerrard there was a Neil Mellor. For every Xabi Alonso an Igor Biscan. A Luis Garcia playing in the hole with an Anthony Le Tallec. Popping up against some of the best players in the world and bopping them on the nose.

No game encapsulated the unlikely run more than Chelsea at home in the semi-final. Chelsea had finished more than 30 points above us in the Premier League that season. For a very good reason too, they were much better than us. You sensed the Anfield crowd knew it that night and knew the team needed us more than ever. It was the loudest the ground has been in my life - all four stands banging and booming.

I nearly didn’t get to that semi-final. At that time we had two season tickets in our family, so I shared with my sister. I’d been to Juventus, so she went to Chelsea. Only fair. However, on the day a Kop ticket came up from somewhere and so I was in. I was stood at my own at the back but I didn’t care. That night it felt like 40,000 of us were together, anyway. That said I did see my mates at half-time and asked if I could move by them only to be told we were winning so everyone had to stay in the same positions for luck!

So I did and we won and the celebrations were epic. Once nights out had been enjoyed and hangovers endured soon everyone’s attention switched to getting to Istanbul. This is where the issue of shared season tickets came up again. I had been to the Carling Cup final in Cardiff and, as a promise to make up for it, my father said he’d pay for my sister to go the Champions League final if we got there. At this point, we were only in the last 16 and he was confident this was a gesture that he wouldn’t need to follow through on. Unlucky. The ‘Bank of Dad’ was raided by both of us and we were booked on to Istanbul.

We chose to do a one-night stay that left in the early hours from Liverpool airport. I’m not sure if anyone else was using the airport that morning apart from Liverpool fans but I didn’t see anyone. Imagine being an Evertonian going on holiday that day?! Even the statue of John Lennon had a Liverpool scarf on.

A small cheese roll on the flight turned out to be the only thing I ate that day, and the glass of water the last time I could get one for a while. From the airport we were taken to our hotel to be told that the plan was to find a bar locally and then head up to the ground. Sod that! I’d heard the stories from Taksim Square and I wanted some of that. We jumped a taxi to go and join the party.

Drinks and songs in the square turned into figuring out how on earth we were going to get to the Ataturk Stadium as stories of how far away the ground was pushed it further and further away. The promised transport was nowhere to be seen so, after a failed bunk onto the Liverpool employees bus, we were negotiating taxis and on our way.

The roads officially had three lanes but the taxis managed to create at least five as they weaved their way through to the stadium. It did add to the day, though, as locals lined the streets to wave, smile or try and sell you very welcome refreshments. Scousers were hanging out of windows singing songs as the taxis and buses snaked their way through.

After what felt like an age we could finally see the ground. Any pretence that meant ‘nearly there’, however, was removed by the fact the road kept going and the ground didn’t seem to get any nearer. Soon the traffic ground to a stop and so people were getting out to walk. So we chose to join them on the trek across the dusty land that approached the stadium carrying as much beer as we could. It was one way to approach a final, I suppose.

To be honest, I drank too much and ate too little (nothing) so the first half was a bit of a blur. I remember giving my head a shake at half-time with the realisation we were 3-0 down. How on earth had this happened? We knew AC Milan were a better team, but we’d been completely outclassed. They were getting space all over the place and, when we did have the ball, just looked too big and too strong.

I set off around the ground to try and get some water, but refreshments were nowhere to be seen. All I was offered was some yoghurt, which wasn’t really what I was after. As I gave up I went back to the stand and decided to watch the rest of the game from the steps instead of battling to my seat. I realise now that the people around me might have thought I was one of the few who left at half-time, but it wasn’t the case. It was too far back to the bars in the city to leave early!

I remember You’ll Never Walk Alone starting as I found a new vantage point to watch the second half. A lot has been written and spoken about that as a rallying call for the team, but it didn’t feel like that to me. More a way of telling the players not to worry. We were proud of them for getting there against all odds. I don’t think anyone was thinking of a comeback.

They did come back, of course. A goal by Gerrard and I’m thinking of respectability. A goal by Smicer and I’m starting to dream. A goal by Alonso and I’m swinging my shirt round my head in disbelief. Where on earth did that come from? Liverpool, back in the game, on cloud nine, in a stadium that was possibly on the moon.

I still didn’t think we’d win. Like an overconfident boxer leaving his chin out we’d managed to land one on them, but surely normal service would quickly resume. I spent the rest of the game waiting for them to score as 11 heroes threw themselves in front of crosses and shots and desperately tried to get up field. I resigned myself as the ball dropped to Shevchenko right in front of us with the goal at his mercy. I still can’t believe he didn’t score. I’m still waiting for someone to tell me it was all a dream and he buried it.

Penalties came. I looked at their lads, I looked at ours. I looked at their massive ‘keeper. The penalties went to the other end in front of their fans. It felt too much. They looked cool and composed. We looked ragged and shattered. Why is Jamie Carragher screaming at our ‘keeper? Who did we have to take them? I’m usually an optimist but I still didn’t fancy us.

Then we kept scoring and they kept blazing them over the bar. Wake me up, this can’t be real. Riise misses, and they finally start putting them in but Smicer keeps his nerve. I’m made up for Vladi. Shevchenko is up next. He’ll score, but that’s fine, it’s Stevie last. What a story for him. I’m thinking all about his slotting the winner and then realise Dudek has saved it. I sink to my knees and a fella I don’t know picks me up and hugs me.

My celebrations are muted. Literally. My arms are waving but nothing is coming out my mouth. Nothing left. Mates are found and embraced, fists are pumped. The players come to our end and they look as shocked as we do. Rafa looks like he planned the whole thing all along. Just a wave and a knowing smile.

We find our bus that we had abandoned all those hours ago and its very quiet. Everyone is shattered. My dad rings expecting a party and finds stunned, exhausted silence. Lads and lasses who have kicked every ball and have nothing left. We get back to the hotel and finally have something to eat in a nearby restaurant that works and lunch, dinner and supper. Two pints is all I manage before hitting bed. Close to 24 hours after we started in Liverpool.

The next day I wake up smiling. My sister asks if I’m awake. I sing the Luis Garcia song in return. We go downstairs to be told about the severe flight delays at the military airport we have been assigned and that there is no point going to the airport yet. We decide it might be time to see some of Istanbul that is in the tourist guides, rather than a long road to a stadium. We head to the Blue Mosque. I don’t think we are the first, café owners see our red and sing ‘Ring of Fire’ to try and entice us in.

When we get to the airport it’s chaos but everyone is happy. Like a battlefield after a war has been won. John Aldridge is on tables singing Liverpool songs. We got on a plane. Any plane. And head to Liverpool. On our return we think we’ve missed the parade. Never mind, can’t have it all. However, on our landing we’re informed it’s been delayed. How far is it to town? We just might make it.

My dad has come to pick us up to take us home. Instead the journey becomes a quick stop off for ale before heading to St George’s Hall. We battle through the crowds and get there just in time. So many people it’s unreal. Djimi Traore going so mad with the cup he looks like he’s going to drop it. When they have gone I don’t know what to do. Is this the end? I never want it to end. So I go out and get very, very drunk.

For more from John, Gareth, Phil and Chris, visit The Anfield Wrap.