Istanbul 2005: Through the eyes of the supporters - Gareth Roberts

The 2005 Champions League final might have been played in Istanbul on the evening of May 25, 2005, but the journey to Turkey started in the head of every Liverpool fan 22 days earlier.

That was the night of the semi-final against Chelsea at Anfield – one of the greatest atmospheres ever witnessed at the famous old ground. A couple of hours when The Kop literally shook, rattled and rolled with the singing, shouting, booing and cheering of thousands of fans wired for one thing – lifting Liverpool to a European final against a side supposedly far superior; making them do it, taking them there. And scaring the life out of Chelsea and any official that dared not do as they were told in the process.

It was an intense, electric experience that left grown men a wreck ­– on and off the pitch. In the stands, strangers that had lived every moment of a nerve-shredding match slumped into each other’s arms on the final whistle. It didn’t matter who they were or where they were from. It didn’t matter that you had never set eyes upon them before. They were Red. We were all Red. No-one cared what they looked like or sounded like. This was sheer, unbridled emotion: primal screams, hugs that went on forever, songs that felt like they’d never stop. We’d done it. And we’d done it together.

As three sides of Anfield emptied, The Kop stayed put; the party in full swing – passion and pride bouncing around the ground, an instantaneous flash mob of joy.

Eventually, George had to intervene from the DJ box. ‘It’s time to go. Can you all leave the stadium now please?’ And so, amid cheers and laughter, we did. En masse. A swathe of dancing, singing fans, snaking their way to town; filling up Liverpool’s bars and pubs, grins permanently etched on faces, the embraces ongoing, handshakes and hugs, fist-bumps and high fives, the terrace chants still in full force.

Eventually, as the adrenaline started to drain, strained conversations from throats hoarse from delivering support that will live on for a lifetime began to turn to Turkey. ‘How are we getting there? How much will it be? Who’s booking it?’

What no-one wanted to do was miss it. We’d find a way. We always find a way. A first European Cup final involving Liverpool for 20 years. For a generation raised on tales of the famous trips – to Rome, to Wembley, to Paris, back to Rome – now it was our turn. We could make history. We could be part of it.

Bars in Liverpool eventually put up the shutters that night with no more beer to sell. Hundreds were still singing, still partying, still caught up in it all.

In the space in between the semi-final and final no-one spoke of anything else. It wasn’t important. Nothing else mattered.

Fast forward three weeks or so, and the party started again. Credit cards freshly abused, it was all aboard the over-priced plane to make the 2,000-mile journey to Istanbul and the Ataturk Stadium.

Even the John Lennon statue at Liverpool airport got in on the act, the Beatle bedecked in red fez, striped scarf and a flag backing the Reds as hoards queued in the departure lounge.

A delayed flight didn’t dampen the mood (how could it?) and on arrival in Turkey the texts began to flood in. Taksim Square was where the party was at. Sun and songs from Liverpool were lighting up the centre of Istanbul.

Unfortunately for our travelling party, our coach driver, advised by police, had other ideas, dropping us off at the harbour, where the vibe was far too slow and reserved to ramp yourself up for a European Cup final when the Reds would surely need the 12th man once again.

A death-defying taxi ride later – road rules, traffic lights and speed limits meaning little to our driver – we arrived at the Reds’ home from home. The square by now, early afternoon, was an assault on the senses. Red hung from every available piece of street furniture: lampposts, trees, statues, roofs, shop fronts; a wall of noise accompanied the visual feast, with every page of the Liverpool songbook getting a turn as the day wore on. On-the-spot entrepreneurs sold chilled beer to the army of fans and as the sun continued to beat down faces increasingly began to match shirts as the rays did their work.

Soon, it was time to head for the ground. No easy task, by all accounts. And so it proved. Packed public transport shuttled hundreds of fist-pumping, flag-flying Reds towards the Ataturk, while others, like us, opted for a taxi. Whatever your choice, the jam was unavoidable, a tail of transport draped in red arcing through lunar-type landscape, slowly creeping towards the promised land of the ground in the distance.

As time ticked on towards kick-off, the wait became too much for some. At first it seemed like just one or two began to leave coaches and buses on the curving dusty road and opt for the direct route via foot. It became tens and soon was hundreds. Before long a Red pilgrimage was Ataturk-bound, like a scene out of a cinema epic, clutching flags and banners, singing songs with gusto. The Reds are coming up the hill.

Like 22 days before, we filed into that ground as one. Everyone fired up, everyone clutching a flag or a banner or a scarf. Off the pitch, AC Milan were no match for this show of strength. The ground was three-quarters Liverpool.  There for our story. There to write history. And what a tale we made. A tale that will always be told.

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