One Red Night - Part 2

The doctor’s words came flooding back to me.

“You may experience shortness of breath, pain in your neck, arms, chest or even jaw. In general, it will be a feeling of discomfort and the best thing to do is alert anyone nearby

and desist from any activity which may exert you further.”

I was convinced the symptoms were spot on, so I reached to Barry (you will have to read Part 1 to understand), who was two seats away. As it turned out, it looked like everyone in my section, including my only hope, Barry, had similar symptoms. It was going to be a collective heart attack. How horribly romantic, I thought.

With my last ounce of energy, I reached into my bag and squashed the Marlboro Lights packet. My friends always told me cigarettes would kill me, but I never thought it would be so public. I glimpsed up at the scoreboard:

3-0?!

One minute to go in the first half and we, previous four-time winners of this competition, were three nil down?

My Nokia 6310 kept humming as a flood of messages came in. Checking them was a redundant exercise, as I could almost mention the origin of every last one of them. My gloating and over-celebrating during the qualification stages had caught up with me. My work colleagues in Norwich - mostly non-Liverpool fans – had in the tradition with that part of the world, been measured in their reaction to my excesses.

This was their opportunity to unleash and they did.

The rest of the derision predictably, came from my Manchester United (I have to wash my mouth out now), Arsenal and Chelsea (oh boy, did they let me have it!) mates. The traffic was so much, the blue light on the Nokia came on so many times, the battery went flat. At least this was my excuse for not replying. I have never stopped asking myself what it would have been like, had Facebook been as popular as it is today.

Anyway, half-time went like a blur and the stadium rule of serving no alcohol, ensured the pain could not be dulled. I looked across to Barry and ran my hand across my throat. He responded using another hand signal - the universal ‘calm down’ gesture. I sighed heavily and held my head in my hands, as the choruses of the Milan fans swept across the arena.

I began to mentally tally the financial costs.

The closer the figure got to two thousand pounds, the more depressed I felt. As it reached the more realistic number of three thousand, I shut my eyes, held my prayer pose. I was ready for God to come.

A strange feeling descended on me, as my seat began to feel like a pod isolating me from everyone (I later found out from a spiritual guru in Norfolk that this was a state of transcending from reality into delirium) around me. I am almost certain now, that had it not been for the unexpected roar from the wall of Liverpool fans behind me, my descent would have been final.

“Four-three, we’re gonna four-three, we’re gonna win four-three,” rang out breaking any Guinness Book of World records for decibels, recorded in a sporting event. My pod shattered into insignificant little pieces, as I stood up and roared into life.

Barry and the other people sitting in our ‘sandwich brigade’ section, sprang into action, stumping the stadium’s foundations into a rippling rumble that seemed to travel across to the Milan fans, quietening them in the process. It was clear they had never seen confidence like this.

The fully suited guys behind us were new to the confidence thing too and their uncontrolled exuberance, when Steven Gerard rose like a phoenix from the ashes, to bury Arne Riise’s brilliant cross in the 53^rd minute, betrayed their initial corporate swag.

If I had thought that was over the top, what occurred over the next five minutes was absolute mayhem!

In a space of three hundred seconds, the Liverpool section of the stadium had been transported from the depths of hell into first-class seats in heaven. There was now nothing corporate about the suited guys around us. Their jackets and ties were off, as they joined in the song and bounce, which had now consumed the match. A solitary ambulance drove around the stadium track, stopping in front of the Milan section.

Apparently, like one usually sees in a Michael Jackson concert, some Milan fans had been overcome. It had been too much for them. 

Saying that, it now appeared the euphoria had spread to our section. The man-mountain decked in all red in front of me, was already in tears; “it doesn’t matter what happens now, I have seen the greatest football match of my lifetime and I have been watching Liverpool for over forty years,” he said, blubbering uncontrollably.

Carried along by the rejuvenated fervency, an almost celestial version of “You’ll never walk alone” exploded into the air. Every note delivered perfectly and impeccably aided by those who clearly did not know the words, but felt they would be missing out by not joining in.

By the time we had come down to earth, Djimi Traore had erased the memories of a disastrous personal performance from the first half, by clearing Andrei Shevshenko’s goal-bound shot. Minutes later, Dudek, the Liverpool goalkeeper denied the Milan striker again, when he produced what can only be described as an extra-terrestrial double-save, in what was a particularly horrific night for the Ukranian.

It was now apparent to all watching here in the stadium and the millions across the world; the Milan players and fans were shrinking right before our eyes. They started to sense they had snatched certain defeat from the jaws, of what had seemed like certain victory.

With Shevshenko left to turn the tide in their favour, it was never going to happen. As Dudek raced towards his team mates, I couldn’t honestly account for the next thirty minutes. Suffice to say, I lost almost all the contents of my pockets in my rabid celebrations, but thankfully, not my passport and the banknotes secured within.

In truth, it was a moment where loss was redundant. It was a moment that gave me more than I could have hoped for. It was a moment to start responding to those texts. What I could have done for a charger…..

An hour later, in the food halls of Istanbul Airport, we meandered through waves and waves of Milan fans. They were inconsolable and for most of the time, some of us managed to be magnanimous. If it had been us, we know how we would have felt. The Ultras were a different thing entirely though….in a bizarre close of an almighty loop, we have brushed past some of the same group we had encountered earlier.

Unlike the average Milan fan, their look of disappointment had a slightly different tilt to it. Their eyes seemed to be saying; somebody has to pay. It was impossible to avoid them, but the lethargy had begun to descend.

As I contemplated our next move, I could see Barry folding his backpack to make a pillow.

“Baba, are you going to sleep with all these goons around us? We might never have the chance to wake up bro,” I said with genuine concern.

“Kanmi, I have a meeting in Switzerland in ten hours and I am tired. After all you have seen tonight, do you not believe in miracles? And even if anything happens, can anyone or anything take this day away from you,” he asked as he began to lay down.

I contemplated his sentiments for a few seconds and began nodding and smiling. It was time to  make my pillow.

One Red Night - Part 1

“You get down here,” the taxi driver growled, in his best English.

My co-occupant and I looked at each other mysteriously. Was this a weird Turkish joke specially designed to wind up all football fans on this special day or was the serious look on the driver’s face, a valid clue to our predicament?

As we grudgingly exited the taxi, my cultural instincts kicked in. The co-occupant I refer to is slightly older than myself and also had the special status of having been my senior at both secondary school and university levels. As in we went to the same educational institutions. It was only courteous I suppressed my rising irritation, do the Nigerian thing and give way to his ‘superior’ knowledge.

“Baba Barry, can you believe this toe rag,” I asked, my emotions betraying my intent.

“It’s okay Kanmi, just let’s get to the game without any hassle,” he replied justifying my belief that he had to be in charge of all decision-making on this trip.

My nerves had clearly been frayed by the preparation for this football match. As we stood listening to a group of Liverpool fans, who had been equally dumped at the hurriedly assembled roadblock, the economic ramifications of the trip had finally caught up with me. I reached for the comfort of my Marlboro Lights and commenced to puff my nervousness away.

Barry, noticing my Tyson-like head movements, winked at me. I nodded back reassuringly, wincing as the cigarette alerted me to the fact I had held on to it for too long. A sudden burst of noise diverted me from the pain.

“We are Liverpool,” bellowed the now self-chosen leader. His ruby face, full of Scouse pride broke into a big grin as he ushered us forward - flags in hand and scarves on shoulders - into what can only be described as a march. We stomped the freshly laid tar proudly and seemed to be literally walking through a valley of hope, bordered by newly created mounds of sand, enforced, to pave way for the road to the brand spanking stadium.

Twenty minutes into the walk and with several blacked-out Mercedes whizzing past, it slowly began to dawn on us. We had not only drawn the short straws, but there was now the distinct possibility we may need them to aid our liquid consumption, on what was turning out to be more of an endurance event. 

To make things worse, we had begun to attract spectators, as the local people had walked up the mounds and used them as a vantage point, to view what must have looked like the Great Red Walk. Of course, in typical friendly Liverpool style, we waved at our audience and soaked in their reciprocal applause.

Another fifteen minutes down the never-ending trail, and we had started to ignore the gathering lines of the crowd. There was only a finite amount of time, that one’s niceness could last in such searing heat and besides, we had started to notice small groups of the Rossoneri. That special nervous energy, driven by sports rivalry, had taken over the air, as the evening began to give way to the dark.

Everyone in our group had a different reaction. Most let out odd noises, whilst others increased their pace for what we now knew was the last leg of a torturous walk. Barry cracked his knuckles noisily, as I reached into my pocket and bizarrely stroked my match ticket for comfort.

Now hot, clearly bothered and wet as rain, a few bottles of water began to surface. Incredibly, as we began to quench our thirst, it turned out the weather was not the only thing we had to douse. Bizarrely, maybe due to just sheer tiredness, we had somehow ended up at the entrance for the Milan fans! Never mind being wet as rain, right now, it was pouring Ultras.

All bedecked in Brigate black t-shirts and menacing stares, ensuring the wisdom of this Turkish journey began to drain from our faces. A few expletives and a coordinated gingerly taken U-turn through the tiny path they had now created for us, we found our way past the drama.

An awkward silence enveloped us for the next few minutes, as we wearily found the Liverpool entrance. A warm and frenzied embrace of the Scouse Army was waiting for us, with Chorus after chorus of ‘You Will Never Walk Alone’ ringing into the sweaty night.

Finally, we sighted the bowl of the stadium.

Emerging out of the dark, and emitting a radiant blue light towards the sky, it felt as if we had finally arrived at a long-lost spaceship. A spaceship designed just to take us home. Simultaneously, the much-loved UEFA Champions League anthem launched triumphantly and welcomed us to the arena.

Our group, now bonded by an hour of sweat, aches and fears, huddled and bounced in anticipation. It was on……

This piece is to commemorate the 10^th year anniversary of Liverpool’s UEFA Champions League victory in Istanbul. WATCH OUT FOR PART 2.