Liverpool vs. Chelsea : 8 November 2014.
6.30am on a Saturday morning. Outside, there was darkness and silence. The rest of the world was asleep. However, the invigorating feeling which greeted the thought of a Chelsea away day was coursing through my veins. Not just any away game of course.
It was our return to the scene of the crime.
The afternoon of Sunday 27 April 2014 will live long in our collective memories.
In Liverpool, it is a date that they wish to forget.
Our 2-0 win, a stirring and resolute performance in the face of a local population that had seemingly crowned Liverpool as Champions with games still to play and with allied fawning from the media, derailed the Anfield team’s bid for their first League Championship since 1990.
It was, I’m sure, most Chelsea supporters’ most cherished memory of last season.
Schadenfreude never tasted so good.
However, during the first two months of the 2014-2015 season, the fortunes of the two protagonists had changed immeasurably; Chelsea were now dominant league leaders, Liverpool were dishevelled chasers. Although I was confident of a strong Chelsea performance, there was still a nagging and niggling doubt that there might be revenge in the air, as distant as it might have seemed to some, perhaps in the guise of a dish served cold’; perhaps like a bowl of cold scouse.
I collected Lord Parky at 7am and headed north once again; I soon realised that we would be completing our four league away days in Manchester and Merseyside within the first eleven games of the season. I expected the result at Anfield to be closer to the 1-1 draws recorded in Manchester than the 6-3 shellacking that we gave Everton.
At 11am, I was driving through familiar streets around Liverpool’s stadium. Just like at Old Trafford, street parking had tightened and there were “permits only” signs wherever I looked. In the end, I chose to pay £10 and parked in a secure site a few yards from Goodison Park. There were lovely memories of that Saturday afternoon in August.
Six goals. Phew.
The heavens opened on the short walk through Stanley Park, no longer the site of a proposed new Liverpool stadium. At the top of the steady incline, the Anfield floodlights were already on. We dived into a crowded “Arkels” and soon met up with around ten Chelsea faces from our part of the world. They had driven up in a mini-bus. Soon, the atmosphere became rowdier, with Chelsea songs to the fore. The closest pub to the away section, this pub has long been the “away” pub at Anfield, though home fans are admitted too. At times the atmosphere is a little tense, but I’ve rarely seen tempers flare. The locals seemed brow-beaten in the face of so much Chelsea noise.
They needed no reminding, but one song kept repeating…
“Steve Gerrard, Gerrard…”
I first visited “The Arkels” way back in 1992. It is a story worth re-telling.
In 1991-1992, Chelsea was struggling under Ian Porterfield and a decent run before Christmas had soon petered out. On the first day of February, I drove up to Liverpool on a ridiculously foggy Friday evening with my mate Francis for the Liverpool versus Chelsea game on the Saturday afternoon. I had visited Anfield on four previous occasions – a draw and three defeats – but this would be a seismic weekend for Francis; a Liverpool fan, this would be his first ever visit. On the Friday night, we stayed with friends in the city and then enjoyed a couple of beers in a local pub before setting off for the ground. I already had my ticket, procured during the previous weeks from Chelsea. On the previous Wednesday, Liverpool had beaten Arsenal and – all of a sudden – had found themselves back in the hunt for the league championship behind Manchester United and Leeds United. Francis, my mate Pete and I were dropped off near Anfield at around 2.15pm; the plan was for Pete and Francis to stand on The Kop.
However, the streets around Anfield were milling with people. Bizarrely, we bumped into an old college acquaintance – a Scouser with the unforgettable name of Johnny Fortune – and our heart sank when he barked at Pete :
“The Kop’s full.”
I could hardly believe it. Our plans had been hit by a wave of optimism by the Liverpool fans, enticed to Anfield in vast numbers after the midweek win. Not a spare ticket was to be had anywhere.
Without dwelling on it, I quickly thrust my ticket for the away section in the Anfield Road into Francis’ hands.
There was no way that I was going to allow Francis to miss out on his first ever Anfield game. Fran was almost stuck for words, but I shooed him away and told him to enjoy the game. Pete and I, once we had realised that there was no way in for us, retreated back to “The Arkels”, where we took our seats in a corner, drank a lager apiece and half-halfheartedly watched an England rugby international.
I didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry when the news came through that Vinnie Jones had put Chelsea ahead. Liverpool then equalised. With half-time approaching, Pete and I finished our pints and walked behind the Kemlyn Road Stand and found ourselves on the road behind The Kop. The idea was to get some chips. At the half-time whistle, we suddenly noticed that one gate behind The Kop was opened and several – ten, maybe fifteen – Liverpool fans exited the stadium, crossed the Walton Breck Road, bought some chips, then returned back inside the stadium.
Pete looked at me.
I looked at Pete.
No words were needed.
Pete approached the gate. For those who knew the old Anfield, the gate was by the ship’s mast, in the south-west corner. Pete knocked on the gate.
In we went.
In we fucking went.
We silently ascended the steps and soon found ourselves among 15,000 scousers on The Kop. I looked at Pete.
“Fucking get in.”
Anfield was not a friendly place, neither on nor off the pitch. And here I was, stood right among the enemy on the famous Kop. On the pitch, our form at Anfield was shocking. Save for a lone F.A. Cup win at Anfield in around 1965, Chelsea had not won at the home of Liverpool Football Club since 1937.
Yep, that’s right : 1937.
Fifty-two sodding years.
On that Saturday in February 1992, I watched from The Kop and Francis, the Liverpool fan, watched from the Chelsea section as a Dennis Wise goal gave us a 2-1 win. When Dennis scored, a low shot from an angle, my heart exploded but I – of course – stayed silent. What joy. We even missed a late penalty too. The locals were far from happy. I can remember one grizzled old chap spitting out a few words of consternation:
“Come on Liverpool. We can beat dese. It’s only Chelsea.”
Inside, I purred with happiness.
At the end of the game, Pete and I raced around to meet up with Francis by the Shankly Gates and my first words were –
“We got in.”
Francis was relieved.
“Our first win since 1937 and we got in for free.”
Ironically, in the circumstances, Fran had thoroughly enjoyed himself despite his team’s loss. He commented that the Chelsea fans never stopped singing, never stopped cheering. On more than one occasion, he found himself singing along too; I guess that he was caught up in the emotion of it all. I’m sure he said one Chelsea supporter kissed him when Wisey scored. Also – fantastic this – Fran was deeply moved by Micky Greenaway’s urging of fellow fans to get behind the team with his demonic “Zigger Zagger” chant. It was, Francis exclaimed, an incredible afternoon.
At 2.15pm, I left Parky, Cooky, Ash, Andy, Sir Les, and the other members of the Trowbridge Chelsea crew, and walked the three hundred yards to take my place in the Anfield Road. I was surprised how few were inside; 1992 it was not.
Alan and Gary, fresh from their enjoyable trip to Slovenia, soon joined me in row 22, high above the goal. The Chelsea players were soon on the pitch, going through a few set drills. Long gone are the days when the players would appear on the pitch for ten minutes and nonchalantly ping balls to each other. These days every routine is planned and precise.
I spotted Diego Costa.
I was quietly confident. Chelsea was flying high. Liverpool was the opposite.
Let’s go to work.
None other than Gianfranco Zola, commentating on the game, walked in front of the main stand and was rightfully serenaded by the three thousand faithful. I can well remember a game I attended at Anfield in 2002 when our little magician was playing out on the wing on the touchline by the Centenary Stand. A ball was booted high into the air and he killed it with one sublime touch; even the Scousers applauded it. The man was a genius.
The time seemed to suddenly race by and the stands filled-up in the blink of an eye. The teams entered the pitch behind two members of the British Army. I wondered if there would be time for the usual Liverpool anthem. Sure enough, “You’ll Never Walk Alone” rattled around Anfield, though not with as much noise and fervour as in other visits. Then, thankfully, there was an impeccably observed minute of silence for the fallen.
The referee’s whistle.
Mario Balotelli touched the ball to a team mate.
There was an initial period of free-running from the midfielders of both teams. Emre Can, a face I bluntly did not recognise, tested Thibaut Courtois with a shot which was deflected wide. I remember that Liverpool began the game in April very brightly, but failed to pierce our defence. This time around, they scored with only eight minutes gone. Liverpool were gifted too much space and the ball was played to Can once again. His speculative thump from twenty-five yards was headed for goal – I was right behind its flight – but the ball deflected off a Chelsea defender ( I was unsure if it was John Terry or Gary Cahill) and therefore wrong-footed Courtois. The ball nestled in the net and Anfield erupted.
“Rather they scored now than in the last ten minutes, Gal.”
Chelsea responded magnificently. A spell of pressure in front of The Kop. Two corners. On the second one, John Terry rose unhindered and headed towards goal. Mignolet parried but only knocked the ball in to the path of a blue-shirted assailant. Everything happened so quickly, but I saw the ‘keeper make a diving attempt to keep the ball from going over the line. The Chelsea fans around me roared, but I was unsure. I could only truly celebrate when I saw the referee and then the players running back towards me.
My immediate thought?
“Luis Garcia. Same part of the goal. Revenge. Get in. Come on you blue boys.”
Liverpool then threatened; a Balotelli goal was offside, a block by Gary Cahill. Coutinho, who always looks threatening, forced a save from Courtois. But, in an open game, Chelsea continued to move the ball well. Matic, as ever, was covering huge amounts of ground and our play was intelligent and forceful. Liverpool were getting stretched. Diego Costa shot over. A couple of Eden Hazard’s shots were blocked. There was a slight hint of Chelsea’s play being overly-elaborate.
Very often a call came up from the away section : “shoot!”
Total domination from Chelsea in the closing section of the first-half sadly brought no further goals. I was still confident though. It had been a fine first-half.
In the second-half, yet more impressive running from Hazard set up the rampaging Diego Costa, whose overhead kick flew over. Then a chance for Liverpool in front of The Kop; Sterling forcing a save, down low, from the reliable Courtois. Hazard’s turn again to run at a bewildered Liverpool defence, but we felt he held on to the ball a little too long; it is a flaw of his play. Eden needs to know when to release the ball. The resulting shot was blocked.
Willian, on for Ramires, found the advancing Cear Azpilicueta, who danced past Coutinho on the far touchline and took my advice to “get in the box Dave.” He flicked the ball in to the danger area and after Mignolet could only partially parry, the ball fell enticingly in to the path of the waiting Diego Costa.
I was right behind the path of this one too.
Our new goal-scoring icon slammed the ball low.
The net rippled.
The Chelsea crowd reacted brilliantly. For a few seconds, we all lost it. Arms pumping, faces gurning, hearts pumping, voices loud.
Alan : “Dey’ll ‘ave to come at us now……”
Chris : “Come on my little diamondsssssssss.”
It was no more than Diego Costa deserved. He was a constant thorn in Liverpool’s side all afternoon. One turn and run in front of the Centenary Stand, fighting off the challenge of two defenders, was a pure joy to watch. Liverpool’s home support, rather than attempting to cheer their team on, remained quiet. Our defence remained in control. I lost count of the number of times that balls were headed clear. Towards the end of the game, both Liverpool players and Liverpool fans alike responded loudly when a goal-bound shot seemed to strike a Chelsea defender. I was one hundred yards away. I was none the wiser.
In the last period, mindful of Robin Van Persie’s late equaliser at Old Trafford, the Chelsea support grew edgier and edgier. I kept looking at the old fashioned clock in the corner of The Kop. The minutes ticked by. Didier Drogba came on. Finally, Filipe Luis came on. The final kick of the game was a failed clearance from Mignolet which spun off for a Chelsea corner. The referee then blew.
A roar from the Chelsea section of the Anfield Road.
This was another enormously professional Chelsea performance. There were smiles aplenty all around me. Lovely stuff.
I soon met up with Parky and we bounced our way through Stanley Park, past the down –beaten Liverpool fans waiting for their coaches to take them back to Worcester, Bristol, North Wales, Birmingham and beyond.
“They must hate us up here, Parky.”
In 1992, we had to wait fifty-two years for a league win at Anfield.
In 2014, we have enjoyed two in seven months.
Good times in darkest Liverpool.