Liverpool’s European glory in Istanbul was a great day shared with great people

We can tell ourselves something different but, the truth is, getting old is rubbish. There are various reasons for this but the main one is loss. The loss of vigour, the loss of mobility … the loss of hair. Most of all, though, it’s the loss of people.

There are loved ones – friends as well as family – who pass, and then there are those who you share a special moment with and never see again. And so it is that this piece is for David, his dad and his mate. The trio I knew for only a day but which happens to be one of the greatest days of my life.

Sunday marks the 20th anniversary of Liverpool’s Champions League victory over Milan in Istanbul, and of course it’s been that long. I mean, look at the state of me. Honestly, I was young once. Equally, it feels somewhat remarkable that two whole decades have passed since one of football’s most incredible games given how firmly recollections of what transpired before, during and after it remain lodged in the mind. An unforgettable occasion? You can say that again.

I nearly didn’t go. Working as a reporter for a local newspaper in north-west London at the time, I’d been sent to Newcastle on the Monday of that week for a mandatory two-day training course and, although possible, it felt impractical to do that and travel to Turkey for the match on Wednesday. Also, I felt pretty content with having been at the semi-final against Chelsea. Nothing could top that, surely? But the closer it came into view the more I knew I simply had to be there. So I got hold of a ticket, organised a flight and, on the back of a taxi dash from Heathrow airport to Luton airport late on Tuesday night, set off to see my boyhood club play their first European Cup final since 1985. Having landed early on Wednesday morning, I was exhausted but ecstatic. The right decision had definitely been made.

View image in fullscreen Liverpool fans gather in Taksim Square on a gloriously warm day in the centre of Istanbul. Photograph: Courtesy of Sachin Nakrani

I travelled on my own – the lads I watch Liverpool with now were not lads I watched Liverpool with then – but knew I’d have company once out there. One of my colleagues at the Wembley Observer had a friend, also in his early 20s, who was going and said we’d get on. So that was the plan – to meet up with him in Istanbul. His name was David.

We came together in Taksim Square. Oh, Taksim Square. Ask any Liverpool supporter who was at the final and they will tell you about that patch in the centre of the city that become a red paradise many springs ago. Fans and flags everywhere, songs being sung, beers being drunk, all under a bright hot sun. And amid the throng was David, standing outside a Pizza Hut, with his dad and his mate.

We said hello and proceeded to spend the day together. And no, I can’t remember David’s dad’s or his mate’s name, which annoys me to this day. But I do remember they were incredibly welcoming and kind to this stranger who clearly hadn’t slept or showered for the best part of 24 hours, was carrying his belongings in a grey rucksack and was wearing a Liverpool shirt with ‘LFC 4 LIFE’ on the back. Talk about embarrassing.

We ate at the Pizza Hut, consumed cans of Efes, belted out La Bamba, and generally revelled in the majesty of it all. The sense of excitement and anticipation was tangible, you could feel it everywhere, and that I could share it all with such good people meant a lot. They owed me nothing but gave me everything.

View image in fullscreen The red hoards make their way towards the Ataturk Stadium. Photograph: Courtesy of Sachin Nakrani

It was almost a shame to leave for the Ataturk Stadium but we knew we had to and well in advance of kick-off given it was miles away. So one of the buses put on for supporters was boarded around 6pm local time, but only after David’s mate and I had a picture taken with two Turkish police officers we’d been chatting to. I can’t remember their names either, but they were sound, and it remains one of my favourite photographs.

The journey to the ground indeed took ages but it, too, was great. Reds packed in shoulder to shoulder, singing and drinking some more, receiving thumbs-up and applause from locals and, in an era before smartphones, truly living in the moment. If memory serves, it was during this time that I got to know David properly. My colleague was right – he was ace.

After the best part of two hours we finally arrived at the Ataturk, which initially appeared to be a broken spaceship abandoned in the desert. A vast, curved bowl, split in two, sitting on barren land. There may have been people here once but now they were gone, and suddenly a great day had become a bit weird. But no matter. The hoards hopped off the buses and merrily walked to their final destination.

It was at this point that I said goodbye to David, his dad and his mate. They were in a different stand. Hugs and handshakes were exchanged as I thanked them for keeping me company. They said it had been their pleasure; it had been mine too, and the plan was to meet up again at full-time. For various reasons that never happened and we probably knew that would be the case.

The match itself? What’s there to say? I know the story, you know the story, the football Gods know the story, largely because they wrote it. The comeback, victory and trophy lift aside, I have two abiding memories: passing Diego Maradona on the stairs as I walked to my seat and staying there at half-time as others around me left. Like them I didn’t believe but, unlike them, I had no intention of abandoning my team. I sang You’ll Never Walk Alone with everyone else who had remained and hoped our loyalty would be rewarded with a goal. We got so much more.

View image in fullscreen Steven Gerrard celebrates with supporters after leading Liverpool to a never-to-forgotten victory. Photograph: Dylan Martinez/Reuters

There’s a question I like to throw at fellow Reds: name the team – players and their positions – that started in Istanbul. Everyone I’ve asked has struggled to remember, which never stops being funny and also strikes at the heart of what took place that night, namely an unremarkable Liverpool side triumphing in remarkable circumstances. Hence why, 20 years on, that final retains a mystical, mythical, miraculous quality for many of those who witnessed it.

That is certainly the case for me and, more than anything, I feel hugely fortunate to have been there. The match was one thing; the rest of the day was another, and for that I continue to be grateful to David, his dad and his mate. Life’s inevitabilities mean we never met again, which is a great shame. But we’ll always have Wednesday 25 May 2005. We’ll always have Istanbul.

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