Villarreal (A) : Seven hours in Spain on the road to Numéro Seite in Paree
Isn’t the unexpected what makes life so exciting? Isn’t the jeopardy and thrill of not knowing whatever lies next partly what makes it so worth living?
There will be those that disagree and seek that comfort and clarity. Fine with me. Be yourself, as they say. On Tuesday night, the sense of navigating that jeopardy defines the ultimate memory. And not many memories can trump that of being on foreign soil and seeing your side book their trip to the promised land, via a stopover in Gay Paree.
What fun is there in simply strolling into a European Cup Final? Rome in 2018 was euphoric. A confirmation of this football team dining once again at the elite table. Barcelona at Anfield in 2019 was mesmeric. A validation that those comeback nights may often come few and far between, but at this revered institution, it is a tradition.
But there was a sense of expectation about this one. Arrogance perhaps. Routes to Paris all booked via plane, train, boat and automobile. Time off taken in advance. Liverpool’s love affair with the European Cup was about to continue…
But as the old cliche goes, we never ever do it the easy way.
It pours all evening on this tiny outpost in eastern Spain, from the moment we land at Castellón airport at approximately 6pm to the time we leave.
A cab shared with Des from the airport into town has us reminiscing about previous spring away trips abroad in the sun. Sunny Spain? You can’t have it all your own way.
Judging by the cavalry of drenched Berghaus’, Nike Air Max’ and sunshine yellow Villarreal caps outside the El Madrigal — now hideously named as the Estadio de la Ceramica after a tile supplier) — it must have poured all day. We meet Shane and a few of the Irish lads in this little gaff outside the away end. Football culture and all that. They’ve driven up from Benidorm after a day in the sun. Alright for some.
And boy, does it rain on the reds in that first half. “A 90 minutos de nuevro sueno” (“90 minutes from my dream”) reads the banner in the opposite end before kick-off and within three minutes, that dream is well and truly on.
The atmosphere is all theirs. The locals believe and rightfully so. It’s as shook as Liverpool have been all season. It’s quite a sight for the neutral, never mind anyone emotionally invested in the two clubs in action. Villarreal make them look human.
Jurgen Klopp’s Liverpool suffer. Jurgen Klopp’s Liverpool are in a contest.
When Boulaye Dia puts them one up early on, Izzy Devine says something along the lines of ‘oh well, at least that makes it exciting.’ Maybe that’s the level this side has reached where the ruthlessness is such that a genuinely exciting game is a rarity. In a sense, that pays testament to the standard they have set. Spoilt us all, in fact.
Rajan says how, as we’re tucked up miles away up in the gods on the northern end of the ground, it doesn’t really feel like a European Cup semi-final. I kind of agree. He mentions chucking a few quid on Etienne Capoue to get a booking but the odds aren’t too good. Capoue gets two yellow cards in the end. Pretty funny in the grand scheme of things, but it speaks to a degree of ignorance from our end that we’re quietly confident that we simply lie 90 minutes away from another European Cup final . Even the most pessimistic of the 2000 or so travelling support would struggle to say otherwise.
The first half has us trembling unlike anything we’ve seen in recent times. And fair play to them. That’s the beauty of the game. Even the very best amongst us can be dumbfounded. The complexion of everything transforms. A contest indeed.
That old damp sodden concourse at half-time is a bubbling fusion of reactions. Every man, woman and dog has their two-pence to put in. Some panic. Some moan. Others remain relatively calm.
“Do Eursotar do refunds?”
“Was your hotel free cancellation?”
In the queue for a bite, the real topic of debate is the ridiculous price of the masses of 12-inch pizzas that have made their way in at half-time from a local to be sold off at €25 a pop by the Villarreal staff. Such a wild attempt at profiteering is precisely why luck turns instead in our favour.
Calls for the skipper to be introduced and the magical Colombian echo around but the real change is superstitiously swapping positions with Jaimil in a hope for some luck. Call us dreamers but we are certain that it is the only change required. After all, it works.
Anyways, this is why Jurgen Klopp is where he is. The key thing at the interval is not to panic because the chances are there to be created. That space comes come when we keep the ball. Keeping the ball is what these excel at and keeping the ball is what they finally decide to do.
The possession stats transform from 50% to 63%. 84% pass completion, as opposed to 71%. 15 shots after the interval, compared to two before. Going away from the stats and it is about the intangibles. That instinct and owning the momentum as Klopp explains post-match.
He sticks to his guns. Most see that first half and think that it is a necessity to remove Keita. But then again, there’s a reason why Jurgen does what he does. And most of us don’t. That commitment to style and strategy is unwavering. In possession, the pairing of Thiago and Keita can be devastating. Keita takes the game to the opposition in the second.
Keeping the ball gradually forces those spaces open. There is chalk and cheese between the Thiago and Keita of the second half, in comparison to the first. Fortune favours Fabinho and the irresisitible Diaz comes on to dazzle as per. The celebrations for each of the goals epitomise exactly why we do it all. Them are the moments that linger long in the memory. Initial unparalleled ecstasy followed by a gradual realisation of what this side on the brink of. Sporting immortality perhaps?
Keita’s pass for the third is sublime to set Mane away. There is something about rounding a keeper that triggers some of the finest limbs. A crescendo of anticipation culminating in wonderful chaos. At one end of the pitch, the players congregate in jubilation, knowing that the first of seven cup finals this month now simply requires seeing out. It is a first European away leg semi-final win since 1985 for Liverpool Football Club.
At the other end, high up towering above the streets of Villarreal is a packed away end in bedlam. Tales will be told, my friends.
The Dutch referee blows the whistle and the affection is all there. Smiles and hugs all around. Same faces. Different places. Delving back at the scenes post Roma and Barcelona, the initial aftermath at the Estadio de la Ceramica is maybe a bit of an anticlimax. The players and the manager come over to share their joy, but their is no mass fanfare, bar the customary Klopp fist pumps.
Is that a good thing or a bad thing? Either way, it highlights the immense mentality that to the credit of the management, seems intrinsic across the squad, for this is a side now that is brutally devoted and bloodily determined and , rather than just merely wanting or aspiring, to tally up silverware.
There is no destination without the journey. We filter out into the tight streets embracing and singing and onto the coaches leading back to Castellón and Valencia. For some, its Alicante or Benidorm or elsewhere.
This club takes you places.
Our flight lands back in Liverpool in the early hours and it’s on with life we go. A life that has us all madly in love.
This next month promises to be the mother of them all. Here we go gathering cups in May…
