All of this momentum drove us on towards one incredible week, which remains one of the topsy-turvy roller coasters of my entire career. First up was to be the FA Cup final. Growing up and during my time as a player, I absolutely loved the FA Cup. I’d grown up at a time when Liverpool or Everton seemed to be in the final every year – quite often against each other. There would be flags and bunting all over the city, special editions of the Liverpool Echo – it was like Christmas, the day itself could not come around quickly enough. I loved the all-day coverage on Grandstand – interviewing the players in the team hotel, following them onto the team bus, mingling with the fans on Wembley Way … even It’s A Knockout was a hoot. It was a huge dream of mine to win an FA Cup, maybe even score the winning goal, and as captain, I would be the one to raise the trophy up high as my devastatingly handsome smile lit up the Cardiff sky.
But form is everything going into these big games, and even though I scored our second and clinching goal in the semi, I’d only been getting a few minutes coming on as sub in the weeks leading up to the final against Arsenal. Since the start of May, Michael Owen had scored away at Bradford, then a hat-trick at home to Newcastle and another couple against Chelsea. With six goals in a fortnight, he was on fire and there was no question he would be starting. The big question now was, who would be partnering him up front? I was beginning to get the vibe from some of the coaches that it wasn’t going to be my day.
Saturday 12th May was a glorious, sweltering hot day – almost too hot, as we made the short drive from our hotel to the Millennium Stadium. As has always been the way with these huge games, our fans clearly outnumbered Arsenal fans on the streets and outside the pubs, even though both clubs get the same allocation of approximately 25,000 tickets each. Somehow, our fans always seem to hoover up the spares and the neutrals’ tickets and we always have huge support inside the stadium. I think only for Manchester United in 1996 do I remember the support being anything like equal. That was my first and only FA Cup final and I badly wanted to extinguish the memory of it.
But it wasn’t to be – not from a starting position, at least. The boss went with Emile Heskey up front and taking the traditional walk around the pitch, waving to the sparse collection of fans who had come into the ground early, I had mixed emotions rattling around my head. As captain, I knew I still had a role to play, yet I wanted that role to be so much bigger. There were warring, conflicting thoughts, one after another: had I done enough to warrant a starting place? Did Gérard really trust me? Was this simply a case of him picking the 11 players he thought best equipped to beat a very good Arsenal side, or had I somehow contributed to Houllier’s lack of belief in me, when it came to the biggest games? In the end, I just tried to shut out any negativity, get behind the lads who would now be representing the club and all our fans and hope that, before the end, I’d get on and play some part in bringing the Cup home to Liverpool.
We started abysmally. I don’t know whether it was the heat, the weight of expectation, or whether Arsenal were just very good on the day, but we couldn’t get near them. It was only some great goalkeeping by Sander Westerveld and some myopic refereeing (Stéphane Henchoz reprising his Edward Scissorhands role in our box, every time he went in for a challenge) that kept things level at half-time. Second half, though, we just couldn’t hold back the tide. With 20 minutes to go, Freddie Ljungberg burst onto a Robert Pires ball right through the heart of our defence, nipped around Sander and clipped the ball into the empty net. All I can remember is seeing his mad crimson-dyed head disappear under the celebrations and congratulations of Patrick Vieira, Thierry Henry and Co. – and feeling completely, abjectly shite. I checked the scoreboard: 18 minutes. There was no way we were coming back from this. But then, hello, Thommo was telling me and Patrik Berger to warm up! We all know how this particular fairy tale ends …
As a direct result of Gérard Houllier’s inspired decision to bring me on, the game began to swing in our favour. Okay, I’m half-joking, but me and Paddy suddenly opened up space and carved out chances that hadn’t been there up until we came on. Michael Owen turned the game on its head and literally stole the Cup from out of Arsenal’s pocket. The 2001 FA Cup final became known as The Michael Owen Final and deservedly so, but again, I’m convinced mine and Paddy’s introduction was a huge factor. My shot on goal was blocked, leading to the corner which created our equaliser. Then Patrik had the presence of mind and the mental composure to look up, pick and play a beautiful through-ball for Michael to run onto, outpacing both Lee Dixon and Tony Adams to somehow produce a left-foot shot that had both the power and accuracy to beat David Seaman.
We all went potty, diving on top of Michael, certain it was too late for Arsenal to get back into the game. We were right – they were dead on their feet and dead, emotionally, too. They’d done more than enough to win the game but now, somehow, Liverpool had pipped them. If anyone was going to score another, it was us. I found myself through one-on-one, with Michael running in to my left, screaming for a tap-in. It wasn’t greed, honestly – it wasn’t the selfish desire to score the clinching goal. I spotted David Seaman take half a step towards Michael, ready to cut out the pull-back. In so doing, he left me a little gap to aim at and I genuinely thought the better option and likelier chance of a goal was for me to take the shot. Seaman smothered it, but it didn’t matter – the referee’s whistle went literally the second he hoofed the ball upfield, and Liverpool were the winners.
As the dignitaries were getting ready for the prize-giving ceremony, myself and Sami went to find Jamie Redknapp. He’d have been feeling those same mixed emotions that any player in that situation faces – delight for your teammates mixed with a bit of despair at your own predicament. But, above all, seeing your comrades lift a cup stirs your own determination to get right back in the thick of things as soon as you humanly can.
We hauled Jamie up to his feet and all three of us went up to receive the Cup from Prince Andrew, with me and Jamie holding the big silver trophy aloft. His face was a picture – as made up as any one of us! That was Game Number One of the three safely navigated, and trophy Number Two of the season tucked away. From Cardiff, it was on to Dortmund for the UEFA final against Deportivo Alavés on the Wednesday, then home again for that crucial last game of the season on Sunday 19th May, which we would have to win in order to qualify for the Champions League.
I’ve got to be honest, not many of us knew where Alavés was when we ended up in a final against them. We quickly established its population was the size of Birkenhead and the club wasn’t much bigger than Tranmere Rovers. Yet here they were in a major European final. Something I’ve gleaned over all my years in the game is never to underestimate anybody. Having just about managed to see Cardiff off, we of all teams should have known that any team that makes it this far has got something about them. But we couldn’t help feeling confident.
Dortmund was awash with red and white – Liverpool fans were literally everywhere. But the blue and yellow of Alavés was prominent, too, with their boisterous, beret-wearing fans making a hell of a racket with their cow horns as they ambled around, gloriously drunk a good ten hours before kick-off, slugging red wine from these calfskin flagons they all seemed to carry. There was a proper atmosphere in the city centre, Basque people mixing with Scousers mixing with the German locals – everyone seemed to be up for the party! I was back to worrying whether I’d be starting, though, and as God’s Law had it, I started … on the bench again.
What a start we made, though! Perhaps Alavés were overawed by the occasion, but nobody tracked Markus Babbel, who got us into the lead at three minutes and another from Didi Hamann made it 2–0 soon after. Alavés got one back but then, just before half-time, the Alavés keeper Martin Herrera decided he was bored being a common goal-stopper and came haring out of his area to play sweeper. Unfortunately, he found himself in a straight race for the ball with Michael Owen, who beat him by about five minutes, took the ball around him and, just as he was about to fire us 3–1 ahead, had his legs taken from under him. There was utterly no doubt that it was a penalty, the only remaining debate was whether Herrera had been the last man back – in which case he’d be given his marching orders. As things panned out, the keeper stayed on the pitch and Gary Mac drilled the penalty under his despairing dive to make it 3–1 to us at half-time.
Somehow, though, we let them back into it. It has to be said that Alavés were a very handy side. They were mainly comprised of pros who had been around the block, clocking up the miles. Players like Javi Moreno (he of the studs-up tackle on Gary Neville all those years ago) and Ivan Tomic could always hurt you (ask Gary Neville!). And in Cosmin Contra, they had a lively wing-back, who was more than capable of supplying the ammo. That’s the way it turned out, with them making it 3–2.
I’ve got to hand it to Houllier, he got creative at this point and the changes did the trick. With 25 minutes remaining, he put me and Vladimir Smicer and on. Stevie G was moved to right-back in place of Stéphane Henchoz and we went with much more variety, pushing back and getting behind them. On 75 minutes, Gary Mac knocked a lovely through ball for me to run onto. I dropped my shoulder and took it inside my man and as the ball ran on, the goal just opened ahead of me. For a split second I stumbled as I tried to get myself set, then the ball just spun out and sat up beautifully for a right-footed strike. It was one of those chances where the ball does all the work – it was rolling at the ideal pace, just to my right, and all I had to do was use the ball’s momentum to guide it past the keeper.
Goal! Fowler!
Oh, dear me, was I happy! I ran over to the corner flag, where our remaining subs were warming up, and we all went into this berserk hug, bouncing round and round, delirious. Finally, I had scored the winning goal for my team in a big, big final – or had I?
You just couldn’t make it up. With seconds remaining, Nearly The Hero hour struck zero: Alavés were awarded a corner. The ref checked his watch and fingered his whistle. I knew exactly what he was thinking: let them take the corner. The moment it’s cleared or goes out of play, that’s it. Game over. God knows I’ve been involved in enough games before and since where it’s us who has benefited from that last throw of the dice. I know how it feels to be on both sides of the divide, the ecstasy and horror. For Alavés it was a quadruple boost of euphoria right into their veins as Jordi Cruyff, formerly of Man United, somehow got up above everyone to glance a header: 4–4.
Unbelievable.
I just stood there, half-laughing at the way these things seemed doomed.
That year, UEFA had implemented a Golden Goal system. What this meant was that, throughout the 30 minutes of extra time, the first goal would be the winning goal. Effectively, it was sudden death. Only in the event of extra time remaining goalless would the game be settled by penalties. Extra time kicked off, and so did Alavés. Their barrel-chested midfield general Magno slid in late on Markus Babbel and saw red for his trouble. With the Basques down to ten men and only minutes of the first period remaining, I thought I’d won it for us, sliding in to prod the ball home – only to see the linesman’s flag go up.
Bastard! It had happened again!
Then, at the start of the second period, Antonio Karmona got a second yellow and Alavés were down to nine men. Surely, now, we could slow the game down, use every inch of the pitch to wear them out, grind them down and find that one, definitive goal? Gary Mac lined up the resulting free-kick, just in from the left touchline. From his nasty, curving free-kick, the ball skidded off the top of the centre-back’s head into the net. It took us a moment to realise that that was it – we had won the UEFA Cup! Gary stood there with both arms raised aloft, more in hope than belief and then, one by one, we started running over to him, realising that the ref was signalling game over and we had, for sure, won our third trophy of the season!
I was elated, overjoyed, so proud that I thought my head would fall off as I stepped up with Sami to lift the Cup. For this one, I felt I had earned the moment, the medal and my piece of the folklore as it began to dawn on me just how insane the game had been – one of those that would live long in the memory and the re-telling of it.
We were knackered, but we had to get back, regroup and start preparing for what was, certainly in financial terms, the biggest game yet: away at Charlton in the last game of the season. We couldn’t catch Arsenal in second place anymore, but we were a point ahead of Leeds in third. A win would guarantee that things stayed that way. I was pleased as punch when the gaffer told me I would be starting and captaining the side – the perfect end to the season. Somehow, our fans made it back from Germany to pack out the away end on another sizzling hot May day. They did everything they could to lift us up and generate the energy to help see us over this final hurdle, but this was now our 63rd game of a highly competitive season and our legs just could not respond at first. The only upside was, although Charlton were huffing and puffing and seeing a lot of the ball, they weren’t really causing too many problems, either. It was 0–0 at half-time and you just felt that one goal might relax us enough to get the job done.
Ten minutes into the second half, from the corner, a moment of magic! Gary Mac floated one of his hanging, bending corners in and Dean Kiely didn’t get a proper connection. The ball dropped over my head and behind me, but I managed to swivel, drop down and execute a falling overhead kick with my left. It was more of a lob than a volley but, with Kiely still off his line, it looped into the net. I could see Houllier on the touchline, beaming more brightly than I’d ever seen him.
These days, the manager is under huge pressure from his club’s directors and owners to steer the team into the top echelons of the Champions League, where the prestige, the glory – and the money – lies. The prize pot for last season’s Champions League was a head-melting £1.75 BILLION, so it’s no surprise that clubs now prioritise qualifying over actual domestic silverware.
I think, in the moment where the ball arched into the net, Houllier knew that he had at long last delivered on his brief. He’d brought the glory days back to Liverpool and returned the club to the very top table in the best restaurant in Europe – and I’d scored the crucial goal! We went on to win the game 4–0, with me notching another and both Stevie Gerrard and Michael Owen scoring, too. With my wedding to Kerrie later that summer and an open-top bus parade around Liverpool to come, the good times were finally back.