Allez Allez Allez!!!
A European away day ticket is like gold dust, let alone a Champions League Semi Final. I was one of the lucky ones, but it didn’t go without effort. Initially I tried to get tickets through the Roma website, using what GCSE Italian I had left. Lying poolside and baking like naan bread in the Abu Dhabi heat, I couldn’t break through the virtual turnstile. I needed to be there one way or another. I’d championed Champions League glory since early August in the group chat and I needed to see us take that final step to Kiev.
Momentarily I was disappointed, but a Iifeline emerged like an oasis in the desert. A text from my cousin Fahi explained that we were both eligible to buy tickets because of our Europa League campaign in 2015–16. Grateful for Besiktas away. And just like that, I was on my way to the ‘Sadio’ Olimpico.
Despite the tragic attack on Sean Cox preceding the first leg, I wasn’t dissuaded from attending. We went on to blitz Roma with relentless, breathtaking and clinical attacking football in that game. And yes, we typically leaked two late goals. Was anyone really surprised? Our 90 mins this season has been like an acid trip — ultimate highs and ugly comedowns at the final whistle. This was no different. But I believed we’d done enough and was confident we‘d secure our final berth.
The pre-match build up was shrouded with concerns over fan safety. Articles circulated daily as Roma had previous with English fans. I became familiar with the term “Puncicate” — buttock stabbing, synonymous with Roma fans. They had another other party trick — riding along on a scooter hitting fans with socks filled with pool balls. Concerned friends wished me to “stay safe,” and to avoid all bridges. “Don’t wear any colours,” one said. Even the FCO provided guidance and justifiably so. During the first leg Roma Ultras (Fedeyn or whatever they’re called) came armed with belt buckles and hammers. It was hard to believe that I was actually heading to a football match.
Anxious tweets from fans led to the creation of a WhatsApp group to ensure fans stayed together to avoid potential skirmishes. Having been in the chat for less than an hour, the conversation quickly diverted to vile messages about Hillsborough and Heysel, and to my surprise racist texts too. The group had been infiltrated by Mancs, Ultras, ‘bizzies’ and journos. Sadly, novel ideas are susceptible to the sad minority lurking in the wings. After seeing all the abuse, I swiftly exited the group.
I arrived in Rome via Bucharest (I had little options) the evening before kick-off. The RomeHello Hostel was a stone’s throw from the metro and located close to il Colosseo. I stayed in the hostel’s bar to watch Real v Bayern. There was no reason to venture into parts unknown at this hour. Rising early doors, I’d plotted my own bucket list, ticking off il Colosseo, Trevi Fountain and Sistine Chapel to name a few. As the day progressed, I noticed pockets of Reds who’d braved their colours. I planned to wear mine later.
Fahi was unable to attend the game, so his spare was allocated to his friend Albi. We’d arranged to meet ahead of kick-off. Like an away day blind date, we met at the romantic roof terrace of the Royal Art Café — il Colosseo served as the backdrop. Donning my Salah shirt, but not brave enough to unzip my bomber in the spring heat I met Albi, who had his Sturridge shirt tucked away for later. His brother, attending as a neutral and Ash, a fellow Red also greeted me. They’d bravely secured tickets in the home end. We were in a confident mood because of our first leg win and excited by the prospect of meeting Real in the final.
Shortly after, we made our way towards the shuttle service for the game. But we arrived too late. I knew we shouldn’t have got dessert! All advice suggested to avoid walking and taxis. Uber prices rocketed and local cabs refused to head into the gridlock. Three hours till kick-off, we were nowhere near the ground, so we headed to a local bus stop. Buses were also impacted and there was also no Metro nearby. It was starting to look grim.
As time passed, the Uber rates dropped. Angelo rescued us with his Jaguar XF but failed to communicate that he was dropping us at the home end. Not only that, but we’d have to negotiate a bridge across the River Tiber and find our way into red salvation. No stars for Angelo!
What followed was quite surreal. As we marched in silence to avoid detection from the Fedeyn, in my mind I wished I could trigger a ‘super star’ like Mario Kart to speed things along. As we walked, the roar became louder, flags waved, and the Roman tribe awaited us. Just before crossing the bridge an observant Roma fan warned in broken English: “you on wrong side!” We were in at the deep end.
Four soon became two, as Albi and I had to navigate to the Red sea. His brother and Ash had made it into their end. The perimeter of the stadium was cordoned off and with no obvious route to the away end we had no choice but to immerse ourselves among the Ultras. As we approached the stadium, we gambled and approached two burly blokes with guns. Maybe they were plain clothed police or some sort of security forces. Who knew? Save us!
Turns out we weren’t the only lost sheep, a few Scousers shared our predicament too. Together, we placed our blind trust into one ‘officer’ who advised us that we follow him. He instructed us not to walk beside him and urged us to split up and keep quiet. We were living on the edge.
As we turned the corner, there they were — our safe haven, our tribe all boxed in like sardines. There was no sign of entry into the stadium, with everyone kettled in I felt freer now amongst our own. I could finally air out my sweaty Salah shirt.
An hour till kick-off and they finally released the traps to let the shuttle buses into the ground. The ‘12th man’, now in full voice. ‘ALLEZ ALLEZ ALLEZ’ and ‘Bring on yer Internazionale, Bring on yer Roma by the score’, became more vociferous as we moved no further forward. It felt like they were trying to provoke us.
Finally, the first scanner and security pat down, followed by a ticket check. Another pit stop, another turnstile, another ticket check, another pat down. And then another pat down by commandos. What could we have possibly acquired in between each pat down?!
We entered the cauldron. Not intimidated by the maroon choir and flares, chants of ‘LAZIO’ got their blood boiling. As did the quickfire Mané opening goal. Only glass separated us.
A fluke equaliser cranked the volume further. The pressure increased and every attack seemed to be streaming down towards Trent’s side. They were doubling and even tripling up on him. Wave after wave came, every ball into the box from Kolarov penetrated our defence and made us all feel a little more edgy. And then a goal from nowhere: ‘DE DE DE DE DE DE…GINI WIJNALDUM’ — a euphoric moment sending Albi, myself and a few others flying back a few rows in jubilation. ALLEZ ALLEZ ALLEZ growing like a call to arms. I got chills from every clap and every word. Kiev beckoned.
Back to the present. It was raining coins, drinks, lighters, you name it, we were getting pelted. Why not focus your energy on the pitch? Pricks. We made it to half time leading 1–2. I needed water badly. Some had other ideas, doing lines at the bar. One man approached them and said: “Get a fookin room you gobshite!” I don’t know what I found funnier — the confrontation or the unruly state of affairs.
The second half unfolded; we didn’t play well at all. And with each attack we looked more vulnerable and a sudden collapse at the death caused slight concern. However, time was on our side. Despite losing on the night, we did it the Liverpool way and entertained till the bitter end. The final whistle was met with sheer elation. ‘Arrivederci’ we gleefully sang, as firecrackers were set off and the red mist descended. Frustrations boiled over for some of the giallorossi.
Mané was the first to head over to us, approaching his brother. This was now a Red carnival. One by one the players came towards us and deservedly drank in the adulation. Fittingly they held a banner in Sean Cox’s name. Shortly after the players left the field, Trent and Woodburn re-emerged for a sing-along. Subsequently, we serenaded John Arne Riise and Jamie Carragher who were also pitch side. After fulfilling his press commitments, Jurgen joined us too. “Doubters to believers,” he once said. This night cemented those words. We were back.
As the ecstasy slowly subdued, we were effectively locked in for a few hours for our own safety. Low on energy and phone batteries gegenpressed with every notification, we were drained. Like the players, we’d given everything too. I was wrecked. And then out of nowhere a shout of “HEADS” came from above, a mini football was being headed around for entertainment.
We were finally set free around midnight and met by a wall of stewards on either side perfectly assembled like a guard of honour. I’d never seen so many stewards. The ‘Arrivederci’ chant returned and was met with Italian expletives. Did we care? They were sick to the sight of us. The feeling was mutual. Every bus was rammed. Exhausted, we ended up sitting on the street. We were spent and it was approaching 1am, so we took matters into our own hands walking to the home end to catch an Uber.
I got back to the hostel and phoned my friend Nick for a post-match debrief. Climbing back to my top-bunk my ‘roomies’ were dead to the world and I was still buzzing. ‘Na Na Na Liverpool…Liverpool’ was stuck in my head. We’d just conquered Rome…again!
