7 p.m., Friday 27th, the train finally pulled into Lime Street, nearly forty hours after leaving Rome. We emerged like a cargo of refugees and shuffled slowly along the platform, round-shouldered, battered and exhausted.
Liverpool was as sunny as Rome that night. I stopped by the taxi rank with Jimmy and Wardy. They were amongst the many diehards who headed straight to Anfield for Tommy Smith’s testimonial. I just don’t know how any of them did it. I was like most Reds: a physical, mental and financial write-off. Before they jumped in a cab, we said our goodbyes, Jimmy half-cut and Wardy … grinning, with a can in his hand.
Going home on the bus, I stared through the window at nothing, thinking about Rome and the whole week. It was a strange feeling, a kind of hollow emptiness – I just didn’t want it to end. The derelict, vandalised flats in Kirkby made me realise it was all over. I missed Jimmy and Wardy already. I suppose if we’d lost, the trip would have gone down as a five-day nightmare. But when you win Big Ears, even the worst nightmares can turn into epic adventures. I got off the bus and cut through the council estate to me ma’s … and into LFC folklore.
*
Thirty years on and nearly fifty years of age, that trip means even more to me. If they ever invent a time machine, I swear I’d go back and relive it all again. We were the European Cup pioneers, the first Scousers out there, and Rome will always be our first love. It was the classic rags-to-riches fairy tale – a story of doggedness, devotion and a dream that came true.
I slid the match programme back in me footy box and climbed out the loft, me head too laden with memories to do a tap that morning. I poured another tea, dug out a CD then sat back and let Mario Lanza do the rest. There were mixed emotions as he waltzed me around the ‘Seven Hills of Rome’. I thought about Emlyn Hughes, Bob Paisley, Shanks and all those Reds who made the trip in ’77 who’ve now moved on. Then I pictured Jimmy’s sunburnt, polluted kite, Wardy’s grin, genie bottles, laughter, red chequered flags, Big Ears gleaming and the best night of me life. Oh yeah … and a dodgy diesel pump.
If the European Cup story had ended there, I’d still have been sitting here all these years later with a content smile. But something else happened in ’77. In May a young Jock called Alan Hansen signed for a hundred grand from Partick. Then, on 10th August, another Scotsman arrived. His name: Kenneth Mathieson Dalglish.
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