Los Coladeros, Episode 54: Anfield
Dangling over the precipice of a brand new season, I have to admit, I’m feeling pretty good about how the summer unfolded. We’ve strengthened in key areas and there’s still money in the bank. We’ve got more reinforcements arriving in December. We’ve suffered from gastroenteritis and taken the facility rating at La Cartuja down to “Awful”, but we’ve grown closer from the experience. Perhaps too close, actually. All in all, though, we’re looking good, and I’m feeling confident. And so, with blue flags waving, 13,540 butts in seats and a whiff of rotten meat wafting around Leakin Park, we prepare to welcome the hipsters’ choice to Seville.
Deportivo have made three summer signings, but one is certainly more significant than the rest: 72-time Uruguayan international centre-half Paolo Montero has arrived from Juventus on a Bosman, and I can’t tell you how happy I am to see that he’s orange-injured and will presumably miss out. The same goes for Martin Palermo, Lionel Scaloni and Jorge Andrade, while flying winger Jesús Arellano has been taken away by the Mexican national team — so all in all, it’s fair to say they’re missing five first team players for this encounter. It’s nice to see another team have had a similarly bruising pre-season to us. However, my main concern, as always with Deportivo, is Diego Tristán. He’s a one-man goal machine carved from granite and strapped to a rocket, with a trebuchet of a right foot. Stopping him is going to be the key to victory today.
We’re still without Mark Kerr and Cristiano Ronaldo following their knocks from Nigeria, so Mikels Arteta and Alonso replace them in my starting eleven alongside new-boy Simon Davies. Stilian Petrov isn’t match fit, but neither is Raúl García, so I prefer the Bulgarian to make his debut at DMC — and he’s joined in the silver and blue for the first time by Clint Hill and John Welsh at centre-half. Perhaps controversially, I prefer Giannis Kalogeras to Jamie Victory at left-back after the Greek youngster had a stellar pre-season — plus, let’s face it, he’s our long-term option out there. The Englishman is 30 next year, and while he can definitely still go, energetic puppies are much cuter than old war dogs.
We manage to keep Tristán at bay for all of seven minutes before he hits his first tester at Costanzo, but our big stopper is equal to it. Tsigalko then tries to copy the trick at the other end, but is crowded out by defenders and can only fire wide. After that, Tsigalko manages to plant a header on target that Molina saves, but in truth, the rest of the half sort of drifts by; it’s a classic opening day encounter. Neither team looks entirely fit or ready, which is understandable since neither of us are. We’ve both been shorn of quality players and the game is suffering. Before the break, Tristán stings Costanzo’s palms with a free-kick, Deportivo make two substitutions due to injury, Tsigalko and Samba miss the target, and when the referee’s whistle goes for half time, most of the stadium is already sweating in the hotdog queue.
I’ve been busy trying to properly install my new optic onto the side of the home dugout so I wasn’t really watching either, though I know it was a boring goalless half and that I’m not going to make things any more exciting just yet. I put my trust in the players to get the job done until the hour mark, by which time we’ve only managed to test Molina once more through Mikel Alonso’s long-range drive, and at that point, I decide it’s time to shake things up a bit. Samba and Alonso have been pretty quiet all afternoon, so off they come, with Didier Drogba and Labinot Harbuzi coming on. Go on, lads. It’s your debut. Make a name for yourselves.
Molina smothers the ball at the feet of Petrov from Tsigalko’s pass, then Clint Hill boots Tristán into the sky and gets a powerpoint presentation from the referee on how many more times he can do that before he gets booked — once, I’d imagine. We’re then in the commentary a lot, but with no end product; Harbuzi, Davies, Drogba and Tsigalko are happily knocking the ball around between them but we’ve got no real thrust, no finishing touch or killer pass. Deportivo are suffering from the same problem; their final passes are always too long, and Costanzo is having an easy afternoon gathering them up and punting them back towards our forwards. All said, a game that never really got going is now petering out with a whimper. It would take a moment of pure genius to break this deadlock.
And with that thought committed to paper, the ball is passed sideways to Diego Tristán inside the Deportivo half.
If ever a game should have ended in a draw, it was this one. We were the better team overall, there’s no doubt — and Simon Davies impressed me with four key passes and eight headers won in midfield — but in the end, we did not possess the magic to steal a win, or even a draw. There was only one sorcerer on the pitch today, and he was wearing gold.
It’s a disappointing start, but what can you do. These things happen sometimes. I thought we did well overall; we played the better football, we had more of the ball, and collectively, we were better than Deportivo. Individuals won that game for them today; Montero dominating Samba despite being only 80% fit was telling. Molina, as always, defied us when we did get shots on target. And Diego Tristán was the difference maker, as he always can be. Boy, would I love to sign that lad.
I then get my monthly board appraisal, and it’s baffling.
The recent run of defeats? We’ve lost one game. Even if you include last season’s final game against Mallorca when I played a reserve side, it only makes two. Listen, you mindless drones: go back to your executive boxes, drink your vermouth, eat your patatas bravas and shut the fuck up. I’ll tell you when there’s something to be worried about.
Cherno Samba is sadly not selected for England U21’s 5–0 win against Armenia, which is a shame really. He would have had a field day out there. Nikos Tobros and Andrielos both play 90 minutes for Greece U21’s desperate 1–0 home defeat to Denmark, confirming their status as my reserve defenders for this season, while Labinot Harbuzi gets an assist and is unlucky not to be named man of the match in Sweden U21’s 3–0 win over Azerbaijan. I’ve got a good feeling about that kid. I feel like he might well establish himself in the team this season, especially if we keep suffering injuries like we have recently.
The following day, Maxim Tsigalko makes his debut for the full Belarus side, coming on at half time to score and finish the game as their best player on a nine — but even he is powerless to stop his side going down 3–2 to the Republic of Ireland, led by a goal and two assists from the irresistible Steve Finnan. He just signed for Spurs for £1.6m. What a bargain.
No sooner do the players return from their international hi-jinks than it’s time to head to the beaches of Tenerife for a game against the islanders. Promoted back to the big time thanks mostly to ridiculously talented AMLC Hugo Morales, who ought to have been snapped up by a bigger club than us by now, they are solid, dependable, likeable, but entirely beatable. We’ve lost Davies to a stubbed toe but have Mark Kerr and Cristiano Ronaldo back, so I do a little shuffle in midfield and introduce them either side of Stilian Petrov, with Raúl García ordered to snap around behind them. My back five remain intact, but there’s a change up top as I allow Drogba the chance to impress in place of the great Cherno Samba.
We get a few hefty scares from our hosts, but we do eventually beat them with stellar performances from my brand new goalscorers, plus a nice cameo from left-back Kalogeras. Franco has to be alert to keep Juan Carlos and Barata out from close range after Morales makes mincemeat of Mike Duff down their left flank, but Mark Kerr is determined to mark his full debut with a game-stealing performance. After already creating chances for Drogba and Tsigalko, he tees up Stilian Petrov of all people to rise and head home the opener, and just after the hour mark, the Bulgarian returns the favour, sliding a pass through for Kerr to tear into the Tenerife box and clatter a left-footed shot high into the roof of the net. It’s not a comfortable win, but it’s a welcome tonic after our opening day defeat.
I notice in the aftermath that Barcelona have a goalkeeper on their bench — a grey, not-real goalkeeper who’s significantly better than Albert Jorquera. I was feeling a bit bad about taking their sub keeper from them anyway, but now I’ve been hoisted by my own petard, plus realising that Jorquera could well be sneaking notes back to his parent club when my back is turned, I order him to return to Catalonia immediately. Despite being far cleverer than our rivals, we really ought to win the league the right way. We have honour around here. Never more so than when our plan to abandon it blows up in my face.
Clint Hill is injured for a month, but there was a good chance that Nikolaos Tobros was going to replace him in the team anyway, especially since we’re heading to Anfield tomorrow morning and he’s the only defender we’ve got with any hope of catching Michael Owen.
After a restless night of being haunted by the spectre of Diego Tristán, tomorrow morning arrives, and as we wander through the airport for our trip back to Blighty, I notice young Niko heading to the wrong gate. No Niko, you’re not going back to Athens, you silly boy — you’re starting for us on Wednesday against Liverpool, you’re marking Michael Owen. It’s the biggest opportunity of your life. Don’t ruin it by being stupid. As he turns back towards me, two very thick, bearded men in black suits and sunglasses block my path. He tells me that he’s been called up by Greece to captain their Under 23s for the Olympic Games qualifiers, and he’s taking Andrielos with him. As my blood pressure rises and I lurch forward in protest, I’m easily swatted aside by the bouncers, and my players are ushered away.
Great. That’s just great. So with Hill injured, Tobros and Andrielos on international duty for god knows how long and Nuno Mata not included in my 25-man European squad, that leaves… Marcel Desailly and potential snake in the grass John Welsh as my only available centre back options for a trip to play Liverpool. Remember earlier when I said I felt good about everything? Isn’t it amazing how quickly that feeling goes to shit?
It’s a bumpy landing at John Lennon for more reasons than one. I’ve spent almost all of the seven-hour Easyjet flight via Geneva buying the players €8 sandwiches and worrying about how to line up against the four-time European Cup winners and reigning Premier League champions. I have five defenders to my name, two of them left-backs, and while I don’t doubt any of their capability… I do have my worries. Marcel Desailly has earned his nickname of ‘The Rock’, and there’s no doubt that my love for him is already strong and musky, but with declining pace and the turning circle of a jumbo jet, I have a feeling Owen, Heskey and Diouf will be pointing and laughing at me on their way to the pre-match photos. But what choice do I have? The only other contenders for centre-back are John Welsh and Mike Duff, neither of whom are really central defenders in my opinion. Welsh is simply so good at football that it appears he’s better than most of my players in most of their positions, so I don’t see what point there is in switching him to RB and Duffman to the centre. It will still leave either Victory or Kalogeras on the bench. I think I’ll keep my back four relatively intact.
Midfield is a slightly more difficult Rubix cube, but I have a solution. I don’t feel like either Samba or Drogba have started well enough, or had good enough pre-seasons, to make a dent in this Liverpool side, so I’m starting human rivet gun Raúl García in DMC, bringing Simon Davies back into my midfield three, pushing Ronaldo into ten and moving the Iceman right up front by himself where, in truth, he’s meant to be. That’s a central midfield packed with the creativity to unlock a defence and the bastardliness to leave a foot in when the Reds try to break, a puffy-chested, flip-flapping peacock dancing around in front of Stephane Henchoz, and one of world football’s deadliest goalscorers lurking on the shoulder of, I guess, Chris Riggott? You know what, actually — this might just work.
Right lads. Ignore the ceremony, pomp and circumstance. Sing along to You’ll Never Walk Alone if you must; it is pretty hard not to. But once that’s finished, get your game faces on. We’ve got work to do. The restless ghost of Iain Macintosh must be allowed to rest, and it’s your job to do it. Hold him in your hearts, stride out onto that turf, and hear his words ring in your ears: get out there, you blue dogs of war.
Liverpool’s 4–4–2 allows us to go man-for-man on all their most dangerous players, for whatever good it might do. Raúl García snarls at the ankles of Van der Vaart, Duff is tracking Jérôme Rothen and Danny Murphy, out of position on the right wing, will have Giannis Kalogeras to contend with. I swap my centre-backs around immediately upon seeing Michael Owen lick his lips at Marcel Desailly — a truly disgusting image. The Rock will get to niggle at El-Hadji Diouf instead, while John Welsh will, hopefully, do a number on his old team-mate. I’m watching the coin-toss through my fingers. This could be a long night.
We kick off and keep the ball well for a couple of minutes. Ronaldo looks for Tsigalko, but Riggott pushes him to the ground just outside the area. Davies lines up the free-kick, Dudek expects a shot, but he crosses instead — and Raúl García is in the mixer! GARCÍA’S HEADER!!
GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOL COLADEROS! What a start! We’re ahead, with just two minutes on the clock!! Raúl García’s first goal for the Wet Bandits, and sweet baby Jesus, we’re leading at Anfield!
Costanzo’s night is only just starting, however. He’s straight into the fray from kick off, saving a Diouf header and then watching a Michael Owen curler onto the roof of the net from just outside the box. I’m clenching hard in my technical area as Gérard Houllier roars his players onward, and Rothen leads the charge — dancing around Mike Duff exactly like Morales before him, and digging out a cross that Costanzo flaps at, Diouf bundles home, and just like that, it’s 1–1.
Kalogeras then sticks a free-kick right down Dudek’s throat, before Michael Owen is tormenting us again, streaking past Duff and Welsh on his way to fizzing a shot that Costanzo parries and Duff clears. Owen is then booked for a trip on Kerr, which is a very dangerous game to play, and from the resulting free-kick, Tsigalko hits a volley that clips the bar on its way over. We’re actually doing alright here, you know — relying on Costanzo to make his saves and riding our luck at times, sure, but we’re not being bested by our illustrious hosts.
Half time is practically upon us as Kalogeras is carded for tugging Danny Murphy to the ground to prevent yet another Liverpool counter-attack. Cheyrou whips it into the box, Desailly heads clear, and Raúl García strides out of our half and towards the Liverpool goal. Cheyrou struggles back to bring the Spaniard down, Kalogeras arrows the free-kick into the box, Tsigalko is above Van der Vaart!! TSIGALKO! GOAL! WHAT A HEADER TSIGALKO! It’s 2–1 to the good guys! We’re leading at Anfield! Again!! And that’s half time.
My goodness, what a 45 minutes. We weren’t better than Liverpool by any stretch, but if you search me for fucks to give, you shall find my pockets empty. I slam my hand against the wall of the unwelcoming away dressing room and tell the players to keep it up, god damn you — we need to stick together. Remember what we learned against Deportivo: if you let one magical player get his wand out, even for a second, we’re fucked. Keep running, keep barking, keep kicking Michael Owen. Go for the hamstrings. We can win this.
Five minutes later it’s 2–2, though I can’t fault my lads — they did keep all the traditionally dangerous Liverpool players quiet. I’m sure you can understand my surprise when the new Zinedine Zidane, Bruno Cheyrou, flicks the ball past Simon Davies and wellies a swerving long-range drive that screams past Costanzo and into the top corner to equalise, and after all that, we’re level once again. Houllier, however, takes that as a sign that he should drop his team in and defend, attempting to time-waste for 40 minutes and snatch a draw against their plucky visitors.
After ten more minutes of attrition, I make the substitution that I think could win us the game. The metronomic Stilian Petrov is withdrawn, and the youthful spunk of Labinot Harbuzi skips into the fray. At the same time, John Arne Riise is introduced for Rafael Van der Vaart, who — it has to be said — has spent an hour in the rear pocket of Raúl García. Seconds later, Diouf and Rothen combine to set the Frenchman free down the left hand side, he crosses into the box, Diouf heads at goal, it’s past Costanzo… but Welsh gets back to clear off the line!! What a recovery from John Welsh against his boyhood club! JOHN WELSH IS A BLUE! I take it back, John! I take it all back!
Michael Owen is the next under-performing Liverpool superstar to be withdrawn, replaced by Heskey with 20 minutes to go. The game is starting to peter out in a very satisfying fashion; my defence, led by the impenetrable Desailly who I never doubted for a second, are holding the Reds at arm’s length. Diouf hits the side-netting from a tight angle after being forced wide by The Rock, then Riise takes a throw in to Dudek… but Tsigalko nips in and steals it! TSIGALKO IS FREE! The Iceman has a simple finish… BUT DUDEK SAVES! Oh Jesus god, that was it, wasn’t it. That was the moment to win it. Obscene recovery from Dudek to get down and turn Tsigalko’s shot around the post.
The corner comes in, Desailly heads over under pressure from Henchoz, and in the aftermath, a frothing, psychotic Raúl García squares up to the Liverpool defender and is booked for his troubles. I’ve never seen a Coladeros player more up for a game than he is today, and I bloody love it. With five minutes to go, I glance over at Houllier and wonder what kind of wine he’s bought for the post-match agreement that a draw was a fair result. If it’s cheap plonk, I riot. Ronaldo takes out Riise on the left wing as I bring on Victory for Kalogeras to waste the final few minutes. Rothen lofts the free-kick into the box, Diouf is above Welsh — he heads down at goal! It’s past Costanzo! BUT SIMON DAVIES CLEARS IT OFF THE LINE! Unbelievable defensive work from the Colanders — two goalline clearances have surely earned us a draw. Plugging our holes isn’t usually what we’re all about, but you know what? Today, I’ll accept it.
Riggott heads the resulting corner over the bar, and that’s 90 minutes up. Costanzo smashes the goal kick towards Tsigalko, who heads down for Kerr; the Scot combines with Harbuzi and Victory to get the ball back to the feet of the Iceman. We’re still miles from Liverpool’s goal and awaiting the referee’s final whistle as Tsigalko goes wide to Davies on the right-hand side. Davies spots a run from Ronaldo and lifts a ball towards the Liverpool penalty box, but he’s over-hit it, and it’s sailing harmlessly towards Dudek, or over the bar, I’m not sure which. It’s over Dudek… but it’s dropping. It’s dropping!! The ball floats downwards towards goal, clips the underside of the crossbar… AND IT’S IN! IT’S IN! IT’S A TOTAL FLUKE, BUT IT COUNTS! SIMON DAVIES HAS GIVEN US THE LEAD WITH SURELY THE LAST KICK OF THE GAME! He never meant it — but that doesn’t stop me knee-sliding right across the home technical area!! WE’RE 3–2 UP! WE’RE LEADING AT ANFIELD AGAIN, AGAIN!
A minute later I’m seriously regretting my knee-slide as the referee allows the game to kick off and Rothen and Diouf combine to feed Heskey inside the box, who hits a fierce drive — but Costanzo saves! Costanzo saves it!! I bring on Alonso for Ronaldo to surely waste enough time to see us home, but the referee allows the corner to be taken. Rothen whips it in, Biscan gets between my defenders and leaps… he plants his header at goal. But it’s wide!! IT’S WIDE! Raúl García gets the credit for “putting him off”, which means an elbow in the spine if ever I’ve seen one… AND IT’S OVER! IT’S ALL OVER! WE’VE DONE IT! WE’VE BLOODY DONE IT!!
I’ll tell you what, that has completely changed the way I’m going to look at in-game player ratings from now on. As individuals, we were deeply, totemically average. Everyone simply did the basics; there were no outstanding solo performances from anyone in silver and blue, while Liverpool had at least three players who, you’ve got to say, had truly excellent games. But you know what? It doesn’t matter, because we won! We won it! And it’s not like we smashed and grabbed it, either — okay, the winner was a total fluke, but we matched them for shots on target, won more free-kicks, caught them offside 10 times compared to just three for us… we earned that win. We properly earned it, and there’s not an 8 in sight. I no longer care about my players’ ratings, as long as they’re contributing. Simon Davies got a goal, an assist, and made one key pass: 7. The Rock won three key tackles, one key header, and had an effort on target at the other end: 7. Do I care if they’re not getting the numbers they deserve? Check my pockets.
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