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One summer’s night, at the end of May,
Would turn into a magic day.
Rome was the setting, an open bowl,
What better place to score a goal.
An awesome team that we all admire,
Led out by Emlyn, he did inspire.
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To their left was a wondrous sight,
Thirty thousand Kopites in red and white.
They sold their dog, their mum, their wife,
Couldn’t miss this game, best of their life.
Moenchengladbach would be our foe,
Who’s the best in Europe we would show.
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Gladbach in white, they had their stars,
But Bonhof and Stielike no match for ours.
Keegan, Kennedy, Clemence and Heighway,
A match for any team on their day.
The travelling Kop awaited the start,
They wanted to win with all their heart.
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The game kicked off, Liverpool in control,
All we need is the opening goal.
Then it happened in the 27th minute,
A goal now and we can definately win it.
Heighway to McDermott on the edge of the box,
A sweet right foot, then the stadium rocks.
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One nil to Liverpool, the score at half time,
Some of the football was pure sublime.
Just after the break there would be a shock,
There came a shot no keeper would block.
At the corner of the box Simonsen rifled it home,
Would our dream fail in glorious Rome.
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Then Stielike forced a great save from Clemence,
Gladbach bombarded our goal, the Reds were so tense.
The pressure was intense, it seemed like an age,
But no second goal from the Whites at this stage.
The breakthrough did come, but not where we thought,
It was at the other end the German’s distraught.
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Four days afterlosing the Cup at Wembley,
After sixty five minutes, the perfect remedy.
Heighway forced a corner on our left side,
What happened next, just filled me with pride.
The ball hung in the air, waiting to be met,
A rocket from Smith’s head was bulging the net.
What a way to fulfill your Anfield career,
Thirty thousand Kopites gave an almighty Cheer.
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After this goal the game turned on it’s head,
There could only be one winner, the team in red.
Our usual style had returned to the fore,
As Keegan outfoxed Vogts, he was hacked to the floor.
I watched the ref as he pointed to the spot,
Who would step up for the penalty shot.
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There’s only one man, he was cool as ice,
Whose every penalty was exact and precise.
Up stepped Phil Neal, the man from the back,
Penalty kicks,he sure had the nack.
With nerves of steel, without any delay,
He stroked the ball home, Kneib sent the wrong way.
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With seven minutes left the glory must be ours,
But thinking back now it seemed seven hours.
The Germans couldn’t muster as much of a threat,
They certainly won’t beat the giant in the net.
Nothing to worry about and the whistle was blown,
We’d have the European Cup when we finally got home.
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The Celebrations started, the Kop in full voice,
Out of the two this was the Cup of our choice.
Bob Paisley the master, he’d do it again,
He’ll be used to the sight of a bottle of Champagne.
He’d been here before, during the war,
He beat the German’s then too, he’s the one we adore.
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The night was still young, celebrating to do,
Being the Champions of Europe was long overdue.
The celebratory team party in a secret hideout,
They’d have to do better to keep the Scousers out,
In they all flocked to join in the cheer,
Bob sat in the corner, he didn’t need beer.
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Finally home, everyone came,
All across Europe they’d remember our name.
The opentop bus threaded through the packed out streets,
Half a million came out to see Europe’s Elites.
That night was the best I’d ever seen,
This poem a tribute to a wonderful team.
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