Anfield is not the same anymore

... but then neither is anywhere else!

A famous European night at Anfield is not what it used to be.

It can’t be. I’m not even sure that it should be.

And that’s ok as long as you don’t try to kid yourself that Liverpool would have won the shoot-out if only it had been at the Kop End. The cocky kids that strolled forward to take the Paris St Germain penalties have seen more intimidating sights on their way home from school. They had no fear of Anfield. Not anymore.

This is 2025 when the question is… ‘what comes first – a booming crescendo of fervid encouragement from the home fans… or a period of sustained pressure from the home team?’

Who lifts who these days? Honest answers only please.

Now, before you take to Twitter to fill my feed with abuse… ah, too late!... I’m not angling my views at Liverpool specifically. A famous European night at Anfield still beats a cold Tuesday night at… sorry, Stoke! I just think that our relationship with our football heroes has changed… even Liverpool heroes. It’s now up to them to give us something to get excited about.

The primal tap pouring atmosphere into Anfield on Tuesday was the native noise being generated by 3 thousand travelling Parisians. Their section was full when I took my seat 75 minutes before kick-off… not only full of militant vocal support but also a menacingly crazed air of an army on the march. They wanted the rest of Anfield to know they were in town. Ultras not only by name.

A week earlier, the travelling Liverpool support serenaded their substitutes through the post-match warm-down in the Parc des Princes. Away fans are the hard-core partisans that tolerate the lock-ins and police searches and late-night diversions off the M6 through quaint Staffordshire villages in order to be there when our team needs them most.

Them not us. The majority of fans pay their £50 to see the team satisfy their own needs. The attachment has been loosened by time and a change in the profile of a football crowd. Beyond the hardy raw away enders, it feels more of an audience now. Spectators to a show, rather than part of the show.

I fell into the Anfield trap myself. I was ever so pleased with the research that unearthed the fact that only 4 of the PSG starting XI had experienced the crackle of Anfield before and that none of them had won there. The buzz from Paris was that their first leg defeat had only emboldened them with renewed confidence… that they’d been disappointed by Liverpool.

“I don’t think they’ll be disappointed by Anfield,” I chirped at kick-off. 11 minutes later, they took the lead at Anfield.

PSG never silenced Anfield. It was still a tingling and uplifting experience, still probably a problem to hear a team-mate’s call, still a challenging place to resist a fevered Liverpool press that I’m sure was fuelled by the urgent backing of the home crowd… but none of the above stopped Vitinha or Joao Neves trying to pass their way through it.

Vitinha’s penalty told us all we need to know about him. He’d have taken the same penalty on the floor of the Colosseum.

If anyone – including me – really thought that a soulful rendition of ‘You’ll never walk alone’ was going to change PSG’s heart rate or mindset, they had another thing coming.

I’m very old. I’m not going to bore you with observations about the Middle Ages when every single Koppite had a scarf to raise and the whole end swayed and sang like they were belting their anthem out for the first time. Fans didn’t even bother to use the toilets back in the 1970’s. A night on the Kop is a better experience now. It’s not corporate but it’s not scary either.

There will be some very scary sights at Wembley this weekend. Temperatures for the Carabao Cup final are forecast to reach 8 degrees and so acres of prime Gateshead brisket are sure to be on view. Each club has received 32,000 tickets and everyone is an away fan on cup final day. Wembley’s Michelin catering prices might just encourage a good number of them to take their places early and whip up an atmosphere.

No place in football is more desperate to host an open-top bus parade than Newcastle-upon-Tyne. I’m sad enough to have calculated that 30 different clubs have lifted a major English trophy since Newcastle United. ‘Get Back (to where you once belonged)’ was number 1 in the Billboard charts (sorry I’m broadcasting to the USA!) when they won the Inter Cities Fairs Cup in June 1969. There is a commentary line there somewhere… but I think I’ll leave it to Micah.

The Middle East was a different place in 1969. Qatar was still under British governance, Dubai made its first oil shipment that year and King Faisal of Saudi Arabia was too busy putting down a military coup to think about investing any of his new petroleum money in an English football club.

So – not only would a Toon fan need to be in their sixties to remember all the years of wait - but there is little about the current DNA of Newcastle United to draw on history for motivation to beat Liverpool on Sunday.

It’s a proudly one-club town, a Geordie nation with its own dialect and songs and has been wrapped in the same black-and-white stripes since the 19^th century. But the bond between Newcastle fans comes from an ongoing yearning for a communal party, not from a quiz question waiting to be re-written.

It's no different on Merseyside. If Liverpool retain the trophy, their fans will not celebrate it any less deafeningly or proudly as last year’s triumph. Supporting a football team is a chance to feel good in the company of others with the same sense of belonging. It’s like getting to the Pearly Gates and discovering you were following the right religion all along.

It is not graded by how many games you went to when the team was losing every week or how loudly you clapped when the players came over to applaud you for sticking out that 3-0 defeat. They don’t remember you or your loyalty. They don’t know you. They’re not going to be in the Sainsbury’s check out queue with you tomorrow.

They might kiss the badge in the moment but the medal will belong to them and their career CV and their transfer value. Their wages are paid by sponsors and television moguls.

I’m not a cynic, I’m a football romantic. That’s why I counted up all those clubs that have paraded a trophy since Newcastle – Wimbledon and Birmingham and Oxford. If I find myself commentating on a Newcastle victory on Sunday, the whole 1969 narrative will help to frame the success in the wistful wonder of our beautiful game. We all love a story with a happy ending.

I have spoken to enough footballers to know that they value and draw on the sound of support when their tanks are running low or the finishing line is not coming any closer. But in an age when the hope for a Manchester United fan is best captured by an artist’s impression of a stadium that might just be completed before Heathrow’s 5th runway, the reality is that the distance between the pitch and the terracing has grown.

The vanquished end of Wembley will be empty for the trophy presentation. Memories are made by and for the winners. The winning fans might see the winning team coach on the motorway home but it will be empty. The players will be flying back.