UEFA Cup Final: English Derby in Dortmund's Westfalenstadion
Germany's Dortmund Westfalenstadion—what I knew better as Signal Iduna Park under its sponsor name. Over 60,000 fans packed this massive arena, one of German soccer's true icons, belting out chants in English. Half were Liverpool supporters, the other half backing the Premier League rivals from Blackburn Rovers.
"What an irony, huh? A UEFA Cup final at a German home ground, and it's two English teams facing off."
Liverpool fans roared YNWA, unleashing a red tide, while Blackburn Rovers supporters countered with Wild Rovers, waving blue rose flags in response.
The two teams gathered for handshakes, managers Jupp Heynckes and Gérard Houllier exchanging grips before heading to their positions.
Liverpool Lineup
———Westerveld———
D. Murphy — D. Hamann — G. McAllister — Steven Gerrard
J. Carragher — S. Hyypiä — Ancho — R. Babel
——Emile Heskey — Michael Owen——
Gerrard, Owen, Carragher, Hyypiä... it really felt like we were up against the real Liverpool. Especially Dietmar Hamann, the German midfielder Heynckes had singled out as a key threat.
"There you are, Henchoz... no, Ancho."
Stéphane Ancho, who'd left our squad, was starting today, anchoring their defense.
Blackburn Rovers Lineup
————Peter Schmeichel————
Melberg — Berg — Holland — G. Barry
Figo — Gattuso — Paul Ince — Duff
————Roberto Baggio————
————James Beattie————
Yoo Sung-chul unfortunately didn't start, but I clenched my fist, certain he'd come on as a sub.
Peep! Blackburn kicked off, and both sets of English fans stomped in unison, shaking the German stadium to its core.
Baggio and Beattie surged forward from the start, Figo and Duff racing in from the flanks to join. Hamann fouled Baggio to win the ball, but Duff shoved him roughly and lofted it to Beattie. Ancho intercepted mid-field and sent it forward—the game ignited into a frantic battle of turnovers.
McAllister controlled the ball, but Gattuso slid in with a ferocious tackle. Whistle! Foul called, Liverpool free kick.
Heskey and Owen crept up past midfield toward our back three, marked tightly by Melberg and Berg's Nordic duo. Hamann lofted it high toward Heskey, but Melberg's Viking bulk outjumped him for the header. The ball fell to Ince, who dribbled and switched long to Figo.
Figo took it and drove forward. As Liverpool's defense closed in—
"Whoa!?"
He nutmegged Carragher first, Hyypiä second, Ancho third, then chipped over the onrushing Westerveld. 8th minute: Blackburn's opener!
"Figo, I knew you could do it!"
The Portuguese star, worth his €60 million tag, showcased his class. He sprinted to the Blackburn end, roaring triumphantly, opening the scoring.
A quick first-half goal—perfect. Time to unleash a barrage today.
Liverpool restarted, circulating possession patiently instead of charging. Heynckes pushed the line up to press, but Hamann slipped a sneaky through-ball to Heskey.
Instant counter. Heskey powered through, avenging his earlier duel by bulldozing Melberg, then slid it sideways—to Owen. His volley beat the diving Schmeichel. 10th minute: Liverpool equalized.
The red wave went berserk, pounding the stands, firing flares, stripping shirts into flags, chanting Owen's name.
Today felt like goals galore.
21st minute. Liverpool's Heskey-Owen duo relentlessly tested our defense. Southgate, back from injury, watched anxiously from the bench; Heynckes, red-faced like a glowing Osram bulb, barked at the backline to mark Hesky tight.
It was like facing Vieri in the Inter semis—all power from their hulking forward. Our EPL-class bruisers—Melberg, Berg, even Holland and Barry crowding central—weren't slouches physically, yet we kept getting bullied.
As Heskey broke through again, Gattuso dropped deep and Holland pounced on Owen. No second chances—they marked him ironclad. But Heskey unleashed a rocket shot sans pass. Schmeichel spilled it.
"My God!"
22nd minute: 2-1, Liverpool leads! Heskey charged to his fans, arms outstretched like Figo earlier.
A reversal—and so early, just past the 20-minute mark!
"Let's go, Rovers! We can win this!"
We had to win, no matter what! My legs trembled uncontrollably; I snapped to, cigarette dangling from my lips. Not just me—the lower stands reeked of furious smoke as fans puffed away, clouding Westfalenstadion.
As my cig burned to ash in tension, Blackburn pressed on. Duff's flank runs were repeatedly blocked by a young prospect: Steven Gerrard.
Playing wing today, yet patrolling like a defensive mid, Gerrard clung ferociously to our players. Houllier unleashed him as a free role, roaming sides and center. Gattuso, Ince, Duff clashed endlessly, but he grew fiercer, a beast unleashed.
"Gerrard... that bastard."
Raw and rough, yet he'd hack away annoyingly, thumbs-upping teammates on clearances, calming veterans. At just 21, he rallied old heads, sharpening Liverpool's attacks on our goal.
42nd minute. With 2-1 seeming final, Figo cleared and sparked our counter. He burst down Gerrard's flank, priming a cross—Gerrard body-checked Baggio.
No space, so Figo charged near the corner flag into the box. Carragher chased desperately, but Figo feinted a shot... sending it across to James Beattie.
The ball ricocheted perfectly off Beattie's boot. He smashed it home as Westerveld rushed out—2-2!
Blackburn's local lad equalized masterfully. Figo, Baggio, and Duff mobbed him; Beattie, brimming with confidence, raised his arms to the roaring fans.
Our blue wanderers shook Westfalenstadion against Liverpool's red tide.
Whistle-whistle! Halftime: 2-2. Adrenaline-pumped players trudged off; Heynckes demanded quick locker-room entry. I exhaled deeply.
"Whew—"
A slugfest, a madhouse. Finals always chilled the spine, but today hit different. Hands slick with sweat, back damp, I chugged beer to steady my pounding heart.
"Stay calm—no way we lose this."
Second half would be chaos, but in that mud-wrestle, Blackburn would rise.
Meanwhile, in South Korea.
Weekday evening at 8 PM prime time—KBS airing the UEFA Cup final they'd snagged rights for. Koreans everywhere tuned in like it was a national team match: samgyeopsal joints, pubs, chicken shops, real estate offices, salons, markets—all TVs blaring.
"Foreigners sure kick it clean, huh?"
"But why ain't Yoo Sung-chul playin'?"
"He's on the bench—there!"
From market elders to net-surfing youth.
The broadcasters, with ex-UEFA Cup winner Cha Beom-gon on commentary, replayed goals.
Cha laughed awkwardly amid casters parroting "Will Yoo sub in?" over real analysis. The vibe prioritized when the Korean might appear over the match itself.
England, Preston dorms.
"Hey, Alice. Halftime, tied at 2-2."
"They scored?"
After watching Owen's goal despite it not being United, Alice had showered in frustration, emerging in her Man U #7 tee to sit by the TV. Beattie's equalizer and Liverpool taunt clenched her fists.
"YNWA can shove it!"
"Alice, that fiancé of yours—the Korean guy—Sky Sports keeps showing him."
Just then, cameras caught me chugging beer, unwinding.
Amid Sky's banter, Alice stared at Dae-hyun.
The UEFA Cup final wasn't just for the teams. Korea, England, the world held breath for the final 45 minutes.