It’s a slow three weeks until our next game and I suspect that like many these days I spend a lot of my time looking at clips of happier times for Everton. I apologise for the length of this piece; in all honesty it could have been twice as long. Blame Andy Crooks who encouraged me to share when we last had a pint at the Bramley Moore.
Looking at events that happened in Everton’s history in March, I realised that 16 years ago this week, we were all at Goodison hoping that we could overturn a 2-0 deficit against Fiorentina. That we managed to do that, courtesy of a scrappy Andrew Johnson goal and perhaps one of the best goals ever seen at Goodison from Mikel Arteta, is testament to the self-belief that we had back in those days.
Had it not been for a series of great saves from La Viola keeper Sebastien Frey and some dreadful finishing from Yakubu, extra time and the penalties that ultimately sent us out, thanks to misses from the Yak and Jagielka, would not have been required. That we played as well as we had for some considerable time was of little consolation.
However, it is the events of the previous week’s first leg in Florence that prompted me to write this report.
Most travelling Evertonians, when asked, will tell you that the night spent in the Cradle of the Renaissance is pretty high on their list of Everton’s worst away days, if only because the rain that fell that night was positively biblical and three sides of Stadio Artemio Franchi were uncovered. The locals including the police, were not particularly friendly and we lost 2-0. I, however, had the best away day ever!
My own trip to Florence started even before the group stages of that season’s Uefa Cup had been concluded with Everton’s glorious unbeaten run against Alkmaar and the trip halfway up Norway to Bergen to witness us comfortably see off SK Brann. Being the romantic soul that I am, the previous October, I had booked a week in Florence at the very beautiful (and expensive) Hotel Brunelleschi for a wedding anniversary celebration. The coincidence that Everton were playing in the same city that week was not lost on my wife. But given the circumstances, she struggled to make the obvious accusations stick.
I did manage to annoy her by gazing longingly at the stadium from our roof top terrace and a Huyton Blues flag draped around Dante’s statue didn’t help. We then witnessed the Fiorentina manager Prandelli and the Sevilla manager Simeone (Sevilla had won the trophy the previous year) doing a photo shoot on the Ponte Vecchio with said trophy. I was by now beside myself with anticipation.
We had a pretty quiet lunch near the Duomo and at the end, my wife said, “Oh for god’s sake, why don’t you go. You’ll be miserable all night anyway!”
“I won’t get a ticket,” I explained, but she had all the answers, and I was persuaded to ask the concierge at the hotel if he could sort one out. As it turned out, he couldn’t, explaining that, even if I was Italian, he would struggle, but as I was English, I had no hope. But he leaned towards me and said in hushed tones: “But this gentleman might be able to assist you.”
I looked to my left at a slim tanned chap with short greying hair and had no clue who he was, I looked at the concierge and shrugged my shoulders. “It is Batigol,” he hissed, pronouncing it ‘Batiyol’. I was still no wiser. He raised his eyes and shoulders as only Italians can and said, “Batistuta!” The penny dropped and the guy, on hearing his name, turned towards me and asked if he could help. The concierge gave a brief explanation and left me to it.
Fortunately, Batigol (his nickname apparently) spoke good English and I told him my story. He laughed, told me I had a wonderful wife, made a phone call and said that I could be his guest for the evening. He was guest of honour at the game, but I could accompany him if I wished. He asked if I had a suit and tie, which I did, and he said I should wear it. He asked my name, we shook hands and arranged to meet in the foyer about 4 hours before kick-off. He had lots of official duties!
I returned to the foyer at the appointed time, my wife accompanied me anxious to meet a football legend and was introduced to his wife Irina. I asked if she was coming to the game, and she replied that she avoided football as much as possible. My new best friend (“Call me Bati”) indicated that our car was outside, and we should leave.
The reception, 30 minutes later, at the stadium was extraordinary, given that it was over 3 hours to kick off and the rain was getting heavier by the minute. Bati signed every autograph, posed for every picture and eventually joined me in the stadium reception area, through the incredible monumental pillars that would not have been out of place in the city centre. He introduced me as his friend Stephen and that I was his expert on Everton for the evening. In fact, everywhere we went he introduced me and made sure that I was included in the conversation, as far as possible; my Italian is non-existent, and my Spanish confined to ordering food and drink!
Bati was doing a photo call and introduced me to Signore Andrea Della Valle: “He will take care of you,” he said as he disappeared. I chatted easily with Andrea, who told me that he was in the fashion industry, he was intrigued when I told him I worked for Manchester City. “What is your connection to Fiorentina?” I asked. “Oh I am the club president, shall we go and watch Bati on the pitch?”
Andrea and I stood in the director’s box with a glass of Montepulciano watching Bati doing the round of TV and Radio interviews, presenting charity cheques, having photographs taken under an umbrella next to his bronze statue in front of the Curva Fiesole. I asked Andrea about Fiorentina and he explained that his family had bought the club out of administration in 2002 and that the club had restarted in La Ligue C2 only getting back into the top league in 2004. “It is much harder than I ever thought, the supporters hate me no matter what I do, but the fans who stand on the Curva Fiesole, the Viola Ultras are the beating heart of this club.”
I told him all about Everton’s long history, our firsts, our 9 ‘Scudetta,’ our 5 ‘Coppa Inglese’. We talked about Andrei Kanchelskis who Everton sold to La Viola for £6m. We had very different opinions of the player! The Pet Shop Boys and Go West started over the tannoy and Andrea told me that the hairs on his arm stand up whenever he hears it. “It is about being together!” I waited until it finished and played him Z-Cars.
I watched the game from the Directors Box, was congratulated on the incredible support Everton had, tried to explain why Mikel Arteta was only on the bench and assured my hosts that we were better than this, usually. I enjoyed a chat with Rui Costa at half-time and returned to my seat for the second half.
Tim Howard excelled, and I had few opportunities to shout the Blues on. Eventually the pressure told, and La Viola scored two late goals, both rather fortunate, I thought. At the final whistle, Bati dragged me to my feet and hugged me – I was delighted.
I had hoped to meet some of the Everton travelling party, but none had materialised and after half an hour, my host suggested that he would like to go for some food. I could hardly say no. I found Andrea, thanked him for his hospitality, gave him my phone number, and said if he had time I would meet him in Liverpool the following week. I recognised the guy he was talking to as Robert Elstone, but it was too late.
As we left, I noticed that Bati was limping, football he said, he had had one knee replacement and the other was planned. “I hated the game; it was just a job, the fans in Florence kept me going,” And although he had completed his coaching badges, he had set up his own building business in Argentina.
We returned to the hotel and he assured me that we would have no problem getting food. Our wives were still together in the bar. At well after midnight, we had a full meal, even though the restaurant had been closed for 2 hours.
“Did you know Gabriel nearly signed for Fulham?” my wife asked. Irina really wanted to live in London, but Gab said there was no way he could play regularly at that ‘nasty little ground’. No amount of Al-Fayad’s money would have persuaded him, so he spent the last two years of his career in Saudi Arabia.
What a guy.
I met Signore Della Valle for breakfast at the Atlantic Towers the following week, but he was more interested in my Manchester City connections and, having sold Valeri Bojinov to City the previous year, he was anxious to do more business. “Bojinov is crap,” he confided in me. I told him honestly that I had nothing to do with transfers and we parted on good terms.