Vladimír Šmicer

Just one. In my professional career, I had missed just one penalty kick. It came in the last match of the 1995-96 season for Slavia, when it was clear that we were the winners.

We were winning 3-1 over Liberec and the end of the game was getting closer. I already knew I was going to France, so the boys gave me a ball to kick. They wanted to let me say goodbye with a goal.

I thought, ‘Yeah, why not?’

I kicked a strong shot to the left, but Láďa Maier, who was standing in the goal, went to that side about an hour in advance and caught it. 

When Láďa and I met in England at the European Championships a couple of weeks later, I joked that it had been a coincidence. He of course claimed that it wasn’t, that he knew what I was going to do. There was no other way to settle our argument than to make a bet after one training session. I told him that if he could catch four out of 10 of my penalty kicks, I'd give him the cleats off my feet. Láďa agreed and said he would at least donate them to his local pub. On the other hand, if I won the bet, he would give me his gloves.

The first kick hit the crossbar, the second I scored, the third Láďa caught, the fourth I shot outside of the goal and he caught the fifth. After the fifth one, I took my shoes off at the pitch and went to the hotel in my socks.

I remembered this story as Rafa Benítez, our coach in Liverpool, approached me. My teammates and I sat on the bench in Istanbul at the 2005 Champions League finals. We had just finished overtime, resisting the pressure from AC Milan and earning a penalty shootout at 3-3.

Just a few minutes before, I started thinking about what I would do if Rafa asked me if I wanted to shoot. Oh my god, that would be stressful. Would I be able to make it? I could say no and not worry about it, but then who else would do it? I was 32. I had been playing for the national team for 10 years and I felt good. I was an offensive player so why would I leave it to a defender?

Yeah, I would do it. I realized that I couldn’t refuse. At least it would be fun, huh? Either I wouldn’t make it, or I’d pass the football graduation. Suddenly I was fine. But I noticed Rafa walking towards the boys and ... oh my god ... he was coming to me.

"How do you feel?" he asked.

Honestly, I had cramps and I was fed up, but I said I was fine. Perhaps I could shoot the penalty kick.

"So, you’re fourth," he told me.

No debate. No thought who the coach would eventually send to kick when he talked to the others. No "so be prepared." I was the fourth, done.

Wow! I started getting worried. Now, we would see how I dealt with pressure.

Suddenly I started to realize how close we were to the title in the best club competition in the world. This penalty kick would be my last shot in a Liverpool jersey because my contract expired at the end of the season. No small pass or throw in. No, I was going to say goodbye with a penalty kick in the Champions League final: a moment no one would forget. If a player fails, people keep reminding him for a long time. If I scored, I'd be able to return to Liverpool any time. If not, everyone would see me as the one who failed.

I was very nervous. I was overthinking it and the pressure was getting to me. The self-confidence I had just a moment ago was gone. I realized how tens of millions of people were watching on TV all over the world, including everybody in the Czech Republic. The stadium, which I thought was a big one, was suddenly confining me. The goal seemed very small and the goalkeeper, Dida from AC Milan, was huge. He was almost two meters tall with long arms and legs. 

If he predicted the right side, I’d be in trouble.

In the morning of the finals, my teammate Milan Baroš and I went for a walk and were talking about what awaited us. We had no idea if we were going to play at all, but it seemed more realistic that if we got into the match, it would be as substitutes. That meant we could play the penalties if the match led to them. 

"Where would you aim?" he asked and we both picked a side. I chose right. My favorite.

Suddenly, I was standing on the pitch, holding shoulders with the others, waiting for my turn. I had the advantage of having three options to see how Dida played. Four, actually, because we kicked one penalty during the game. If a player is smart, he can use this. He watches if the goalie walks forward or waits on the line, how he falls, if he rolls right down and if he keeps the top guarding with his hand or remains more in the middle. He sees you only at your attempt, but you can study how he plays.

But I found out something that made me uneasy. In all four previous cases, Dida went to the left and I was afraid that he must now try it to the right.

"I have a problem," I told Bary (Milan Baroš) as Kaká went to kick. He was the player from Milan in front of me.
"What's up?" Bary asked.
"The goalie already went to the left four times," I said.
Bary knew what I wanted to say. "Where did you want to kick it in the morning?" he asked. 
"To the right," I answered.
"Then kick it there," he told me. 

Nothing more. Full stop. Done. The convincing tone of his voice calmed me down so that I no longer panicked. Yeah, I'll kick it to the right and that’s it. I don’t care. That it’s my good side and the goalie might know. 

I was still thinking when I passed Kaka on the way to the line. He was happy because he had scored and the score was 2-2. Behind the goal, the AC Milan fans were raging, trying to scare us, but I didn't care. At that point I was in my own little bubble. Alone in my own world. 

‘Look, even if you didn't make it it’s still a draw. You won't mess it up’, I was telling myself. And the fact was that I wasn't under the same kind of pressure that Stevie Gerrard would have had to face for the last, fifth penalty.

I kicked the ball to the right.

Dida jumped to the left.

Children always cheer for the best and I wasn't different. When I was growing up, Liverpool had the best team in Europe, and they were winning everything. Kenny Dalglish was my favorite player. There was just one little problem. I didn’t get a chance to see him play. 

There were virtually no Western channels on TV when I was growing up. Other than magazines, I could only watch a short series about sport in the world, where they showed a few goals from the English league. And once a year, I could watch the live European Cup finals. At most, it was about three football games per year that I had the opportunity to see.

Nevertheless, my dream was to play at that level one day. For Liverpool.

So far, however, I played with other children in Verneřice near Děčín under the guidance of dad or grandpa and on the weekend we usually played a match with kids from one of the nearby villages. When I was 12, I started to play with a club in the city once or twice a week. We played on the slag because we weren’t allowed on the grass. 

I didn't get most of what I learned through athletic or gymnastic training. I learned it every afternoon after school, when my friends and I took the ball and played on the square in front of the house. When we started to train a little more, it was still only on half of the pitch, where the grass grew on the sides, and in the middle there was still slag. The nets in the goals were torn and we only had old balls to play with. When it rained and they got soaked with water, we couldn’t even kick them.

This is what made me the football player I was. I always learned to cope.

I’ve scored goals since I was a kid. I used to be the best in Děčín and I went to Slavia when I was 14. It took a while before I grew tall and got stronger. For the next two years I didn't even start while playing in the C lineup, but at 19 I suddenly played in the adult league. Like Nedvěd, Poborský, Berger and other boys of my generation, I gained experience for the next four years. We didn’t have to go to Germany or Italy to become better players. We showed at home that we could play. We didn't get a chance just because we were young, we got it because we asked for it. After all, my class included Binič, Kuku, Rusnák and I got better than them anyway. For some reason, Mr. Petržela chose me for the A team and Mr. Jarabinský let me play more and more.

We finished second behind Sparta three times before we finally won the league, the same year we reached the final of the Euro. In Lens, France, I was there when we pulled the team from below average to the title within three years. Because I was doing well, I got the opportunity to go to the place I had dreamed of as a child. To Liverpool. To the club, which by its history and success belongs among the absolute best. In the world, you may find about eight similar ones. Real Barcelona, AC and Inter Milan, Juventus, Arsenal, Manchester United, Paris Saint-Germain, AS Rome. I can't think of more.

Whenever you enter Anfield Road, you breathe in the incredible tradition, the importance of football to that place. You get used to being the best. There’s no time to experiment. After all, 16 national team members gathered on that team in one season. We had two great players for each post. Everything was even more magical because I played with Patrik Bergr, a childhood friend. Together we won the UEFA Cup in 2001.

However, the biggest moment in Liverpool’s jersey awaited me four years later.