Istanbul airport, May 26, 2005. The flight back home with the Liverpool squad is bedlam, befitting the bonkers night before. Normally the media are shoved at the back of the plane but overjoyed, hungover players and their partners are sprawled all over the place. Last to board, I cannot find anywhere to sit.
As I walk up and down the aisle, everyone looks the other way. No one wants to have to squeeze up next to a pesky reporter. And then, as we are about to take off, a friendly voice says: “Do you need a seat? You are welcome to join us.” It will not be the last time that I am left concluding that Xabi Alonso is different.
Just one tiny moment of
