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‘There are two great teams in Liverpool: Liverpool and Liverpool reserves.’

It was Michael Robinson who quoted Bill Shankly’s famous remark to me, reciting the words of the manager whose footballing philosophy revolutionised Liverpool Football Club and changed its history forever. Michael, a former Liverpool player and now a commentator on Spanish television, had become my chaperone for the day as we went round the Anfield museum together for a TV documentary. I had been living in the city for six months but I hadn’t yet found the time to see one of the jewels in the Reds’ crown, although I had been able to take a tour of the stadium with some friends who’d come out from Spain to visit me.

I was struck by the special recognition reserved for the achievements of former players, the men who made the club great. That cold February morning in 2008 Michael explained to me how much Kenny Dalglish Corner means to fans—the area set aside for the European Cups Liverpool so brilliantly won. He also explained the significance of the memorials erected in memory of those fans who so brutally lost their lives at Hillsborough and the mosaics produced in honour of the those who, with their love, fidelity and pride helped to carry Liverpool’s name beyond the city gates. If there is one thing that has really stood out for me since I’ve been in England, it’s the huge human tide of Liverpool fans. It’s incredible. I have never seen a single Liverpool fan criticise a player, even when the team has lost. Every player dreams of fans like that; here at Anfield, we’ve got them.

Six months had passed since that special day at Anfield in July 2007 when my signing was announced to the press. An afternoon’s rain had given way to bright sunshine on Merseyside. I didn’t know the drill, so Benítez explained what would happen during my presentation. ‘It’s not like it is in Spain,’ he said. ‘Normally, we unveil our players quietly, almost privately, at Melwood. But because you cost so much, we’re going to have to open Anfield.’ I had seen Liverpool players presented before. I remembered Luis García and Xabi Alonso’s first day. I knew that I wouldn’t have to go out in full kit, boots and all, and do kick-ups on the pitch so that photographers could capture the moment and send the image round the world, as happens in Spain. I seemed to remember Luis and Xabi simply posing in tracksuits, holding Liverpool scarves, and I was wearing a suit and smart shoes, ready for my press conference. But soon I found myself in a small room slipping off my jacket, shirt and tie and pulling on the red shirt of Liverpool. It was the first time I’d worn the shirt of any other club apart from Atlético. I looked at myself in the mirror: there I was in red. I was still wearing No. 9 but I was transformed.

I looked down; my trousers and shoes hadn’t changed. Wearing a football shirt and smart trousers and shoes, looking a bit strange, I walked down the corridor towards the mythical tunnel that leads to the Anfield pitch. Rafa stopped in front of the ‘This is Anfield’ sign. ‘Shankly put that here so that everyone knew exactly where they were,’ he said. ‘You’ll hear Shankly’s name a lot at this club.’ He was right. The previous night I’d started reading the books and watching the DVDs on Liverpool’s history that I’d been given to help me learn about the club. Shankly, Paisley, Dalglish…just some of the names I had managed to commit to memory in the last few frenetic days. And, as we climbed the stairs, Shankly popped up again as Benítez told me a story about him and Kevin Keegan.

We sat in the stands at Anfield, flashes going off all around us. I was wearing a short-sleeved shirt and I felt a chill. I thought to myself: ‘And it’s supposed to be July!’ I turned to Rafa and said: ‘Wow, it’s cold!’ ‘Cold? Here? It’s never cold here,’ he replied with a grin. I looked up and saw the exact image of what I had always imagined an English stadium to be: small, tight, just 45,000 seats, with the stands right up against the pitch, old but warm—a ground with feeling. What a noise this place must make! It made me realise how important the history of the club is, the traditions that are passed on by fans, the flags and anthems and banners—the whole match-day ritual, which is seeped in the club’s history. Every little detail matters, unlike in Spain where clubs’ identities are being lost—some newer generations of fans simply don’t know how to pass on the traditions and identities of their clubs and that makes them feel uncomfortable.

From the stands, we carried on down the stairs, stopping at the dugouts en route. I hardly even realised they were there because they’re so set-back, just normal seats embedded in amongst the fans in the Main Stand. ‘I don’t want to see you here again,’ Benítez warned. Understood, boss. It wasn’t until the third game of the season that I even realised where the technical area was marked out, it was so small.

After the photos had been taken, it was time for me to say my first public words as a Liverpool player. First, though, I asked one of the members of staff to look after my first Liverpool shirt for me so that I could take it home with me later. No sooner were the words out of my mouth than Benítez pointed out that players’ shirts are normally donated to charity after their presentation. Because they’re so

special, being the first shirt a player has ever worn, they normally raise a lot of money. No problem. My shirt was donated to a cancer charity that auctioned it off. An Irish businessman got it in return for £4,900.

With the coach acting as translator, the club’s press officer explained how the press conference would work. It would be divided into four parts for four different sets of journalists. In Spain, you do one press conference for all of the media together and that’s it. I caught the eye of one of the Spaniards accompanying me; he just shrugged and said: ‘Welcome to England!’ The first stop was in front of the television cameras, and I sat down alongside a nice guy called Phil, the translator.

Before I spoke to the media, Rafa joked about the fact that I had spoken to the Madrid media that very morning at the Vicente Calderón. ‘You told them that Atlético Madrid will always be in your heart,’ he smiled. ‘So, think carefully about what you’re going to say now. You might have to tell them you’ve got a very big heart—one with room for both clubs.’

What I told them was something along the lines of: ‘I’ve signed for a huge club, a team of champions, one of the biggest clubs in the world. I hope I can contribute to their success and become a champion myself.’

The media merry-go-round continued with Phil and Ian Cotton, the club’s press officer, permanently by my side: a general press conference, radio, daily

newspapers and then the Sundays. Just when I thought I had finally finished, Phil took me into another room. With a look of fear in his eyes, he said: ‘Now, you’ve got to talk to Liverpool TV and the club’s official website.’ Well, seeing as we’re here…There wasn’t a minute to think or relax and I immediately realised that things were going to be very different in England. There was so much to get used to.

When I flew to Liverpool for the second time in two days, I still wasn’t aware that my life was changing by the minute. So much was happening that I needed to take a step back and pause for a moment but there just wasn’t a chance to do so. On the way to the presentation that afternoon we had been waiting at passport control at Liverpool airport when a group of fans recognised me. They gave me an amazing ovation and I began signing autographs but I couldn’t hang about because we had to get through passport control. There was a car waiting to take us to Anfield. As I was on my way there, I got a call from my childhood hero Kiko Narváez, the former Atlético Madrid player and one of the stars of their double-winning team, who’d rung to wish me luck. He had listened to what I said during the press conference at the Calderón in the morning and he told me that he thought I’d made the right decision. The call over, there was silence in the car, broken only by the sound of the engine, and I watched distractedly out the window as the city went by. Just as we were going past Goodison Park, the man Liverpool had asked to look after me, Owen, said something. Jorge Lera, a friend of mine from Bahía Internacional, translated for me as he pointed up at the ground: ‘He says: “I hope you score loads of goals.”’

We went into Anfield through the Memorial Gate and Jorge translated as Owen explained what happened at Hillsborough in 1989, when so many Liverpool fans died. It was a tragedy provoked by negligence and one for which there still hasn’t been an explanation. Rick Parry, Liverpool’s chief executive, and Rafa Benítez were waiting for us in the room where the managers’ families wait on match day. The room where I was to sign my contract with Liverpool. Margarita Garay, one of my representatives at Bahía, had just finished making some minor alterations to a couple of clauses when I walked in. I took short steps, glancing at the pictures on the walls, looking at the other people in the room. I took no notice of the food that had been laid on for me. Who could eat at a moment like that? I was handed a pen and I signed the contract that bound me to Liverpool for six years. Benítez congratulated me in typical style: ‘You’ve got to get to the gym. You’re too thin to play in England.’

It took a few months for me to get to know every corner of the stadium. One of the most emblematic is the dressing room. On a match day you go in through the players’ entrance to the sound of the fans singing and chanting alongside the team bus. You go along a narrow corridor, turn right and come to a room that has not changed in a hundred years. It’s a small room with benches, pegs on the walls, two treatment tables and a table in the middle covered with bandages and strappings and other equipment. The players take up half the room, the coaches and backroom staff the other, but this year the staff have taken to using an old storeroom to try to gain a little space. Before every game, Steven Gerrard or Dirk Kuyt take charge of the music, just as Sergio Ramos does with the Spanish national team.

You look around and think it’s a small space for so many people, but tradition dictates. There’s no room for luxury at Liverpool. As Gerrard told Benítez and Robbie Fowler told Gerard Houllier: ‘This is where Liverpool players have always changed—the same Liverpool players who have won countless titles. We’re no bigger than they are.’

The dressing room is an extension of the pitch and the rest of the ground. Anfield is not a modern mega-stadium but the history that surrounds it is far more important.

On your way out to the pitch, you can’t get lost: the tunnel only goes one way, towards the greatest of stages. You really notice the silence as you make your way there. I think the opposition know that something special is going to happen and they’re quiet too, trying to take in the moment. As you reach a small opening at the top of the stairs, a kind of improvised waiting room, the silence is broken by players geeing each other up and the sound of ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’ coming from outside. It’s a song that sets your heart racing and gets the adrenaline pumping, ready for the battle that’s about to begin.

When I signed for Liverpool on that summer evening, I asked the club to get me twenty shirts with my name and number on so that I could take them back to Spain with me and give them to my friends. It had been such a hectic day that I’d completely forgotten all about them until I was at John Lennon Airport and I heard a shout from Owen, standing there with a bag in each hand. ‘Fernando,’ he called out, ‘your shirts’.