Benitez couldn’t pull off back to back Champions League wins against Milan, nor should he have done with the strike force that he had. It was shortly after midnight, and it would be a long, painful journey back to Liverpool, the singing choked out of our fellow passengers.
A life- long Liverpool fan, I’d expect to tell you that I felt broken at that moment – completely gutted (especially as I’d passed up a ticket to Istanbul!) But I don’t think I was. Most of the journey to Athens had been exhilarating, joyful even: the cauldron of red noise in Syntagma Square – smiling drunk faces, spinning scarves held aloft towards Greek Gods above; the chartered jumbo jet that had bounced along the runway at Speke to songs about Luis and Sangria… Mostly, we just felt pride that we had been brought on this journey to the final once more. The team’s style back then, could hardly have been described as arrogant, or beautiful, daring or fluid. Instead it was a well drilled team, full of heart and grit, who felt desperate to please us fans once again.
They fell short, but I sort of felt alright.
In February last year I wasn’t thinking too much about football. I was 4 months pregnant, and a giant aneurysm (like a ticking bomb) was discovered in the artery in my neck. Half of the Doctors told me I needed an operation to survive, whilst the other half told me that surgery would be far too risky. In November I took the bold decision to go ahead with surgery, when my daughter was just 5 months old, and my son nearly 4. The night before my hospital admission, my colleagues sent me an uplifting video of them mouthing the words to “You’ll never walk alone”.
Needless to say, I survived, and 3 days after the rare operation, I was back on the ward being united with my beautiful family. It was now Sunday December 15th, and I gingerly perched my son in between my legs as he controlled the hospital bed up and down with a handset – we watched the match on the iPad on my swing table in front of us, and witnessed Suarez and co demolish Tottenham 5 nil. Even the defence had a good game! It was a wonderful backdrop to our emotional scene, and a welcome distraction from my fragility. After my family had returned home, and the nurses had brought by blood pressure back under control, I breathed in deeply and closed my eyes – there was a lot to absorb. Of course foremost was the deep feeling of relief to have arrived at that moment to see my husband and two children again, but I remember also thinking that I would likely be alive to see Liverpool win the league once more. No rush for now, my prognosis was good and the progress under Rogers also looked healthy on my little iPad screen. The manner of that win had been a far better tonic then any of the pain killers I was taking.
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In 1990 when we last won the league I was a lost teenager, and now I reflect, I’m a lost Mum of two – my son could start primary school in 1 of 3 different parts of the Country in September, my career is at a cross roads, and I can’t work out Twitter. The only reassuring constant in my life has been watching Liverpool play at Anfield over the years. I grant you, the smell of cigar smoke has gone and there is now a clock to the left of the Kop; The little boy sitting in front of me, who used to suck pear drops all the time, is now a dad of two, but he’s still an ever present; the witty Scot who sat behind us: “This is f***ing awful Liverpool, Get him off”, died a few years ago, and his daughter who takes his place is a little less vocal – but a fervent supporter all the same; the same old miserable bastards who leave on 85 minutes no matter what is happening on the field, are still there, obscuring my view at a crucial moment. Thankfully my Dad never came good on his threat to give up the season tickets after each disappointing trophy-less season. So we our lucky enough to still have 3 seats in the main stand just to the left of the Director’s box. In 1978, aged 3, I first sat in seat 191, row 11 to begin my footballing education, and I’ll do so again against Man City, with the same scarf wrapped around my neck. Where-ever I end up settling down with my own family in the next few months, I know that returning to the main stand at Anfield will always feel like home to me.
So after Sunday’s match against Tottenham, I’m telling myself that if we finish 2nd or 3rd, then I won’t feel completely gutted, or heart broken – I’ll instead feel proud again and grateful for the thrill and hope of seeing young English (mostly) talent dressed in red, tare into the opposition defence. Watching not one, but four of five players cut at pace for the ball when Hendersen turns over procession once more, or Flanagan dive boldly into a tackle on the touchline; Gerrard make that 40 yard quarter back pass, Sterling intelligently cut it back; Suarez chase the ball down in the 89th minute, or Sturridge impudently chip the ball over the goalie.
But who am I trying to kid? I’ll wonder if we’ll ever get this chance again.
You see, unlike Rogers, I’ve started to get ahead of myself. At half time on Sunday against Spurs, I began painting the picture to my son – Barnaby (pictured going up to Rogers on the train to discuss the relative merits of the diamond formation versus 4-3-3). Stevie G talks about the power of visualisation before each game, and similarly, Barnaby and I now look into the future and imagine the delirious party in Liverpool that will take place if we win the league. In his sponge brain, he plays back to me, the scene of us all walking from his grandparents’ house in South Liverpool, to a flag filled Allerton Road, as we wait for the team bus to arrive. The enormous silver cup will be held above Stevie’s head, and below it, a smile will be splashed across his face, telling of complete fulfilment. So I know I’m laying myself bare to all my non LFC supporting friends. I am inviting them to put the boot in if we fall short, opening myself up to failure – Daring to dream.
But never mind.
Right here, right now, I’m putting my head above the parapet and saying:
“Yes. I believe we can win it now!”
And when I first uttered those words out loud, my daughter Harriet flapped her arms and then clapped her hands in encouragement.
COME ONNN Liverpool….