Last season was remarkable in many instances, but one of the less edifying aspects was 'guess the headline'. How many ways could journalists find to spin any news from Anfield into the 'will he won't he' Gerrard saga? Every match report in the press seemed to have been automatically generated by some piece of software which tied his future into the story; even if he wasn't playing there would be some mention of his body language as he looked on, and how long would his huge ambition be satisfied by the efforts of his struggling peers. Blah blah blah. So little news, so much spin.
But even the moment he lifted the Cup was tainted, strangely tinged with uneasiness. The finest sight for any fan in over two decades, and something about him left me feeling an undercurrent of mistrust. Even his post-match interview 'how can I leave after this' didn't quite ring true, even in that unbelievable, rub-your-face-with-sandpaper-to-check-you're-not-dreaming, rabbit in the headlight euphoria and sense of disbelief, something didn't feel right. What should have tasted sweet left a nasty aftertaste. Not enough to spoil the evening- what could?- but enough to feed a gnawing doubt.
And so it proved, and I'd have to say I wasn't surprised. You can see why some might be wary, can't you? 'Sadly, Steven has told us this afternoon that he will not accept our offer of an improved and extended contract because he wants to leave Liverpool' from the club on 5th July. Then, 'he's changed his mind because he knew what he'd miss if he went elsewhere.' the following day. Such turbulence among the fans as their captain oscillated wildly.
Whatever the truth of what went on in those days between talks opening and then coming crashing to a halt, he is tainted in my eyes. Perhaps he wanted out for the sake of chasing the Russian thirty pieces of silver. Perhaps the odds of regular silverware look more likely down the King's Road. Perhaps his physical strength is belied by a psychological frailty and a murderous desire for love, a crippling need to feel he is so important to the club that it would be unconscionable to even countenance the prospect of him leaving. Perhaps he really does believe he is 'the man', and expected all club business to be put on hold while Rafa crawled over shards of shattered glass to offer their worship and supplication.Whatever the causes, we know the outcome: he stayed and is comfortably the best all-round player we have, and have had for years. If he isn't the complete footballer- in the sense that he could play in different positions, and be comfortably better than the current incumbent- then he's damned close.This isn't a doubt about his ability, or his current commitment to Anfield. It's the 'once bitten' thing. Ah- sorry- twice.
So now, when he comes on and proves how valuable he is to this team (we may as well settle in for a season's-worth of the inevitable 'Gerard rescues poor Reds' headlines) it doesn't fill me with pride like it should. You'd think he would feel that he has something to prove to us, a mission to re-establish himself as Liverpool through and through. (Whether he does, deep down, is unknown; but again there lurks the suspicion that he sees himself in some ways as more important than his team, not so much first among equals as monarch of all he surveys.) And his pre-season form has done pretty much just that. His impact on games has been galvanising and his passion obvious- but still, I can't feel like I know I should, a bit of me which can't warm to him like I used to. I admire his drive, his energy, his skill, his power, certainly. On one hand, we have one of the finest players in the world at our club; on the other, admiration falls short of adoration. What was chipped away at last summer, is now more hole-riddled than a Leerdammer cheese (I had to look it up, fromage fans).