The Object of an Assassin’s Affection!

It’s 12 noon on a cold January Sunday in Manchester. The year 1999. Old Trafford is bustling with the roars of their rowdy red devil fanatics. The icy winds won’t stop them from killing their football counterparts with chants and banners. The chill in the air will not dampen their spirits today.

But why the fuss? Isn’t this just a mere fourth round FA Cup match? Shouldn’t Manchester United be starting with a few reserve players in the starting XI instead of their usual stars? Why are there so many people here in attendance? It’s because this is not just any other clash. This is not just any other team they’re up against. This is Liverpool. The arch-rivals. The hated nemesis. A team they’ve not lost to in the competition since 1992. And they’re not starting today.

Not today, not this year. Not in 1999.

This is Manchester United’s year. This is their prolific super substitute’s year. It hasn’t happened yet, but they know that something special is in store. Something big. Something that doesn’t come in pairs. Something that comes in the form of a trio. It hasn’t happened yet, but it will. They know. They believe. What’s the word for that again? Treble, is it?

As the clock turns to the 88th minute, horrifyingly Liverpool are leading 1-0 thanks to Michael Owen’s third-minute header. This is preposterous. This is blasphemous. This is ridiculous. Liverpool should not be winning at Old Trafford. They should not be winning at Anfield. They should not be winning, period. Old Trafford will turn into a war zone in 5 minutes time. People will go crazy. There will be jeers. There will be tears. There might just even be a riot. But not for the reason you think.

Manchester United win a freekick. Who else to take it than David Beckham. David freaking Beckham. Surely, he’s going to fumble this up, says the Liverpool nut in me. Becks doesn’t know what he’s capable of doing, yet. He’s still three years away from dramatically grabbing the England team by the throat and hoisting them towards the World Cup. He doesn’t know yet that he’s going to make a whole nation rally behind him at this very stadium and then send them into an ecstatic frenzy when he buries that curler into the Greek net late in stoppage time. He doesn’t know. He’s not confident. He’s going to balloon this kick.

But, not today. Not this year. Not in 1999.

He takes the freekick and it finds Andy Cole who heads it towards goal for Dwight Yorke to equalize with a simple tap in. And just like that it’s 1-1. Surely, United can’t lose now. Damn, this can’t be happening. The resistance has finally broken. I’m hoping against hope that the score says at 1-1. It’s just been that kind of an evening. The Reds seem to have given up. Of course they have since they’re wearing their away “whites” today. But we need to be rewarded for our resilience as well, don’t we? I mean we scored at Old Trafford early and have kept those ravaging red devils at bay for the longest of times. A draw isn’t what we should be getting, it’s what we deserve. Au contraire!

It’s been 10 minutes since the baby-faced assassin has been on the field. Ole Gunnar Solskjaer is known to turn these things around in the dying minutes. At least save face and get a draw, some people think. Come on Ole, do your thing, say the others. It still hurts me from inside to think about the events that followed. It’s like someone took my soul, put it in a blender, churned it for a good twenty minutes, set it on a roller coaster, and finally took a knife and stabbed it multiple times in a haphazard manner. If I had one of those Men in Black red-light flashy things with me, I would erase the memory of this match from my conscience.

Stoppage time. Beckham has the ball. Not him again. Someone foul him. Take him down. Get a red card. Do anything, but just stop him. Do it now or forever hold your peace. But no one seems to be doing anything. Manchester United seem to have that trance that they very proficiently have mastered having over opponents. It’s almost poetic. Nothing seems to work against them in Fergie time. It would have maybe worked yesterday. It could maybe work tomorrow.

But, not today. Not this year. Not in 1999.

Beckham takes the ball from his half, runs towards his pristine right flank and chips the ball deep into the Liverpool box. The ball finds Paul Scholes. Another second half substitute. He collects the ball beautifully but seems to have stumbled somehow on the follow-up. The ball now rolls towards a boy in a red shirt. A boy who history has shown, and future will prove, only cared about his team and was in love with it. A boy whose selfless act in an era of unbridled ego led him to receive a standing ovation from fans for getting red-carded for a last man tackle when the opposition striker looked set to score and dent his team’s title hopes. A boy who despite being mocked for his super sub tag would go on to score 4 goals in a space of just 10 minutes after coming off the bench with 20 minutes to spare. A boy who for some outlandish reason is standing alone without being marked. He collects the ball with his right foot, gently nudges it towards his left leaving one Liverpool defender on the ground while sending another in the wrong direction and sinks the ball past keeper David James to win the match for his team.

For anyone who grew up watching football in the late 1990s and early 2000s, liking a player belonging to a team other than your own was next to impossible. During that relentless attitude era for sports, liking an opposition player, especially one from your arch-rival team who knocked you out in the dying minutes of the world’s oldest national football competition when you were on the cusp of scripting history, would be nothing short of committing treason. It’s as if this rule was etched in stone. It was part of the sports-fan philosophy. I knew the rule as well. I still broke it. I knew that doing so would go against the whole principle and ethical conundrum that fans all over the world face. However, I couldn’t help it. Ole Gunnar Solskjaer made me a fan. Not of his team. But of him.

Solskjaer probably was, and probably still is, one of the very few footballers on this planet who, regardless of the team he played for, was liked by everyone associated with football. People might have hated his team, but they wanted the best for him. Just like Thierry Henry and Arsenal. All English football fans would have rooted against Manchester United in the 1999 UEFA Champions League final against Bayern Munich. I know I did. But when Solskjaer came on, deep down inside, didn’t everyone want him to score? Doesn’t Solskjaer in some spooky way represent the underdog in each of us? The stalwart who despite not being the first choice goes on to make an impact after being turned to in the dying minutes.

His romantic obsession with his team resonates with each and every sports fan around the globe. It shows how a relation is supposed to be. There were times when he was irritated being just a substitute, but he still came out at that 80-minute mark and pulled his team away from the jaws of defeat. There were times when he was thwarted not to start an important match, but he still understood why it was the way it was and gave it his all when asked for. There were times when he was poised to leave the club to join a rival team, but he stuck around proving his undying loyalty toward a club he so fondly loved. And, there were times when injuries plagued his career and playing time, but he stubbornly refused to go down with a fight. He came back. Always. And he scored. Always.

There’s a 1 minute 35 seconds long video on YouTube that captures that first time Solskjaer returned to Old Trafford after being appointed as Cardiff City manager in 2014. It shows him walking from the tunnel towards the dug out with the fans giving him a standing ovation and singing the “Ole Ole” chant the whole time. Never might that have happened for an opposite team’s manager at Old Trafford. Because never was the opposite team manager a legend like Ole Gunnar Solskjaer. The smile on his face is unmissable. He loved being back. Even if it was in a competitive capacity. Just shows the mentality of the bloke who wants to be there as opposed to a bloke who has to be there.

Solskjaer was never on the charts of becoming Manchester United manager when Sir Alex Ferguson stepped down. He was never in the fray to make the starting XI. He wasn’t even on the substitute bench. He just wasn’t glittery enough. He didn’t have the necessary aura that comes with being associated with a big club. He didn’t have what it takes to follow the footsteps of the greatest wizard of all time. He didn’t have that enchanting effect that was needed to cast a magical spell on the fans.

He doesn’t have glamour, but he has a persona. He doesn’t have the credentials, but he has substance.

The red devils have super subbed in their baby-faced assassin yet again in their time of need. An assassin who loves the club and will do anything to defend its honour. An assassin who never stopped loving the club despite having flings with others. An assassin who kept thinking about this club despite being in bed with others in the same league. An assassin who “united” a team divided by its most loyal fans and its most starry players. An assassin who has the chance to save his club yet again in the dying minutes. An assassin who has a point to prove. Not just for himself, but for all the underdogs around the world.

This is your time Ole. Because you’re the assassin that Manchester needs right now. And to some extent, deserves!

Turning Over a New Leaf...

 “The puck gets through. He cuts on his left, moves into the middle. He shoots, he scores! What a goal that was. A quick play to the outside just short of being offside. A quick stop-up. And those three strides that create that separation. Leafs lead 2-1 against the Montreal Canadiens.”

That move. That play. Those three strides. That’s all it took for me to fall in love with Hockey. That’s all it took for me to fall in love with the Toronto Maple Leafs. Those three strides by that man. John Tavares!

I’ve always been intrigued by Ice Hockey (or just Hockey as the true fans call it). The first exposure I had was when growing up I had the pleasure of playing EA Sports’ NHL video game. Since the version I had was a demo version, it only allowed me to play one match with the Dallas Stars. One match against the Buffalo Sabres. The one match that I played over and over and over again till the time the names of Mike Modano, Jere Lehtinen, Brett Hull, and Miroslav Satan resonated with me more than it did with locals.

Being a sports fanatic, experimenting with a new sport has always excited me. While Cricket, Football (or Soccer), Tennis, and Formula 1 grasped my interest quite early, I was always drawn towards “western” sports like American Football, Rugby, Basketball, and Luge. But Hockey was another creature in itself. How hard could it be? It’s just about scoring goals, right? Well, not according to EA Sports. They had a short segment programmed in that game that had two players enter a full fight mode (with power bars as in a Mortal Kombat game) just before both received penalties and were catapulted into the penalty boxes. That had me believing for the longest time that fighting, with the referee officiating, was a legitimate part of Hockey. Because who wouldn’t want to watch that, right? After all the sport is quite rowdy and the true definition of a core fan watching it consists of the characteristics like “enthusiastic”, “passionate”, and “aggressive”. It’s for fans who just long for a good fight all day long.

Well, no!

While EA Sports was being a little too literal to their motto of “if it’s in the game, it’s in the game,” the reality is quite different. Hockey is more than just fighting. It’s more than just a sport. Just like Football, it’s about those moments of genius that separate the wheat from the chaff. It’s about those moments that give you goosebumps so bad that you feel that tingling sensation all the way from your lower back running straight up to the back of your ears. Those moments of glory. Those moments of genius. Just like those three strides. Those three strides. John Tavares. Arjen Robben. Roger Federer. Ahh Bliss!

It might sound strange that I fell in love with a whole new sport in a moment of adrenalized passion. It took just one move in one match by one player of one team to make me a believer? Hmm. well, yes! Ask anyone the reason they started supporting a club. Ask anyone the reason they started watching a sport. Ask anyone the reason they started following a team. And the results can be equally surprising. That Bergkamp twirl (Newcastle), that Tendulkar century (Sharjah), that Federer tweener (US Open), or that Hamilton overtake (2008 Brazil) it’s moments like these that make people adherents of a sport/team.

And it was a moment like that which turned me into a Leaf!

Let’s get one thing straight. People don’t become fans of a team or a sport by researching into it. It just happens. I didn’t research about the Toronto Maple Leafs before deciding to call it “my team”. Just like I didn’t research about Liverpool FC before deciding to bleed red. Had I done that, I probably would have never watched a Leafs match because of the grammatical mistake in their team name.

Is it Leafs? Shouldn’t it be Leaves? What is going on? In fact, those who hear about my choices of teams look at me with eyes full of a mixture of disgust, pity and derision. The Leafs haven’t won the Stanley Cup since 1967. Liverpool haven’t won the English Top Division since 1989. But I am not into this for the win. I’m not into this for the trophies. Don’t get me wrong, winning is important and trophies do prove to be an integral part of measuring success. But, it shouldn’t be the reason for supporting a team or a player. I support my teams because I can connect with them. I connect with them because they give me a sense of belonging. The teams don’t know that I support them. They don’t care about me. For them I’m just a part of a bigger collective that they care about. I’m getting nothing out of this personally. Shouldn’t I then at least support a team that wins trophies regularly? Why am I doing this again?

It’s because of those moments and make you go “aww yeah”. It’s because of those moments that make you go “cooomee awwnnnn”. Those moments that make you forget about your woes. Those moments that make you scream at the top of your lungs. Those moments that bring out the rage in you. Those moments that bring out the tears in you. Those moments of passion. Those moments of perseverance. Just like those three strides. Those three strides. John Tavares. Steven Gerrard. Lewis Hamilton. Ahh Yeah!

I didn’t know or research about Tavares before “choosing” the Maple Leafs as my team. I didn’t know his story. I didn’t know that he grew up as an avid Maple Leafs fan only to never get the opportunity to play for them. I didn’t know that the New York Islanders selected him as their number 1 draft pick in 2009. I didn’t know that he was their captain for five years before finally deciding to move away. And I certainly didn’t know that his story is a classic case example of the prodigal son returning home after taking a hefty a pay cut. A pay cut that was necessary to realize the dream of playing for his home team. A dream that was so much above money or the number of teams interested in signing him. There were six teams in the fray to sign Tavares. There could have been 600, but the answer would have remained the same. John Tavares wanted to play for the Leafs. He wanted to follow his heart. He wanted to come home. It just felt right. It felt natural. And it the end it’s reaping benefits for the team who’ve got off to a great start.

Not everyday you can live a childhood dream pic.twitter.com/YUTKdfMALl

— John Tavares (@91Tavares) July 1, 2018

Maybe finally I’ll get to be a part of a team that does well for a change. Maybe the Toronto Maple Leafs might go all the way and lift that evasive Stanley Cup. Maybe not. Maybe they’ll lose to another Atlantic Division team like last year. Liverpool might just win the league elsewhere. They’re off to a flying start in their campaign as well. They had a stellar year in the Champions League last season too. Maybe it’s time to take that form one step forward. Maybe not. Who knows maybe it’s time for the fortunes to change for both teams. God knows it’s been quite a while since any of these teams has won anything.

But then again, that’s not why I’m into this. I’m into this for the long haul. Till the time that the world stops spinning, and the air starts getting really thin. For I might cease to exist one day, but the game would definitely go on. The teams would have new fans. The teams would have new heroes. Because that’s the beauty of sports. There will always be those moments. Those moments of love. Those moments of respect. Just like those three strides. Those three strides. John Tavares.... Well, you know the rest!

Things will never be Red again!

“You always remember your first. But no one ever talks about their last. The last time you lace up your boots. The last time you walk out the tunnel. The last time you celebrate with your fans. I’ve always given everything. Every season. Every game. Every minute. I’ll do that one last time.”

It’s a day that everyone knew was coming. But no one quite knew how to prepare for it. Of course there was the traditional celebration planned - the guard of honour, enormous banners, colossal posters, strategic synchronization of placards, etc. But nothing could give justice when it came to commemorating the career of a staunch superstar.

Nothing could come even remotely close.

After 17 years, 708 games, 185 goals and 10 trophies, Steven Gerrard was set to make his 354th and final Anfield appearance. Tears would flow. Emotions would flare. And of course, a crucial link between Liverpool and its past would be severed. A link so priceless that even the Koh-I-Noor diamond seemed insignificant in front of it.

As the players lined up in the tunnel before the match, one couldn’t help but notice that there wasn’t a speck of emotion on Gerrard’s face. The intensity in his eyes looked the same as any other week. Those eyes locked tightly on the wall in front and the mind tearing apart the game plan for the match. Whether it was an inconsequential Premier League match or the second leg of the Champions League semifinal, the vigour in those eyes never diminished.

Only today was the last time ever.

Today was Gerrard’s day. It was a day when the whole world would acknowledge his immense contributions to the club where he grew up to be a legend. But that surely did not mean that a compromise was in store when it came to beating Crystal Palace. Work came first. The club came first.

As always!

Both teams, sans Gerrard, made their way out to the field. Good ol’ Stevie stayed behind. Not because he wanted to, but because he was told to. He takes this time to click some final photos with his daughters in front of the Liverpool badge. Perhaps the last time at Anfield the girls would see their Dad in the full red suit of armour.

So red that it was hard to tell whether the colour was from the dye or from his heart bleeding.

Day in and day out Gerrard has bled the kind of red that epitomizes Liverpool Football Club and all that it stands for. You cut his veins and you won’t find the conventional red. You’ll find Liverpool red. The kind of red that radiates the essence of love and endearment towards the fans, the club and the game itself!

The announcer finally says those two magical words that send the crowd in frenzy. “Steven Gerrard!” Gerrard walks down the steps amidst roars of applause and while walking out touches the “This is Anfield” sign - a momentous gesture that means the world to him. Something he does every time he walks out. Something that has been ingrained in him like a flashy black tattoo on white skin!

Only today was the last time ever.

For close to two decades Gerrard has been a wizard living among less-blessed mortals. True that his final season in the Premier League hasn’t been  one to remember him by, but the Kop knows that he needs to be “judged” for the blood he’s shed for 17 years rather than just a couple of unfortunate seasons.

There have been numerous instances when it was Gerrard’s sheer tenacity to not accept defeat that lifted the Reds from the abyss of annihilation to the pinnacles of prestige. Olympiakos, Istanbul, West Ham to name a few! But instances like the infamous slip that cost Liverpool the Premier League title and the red card after just 38 seconds against Manchester United nonetheless have really dented his image.

Meanwhile, Gerrard walks out to the Anfield turf amid a guard of honour. Only last week was he giving one to champions Chelsea at Stamford Bridge. It must feel awkward to him to change sides in just a week’s time. His youngest daughter, in his arms, covers her ears with both hands to shield herself from the deafening roar that engulfs the stadium. A roar so loud that it would even give the mighty Super Bowl the blushes!

The fans always have something or the other to cheer about when it comes to Steven Gerrard. They always appreciate the precision that he demonstrates with his passing. They always applaud the aggression that he exhibits when playing rivals. They go ballistic when he scores those incredible screamers. And they always have found a suitable reason to make their captain courageous feel special.

Only today was the last time ever.

Gerrard’s life can be looked upon as a constant struggle to overcome obstacles and being prepared for whatever strange bounces life threw his way. He might not have been an emperor at Anfield, but during his time there he truly proved that he was without shadow of a doubt worthy of being called one.

He belongs to a rare clan of footballers who have proved that, despite the impediments, they have what it takes to get the job done. He has proved that not only does he thrive at every challenge thrown his way but that those challenges made him better than if he had never faced any adversity at all.

As the game progressed, nearly after 30 minutes of play, Adam Lallana’s eyes scanned the whole stadium. He knew what he was looking for; it’s just that he couldn’t find it. The ex-Southampton winger had just scored Liverpool’s opening goal and was now looking for Gerrard to celebrate it with. Probably doing his bit to honour a legend from whom he draws inspiration. Gerrard couldn’t be more jubilant.

For years Anfield has seen the influx and exodus of footballers who have played with Gerrard and have celebrated goals together. They know that he is never shy to celebrate a goal. He’s never under the pressure to think about the consequences of an erratic celebration. The camera-kiss at Old Trafford created quite a stir, but who cares. He’s always the first to celebrate with his teammates at Anfield.

Only today was the last time ever.

Gerrard might not be the greatest ever Red to have graced the footballing fraternity. But there truly was no one more passionate than him. He could have abandoned us for another team just for the sake of laurels and glory. But just like a true gentleman who never deserts her lady, Stevie chose otherwise.

When it came to hunger towards playing the game, there was no one better than him. When it came to undying dedication towards the club, there was no one better than him. Steven Gerrard was the heart of the team. He was the glue that held everything together. Things made sense when he was on the field. A match was never over until it was over when he was on the field. No one counted us out when he was on the field and no one, no matter how big, dared to write us off when he was on the field.

Things at Anfield will never be the same because Gerrard will never walk that tunnel again. Things abroad will never be the same because Gerrard will never deliver us from doom again. Things in the dressing room will never be the same because Gerrard will never give a pep talk again. Things at Melwood will never be the same because Gerrard will never train there again.

And lastly, but most importantly, it’s sad to come to terms with the fact that things at Liverpool Football Club will never be ‘Red’ going further because Steven Gerrard will never bleed his heart out for us again!

Man for All Teams, Man for All Seasons!

It’s a rowdy evening at the Stamford Bridge stadium where the clock has just stuck the 90-minute mark. The wind blows gently as Eden Hazard looks at the giant screen at the corner and sees 2 minutes come on as stoppage time. The Blues have been “boringly” shielding their 1-0 lead ever since half-time and it’s now just a matter of time before the club celebrates its fourth Premier League title in 11 years.

It was only logical that Hazard, Premier League’s best player this season, scored the winning goal that would gift Chelsea what would be termed by pundits as the dawn of a new “old era” under their prodigal son Jose Mourinho. The confetti is about to engulf the pitch. The same pitch that strived endlessly to see a league title celebration before the “special one” turned the club’s fortunes in 2004.

The crowd is going wilder by the second. The pre-party jollifications seem to have started quite some time before the final whistle has actually blown. Jose, in a move termed as “spite” by foes, chooses this moment to take Hazard off to a resounding ovation. It’s only natural! Hazard deserves every bit of it.

“Another ploy from Jose to waste time,” I think. “This is going to rob the Eagles those precious seconds to equalize,” adds the Liverpool freak in me. Maybe! But then again, who was I kidding? If not today, Chelsea would have won the title next week - the weekend when they play the Reds at home. I don’t think I had it in me to see Chelsea win “something” at our “slipping” expense two times in a row.

The truth is, however, Chelsea have had a solid season and downrightly deserve all the glory. They’ve led from start to finish and never showed even remote signs of slowing down. They’ve had starlets in every department and a skipper whose stellar persona is something that every club and fan envies.

Back at the Bridge, eyes were fixated more on the referee than on the action on the field. In this case referee Kevin Friend’s whistle is getting all the attention. In a move that some think to be ridiculously unpardonable, Friend teases the fans by taking the whistle to his mouth and then back down. He gives a smile to reiterate that while they might be winning the title, he’s still the law. Truly Webb-esque my Friend!

Chelsea’s legendary striker Didier Drogba can’t help but laugh thinking about the journey that he’s had with the club. After he grabbed them by the throat on a zealous May evening at the Allianz Arena and hoisted them to their first ever Champions League title, the striker just like the club has had an erratic journey. However, despite the ups and downs Drogba is back where he belongs – among winnings ways!

Finally Friend takes the whistle to his mouth. Even though it was just the one whistle whose “tweet” had the power to end the match, the fans had other ideas. In an act of staggering unison some 40,000 whistles tweet at the same time thereby ending a four-year wait for the prominent Premier League title.

All I could see next was a barrage of confetti covering the air above and a horde of players running amok on the ground below. It had finally happened. With three games left, the Blues had sealed the title. It was a time to celebrate. It was time to freak out. It was time to shut the critics up. And most importantly, it was time for “boring ol’ Chelsea” to party like compelling champions.

Only, one man had other ideas!

Amidst the entire hullabaloo, a reporter somehow manages to get hold of Chelsea skipper John Terry for a candid one-on-one. After the procedural questions and the diplomatic responses, Terry says something that might be etched in the hearts of every football fanatic for a long time to come.

“I would like, on behalf of myself and everyone at Chelsea, to send our condolences to Rio Ferdinand and his family.”

Almost immediately, in one of those impulsive spine-chilling moments, Terry managed to add yet another fruitful dimension to his glittery persona that makes him one those few stars that teams would pay millions to have in their ranks. Not just because of the immense talent that he possesses, but because of the manner in which he perceives the beautiful game and gives it his all in playing it.

For a team like Chelsea whose dominating presence can be “villainous” at times, John Terry is one of those few indispensable valiant knights who will always rescue the club from being inundated by undesirable mirages. Because no matter how much one hates Chelsea or loathes their Russian moolah, one just can’t hate a player like Terry who will embody true competitive spirit till the end of time.

Having the highest scoring defender in Premier League history in their ranks is without doubt a matter of great pride for Chelsea; however, to have a rugged stalwart like him, whose irrefutable dedication towards his club and job is the stuff that legends are made of, is truly what they can bet their fortunes on.

From literally taking a boot to the head in an FA Cup tie to making a silly penguin dive at the international circuit, Terry’s commitment when it comes to keeping the ball out of his keeper’s reach is a remarkable example of unquestionable diligence. Time and again Terry’s perseverance has been tested to the core, but his unequivocal ability to “fly mask” the trauma and play the game is what matters the most to him.

His passion to give it his best has driven him to play every minute of every game for Chelsea this season and has reaped valuable results as well. Come to think about it, John Terry is an epitome of “doing-what-you-love-and-let-the-results-do-the-talking” quite simply because of his impetuous instinct.       

Captaining a team to four Premier League titles not only consolidates his position as one of most influential players of all time, but also puts his critics in their place. What Rafael Benitez and I have in common, other than being Liverpool fans, is that we both thought Terry was done and dusted in 2013. However, from that time, Terry has roared back into the thick of things in unimpeachable manner and his prime touch makes him one of the greatest English defenders of all time to have surged out.

With the whole Anton Ferdinand saga and the Wayne Bridge fiasco under his belt, John Terry clearly does not have the best of images in the eyes of people. But it’s at times like these that a player should be judged for his knack and on-field performances rather than events that make for good theatrics.

Whether it’s those notorious chants against their own or that applaud that honours their special ones, the crowd at Stamford Bridge always has something or the other to cheer about. But the chant that will matter the most for times immemorial is the one cherishing the heart of their team. It’s the chant that signifies the heroics of their stoic leader. The chant that taunts the world that the man for all teams and the man for all seasons is and forever will be a “Blue Baron”.

All right Reds, time to ‘slip’ for Super Mario!

When Brendan Rodgers helped Swansea City gain promotion to the Premier League and made them the first ever Welsh club in history to have achieved that feat, I was impressed. I was further captivated with the manner in which he helped the Swans adjust to the elite confederacy of BPL by finishing an inspiring 11th in the table. When he was made Liverpool manager in the aftermath of the Kenny Dalglish fiasco, I felt that it was the best thing to happen to the club ever since Rafael Benitez.

And why wouldn’t I feel that way? Rodgers’ impeccable possession play strategy did wonders for Swansea and his ideology of always keeping the ball moving in order to have a flowing game is something that every team needs. God knows our team needed that. And ‘that’ is what we got.

However, I’ll be honest. I hated him after his first season at Anfield.

There was no specific reason for that. It’s just that I was impatient, like millions of others, to see Liverpool get back to winning ways. We last won a trophy under ‘King’ Kenny in 2011 when we lifted the Carling Cup and it felt like, still does, ages since the touch of silverware. But then came last season.

An inspired Liverpool under Rodgers was on a feeding frenzy and was trampling teams with ridiculous ease. His counter-attacking brilliance indeed gave the Reds a new sense of direction and his insight when it came to signing the right characters for his squad was only the icing on the cake. The recruitment of Chelsea-reject Daniel Sturridge and Brazilian playmaker Philippe Coutinho along with the first team promotion of English talent Raheem Sterling and the staggering surge of ‘bad boy’ Luis Suarez was the metaphorical equivalence of grabbing something by the throat and pulling it towards glory.

And then started this season!

An opening day fixture against Southampton - whom we raided for the likes of Rickie Lambert, Adam Lallana and Dejan Lovren – gave a pellucid image of the season that was to follow. And if I was to summarize the analysis for the foreseeable future in just one word, that word would be ‘vexatious’. Ok I used the thesaurus on that one! But then again that’s how complicated things can become in the camp.

Apart from the Saints trio, the Reds have enlisted striker Lazar Markovic, midfielder Emre Can, left back Alberto Moreno, right back Javier Manquillo and lastly, but never in a million years least, the epitome of naughtiness Mario Balotelli. Super Mario was brought in the side to compensate for the loss of Suarez; however, with the recent events that conspired at the Etihad Stadium I feel that he’s not just going to be looked upon as a goal-scoring machine but also as the messiah who would lead us to enchanted glory.

 See now that’s the problem. There’s too much pressure already on Balotelli. For my team’s sake I hope his second stint in England turns out to be one in which he thrives under pressure instead of striving under it. Because unlike our new ‘leader’ Lovren, who clearly looks more confused and bamboozled on the field than Fardeen Khan in Prem Aggan, Mario can handle it well.

Also, I presume that Mario can be much better a defender than Mr. Lovren. Because if the prime responsibility of a center back is to screw up an offside trap, make abysmal clearances, be out of position for almost every incoming attack, be unaware of a thing called presence of mind and not know the meaning of the word sprint, then not just Mario but even I can be the greatest center back in history. Yes Mr. Lovren! You are that bad. I know it’s been just two matches with the second one being against the defending champions Manchester City, but I’m pretty sure they must have covered a topic called ‘Defending 101’ in ‘Defending School’.

When Balotelli returned to Italy to play for AC Milan he seemed to be fully in his element. He scored a brace on debut, almost scored a goal-a-game for the next 15 matches and everything he was touching turned into gold as he hauled Milan back into Champions League contention. He had a fantastic debut season even though he missed a penalty (his first ever) to Pepe Reina, who interestingly was on loan to Napoli from Liverpool at the time. Was it in the stars from that time itself for Mario to be ‘linked’ to Liverpool? Nah! Or was it? It does not matter.

What matters is that he is a player of top-notch quality and for the Reds to have landed him for just 16 million pounds is a freaking steal. Now is the time not to mess it up. With Andy Carroll the problem was the price. He was bought for 35 million pounds and hence the expectations from him skyrocketed. However with Mario all the factors play right into Liverpool’s alley. The price – check. The age – for a 24-year old striker Mario is quite exceptionally talented. The attitude – 4th time’s the charm. The team – Whoops! That’s the only thing that can screw the next big adventure in Liverpool’s daunted journey.

If you don’t believe me then clearly you’ve missed out on the Man City game. I know I’m supposed to be biased towards my team but let’s all be authentic and agree to the fact that the Reds played a shit game. Let’s start with the defence. Glen Johnson, Martin Skrtel, Dejan Lovren and Alberto Moreno. On paper I’d rate this defensive line-up as pretty brilliant. However, the problem begins when these players step on the field and start playing the game.

Moreno had one heck of a debut. He initially showed impeccable promise as he was making all the right runs at the right time with a head that was thinking the right things. But the fact that there were several instances when he was caught completely off position, an instance when he dived into David Silva from behind and almost gave away a penalty, the time when he failed to clear the ball in front of Jovetic that led to Ciy’s goal and those reckless tackles that showed his lack of maturity is what spells worry.

Johnson, who’s supposed to be one of the most experienced players in the squad and is supposed to be leading from the front and setting examples, had probably one of the most awful games of his career. His placing and running on the right flank was completely deplorable, he never seemed in the zone and it is unacceptable to me as a loyal fan to witness a right back not being able to complete a cross into the box almost every time he receives the ball. What’s ironical is that he ended up being injured and it happened at the time when a certain Javier Manquillo is just waiting to pounce on the right back spot.

Coming to the midfield. I’m sorry but when I see a 4-3-3 formation that has Joe Allen, Jordan Henderson and Steven Gerrard (34 years old) in between against a team like Man City, I can’t help but think about a dreary land of dull and depressing football. You maybe play those three together against a weaker team, but you don’t play them together when the opposition has money that has gifted them with pace and power. Gerrard is never getting young, Henderson is never going to turn and pass forwards whenever he receives the ball and Allen will never shoot the ball from distance or be known for his flighted passing.

In the end, the pressure always comes on the strikers because it is them who have the onus to score. And this time that man is Balotelli. The weight of expectation on Balotelli in Italy had been extraordinary, and not just in footballing terms. So therefore I have full faith in him to come out on top and fulfill anticipations of millions of fans. Especially when he does not have a midfield or a defensive line-up that will give him the balls he needs to score.

For the sake of Liverpool’s betterment, we need a bad boy. We always have to be honest. We’re just too uptight to accept the fact that our legacy is no longer something that will win us trophies. We had Luis Suarez and look where he took us. We need that raw and ruthless aggression that signifies out intent to be taken seriously and not just a team who has a glorified history. People were shocked last season when we topped the table at Christmas and almost ended out 24-year long wait. Not because of the fact that it was us who was doing the damage. But because it was Suarez who was pulling us all the way up.

With Balotelli however, things move like a pendulum. He’s either a genius who can be compared with the best in the fraternity at present or he’s a lunatic who sets fireworks in his bathroom just for fun. He’s either a ridiculously talented striker who can single-handedly knock top International teams out of the Euro and them go on and celebrate in a manner that becomes a cult or he an idiot who is considered overrated and is susceptible is bookings and bans. He’s either a boon or he’s one risky signing.

But what’s really important is that he’s not someone who we deserve; but he’s a striker that we need!

Easy Come, Easy Go – Memoir of a Liverpool fan!

It’s not a great time to be a Liverpool fan (To be precise, it never has been for a long time until last season). The English Premier League literally ‘slipped’ out of our grasps. England, which had a dense population of Liverpool blokes in its World Cup team, was knocked out in the group stages in Brazil. Alexis Sanchez became the latest ‘superstar’ to repudiate an offer that would have made him the envy of a certain London club. And to top it all off, our best player, scratch that, the Premier League’s best player left us to join some Catalan club in Spain.

What’s really interesting about that player’s move is the disconcerting fact that he’s moved to a club that should be banned from the transfer market at a time when he himself is banned from any football related activity for the next 4 months. Also, lest I forget, that certain individual whose ultimate aim in life is to play Champions League football could actually become a part of a club that might sometime soon be expelled from the Europe’s prestigious competition due to another proscribed transfer activity.

Woah! Too many expulsions and bans floating in the air. But I guess all that’s part and parcel of the game, especially when it comes to the player and team in question. To be honest, his departure is not quite excruciating as some thought that it might have been. It was bound to happen sometime or the other. Events at the starting of last season made it quite evident that he would definitely be ‘biting’ the dust elsewhere next season. And the fact that he played relentlessly upon his return just added more to that speculation.

 However, the hope was never lost. The faith in him was fortified considering the domination that was shown on the field and the dedication with which the Premier League Golden Boot award was won. But who knew that his stupendous act with the football last season was all just an audition, or to put it more delicately a ploy, to be part of something that according to him is a ‘dream come true’.

I’m not hurt (In other news, the sky is green). Let’s face it! We’ve seen plenty of departures in the past that have knocked the wind out of our sails. Michael Owen, Xabi Alonso, Fernando Torres, to name a few. But we’ve really come back strong (Have we?) However, what’s really hurting us is the prudent fact that we were not prepared for such a ‘catastrophe’ (Like we ever were!).

We stuck with him during his good times and we stood by his side during his bad times. The Patrice Evra racism ignominy, the Branislav Ivanovic biting fiasco and god knows what not that the idiot has managed to get himself involved with. I recently came across an inspiring article on ESPN that painted a picturesque portrait of him and gave an interesting explanation for his outrageous behaviour. The article said he does what he does whenever he does that because it is his desperate attempt to ‘protect his family’ and a despairing attempt to not return to the horrid childhood that he’s had.

The article is totally justified in its explanation about the maniac. On the other hand what I don’t agree with is the obligatory need for him to do what he does whenever he does it because he feels that if he does not do what he does then he will indeed become someone who has no need for. I mean are you freaking crazy dude?

You’re a classy player with some ritzy talent when it comes to football. You feel that underperforming in one match with take all that away from you? You feel that by just letting a hapless AS Monaco-reject run past you to score will jeopardize your career to such an extent that you need to racially abuse the shit out of him? You feel that trailing to a team that boasts of a Serbian joker, whose biggest accomplishment in life by the way is to share his name with a hot tennis superstar, would in some way demean your character? If yes, then you’re goddam crazy.

Coming back to the ‘not being ready’ part, it’s plain and simple – Liverpool were not ready to tackle this situation. All this time they were being misled that they’re going to get some action from a brainless strumpet only to be kicked in the nuts at the very end. And, not that I’m fixating on it, we’ve been kicked in the nuts quite a few times now. Yes! We did get the compensation that we deserved from his departure and my hopes really rest on Brendan Rodgers to utilize that sum properly, but we all remember what happened when a certain Spanish warrior left.

It’s really perplexing when one realizes the fetish that Liverpool has with English players. The Spanish player’s departure opened the doors for the arrival of Andy Carroll and Stewart Downing. So Liverpool, this is a sincere request from an ardent Red fan – Please don’t spend all the money that we have now on another dude with a stupid ponytail and an overrated Villa player.

I mean we did buy Rickie Lambert and Adam Lallana, but to be fair that was before ‘he’ chose to move to a country where his wife’s family is based. Now that is the greatest and the most supreme reason to move somewhere. Obviously you cannot admit openly that the club you’re moving to is ‘better’ than the one you’re leaving. Also, you cannot acknowledge that you’re being stifled there as well. Hence, bring in the family. Indeed! That will work. Like it always has! I mean will the kidding ever stop?

The world is laughing right now at Liverpool. To be fair, we kind of deserve it as well. We never let go of an opportunity to troll others so why should we not be dealt with in the same manner? “It’s only logical.” We trolled Arsenal for years before they broke their trophy drought. We trolled Manchester United last season like crazy when David Moyes was on a ‘record-shattering’ spree. And of course Chelsea’s special one has been trolled over the years as well until the famous ‘slip-up’ last season.

We’ve enjoyed our short-lived ups and relished our prolonged downs. We’ve cherished our majestic triumphs and valued our humbling defeats. We’ve laughed at other’s misfortunes and been laughed at by others at ours. We’ve been trumped beyond recognition by our detractors in the past and have risen like a sovereign phoenix to prove them wrong. It comes and it goes and this time it’s no different!

Steven Gerrard: Captain Courageous, Loyalty Personified

It was a cold and wintry November night in 1998 when a lad named Steven George Gerrard made his professional football debut for a team burdened with glorious purpose. At that time in the world, little anyone knew that they were witnessing history. Little anyone knew that he would go on to become an epitome of allegiance. And little anyone knew that “Gerrard” would become Liverpool’s heart and soul.

I believe I say this with the consent of everyone in the football fraternity, even those who are remotely related, that if there’s anyone on this planet today who rightfully should, nay deserves to, win the Premier League title, it’s Steven Gerrard. And the only thing that led me to this bona fide conclusion is Gerrard’s undying dedication and the manner in which he passionately wears his heart on his sleeve.

When Liverpool edged Manchester City 3-2 last night to take a gigantic step towards their first League title since 1990, no other emotion in the 45,522 capacity Anfield stadium expressed the jubilation and exuberance better than that of Steven Gerrard’s. The tears that rolled down his cheeks signified drops of passion and certainly proved how much Liverpool and that elusive EPL title mean to the skipper.

Winning a Premier League title is no doubt a colossal achievement. But the reason that it would be extra special for Liverpool to win the title this season is that it, in addition to ending the Merseyside club’s 24-year long wait for exaltation, would indeed be a fitting way of commemorating the 25th anniversary of the Hillsborough tragedy where Gerrard’s 10-year old cousin was among the 96 who lost their lives.

The manner in which Steven Gerrard and Liverpool have been playing this season portrays a clear killer instinct and a rock-solid intent to lift the trophy. While Brendan Rodgers has transformed the Reds into a club that is brimming with counter-attacking confidence, Gerrard himself has been in the form of his life. His presence in midfield is indispensable, his passing is immaculate and his aura is breathtaking.

And I speak for all Liverpool fans when I say that we always witness something really remarkable whenever we’re graced with the presence of Stevie G’s charismatic aura. The greatest example to prove that Gerrard’s indomitable spirit is unconquerable is the inspirational UEFA Champions League final against AC Milan in Istanbul when the Reds scored three goals in six minutes to turn around a 0-3 deficit.

Of course who can forget the stupendous goal that the Liverpool skipper hit earlier that season in the dying minutes of the Champions League Group Stage match against Olympiakos that propelled Liverpool into the knockout stages. Both instances corroborate just one plain and simple fact – when the world tells you that it can’t be done & all hope is lost, Steven Gerrard gives us a reason to dream and believe.

Ever since Gerrard became Liverpool captain in 2003, he has carried the club on his shoulders through the thick and thin of times. He has juggled the highs and lows that the Reds have faced with impeccable ease. And the fact that clubs like Real Madrid, Chelsea and Inter Milan failed to deter his cherished loyalty speaks only volumes about this legendary Anfield hero’s character, zeal and perseverance.

In his gleaming career, Steven Gerrard has lifted the FA Cup, the League Cup and the Champions League Trophy as Liverpool skipper. But the ultimate prize that every club professional dreams about is the League title and it is something that has eluded him. However with Liverpool and Stevie G being forces to reckon with this season, the crowning eminence of the EPL title is just a matter of 360 minutes away.