Luis Suarez's amateur genealogy has landed the club in hot water in recent weeks
Cal Gray
Staff Writer & Unfortunate Liverpool Fan
It’s not easy. That’s point number one. As I write this, Liverpool are sixth in the table. Our main strike force consists of Andy Carroll, a man who has hit the woodwork so frequently that he could be mistaken for a bad carpenter, and Luis Suarez, who’s serving an 8 match ban for a contentious altercation with Patrice Evra. Amongst our subs we have such match winners as Dirk ‘The Horse’ Kuyt, Martin ‘Rice Cakes’ Kelly and Jon ‘A for Effort’ Flanagan.
Now don’t get me wrong, we have truly world class players in Steven Gerrard, when he’s not under the knife, Jamie Carragher, a man whose biological makeup is 90% steel, and Pepe Reina who would put himself in front of a train if you asked him to, but things aren’t going well for our standards.
Our manager is Kenny Dalglish, probably the best player ever to wear a Liverpool jersey, and a fine manager to us now, hence why a top 4 finish looks within our reach, and come May I hope we’ll be preparing for the Champion’s League. But for now the priority has to be stringing some results together, and finding a striker who knows where the net is.
But that doesn’t matter.
When I was growing up, Liverpool were ending their reign as English and European kings. In fact as soon I was born, Liverpool stopped winning the league. Their record breaking 18th league title was in the ’89-’90 season. Manchester United won their 19th title in 2011; this was a big kick in the testicles. In 2005, Liverpool won the Champion’s League in the most amazing manner. I don’t need to tell you about that night in Istanbul, you all know the fairytale, and have watched the DVD. (Steven Gerrard again proving he’s worth fifty times his weight in some material more valuable than gold.) The following season, ‘05-’06 Liverpool won the F.A. Cup (Steven Gerrard again) and that’s when the trophies stopped.
But that doesn’t matter.
It’s a bizarre emotion that goes with supporting Liverpool F.C. It’s a mix of expectancy, complacency, inevitable disappointment and eternal hope come August. The neighbours don’t help. Across the river you’ll find the bitter rivals who wear blue and ironically sold you your house, but they’re only small fish. Then, a bit up the road, you have the arch enemies, who wear red, who you meet all too frequently, and the world watches on. The arch enemies who stole your favourite record, and look bound to steal your others. And wow do they hate you, they even talk about you when you’re not around. They’re clearly obsessed. And there are new ones popping up all the time as money comes into the neighborhood.
There are the new rich boys who wear light blue, who also hate your arch enemies, which is always nice, except when they’re buying every player that has legs. And then there’s that Russian family who live much further down the road, who stole your favorite family member. But then he contracted no-goal-itis so it’s okay.
But that doesn’t matter.
Home is where the heart is, and our home may be smaller than all the other’s, but it’s quite a place to be. A place that can send the chills up your spine as soon as you walk in, a place where you know everyone is family. The pictures on our walls aren’t bad either, especially that one everyone likes to touch. It’s a place with so much sentimental value, you feel like you belong there as soon as you take your seat. I mean sure, the neighbours have bigger houses, and more money, and they’re doing better in the league, but when we’re home, on a big European night, and “You’ll Never Walk Alone” starts playing over the
sound system, there’s no where else you’d rather be.
Football is not a matter of life or death; it’s much more than that.
