Frustration and Vindication.

Greetings, gentle readers.
Hoo-boy. Before I get onto my next exciting installment of the trials and tribulations of human gender interaction, I've got to put down my thoughts on the past couple of day's action in the World of Footy. The Champions' League has finally wrapped up the last round of league play, and we've now entered... THE ELIMINATION PHASE. Of course, the whole damn tournament used to be an elimination phase, but that was in the good old days, before the big money teams like Manchester United could lose 3-0 to Fener-kebab-shoppos and still prance merrily through to the next round.
So, going into the sixth round of the group stage, there were areas of drama and suspense, but a terrific number of instances of scenarios with all the dynamism of a damp squib and all the tension of a runny bowel movement. Juve, for example, clinched qualification for the next round back in the fourth game. After winning all first four games, they were not to be toppled. When they won the fifth game, they clinched first place. That made the sixth game against Bayern Münich a bit of a doddle. So they played out the string and drew one another, since neither Ajax or Maccabi Tel Aviv had a mathematical chance of catching either of them. That group was done after the fifth round. One is reminded of the 1978 World Cup where the Germans and the Austrians had a final game where only a draw would see them both through to the next round. So they passed the ball around for 90 minutes and walked off, each feeling fantastic. Their group opponents, however, were understandably peeved.
Man U and Lyon were also guaranteed shoo-ins for the next round, so they just didn't care, with the previously hapless Turks ripping Manchester apart, despite the fact that not even a cricket score could get them into the next round.
The interesting matches were three-fold. First, already failed challengers Roma faced Réal Madrid. Roma had the potential to play spoilers, since if they won, they would eliminate Réal from contention and dump them into the UEFA Cup. unfortunately, they picked an afternoon when Ronaldo and Luis Figo decided to show up to play, and were promptly kicked to the kerb 3-0. Ronaldo scored the first, then earned a penalty which Figo calmly dispatched, and then Figo gunned in a long range bullet to send the dismal Italians to the bottom of the group and out of European competition for the season in front of an empty stadium, due to the stupidity of Roman fans.
The real group that had everyone reaching for their slide rules, calculators, PDA's, Excel spreadsheets, and Cray supercomputers was Group A. With one match remaining, Olympiakos of Athens had 10 points, Monaco had 9, Liverpool had 7, and Deportivo La Coruña was on 2. So Depor was a non-starter, but could play the role of spoiler. If the Spaniards beat Monaco, Liverpool could leapfrog them and they and the Greeks would both qualify. If Depor and Monaco drew one another, then a Liverpool win would set up a huge computation of goal-differential and then matches for/against one another. It would take several paragraphs to outline the different scenarios, and it would baffle the majority of people not thoroughly immersed in Lobachevskian mathematical treatises.
Bottom line - for Liverpool to have a chance to go through, they would need a win. The actual scoreline would depend on what the French team did. Should Monaco win, Liverpool (having lost 1-0 away to Olympiakos) would either need a clean sheet (no away goals for the Greeks) and at least a 1-0 win, or else they would have to win the game by two clear goals. It was always going to be a tense match-up.
I was home by early afternoon from work, and spent the evening waiting for the game by tidying up the domicile and playing FIFA 2005. Fervently. By the time 2200h rolled around, I was pumped. I had my LFC sweatshirt and scarf on. I was getting chills up and down my spine, though admittedly those might have been from the icy draughts ghosting through the place from the bitter winter wind outside.
So I found myself in front of the telly, eyes grainy from lack of sleep, but brain and blood seething with anticipation. The line-up looked promising, but I picked out a couple of problems right from the get-go. Didi Hamann was out through two-yellow-card suspension, and Luis Garcia was out through injury. Milan Baros was back to spearhead the attack, though this was his first game back after recovering from injury, so his match fitness might not be exactly what it was when he led the scoring during Euro '04 in Portugal. Stevie G was again at the heart of midfield; Kewell, the waltzing midfielder was pushed forward into an inside left channel, while John-Arne Riise took his spot on the left of midfield. Nuñes and Dr. X were operating on the right of midfield while the defence was led by the Hÿypie and the eternally impressive Jamie Carragher in the centre, with Finnan on the right and (shudder) Djimi Traoré on the left. Hey, I like Jimmy, but I've never seen a solid performance out of him anywhere other than on the reserve team.
So my first hesitation was Jimmy. At left back. One of the most critical spots on the pitch. The theory goes like this: if you're out wide and you want to kick a ball and hit a teammate in the 18-yard box, you'll use the foot nearest the touch line, and swing it toward the net. Since most people are right-footed, that means that the most dangerous crosses should come from the offensive right side. Precisely where one finds the defending left-back. Not a place to put a jittery virtual rookie against the likes of Rivaldo and Giovanni, both members of the '98 World Cup-winning team.
Second hesitation: who was going to cover defensive midfield duties? Who was going to shield the back four against balls over the top of midfield? Didi could do it well, Diao could do a half-assed job, but neither of them was in the team. That meant that the team had to push up hard and not leave much room between midfield and the back four. And that means that it would be very difficult to play the offside trap. The only tactic that would work would be "Attack! Attack! Attack, attack, attack!" and press forward so hard with possession that the Greek defense would have to clear the ball far enough that Chris Kirkland could sprint out of net to cover the space left behind the back four.
Third cause of apprehension: Nuñez may have dragged his fragile Iberian butt off the injury roster, but he hasn't proven anything to anyone yet. He's certainly not my first choice ahead of the unavailable Garcia and Hamann. But the squad is a bit thin on the ground, so that's a risk I suppose the gaffer felt he had to take. Personally, I would have played either Mellor or Florent Sinama-Pongolle up front to have a proper striking tandem and pulled Kewell back into central-left midfield, instead of forward.
So, trembling with anticipation and quivering with worry, the match kicked off. One word describes Liverpool's start - electric. With Kewell exchanging passes with Jar-Jar on the left, Liverpool surged forward and began showering the increasingly distressed Nikopolidis in the Olympiakos net. They had three corner kicks in the first 75 seconds. The shelling was symptomatic of the possession and power Liverpool exerted. The coils of the Red Serpent were tightening, and squeezing... squeezing... Shot after shot.
Baros has a goal disallowed for a fictitious foul. The ball crosses the line through the air and is cleared after the fact by a defender, only for the referee to blow his whistle and point to a spot which had been completely devoid of any Liverpool players. A call for a Greek handball is ignored by the ref. A brilliant play involving Stevie G backheeling the ball from the TOP OF THE 18-YARD BOX flashes though the crowds there only to crash against the post with Nikopolidis beaten.
The Greeks had no answers for the questions Liverpool were directing at them. But the nagging doubts remained. Traoré was slipping and stumbling and losing possession on a regular basis, but the Riise-Krispy was covering for his teammate's gaffes. Nuñez was looking a bit lost when Liverpool didn't have the ball, but seemed alright moving forward. And so far, the defence was holding its shape, with Jamie Carragher at his do-or-die, lionhearted best. In fact, it was Carra who spared Jimmy blushes when he darted in out of nowhere to deny Olympiakos the ball on a ball drifted in from that wing.
Suddenly, all of my fears coalesced into one luminescent spheroid. A ball chipped over Nuñez' head hit Rivaldo in the no-man's land where a defensive midfielder would have been. He then drifted past a distraught Jimmy, and lunged for the space between Carragher and Hÿypia. The big Finn tried to nonchalantly hip check the nippy forward, who threw himself to the ground enthusiastically. A dangerous free-kick for the Greeks, and the Brazilian bounced to his feet to take it.
If you've ever had a sibling, you'll know that the best way to get someone off balance is to resist very hard at first when they try and push you, and then suddenly give way. Bend like a reed in the wind, like Kyle McLachlan in "Dune". When a directed force unexpectedly loses the resistance facing it, that force quickly loses its focus. And so it was with the Liverpool defensive wall facing Rivaldo's free-kick. With Carra and Sami forming an imposing duo at the centre of the wall, the far right end of the wall (facing the ball), near the centre "D" of the top of the 18-yard box, was held by Nuñez. Of course, being at the edge of the wall, he had an Olympiakos player shoving him, and he was shoving back to hold his position. Just as Rivaldo was making his run up, Nuñez's marker suddenly dropped off, and Antonio was suddenly shoving empty space. He peeled off the wall, and Rivaldo motored a shot into the gap. Kirkland was frozen and the ball sailed into the back of the net. 1-0 to the group leaders. Completely against the run of play, and a cruel setback.
By this point, news was trickling in from La Coruña. Monaco was opening the hapless Spaniards up like crawdads at a Louisiana all-you-can-eat party. One-nil. Then two. As Monaco was roaring up the table, it became obvious that the only place left for Liverpool to fight for was second. Not only did they need to win the game, but they had to edge Olympiakos in goal differential. That meant that they needed to win the game by two goals, and that meant that Liverpool suddenly had sixty minutes to conjure up at least three goals against a team that had given up only one solitary goal in their last FIFTEEN games. No man in red let his head drop, but there were some bleak looks as Finnan and Nuñez passed each other.
The Kop wouldn't let their team lie down, though. The songs rang out, drowning the exuberant cheers of the sizable away support. As the first half began to wind down, Liverpool had won seven corners to Olympiakos' one. The chants of "Attack! Attack! Attack-Attack-Attack!" echoed in the evening air. Incisive passing, dominating possession, and viciously powerful shooting had come to naught, and suddenly, there was only 45 minutes left to score three goals.
As the lads made it down the tunnel to the dressing room, a quick glance into the corner scoreboard revealed that Monaco were putting on an exhibition. Three-nil over the Spaniards.
Fifteen minutes later, a very grim Jamie Carragher and the rest of the lads jogged back out of the tunnel to rapturous applause, and a thunderous chorus of "You'll Never Walk Alone". Stevie G paused and looked at the upraised scarves and replica jerseys all around him and gritted his teeth.
The gaffer had made a change. The hesitant and unimpressive Djimi Traore was out. In was the Pongo. Florent Sinama-Pongolle had come on as a second striker, and, rather than do as I would have done and shuffle Riise into left-back and move Kewell out to the wing, the boss decided to go with only three at the back, five in midfield, and two men forward. A dangerous risk, considering that mobility is not Hÿypia's strong point, and suddenly, there is a lot of space behind the midfield front line. The wide midfielders - Riise and Nuñez - dropped a little, ready to rush back and help out if the Greeks ever tried a route-one ball over the top. They needn't have bothered. Stevie G had come to play. Cometh the hour, cometh the man. And he had arrived.
From the kick-off, the ball was his. He stroked it about masterfully, distributing it with class and holding it up stolidly against many fierce and reckless challenges. Within two minutes of the kick-off, one of his inch-perfect balls found Kewell streaking outside wide left. The Australian, having been such a disappointment so often this season, suddenly flashed a moment of genius and eluded his marker, deftly nipping toward goal along the line. He spiked a ball laterally, right across Nikopolidis and hit... Florent Sinama-Pongolle. The deftest of arial taps, and the ball nestled in the back of the net. Practically the young French talent's first touch, and Liverpool were back in the game. The Liverpool fans went ecstatic. The Olympiakos end suddenly began to fret and frown a little. One nil was a perfect score for them. It meant qualification at the top of the group, and Liverpool's elimination. One-all meant qualification, but behind Monaco who were now thrashing Deportivo four-nil. And Liverpool had finally made all of their dashing and adventurous forays culminate into a goal. That meant more confidence, and more attacking panache, and that meant a wilting Olympiakos defence.
Stevie G wasn't done, though. Dashing and darting everywhere, he led a snarling charge through the heart of the entire Olympiakos team, beating several players before being called back for a foul and yellow card. As he leapt and capered, one of his boots had hit the thigh of a stunned Olympiakos midfielder. That meant that he would be ineligible for the next game, but if he wasn't going to throw all that he had into the game, there wouldn't be a next game in the Champions' League.
Meanwhile, Milan Baros up front had begun to show signs that his lack of form had caught up to him. He began to get caught offside, and was visibly shaken after runs. The gaffer took him off for the youthful and inexperienced, yet Arsenal-slaying Neil Mellor to make his European debut. Within seconds, a Gerrard cross hit Nuñez, whose stinging header was miraculously palmed away by the split-second reflexes of Nikopolidis. Palmed away... straight to the streaking Mellor who emphatically powered a volley into the net with his first touch of the game. Two to one and now Liverpool were brimming with confidence, and Olympiakos were reeling.
Stevie G was everywhere - running back to collect the ball from defence, stroking passes from midfield, and thundering forward in innumerable assaults on the increasingly panicked Greek defence. The rest of the Red Machine took their cue from the captain, and the pressure on Nikolpolidis and his defenders began to take its toll as yellow cards became increasingly common. Their goalscorer Rivaldo now looked a broken man, his every touch on the ball seeming to drift over the sidelines for a Riise or Carragher throw-in.
It was from a throw-in on the far side of the pitch, with Stevie G (no exaggeration) jumping up and down and waving his arms like some sort of demented jumping jack, that Neil Mellor nodded the ball toward the top of the 18-yard box where it was met by a charging, snorting Stevie G, who volleyed it on the one-touch from more than twenty yards away with such venom and power that Nikopolidis had barely moved a half-meter when the back of the net bulged... and kept bulging as the ball strained to reach the screaming and jubilant kop beyond the mesh.
The away-end gasped and gaped as they struggled to comprehend what they'd just seen. With five minutes left in the game and Monaco now cruising at five to nil, they had gone from triumph to a tragedy worthy of Sophocles and Euripedes. When the referee's assistant signalled that there was four minutes of time to be added on, fingernails were chewed, scarves were clutched and clenched, tears welled in eyesockets and hands were wrung by the Olympiakos faithful. The Kop cheered, waiting for the magical moment when they could again burst into song, singing the anthem of Anfield and signal one of the truly great victories of an already storied and gilded club.
The game won, the qualification for the final sixteen now secured, Liverpool moved the ball around comfortably in a confident and assured manner until the final whistle went, barely audible over the lusty sound of 40,000 voices belting out as one: "When you walk through a storm... hold your head up high... and don't be afraid of the dark. At the end of a storm... there's a golden sky... and the sweet, silver song of a lark. Walk on. Walk on. With hope in your heart... and you'll never walk alone! You'll ne-ver walk a-a-alone!"
I had tears of relief in my eyes and sang to the television in my darkened living room. Stevie G, hands clapping over his head, strode the field like a colossus amidst the confused and disoriented Olympiakos players who were still trying to piece together the magnitude of what had just over-whelmed them. From champs to chumps. From masters to disasters. From front-runners to also-rans. An historic match and one that will leave an indelible impression on the rest of the competition - try and force Steven Gerrard into a situation where he will disappoint his thronging Red supporters at your peril. Doubts as to whether he is one of, if not the best midfielder in the game today were thoroughly discredited, and Chelsea and Réal Madrid must be shaking their heads at their failures to lure Gerrard away from the city and the fans he loves, because he'll turn his predatory eye toward their goals next.
And so, on to the round of sixteen, where the teams have yet to be drawn against one another. But on this form, Liverpool need fear no-one. Let the other teams quail and draught contigency plans. The Red Machine is back in Europe, and they're not leaving without a trail of broken opposition supporters and dispirited and devalued opponents.
Next stop: Goodison Park for the cross-town derby on Saturday. The tremendously fortuitous run that the Toffees have had is not only in jeopardy, it's looking like a watermelon being targeted by grapeshot cannon. We'll see on the day how rested the lads are from this emotional rollercoaster of a match, and then we'll see how the likes of Unsworth and Ferguson deal with the imperious Captain Courageous and his brave team of footy shock-troopers.
As an aside, Liverpool are still in all competitions, and look as though they might be able to better their five-trophy year in 2001. Getting a fifth Champions' Cup would be sweet enough, but who wants to limit their ambition? We want it all. And we have the team to take it.
Forza Liverpool!
Cheers,

-mARKUS
^+Justice for the 96+^