Greetings, gentle readers.
At long last, I can give my impressions of the events as they transpired on 25th May, traditionally that merriest of months. Then perhaps, I can begin to focus on more temporally relevant issues and articles.
So to briefly recap, Liverpool had managed to force their way past Chelsea in the Semi-Finals, perpetuating the legacy that no team from London has ever reached the European Cup Final. Of course, it was a harrowing experience for Scouse fans, since the second leg of that SF match-up involved 6 minutes of time added-on. A single Chelsea goal at any point during the game would have ended Liverpool's season in Europe. So with a slight derisory and scornful half-reference to a website of ill-repute whose cretinous minions caused a delay in the game, I'll casually remark that there were some idiots who will not be welcome in the red half of Merseyside at any time in the near future, and I won't even give a hint as to which web-site it is, because I don't want them to get a single hit in future, unless it be in some terribly sensitive part of their collective anatomy.
Flash forward two weeks, and this is what we find.
Young Maxtin is recovering from his surgery, and fears about infections and immune responses are still causing some consternation. The brave little blighter is still in hospital, and I'm still dreadfully concerned for him. On the flip side, Liverpool have reached the pinnacle of glory for the first time in 20 years. I was 11 years old at the time. I was 10 when they last won the competition. I've been waiting for the entirety of my adult life for this - the culmination of my team's ambitions. Bill Shankly's famous quotation,
"Some people believe football is a matter of life and death. I'm very disappointed with that attitude. I can assure you it is much, much more important than that,"
seemed more than simply appropriate. This was an occasion to lay fears and doubts to rest, to exorcise demons from the past, to transform the piercing shrieks of trauma into the respectful enunciation of remembrance, and to allow muted analysis to hold forth with authoritative pride. It's not often in one's life where the opportunity to fuse the individual and the communal, the subjective with the objective, and expectation with fulfillment arises. This was just such a time.
And so that Wednesday, I accompanied my gang of usual suspects to the largest haven of footy to be found within a public house in Edmonton to watch the spectacle. The ever affable Eoin, the cynical Jeffy, the redoubtable James and his incisive father Fritz, and myself went to Whyte Avenue to meet the local footy pundit-cum-radio-celebrity Soccer-Steve and watch the match at the Elephant and Castle.
The crowd there was larger than usual. This was to be expected, since it was the big Final, but we were recognised by some of the die-hards. I have to confess that I'm the die-hard Liverpool fan of the group, but my incessant ravings and ramblings have, through some sort of acoustically osmotic process, infected the group with Red Fever. Clad in home kits and scarves, we were immediately recognised by fellow scouse fans and hailed. No johnny-come-latelies, us. The hearts had been on display on the sleeves within the establishment for months.
And so, with fresh chips on the table and hope in our hearts, we hunkered down in our usual spot - front and centre - before the large projection screen. There was already some pre-game singing and cheering filling the air, and throughout the opening ceremonies, we were able to see that the vast majority of the people packed into the capacity crowd at Kemal Ataturk Stadium outside of Istanbul were wearing Liverpool red. The cameras did a panoramic sweep of the stadium from end to end, and it was as though the Kop had opened a branch office on the Bosphorus. Whatever miniscule contingent of Milanese fans had bothered to tear themselves away from their bocce games or Pucchini recitals could barely have constituted one percent of the crowd. Once again, evidence of the hot Latin blood that burns for successful Italian clubs was absent, to be replaced by some sort of tepid disinterest that wouldn't know the difference between cacciatore and catenaccio. On any other occasion, I would derisively snort and laugh contemptuously at the "ultras" of a six-time European championship team who couldn't be arsed to go and check out a possible seventh. On that day, however, I was ecstatic that the Rossoneri faithful were true to form - limp and flaccid. Before the whistle, "You'll Never Walk Alone" boomed over the tannoy... and was promptly washed away in a red tide of tens of thousands of voices singing of unity, teamwork, togetherness, courage, and forgiveness. Red Scousers all over the world sang, and then held their breath as the match began...
And are gutted from the start. Almost before we are able to able to put our metaphorical fingers on the pulse of the game, Paolo Maldini pounces on a mis-cleared ball in the 18-yard box and although he mis-hits it, it bounces over a lunging Jerzy Dudek in the Liverpool goal to give the Milanese travelling contingent in Istanbul something to sing about. Both of them scratch their fezzes, clap their kebabs and sing the first four lines of "That's Amore" before realising they don't know the rest.
Both in the pub and in Kemal Ataturk Stadium, there is a moment of deathly silence. It would be as though Luciano Pavarotti suddenly broke wind in La Scala... oh, wait, no I'm sure the occasional Italian with some pride might make a noise in such an instance. The custodian, perhaps.
Despite the setback, we are able to settle back and take stock. In a hasty conference with the lads down the pub, I mention that history has already been made - Paolo has become the oldest scorer in a European Cup Final, and if the result stood, would be a four-time winner of Europe's most prestigious trophy. He's also the record holder for the quickest goal scored in a European Cup Final. His place in history is assured as one of, if not THE greatest amongst defenders in the history of the game. He's always been class, a phenomenal reader of the game, a captain of his national team who has only ever played for a single club side in his entire career. If Liverpool are going to miss grasping the final rung on the climb to the return to triumph, I reason, he would be the most dignified and respectful opponent possible. Not exactly a stirring battle paean on the order of Henry V's "once more unto the breach, dear friends" speech, but I'm concentrating, and I need level heads around me as I focus.
What I see is very, very discouraging from my point of view. The Rafatollah had the team run out in what might laughingly be called a 4-4-2 formation, but in reality was a left-side-heavy 4-5-1. Perpetual injury victim and cardiac-deficiency suspect Harry Kewell is presumably attacking down the left flank deep ahead of midfield, baffling medical technicians, surgical specialists, and Milan Baros alike.
I can see what Rafa Benitez is trying to do on the pitch, and I feel no small amount of consternation. He wants attacking width through the midfield in an effort to tire Milan's venerable and aging defenders. The plan fails spectacularly. Harry Kewell, to no-one's great surprise, goes off injured and has to be replaced.
Hernan Crespo, the Argentinian on a season-long loan to AC Milan from Chelsea, begins making some incisive runs diagonally between Jamie Carragher and Sami Hÿypia in the heart of the Liverpool defence. There are a number of reasons why this is dangerous. First of all, he has a great playmaker in the form of Kaká, who has the ability to slide pinpoint passes into that space. Second, Sami is having another of his off-days, where he looks a half-step slower than everyone else on the field. Third, Djimi Traore is sensing the hesitation and the confusion in front of Dudek's goal, and starts trying to help out by moving inside from his left-back position, leaving Liverpool's wing exposed.
The results are painful to experience. My cadre of Reds fans begin feeling that sinking sensation as Milan begin to slowly gain control of the game. The cheering from the remainder of the pub slowly becomes more subdued and tense as well. The captain on the pitch, Stevie G, begins running about like a madman, trying to stop the haemorrhaging, but Milan are confident in their stride, and play keepaway from the inspirational skipper.
Crespo scores a goal. 2-0 to the Italian team.
Andrei Shevchenko, the reigning European Player of the Year blasts a third goal, but he is called back for a very tight offside decision.
As the Liverpudlians are reeling in confusion and exhaustion, Milan closes in for the kill. The Reds only want to make it to half-time without the score being too lopsided.
No such luck. Another exquisite pass from Kaká sets Crespo free again, and he gleefully smashes another goal. 3-0.
The half-time whistle is greeted with sighs of relief all around the pub. I've been focusing so intently on the game that my brow is glistening with a thin sheen of perspiration. As I look around at my colleagues, there are very few signs of optimism or hope.
"Can we come back from this?" asks James bleakly.
"I'll tell you when we take the field again." I reply. My mind is racing with possibilities. This situation has arisen before. Liverpool needed three goals in 45 minutes to defeat Olympiakos back in December. That Greek team had an even more impenetrable defence at the time, and yet, Stevie and the lads were able to overcome that. This is a bit different, though.
No team has ever come back from a three-goal deficit to win the European Cup Final. And this is AC Milan, a team renowned for shutting down the defensive avenues, closing down the space, and watching the game tick down. When they defeated Juventus two years prior, they were able to play 120 minutes of scoreless football, and decide the title on penalty kicks. Now they're up by three goals, and only have to stultify the game for 45 minutes to be declared the champions again.
Tactically, I know what the gaffer needs to do. Before the break, Steve Finnan is limping about gamely at right-back. He can't go on. Rather than substituting another defender like Josemi in for the lad, Benitez needs to put another man in midfield. Luckily, there's a man on the bench who can stop the bleeding. Didi Hamann plays just in front of the defenders - exactly where Kaká has been lasering his passes to the strikers up front. If Hamann can plug that gap, the supply of dangerous balls into the Liverpool end will dry up. That will also give Stevie more room to go forward and roam into that same dangerous position, only attacking the Milan goal. What makes Stevie so dangerous is that he doesn't need to pass it, if he roams far enough forward, he can let the defenders man-mark the Liverpool strikers, which will give him enough space to fashion his own goal-scoring opportunities.
Meanwhile, something was happening behind the scenes at the Kemal Ataturk Stadium. As the lads sat in crumpled disarrary around their dressing room, they started hearing raucous noises from across the corridor. AC Milan, considering the match already sewn up in a foregone conclusion, had begun to celebrate. Bottles of sparkling wine were opened, and lusty songs were belted out.
The gaffer was telling the lads in the Liverpool dressing room that if they can just score the next goal, they had a chance. Wearily, stalwart warriors like Jamie Carragher roused themselves and began the march back to the pitch.
Once again, as has happened so many times, Stevie G heard the call. His teammates needed him. His gaffer needed him. And millions of Red supporters around the world whispered one humble prayer to all the deities of Anfield – "Give us a chance, Stevie."
The Reds inside the ground weren't shaken by the seemingly impassable scoreline — they sang their hearts out deliriously, letting the spirits of Shanks, Paisley and Fagan know that LFC were back at the top, playing one game for the most prestigious club trophy in the world.
When Stevie's face emerged from the tunnel, it was the face of a grimly determined skipper holding his team's morale by a very thin tether.
Miracles, as they are so often wont to do, begin with something small. A crowd of scousers started to sing the Anthem of Anfield in a corner of the vast new stadium. In a matter of moments, it has spread around the ground, gathering momentum and resonance until the song pulses out like the beating of a tribal war drum.
The gaffer made the change I had hoped for, Didi was coming on, the sneering arrogance of the Milanese
rossoneri, and Stevie's leadership coalesced in that fiery crucible of singing, shouting scousers. Once more, Stevie surveryed the awesome spectacle around him, observed the tears and the cheers and got that cold look in his eye. Had he noticed that glare, Gennaro Gattuso in the Milanese midfield would have soiled himself. Noisily.
I noticed it, and a small smile crept across my face.
"Yeah," I remarked to James sitting next to me, "this can be done."
His response was a frank look of cynical disbelief.
Right from the kick-off, the game was different. AC Milan were trying to play their usual possession game, comfortably stroking the ball around and controlling the tempo of the game. But Liverpool were not the same team. Now with rock-solid stability in defence, the midfield of Gerrard, Smicer, Alonso and Riise pushed up and were able to challenge for possession without over-committing themselves out of position. And with Stevie in possession, things began to take shape.
Liverpool earn a free-kick in a dangerous position, and the skipper confidently strides forward to take it. Stevie makes no mistake with a dead-eye missile. Dida in the Milan net can only stare flabbergasted at the vapour trail and shake his head in astonishment. The Brazilian keeper has barely enough time to inspect his trousers to ensure that they are still on his legs before Vladi Smicer cuts inward at the top of the 18-yard box and unleashes a stinging drive that nestles in the bottom-left corner of the net. Pace, power, and precision. Dida has no chance. Suddenly, the score is 3-2 for Milan, and the northern Italian team is visibly shaken.
The predator has become the prey. Where Milan were the controllers and the orchestrators of a symphonic victory, suddenly an improvised jazz beat has sent all of their instruments awry. Suddenly, they are the victims of their own tactical system. They have two strikers and a midfielder behind them designed to slice passes through the Liverpool defensive line. Suddenly, their plan is moot, since Didi has stifled that entire route. By the same token, Stevie has stepped into the same role that Milan designed for Kaká, and is performing it beautifully. Milan can't afford to man-mark Gerrard, since as soon as someone tries to fulfill that responsibility, it will open up another Liverpool forward, and Gerrard will unerringly hit that man with an inch-perfect pass. On the other hand, if one were to back off Stevie a little bit, and try and cut off his runs AFTER he has started dribbling the ball, one gets a...
Penalty. Gattuso hacks down Stevie in the box, and the skipper pops to his feet to nominate his good pal Xabi Alonso to take the penalty. Xabi is a solid dead-ball master but...
The heartbeats of everyone in the pub stop and the air is suddenly warmer and heavier than before. Breaths are held. Bathroom breaks are delayed. Pints are held in quivering grasps.
Dida is renowned for cheating on penalty kicks. His escapades are well renowned from the 2003 Champions' Cup Final. James' father leans over the table and mouths that the next goal will decide the game. I'm not sure about cutting the tension with a knife. An industrial-strength bandsaw, perhaps. However, I've already vaulted to my feet twice in the previous six minutes and screamed to Jupiter, Jehovah, and any other visiting religious figures that whatever favours they've bestowed, they were the right ones. I've had tears of exhaustion, passion and joy run into my scarf to mingle with my copious perspiration. I know how Didi Hamann would take a penalty, but any predictions on my part as to Xabi's decision would be virtually pure specualtion.
The young Basque lines up to take the shot, and the world holds its proverbial breath.
.
.
.
A right-footed shot, smashed with a tremendous amount of power, which curves to the left and looks to bend inside the left-sided post until the intervening limbs of a valiantly flailing Dida knock the ball away from the goal line.
Gasps in the pub are filled with confusion. Surely the hand of Destiny was at work. Surely Fate had a personal stake in the outcome of this match. How could the penalty not go in the net?
The answer lies in the trajectory of the ball from Dida's hand. It flies downward – directly to the right foot of Xabi Alonso, who has charged the net. A quick sweep of his leg, and the game is tied, 3-3. The impossible has been accomplished. The first team in history to claw their way back from 3-0 down in this game.
But not quite. Liverpool haven't won yet. They have TIED the game. They have done as all of their global acolytes have begged - they have given themselves a chance.
The remaining minutes of the game, and of the extra time, are as tortuous as bamboo slivers under fingernails. The players are exhausted. They were knackered after the first half, and only superhuman effort allowed them to match Milan in the second, but players like Jamie Carragher who have been burning any metaphorical luminous device at any or all of its ends all season long are running out of energy.
With the skipper tracking back to play at right-back and covering for the now completely withered defensive three, Liverpool cling tenaciously on to the draw in order to get to penalties. Three things help them.
1. Djimi Traore - who has normally causeed nothing but consternation from wandering out of position, finds himself out of position, but in the right spot in the right time to spear away a Milan goal from the goal line.
2. Jamie Carragher - who has run himself ragged, and now has approximately three breaths left before the Angel of Death comes, is still throwing himself self-sacrificially at anything that might be harmful to the Liverpool cause. Harry Kewell injured himself almost an hour previously and left the field. Carra refuses to leave the field regardless of the heinous injuries compiled upon his body. His groin muscles are stretched to a pizzicato violin string. His ankles are burnt and torn. He will not leave battle if he is not victorious, and his team-mates follow his example.
3. Jerzy Dudek - who, at the death of the second half, miraculously manages two point-blank, zero-reflex saves, It's one thing to save a goal. It's another to save a goal from the European Footballer of the Year. It's something else completely again to save TWO goals from the European Footballer of the Year at a distance of less than six feet.
Add those things together, and suddenly, people are discussing fate and destiny again.
Extra time isn't even all that tense. AC Milan are still confused and shell-shocked, while Liverpool have burnt all their fuel, including the reserves, to get back into the game. The final minutes of the match, aside from Stevie G's stupendous defensive heroics at right back – a position which he not only commendably fills, but positively excels at. Milan try and attack down their left side through Serginho, but Stevie is there time and again to thwart them with pinpoint accuracy.
At the end of 120 minutes, everyone in the pub is already exhausted. James and I have done everything but chew on our scarves in the process of conceptualising, visualising and then willing the game to move in currents which are congruent with our thoughts. The adrenaline high from Liverpool's third goal has peaked, crested, and left those of us who are dedicated, committed observers lying aghast on the arid shore of ridiculous expectation. In other words, it would be absurd to wish for anything more from this game. Miracles have already happened, mountains have already been climbed, dreams have already come true. Who would dare to tempt fate and ask that Liverpool carry on and actually WIN the game?
Answer: I would. And so would little Max.
James' father has contributed to the communal wisdom at this point to observe that the phenomenal comeback, along with the miracle saves by Dudek on Shevchenko have indelibly changed the attitude of the Milanese. Their confidence is shot, and they are now weak. The rest of us around the table nod sagely and redouble our attention on the game. In the meantime, Carra has had a quick talk with the Dude. The conversation goes something along these lines:
Dudek: "What the hell am I doing?"
Carra: "Listen. Goalkeepers can't save penalty kicks. Everyone knows that. A penalty taker can put the ball anywhere that he wants. No one expects you to do more than you already have. You've done your job. All you have to do now is put these kickers off. Make them think about something. Anything except where they are putting that ball. Think of Grobbelaar in 1984. You're not playing to save their shots. You're playing for them to MISS."
Serginho steps up to take Milan's first penalty. Dudek, in a theatrical piece of gamesmanship, hands the Brazilian the ball.
The Milan player strides up to the ball, catches a glance of Dudek shaking his booty and doing bizarre jumping jacks. He consequently spoons the ball over the crossbar.
Liverpool 0 - 0 Milan.
Didi taks Liverpool's first penalty. I lean over and tell James exactly where the ball will go, and how the shot will be a goal. This is not a time for arrogance, nor even speculation. I know what will happen. I've seen Didi take penalties before, and I know which side Dida is weak on, considering Smicer's goal from open play. He's faster pushing off on his right foot and jumping to his left. Didi will hit it at knee-height with enough swerve to his left (the keeper's right) that it will hit the inner side netting before it will hit the back of the net.
Liverpool 1 - 0 Milan.
Andrea Pirlo steps up for the
rossoneri. Again, Jerzy wiggles, shakes, shimmies, and waves to such an extent that Pirlo's shot is weak and at waist level. The Pole in the goal comfortably saves. The dream is becoming reality, and the pandemonium is reaching levels which cannot be ignored, even by a footy-ignorant nation such as Canada.
Liverpool 1 - 0 Milan.
Djibril Cissé strides to the spot for Liverpool. He wastes no time deliberating and smashes the ball with positively lethal intent into the right side of the net. The area around my table in the pub explodes. The shouting and screaming is deafening. Ears ring, eyesockets bleed, and the shouting goes on until my throat feels as though it's been leased by a symposium of frogs.
Liverpool 2 - 0 Milan.
At this point, the Merseysiders can wrap this up in two kicks if Milan miss and if John-Arne Riise scores with his thunderous left foot. Milan's Jon-Dahl Tomasson, who joined Milan on a free transfer from Feyenoord of Holland in 2002, seems unruffled by the tension rippling down from the ranks of the Liverpool fans. He replaced two-goal hero Hernan Crespo near the end of full-time, and looks to have been a substitution made with penalty kicks in mind. The Danish striker ignores Dudek's theatrics in the net before him and stares blankly at the turf in front of him as he lashes a shot past the lunging and shimmying Polish keeper.
Liverpool 2 -1 Milan.
The Norwegian steps up to take his kick against the now-shaken Dida. And errs on the side of caution. His trademark is a thunderbolt kick which, while not always accurate, is always unstoppable by human hands. This kick, however, proves to be a tame effort at trying to place the shot perfectly into the lower-left corner, and Dida reads it all the way toward saving it.
Liverpool 2 - 1 Milan.
Breaths are held tightly. Fingernails are chewed. The tension is unbearable. The pub is filled with thin wisps of cigarette smoke and the vapour of nervous sweat. In the stadium, the Red fans are still in full song. Milan's inspirational Brazilian midfield orchestrator strides comfortably to the spot and Dudek barely has enough time to wiggle his glutes back and forth twice before the young maestro strokes a perfect shot past him and into the back of the net.
Liverpool 2 - 2 Milan.
Next up for Liverpool is Vladimir Smicer, who scored the second goal, and has looked increasingly positive since replacing Harry Kewell in the first half. Tersely whispered prayers of "pleasepleasepleaseplease" are barely audible over the sound of grit teeth and tuneless humming symptomatic of ridiculously intense concentration. If Smicer scores, Milan must score with their final kick to stay alive in the competition. Liverpool are poised to take the initaitive, but the last remaining shooter for Milan is the reigning European Footballer of the Year and top scorer in Italy – Andrei Shevchenko.
Smicer is cool as a cucumber, and stares Dida down before launching an arrowed drive past him. The pub erupts. Liverpool now have the lead, the initiative, and a kick in hand (as it were). Even if Shevchenko scores, Liverpool can still win with the last kick of the penalties. Garcia, Alonso and Gerrard are all still available to take a kick.
Liverpool 3 - 2 Milan.
Shevchenko still looks rattled from the earlier miracle saves which denied him almost sure goals. I glance quickly at Fritz, who has been studying the psychology of the game almost intensely as I've been examining the tactical aspects. He sees the same look of weakness that I observe. James is beginning to allow for the possibility of a smile to creep around the corner of his mouth. Back on the field, the strapping Ukrainian seems nervous and out of sorts. His next touch of the ball will decide if his team wins or loses. The pressure of the European Championship weighs on him like a load of bricks, and he's already witnessed miraculous feats from the deranged-looking Polack in front of him.
Dudek's earlier physical shenanigans were already fairly ballistic, but he somehow manages to find another gear and frantically waves, hops and wiggles as Sheva takes his shot. By some fluke or other, he happens to find himself flying to his right as the ball is struck. Sheva's kick by some odd coincidence or twist of fate flies at the fully extended Pole, and the ball is smacked aside by Dudek's trailing hand.
Game Over.
Most people have no idea what it's like to unleash 21 years of frustration. There's a great scene in the film adaptation of Nick Hornby's "Fever Pitch" wherein the protagonist asks his love interest if she can remember something that she's wanted constantly for 20 years. Twenty years ago, those of us who were alive probably wanted a bunch of things - to be doctors or ballerinas or to have shiny toys or good grades. How many of those dreams live on for decades? How many fade away, to be replaced by other transitional goals and aspirations?
The dream of Liverpool once again being Champions of Europe began with the tragedy at Heysel and was amplified by the senseless deaths at Hillsborough. Through the resignation of King Kenny Dalglish, the horrid transitional period under Graeme Souness, the much-maligned "Spice Boys" period under Roy Evans, and the successful, but ultimately frustrating reign of Gerard Houllier, there have been those of us who have been living incomplete lives because of the imbalances, injustices and inconsistencies plaguing the team with which we grew up. In one year, we shared our grief with Juventus fans, and then as though by magic, flashed a light which illuminated the exile from Europe, the loss and defamation of the 96, the humiliation of a painful rebuilding period, and the resonating lack of respect from other clubs in England and abroad. It didn't repair the damage, but it vindicated two decades of suffering. Hope can result in fulfillment. Dreams can come true. Good things can happen to good people. Karma can work. You can pay it forward.
We were swept away by emotion. James nearly disemboweled his father by leaping up from the table and knocking the tabletop into Fritz' midsection. I was sobbing in relief and joy. But the moment was yet to come. All of the players and coaches queued up to receive their winner's medals, but the man who had steered them to triumph was the captain, and he let everyone one else collect their medals first. The European Champions' Cup stood next to the team on the podium, with everyone adhering to the convention that no-one touches the cup until the captain does. Djibril did a little dance around the plinth. Carra, still trembling with excitement and cramps, stalked around "Old Big Ears" with a mixture of awe and reverence. Rafa was happily burbling with some of the Spanish lads, inviting Fernando Morientes over, despite the striker having been cup-tied and unable to play a single European game for Liverpool all season.
Then Stevie stood under that most prestigious of trophies and at the behest of Lennart Johansson, hefted the huge jug over his head to the gleeful shouting of the throngs, fireworks, and volcanic eruptions of red confetti.
The pub was filled with tears and weeping, jumping and hollering. I hugged more grown men in fifteen minutes than I suspect I've ever hugged in my entire life previously. Seeing Carra and Stevie holding the cup aloft, facing a sea of Red fans and singing "Ring of Fire" was brilliant. The local boys stood side by side singing with the travelling contingent who had saved and scrimped for months to afford this trip from Liverpool.
I'll confess. I was hopping up and down like some sort of pogo-stick-equipped flea on a trampoline, blinking tears from my eyes and mopping the sweat from my brow with my scarf. My 1984 Champions' Cup Winners scarf.
We walked out into the bright summer sunshine of Whyte Avenue, and the world had changed. Birds no longer sang – they serenaded. The sky was no longer blue but a penetrating azure.
I quit my job, started a new one, moved into a new apartment - started a new life. After 20 years, I was free. And in that remarkable day, I was vindicated that work, patience, fidelity and trust were not enough. I needed to have faith. And I was rewarded. And Max recovered brilliantly and is now doing very well. Someday, he'll realize the role he played in this drama — that Liverpool didn't just win for us long-suffering acolytes, but for everyone with a good heart.
So there we have my story. Most likely not worth the wait, but it was something I needed to get out of my system and down on electronic media before I could move onwards and upwards in my life.
So, I'm going for surgery tomorrow morning. Good job that the lads won the European Super Cup, defeating CSKA Moskva in the Stade Louis II in Monaco on Friday. Three goals to the Russian single goal put yet another trophy in the Anfield cabinet, and another twinkle in my smile. And an international break this week means that I can devote my time to some non-footballing pursuits for a bit. So cheerio, and I'll see you the other side of the knife.
-mARKUS
^+Justice for the 96+^
This is what the leg looked like while still in the sock and semi-fibreglass cast, rather inextricably fused by cascades of seeping blood. Note how clean the back the ankle, near the Achilles tendon, seems in comparison to the remainder. More on that later.
Now that the cast has been removed, we can see the staples extending down the interior of the leg. This side now has two screws and a plate holding the bones together, and the x-ray shows that things are mending apace.
This is the exterior of the leg, which is now home to three screws. Note the back of the ankle, where the fibreglass cast pinched the flesh against the plastic and foam of the airboot and slowly snipped off small tracks of flesh, the blood of which soaked into the fibreglass but did not leak into the sock area. The swelling still looks a bit nasty, n'est-ce pas? The bruising higher up on the calf was caused by prolonged elevation and insufficient blood drainage out of the foot and ankle area. Of course, I didn't realise the length of this incision, which caused me no end of bewilderment why the muscle on that side of the leg was so pained and clenched. Heh. Silly me.
