For all those who collected Merlin sticker albums…

As  a Liverpool fan growing up in the nineties, I suppose I’ve become accustomed to the perpetual cycle of false hope and subsequent disappointment. As an ‘out-of-towner’ I suppose I’m sort of responsible for the resulting heartache that has constantly been inflicted upon me. But the current doom and gloom surrounding all things Anfield trumps anything I’ve seen before.

Let me give you a bit of history. As any self-respecting football fan knows, that magical moment in boyhood when one pledges their allegiance to their chosen shirt is a life-defining act, a decision that simply cannot be reversed regardless of future fortunes. A sort of, “you’ve made your bed now lie in it”-type moment, if you will. Despite growing up in leafy London suburbia, with a plethora of ‘local’ clubs to choose from, I opted to support the mighty Liverpool Football Club.

Why? “You don’t live anywhere near Liverpool, doooo ya?” Well, the seven-year old me was convinced this was the correct decision via a combination of peer pressure, a very loose family tie (my mother hails from St. Helens, a mere stone’s throw from Liverpool) and ‘God’ (he goes by the name of Robbie Fowler). I’m sure Liverpool fans of a similar age will appreciate the impact that Robbie Fowler had on a young Liverpool fan’s childhood, evoking the sort of excitement and idolism in a player that has only recently resurfaced at Anfield in the shape of a certain Mr. Torres (for those thinking “what about Michael Owen?”, you just don’t get it, do you?).

Taking my first baby steps towards becoming a football fan was wonderful in 1995/96. 3-5-2 was the order of the day. Keegan’s ‘Entertainers’ enthralled and oozed with exotic elegance (see: Ginola, Asprilla and errrr…Phillippe Albert). And best of all… Manchester City and Chelsea’s frontlines were spearheaded by Uwe Rösler and Mark Stein respectively (cue the sound of hordes of Chelsea ‘fans’ simultaneously sighing ‘who?).

But being a Liverpool fan was particularly fun. Despite poor Roy Evans’ inability to keep his Spice Boys (aside from WAG, has there ever been a more detestable coinage than this?) from going out on the piss, as a young Red I marvelled at the telepathic relationship between Fowler and Stan “The Man”, the delectable dribbling of Steve McManaman and the frequent defensive master classes exhibited by Phil Babb (well, maybe not that last bit). I mean, compared to the Red Scum and Keggy’s Entertainers, we were never really in it, but it was damn enjoyable to watch. I suppose the naivety of being a child shielded me from the realisation that we weren’t going to win the league, but who cares when God was notching 36 goals and on his way to a second consecutive PFA Young Player of the Year?

Disappointment. “Defeated of expectation or hope; let down.” This feeling should be familiar to every football fan. Some will be more familiar with this feeling than others. It’s a sentiment I’ve currently been holding for the last…five and half months or so. A feeling that has been felt with particular vigour in the last three months. Just as one never forgets the moment when football first makes you smile, one never forgets the moment that football first tugs upon your heart-strings. This is the symbolic moment when you realise your attachment to your club has gone further than simply wearing the replica shirt. The 11^th of May 1996 was the day when I first experienced the heartache of being a football fan.

Arriving in THOSE awful crème suits, Fowler & co strolled across the Wembley turf. It was the FA Cup final. Against the auld enemy. Following my father’s quick “FA Cup for Beginners” speech, I sat down in front of t’telly (presumably Capri-Sun and Tommy Tomatoes in-tow) to watch my new-found heroes win some silverware. Or so I thought. After fidgeting through 84 minutes of unbelievably uninteresting ‘football’ (to this day, this match is still the most boring game I’ve ever seen), United had a corner kick.  Given the dearth of opportunities thus far, I merely assumed the corner would be cleared and resumption of the tactical midfield battle would occur. However, ‘Calamity’ James performed his soon-to-be-trademark ‘flapping-at-a-corner’ routine and BANG! Through a seemingly impermeable flock of flailing limbs, Eric Cantona executed a perfect half-volley that flew into the right hand corner of the goal. Nine months worth of hope and expectation flushed down the toilet with one swift movement of a Frenchman’s foot. Determined to avoid the ignominy of watching my aforementioned heroes collecting their losers’ medals, I switched off and reflected upon my first “football tragedy”.

Little did I know then that this would only be the first occasion where I would feel like this; lesser still did I know then that there would be stretches in my life where I would be permanently engulfed by this misery. None more so than now. As I write this, Liverpool sit sixth in the Premier League table, 16 points off top spot and eliminated from both domestic cups AND the Champions League. Surely unacceptable for a team that, just a mere 11 months ago, was laying waste to Real Madrid and Manchester United, narrowly failing to collect the elusive Premiership crown by four measly points.

The insatiable thirst for round-the-clock sports coverage and comment has meant that every Tom, Dick and Harry has had their word on our “downfall”.

“Shouldn’t have sold Alonso mate.”

“That Lucas is wank.”

“Benitez has lost it, he’s gotta go.”

“You’re a two-man team.” (this “opinion” clearly contradicts the “Alonso argument”, yet it is spouted by so many)

“Youse lot have got no strength in depth.”

“Liverpool clearly overachieved last season, it’s simple.”

Whilst forums and pubs alike have been teeming with such statements and theories, it is evident that nothing is ever that simple in our beautiful game. It appears probable that each one of the above arguments has contributed to the ignominy of Benitez’ Annus horribilis. The merits and virtues of each argument have been debated to death of late, and I do not seek to add my two cents to this matter.

However, what does irk me and the child inside me, is the horrifically knee-jerk nature of football today. The 24/7 nature of sport now means that performances are scrutinised more than ever. One bad performance means a player is suddenly overrated and should be sold. Contrastingly, one good performance later and said player should be playing for England! This fickle mindset has certainly been applied to Liverpool this season, with constant calls for the sacking of Benitez, and in some quarters, the sale of a certain Mr. Gerrard. The fact that “fans” are calling for the sale of our Stevie, the closest thing to a real-life Roy of the Rovers, our saviour on countless occasions over the last decade, clearly beggars belief!
I love football. It can evoke emotion within men (and some women, allegedly) like nothing else can. It can inspire, enrapture and elate. It’s the closest thing to magic that actually exists. But gradually it seems that the magic is being taken away by the constant scrutiny and analysis that exists today. And the day that the magic finally fades away, is the day that the Match-magazine-clutching, Robbie-Fowler-idolizing child within me dies. And I for one, hope that day never comes.