Dreaming of the past and cult of Stevie G
I was hoping for a little juice from the bung enquiry but the results were rather suspiciously put back a few months after what seems like an interminable investigation.
It’s conveniently stalled momentum sparked by a toothless BBC documentary, which only served to gain sympathy for Harry Redknapp. I didn’t think that was possible.
Liverpool are allegedly one of the Premiership teams involved and the Cisse deal was mentioned. Our role in all this has largely been that of the victim but there have always been whispers about other deals — usually involving terrible players, I’ve noticed. Besides, it’s always seemed a diversion from the real and entirely legal greed that has infested the sport for over a decade now.
We haven’t made the best of starts but it’s not bad enough to make us snuggle into nostalgia corner, where I usually nestle in times of stress.
The glorious past of Liverpool FC is a comfort blanket for the over-30s. Perhaps the club website deliberately timed the conclusion of their 100 Greatest Players vote to coincide with a fortnight’s break in the schedule.
These things usually mean very little, since the bright dazzle of the Now tends to attract more votes than the sepia-tinted Then, like those dreadful music polls that put Oasis and their ilk nauseatingly high.
Gerrard hadn’t been mentioned by the time Souness (my number one) was announced 9th, which detonated numerous blood vessels even before the remaining places were filled.
With Fowler and Carragher both in the top 10, though I love them both, you could see the clear age bracket of those who participated.
By the time it came to naming the greatest ever player, common sense prevailed and Dalglish kept Gerrard at bay (just) — with his huge backside, no doubt.
Yet it still required a confrontation with my mental block, some might say obsession, regarding our captain. Many on our fanzine website had no hesitation in putting him in their own top five, forcing me to confess that my reluctance to do likewise sprang from a personal quirk and had little to do with skill or achievement.
Gerrardmania has always irked me.
Perhaps it was the very notion that he could think about walking away from Anfield while I never could. My Mancunian colleague speculated before the season began on the precise date supporters would discover their backbone and start chipping away at the game’s palpable contempt for its so-called lifeblood.
The answer would appear to be measurable only in light years. Gerrard, as the focal point of a club that bears little relation to the one I fell in love with as a kid, would appear a convenient scapegoat for everything that’s gone awry.
We still win things but even that’s down to him. There’s always a knee-jerk response to the outside world’s notion that he is all that stands between us and eternal mediocrity. It’s insulting to his colleagues and it’s possible he could do more to counteract that misunderstanding (or is it a fear?). But in essence he’s a self-contained, almost self-centred player. He can be named man of the match by starstruck hacks for the most cursory performance nowadays, at club level anyway.
United had that with Robson in the 80s. Was it coincidence he was virtually sidelined for Ferguson’s first title? Even team selection and tactics should not be beyond Gerrard’s sanction according to these salivating fools, no matter how many times he has, in fairness, denounced such rubbish.
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