A nagging sense of deflation

THERE came a time in Houllier’s reign when we expected nothing and the team obliged. There was a tangible slice of déjà vu after Saturday.

Not that we’re ‘there’ yet or anything like, but there’s been talk. Rafa may have escaped censure with his eye-test protest earlier in the week, but news from the international camps was hideous.

He must have been tempted to again question the role of his “senior” players. Gerrard and Torres seemed blithely unconcerned with their own physical welfare, doubly galling when their countries had already qualified with ease.

The manager didn’t need a crystal ball to foresee the two-man team diatribes that followed. He was quietly critical of his own countrymen but for his captain there was a clipped “he’s injured, I can’t use him, that’s it”.

Mascherano may not have been selected anyway but a flight delay sealed the deal. So off we popped to the North East without three world class players, trying to break Bruce’s scarcely-believable hoodoo on Rafa.

It’s probably that old Big Four arrogance making me bristle at the thought of calling Sunderland away ‘tricky’. This is the curse of last season’s magnificence; more than half of those 86 points are now considered ours by divine right.

Truth is we struggled there last year. Hyypia was drafted in to stiffen the defence, Alonso emerged at half time to improve things immeasurably and Torres scored from nothing.

When the final whistle eventually blew this time around nostalgic sighs for better times not long past almost drowned out the surly grrrrs of burbling resentment. Almost.

We were on a hiding to nothing. Despite news of Chelsea’s defeat everyone knew we were up against it. It probably wasn’t the best time for Benitez to pick one of his headbanger teams, but we got: three centre backs, one of whom hadn’t played for months; Babel at his lumbering cowardly worst on the left; Kuyt dragged from his comfort zone and yet another partner for the laughably ever-present Lucas. Poor Jay Spearing was thrown into the deep end, swam like a kitten in a sack, and never stood an earthly.

Amidst this maelstrom of berserk came an early setback of unparalleled perversity. They’re not called the Black Cats for nothing. Balloons are for parties and launching snotty American brats into the ozone, not football matches. Any attempt at making the day more ‘fun’ makes me reach for the tranquilisers; face paint, inflatables, Mexican waves, six-foot fluffy toy mascots, etc.

If it weren’t for the fact that you get searched at aways I’d happily take a blowtorch to these trite manifestations of ‘wackiness’.

Yet the media overload for the poor mongrel whose final touch sent that ball spinning onto the field was disgraceful. It was wedged into Reina’s net minutes before it blew into his line of vision and gave Bent’s shot an accommodating 1-2.

Rules schmoolz. I seem to be the only Red more concerned with the country’s most in-form striker having ten yards of freedom inside our box in the game’s infancy.

It wasn’t our day. Cast doubt on selection and formation, but during the cold turkey of post-match comedown you accepted little could be done with the ingredients available. Though you couldn’t help speculating on whether our players put in the full shift. Maybe they just looked shabby in comparison to frenzied opponents fired up by the sort of goal that makes you believe God is smiling down on you.

It hasn’t stopped internet musings on whether Rafa has (dreary cliché alert) lost the dressing room.

Sunday will no doubt see us submerged by balloons thanks to our chums from the mills. Christmas will come early for headline writers unless we dramatically improve.