Steven Gerrard's life seems to be unusually beset with tragedy and trauma, particularly for a millionaire ostensibly ensconced in privilege. Amidst the routine of his working life there is an inescapable theme of potential unfulfilled and his personal world appears to suffer from an uncommonly high incurrence of conflict and misdemeanour. It is all the more melancholy to behold as, in keeping with his manager Rafa BenÃtez's description of him, Gerrard radiates "niceness".
One would struggle to begrudge him his talent, his success, his drive or his reassuringly low hairline because, as is often said and perennially apparent "Stevie G" is the fan's representative in heaven. After Liverpool's victory against Milan in Istanbul the breathlessly victorious captain was asked if he would still be joining Chelsea as rumoured.
"How can I, after this?" he beamed back, all puffed out and exhilarated like a toddler when indulged by an irresponsible uncle – you know, when they get a little clammy head and their fringe sticks to their forehead then their mum comes and calms them down and you (me, it's just been Christmas, I've been winding kids up) have to recede into adult manners and ask if they need any Calpol or the phone number of Supernanny. (Actually I'd like Supernanny's number for my own dubious reasons – they can't keep me on the naughty step forever.)
Consider, too, Alex Ferguson's comment regarding his reported interest in signing Gerrard – "the boy just won't come here," he said. Steven Gerrard could not countenance playing for Manchester United at any price because he is more than a Liverpool player and the Liverpool captain – he is a Liverpool fan and therefore hates United and 12 years in the game and friends in the United team who he plays with for England can do nothing to ease his congenital dislike of the Red Devils.
He is a decent and accomplished man yet somehow the quality that makes him so beloved of the Kop anchors him to proletarian strife. Do you remember some barmy Ayatollah once announcing after a needless massacre that the 2,000 dead would've died, regardless of the conflagration, at that exact moment, even had the event not occurred? That destiny would've nabbed them at the sink or while weeding the garden or jitterbugging by a jukebox in a Tehranian kasbah; it was their time to die and the act of terrorism, or anti‑terror, or freedom fighting or peace keeping or whatever it was at that time had merely provided an apposite context for their inevitable death.
This philosophical quirk appears pertinent to Gerrard's plight. He is a bloke from the Bluebell Estate in Huyton and there aren't enough Bentleys or Champions League medals on earth to bewilder the watching fates or convince them that ability can quench destinies craving for alignment. His battered face splayed pornographically across front pages is reluctant and contrite; the bruises on his face the material emblems of the bruises on his spirit. Twenty hours he spent in the cells after the fracas in the tediously named Lounge Inn in Southport – hardly a tax upon the imagination, the Lounge Inn; it may just as well've been called "Aspirational provincial pints" or the "Our velvet sofas disguise the inevitable, oncoming violence Inn" or "My Pubby Wub".
That 20 hours will've tick-tocked by with the unwilling sloth of the 19 years since Liverpool last won the title, each turgid second a requiem of clanging dissonance, assaulting his faculties like the impotent hectoring of Graeme Souness. Gerrard is the perfect talisman for the city of Liverpool with its juxtaposing wit and propensity for drama, the Liver bird, a phoenix by another name has had no better opportunity to soar than the one presented by this season's inconsistency at the top, but the proximity of triumph can singe even the most durable of wings.
I hope this will not be the moment when Liverpool's season begins to falter, not with United due to commence their traditional new year surge and if Liverpool are to succeed they would benefit from a fit Torres but need, NEED – like "All you need is love" – a focused Steven Gerrard. Gerrard is a living sign, he is all that is great about Liverpool and, truly, he shall never walk alone, but that which walks with him may not always be benevolent for he is accompanied at every step by the phantom of his birth.
One would struggle to begrudge him his talent, his success, his drive or his reassuringly low hairline because, as is often said and perennially apparent "Stevie G" is the fan's representative in heaven. After Liverpool's victory against Milan in Istanbul the breathlessly victorious captain was asked if he would still be joining Chelsea as rumoured.
"How can I, after this?" he beamed back, all puffed out and exhilarated like a toddler when indulged by an irresponsible uncle – you know, when they get a little clammy head and their fringe sticks to their forehead then their mum comes and calms them down and you (me, it's just been Christmas, I've been winding kids up) have to recede into adult manners and ask if they need any Calpol or the phone number of Supernanny. (Actually I'd like Supernanny's number for my own dubious reasons – they can't keep me on the naughty step forever.)
Consider, too, Alex Ferguson's comment regarding his reported interest in signing Gerrard – "the boy just won't come here," he said. Steven Gerrard could not countenance playing for Manchester United at any price because he is more than a Liverpool player and the Liverpool captain – he is a Liverpool fan and therefore hates United and 12 years in the game and friends in the United team who he plays with for England can do nothing to ease his congenital dislike of the Red Devils.
He is a decent and accomplished man yet somehow the quality that makes him so beloved of the Kop anchors him to proletarian strife. Do you remember some barmy Ayatollah once announcing after a needless massacre that the 2,000 dead would've died, regardless of the conflagration, at that exact moment, even had the event not occurred? That destiny would've nabbed them at the sink or while weeding the garden or jitterbugging by a jukebox in a Tehranian kasbah; it was their time to die and the act of terrorism, or anti‑terror, or freedom fighting or peace keeping or whatever it was at that time had merely provided an apposite context for their inevitable death.
This philosophical quirk appears pertinent to Gerrard's plight. He is a bloke from the Bluebell Estate in Huyton and there aren't enough Bentleys or Champions League medals on earth to bewilder the watching fates or convince them that ability can quench destinies craving for alignment. His battered face splayed pornographically across front pages is reluctant and contrite; the bruises on his face the material emblems of the bruises on his spirit. Twenty hours he spent in the cells after the fracas in the tediously named Lounge Inn in Southport – hardly a tax upon the imagination, the Lounge Inn; it may just as well've been called "Aspirational provincial pints" or the "Our velvet sofas disguise the inevitable, oncoming violence Inn" or "My Pubby Wub".
That 20 hours will've tick-tocked by with the unwilling sloth of the 19 years since Liverpool last won the title, each turgid second a requiem of clanging dissonance, assaulting his faculties like the impotent hectoring of Graeme Souness. Gerrard is the perfect talisman for the city of Liverpool with its juxtaposing wit and propensity for drama, the Liver bird, a phoenix by another name has had no better opportunity to soar than the one presented by this season's inconsistency at the top, but the proximity of triumph can singe even the most durable of wings.
I hope this will not be the moment when Liverpool's season begins to falter, not with United due to commence their traditional new year surge and if Liverpool are to succeed they would benefit from a fit Torres but need, NEED – like "All you need is love" – a focused Steven Gerrard. Gerrard is a living sign, he is all that is great about Liverpool and, truly, he shall never walk alone, but that which walks with him may not always be benevolent for he is accompanied at every step by the phantom of his birth.
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