European Football - UEFA Europa League - Group Stage Group B - Liverpool FC v FC SionLIVERPOOL face Sion in black kits. Sion red; red and starred. Liverpool dark and trim.

The darkness sweeping around the place. The pit. The pit. The game starts. The selection. We can’t go on like this. That’s what you think.

Questioning.

How did we?

The ball waves from left to right.

What do we?

The ball waves from right to left.

How can we?

Nobody comes. Nobody goes. It is terrible.

Boots flecked with colour in the darkness. Blues. Florescents. Flicking and flocking. Clipping and clopping.

Why did we?

Stars on shirts.

Why have we?

Questioning.

How can we?

European Football - UEFA Europa League - Group Stage Group B - Liverpool FC v FC SionWhy? Why have these lads, these specific lads, been sent out to toil when there is no conceivable good to become from their toil?

Spades hitting icy ground. The crunch of soil being moved from here to there, from there to here. The ball bouncing, moving from left to right and from right to left. The movement pointless. Football reduced.

The waves, the waves, were soldiers moving. Well thank you and thank you and thank you and again, we call upon the author to explain.

Dead rubber. Rubber dead. Origi distant. Distant Origi. Disjointed, dishevelled, dysfunctional, disappointing, disheartening, disciplined, dystopian. Football without purpose. Without the desire to impress. Two eyes on Sunday.

Football where no one wants to get hurt. Sticks and goals may break my bones. Eleven internationals for Liverpool. Eleven internationals. Eleven. Because of something, because of something. Brad Smith aside, delivery and all, because of something.

There will be reasons. They will be good and smart. And yet.

There are always reasons. Humanity finds reasons and purpose in its greatest mundanities. This, the admin, Radio X. We are born. We entertain ourselves, we procreate, we find purpose. We die.

European Football - UEFA Europa League - Group Stage Group B - Liverpool FC v FC SionThe blackest kit. The darkest pit. The lads running without knowing how or why. The toil. Toiling lads, two eyes on Sunday. Because Sunday is important.

The ice cracking beneath the moulded studs. Synchopated strides. Sinews pumping. No two snowflakes are alike. Who cares? What difference does it make.

Two eyes on Sunday but travelled. Two wins and the group is Liverpool’s. Two eyes on Sunday but toiled. Two wins and four draws. Two eyes on Sunday. A Sunday which has been too rarely won after ten undefeated points. But we always find something, eh Kloppo, to give us the impression we exist.

We always find something. Smith, Origi and all. Something to give us the impression we exist.

Prolix. Prolix. Nothing a pair of scissors can’t fix.

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Pics: David Rawcliffe-Propaganda Photo/PA Images

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