SURELY we have to beat Wolves. Surely. My dad says he is picking me up “between 10:45 and 11”. Which is a tricky one. For my mates this would be 11:15. But my dad is more punctual. He predictably arrives at 10:46. I’m predictably wearing a towel.
A few minutes later I’m dressed and we are on our way I’ve even managed a strange feta cheese and pitta bread breakfast to keep me going. Well, I was rushed. We’re with my sister-in-law’s sister, Laura (there is no less clumsy way of saying that, I’ve googled it). Callum can’t go so we have three together. Laura doesn’t get to go much so is excited. I’m just nervous. Surely we have to beat Wolves.
Jürgen Klopp is on the radio on the way there. He is saying we haven’t played that badly recently. I start to worry more. Does he really think that? There is no point saying it otherwise, I suppose. The players can’t hear him. I don’t really like a ‘stay calm everything is fine philosophy’. Much prefer a ‘fucking hell, what are we going to do about this?’ philosophy.
A minute in and it seems fairly clear that a few more of our lads could have done with a rocket up their arse rather than being told they are great. I worry that, in the time of being scared of upsetting footballers, we’re letting them off the hook a bit. Where is the responsibility? With everyone so quick to make excuses for them. From the referee to the wind to just being ‘unlucky’. The players looked like they were sleep walking through the first half an hour. Just expecting everything to turn out fine.
Wolves are 18th in the Championship but we make them look like Real Madrid. Which presumably makes Helder Costa, Cristiano Ronaldo. He’s got a hot new tactic of running in a straight line with the ball and we can’t cope with it. Maybe because they have only trained with lads who pass it slowly to each other.
I’ve got a cob on a bit here, haven’t I? But that’s how I felt. I’ve got Klopp on the way up telling me we are great and these divvies don’t look like they’ve played against an opposition before. They look shocked when they take the ball off them or try and score themselves. It’s very frustrating. Connor Coady is playing centre-half. I’ve watched him. He wasn’t very good. Now he might have got better. But lets try a bit harder at finding out, hey?
The crowd are with them at 1-0 but turn a bit at 2-0. There are some boos. It’s not great but I think fans feel a bit helpless sometimes. What are you meant to do? Who do you call? If a team go out of The FA Cup in Liverpool but no-one in Boston is around to hear it, does it make a sound?
At half-time I see Forbes and he’s brought both his kids. Both! Poor lads. That can be the problem with a reserve side. It can lead to reserve crowds. Then kids who don’t normally get a chance to go come and must wonder what all the fuss is about. I hope it doesn’t put them off for life.
Second half they have a bit of a go and we score and we get to dream for a while of a replay at Wolves. It’s not to be. Philippe Coutinho gets a bit more time on the pitch but doesn’t really look like doing much. Looking for movement that isn’t really there. Daniel Sturridge legs it to take a corner which was pretty much the highlight of my day. Bit of urgency at least.
I go home wondering if there has been a more depressing week watching the Reds. It’s early. I build some shelves. They reckon they should take 15 minutes to put up. They take me an hour. Now there is a metaphor for Liverpool’s build up play if ever I’ve heard one.
My wife makes a nice tea. Then we go out. Jessica’s birthday. My S.I.L’S.S. is there again with her Evertonian husband who is trying not to look too smug. We go to Ghetto Golf. Have you been yet? Belta.
Up the things can only get better Reds.