From elation to frustration and back

I’m not sure if I can take this. All this filthy, deceitful hope. False in its nature, waiting to strike you down. Failure and resignation; that I know, that is familiar territory. Failure is easy to deal with. It’s tangible and concrete. It doesn’t drain you the same way hope does.

Saturday, February 8. I have overslept. And then some. Panic strikes, I jump out of bed and make it to the living room. I turn on the television and find the right channel. “LIV 4-0 ARS”. Live for no arse. LFC four, Arsenal nil. Not possible, we haven’t even played half an hour. Am I dead? The crowd is buzzing, the players are zipping and pinging.

It is true, it is happening. I missed it, but I don’t care. Liverpool are coping without me. Coping a little too well? Am I jinxing it? I can never let anyone know this. If we don’t win this one – if we somehow manage to throw this away – it’s entirely my fault and I can never watch a game again. Typical Liverpool, they will throw it away.

I sat through the rest of the game in silence, in a state of tense disbelief. Destroying the league leaders. Ripping one of the best defences in the league apart. So much movement up front: Suarez badgering away down the channels, Sterling breaking in behind. Opposite movement. Training ground stuff. Bravo, Brendan. So much energy in midfield. Philippe Coutinho squaring up to Jack Wilshere.

We are Liverpool FC, this is our place. You do as we tell you; speak only when spoken to. Here’s a penalty for your troubles. We gave it to you – remember that. You didn’t earn it. Nobody earns anything today except us. Remember that.

Wednesday, February 12. Feeling good. Not possible to oversleep this time. Chelsea dropped points, Arsenal could easily do the same. Game starts as I imagined: bottom team full of energy, trying to unsettle us. No worries, we’ll ride the little wave for ten minutes and start controlling the game. They won’t expose themselves too much, not with the firepower we have up front. Settle down, find our rhythm, get the first goal and this will be a breeze.

Oh Kolo my Kolo, why did you have to do that? A spicy version of your West Brom shenanigans. Consecutive aways, epic howlers. At least he floors Phil Dowd later on. Get in. I wish it was Lee Mason, but Dowd will do. Commentator trying to make it sound like he did it on purpose. Media whore selling your headlines. They taught you that sort of thinking at media school, didn’t they. Idiot. I bet he’s a United fan. Sounds like one. Poor bastard. I wish Kolo could floor him as well.

Genius strikes. Off balance, outside of the boot. Perfect weight, perfect curve. Captain. There’s one man out there you want to be on the receiving end. Perfect finish, perfect striker. Number 15 by shirt, number 9 by nature. I love that man. 1-1. We’re alive. We’re going to win this.

Second half and I’m cool as refrigerated cucumber. We look better. Sharper. Fully focused. Starting to take control, starting to push them back, starting to create chances. Suarez hits the post. A matter of time now. Then…nothing. I feel nothing. Don’t care whose fault it was. Another surreal goal conceded. Then, gradually, resignation and despair kicks in. That was it. I have seen this too often. We’re not ready. Illusions are there to be destroyed.

Back to goal. A quick turn. Working an opening for the shot. Don’t do it, Little Phil. You can’t shoot with your right; what makes you think you can do it with your left? Spot the pass – that is what you do. It’s your thing. Nah, he’s not having any of that. I’ll see your pass and raise you a left footed goal from outside the box. Are you watching, Big Phil?

The clock is ticking towards 90. Still time for one more. Still time for a winner. One chance is all we need. If we can just set Sturridge up one more time. One more chance, one more dance. We’re building, patiently. No trace of panic. Playing like a top team should. Teixeira not looking out of place at all. Good decision by Rodgers. One more ball player on the pitch to unlock them. Which he does.

Final minute. Sturridge down. Penalty. Steven Gerrard. Captain. Francesco Totti in Euro 2000, Zinedine Zidane in 2006. That’s how significant it feels. Except this means more. So much more.

Peerless. Titanium. That’s not a celebration of a man aiming for fourth. He’s going for the top prize. Perfect captain.

Liverpool may or may not win the league this year. I just hope I’ll able to fully enjoy the ride. Hope is a filthy mistress.