The Cup That Time Forgot

[Originally published in Issue 7 of Well Red magazine - April / May 2011]

 

 

 

Rome. Istanbul. Paris. Dortmund. Wembley.  The settings for some of our greatest triumphs. Occasions that are embedded in Liverpool folklore. Matches that live on in our songs and in our memories. Trophies that illuminate and define our history.  For, as was often said, before Ian Ayre and his bean-counting bosses moved the goalposts, Liverpool FC exists only to win trophies.

The longer we went without success, the more intense our yearning for silverware. It is therefore only right that we approach each new season with a burning desire to be victorious in every competition we enter, be it the smugly self-regarding Premier League, the unjustifiably pompous Europa League or the sporting equivalent of Netto’s own-brand cornflakes, the Capital One Cup. 

But it hasn’t always been like that.  Mention the name “Screen Sport Super Cup” to Merseyside football supporters of a certain vintage and you’re likely to be met with a weary shrug of indifference and the same kind of resigned apathy that enables slack-jawed charisma void, Vernon Kay, to maintain a media career free from the threat of chemical castration. To the uninitiated, victory in the ironically-titled Super Cup represents further confirmation of Liverpool’s 80’s pre-eminence. To those unfortunate enough not to have expunged all traces of it from their memories, it was a tournament that no-one wanted to enter and no-one was bothered about winning.  In hindsight, it was doomed from the outset.

 

 

 

 

 

 

One of the by-products of the expulsion of English teams from European competition in the wake of the Heysel disaster was the loss of lucrative revenue streams for the qualifying clubs.  In an attempt to plug the income gap the Football League, under the adroit governance of human raincloud, Graham Kelly, hit upon the idea of a tournament involving those teams directly affected.  And so, with notions of glory and the pursuit of excellence taking a backseat to cold economic pragmatism, the Super Cup was born. 

Admittedly, the prospect of a midweek trek to Norfolk or Salford was shrouded in slightly less glitter than a trip to Vienna or Bilbao (or Runcorn, if truth be told), but beggars, we were reminded, could not afford to be choosers. However, given the lack of enthusiasm from the competing parties, the diffidence of the television companies and the failure to attract worthwhile sponsorship, an inter-club Top Trumps championship may have held more widespread appeal.  And would certainly have carried greater prestige.

Effectively, the Super Cup brought together some of the biggest names in the football stratosphere – Liverpool, Manchester United, er…Norwich – locked them in a disused warehouse, encouraged them to chuck pieces of mouldy cake at each other for a couple of hours and then forgot about them. It was an exercise in futility, derided, devalued and unloved, and ultimately amounted to little more than a passing curiosity, a scribbled postscript at the bottom of Liverpool’s extensive roll-call of honours.

Which is not to say that it was a competition totally without interest.  As one of the 16,000 people at Anfield for our opening game, against an equally unenthused Southampton team, it was a rare treat to witness a situation where the voices of the players drowned out the noise of the crowd.  If nothing else, it was a valued insight into how life must be as an Everton season ticket holder. 

Similarly, the sight of Ron Atkinson’s Manchester United finishing bottom of their three team group behind both Everton and Norwich, winless after four matches, provided amusement to rank alongside Paul Walsh’s mullet-gone-wild or Howard Kendall’s IMAX forehead.

 

 

 

With the bare minimum of effort, Liverpool progressed to the final, a two-legged affair against our beloved neighbours, although it was by now abundantly clear that this was a tournament to rank somewhere alongside the coveted ‘Tidiest Moustache’ award on the club’s wider list of priorities. 

Like a bloated Dr. Frankenstein acutely aware of the horror of its creation, the Football League belatedly realised it had to destroy the Super Cup.  What better way to achieve this than to shunt the final, the showpiece event, back a season, staging it more than twelve months after the competition’s initial commencement?  And, in bitter acknowledgement of its failure to fire the imagination of the media, to rename it after the unknown cable channel that eventually agreed to sponsor it, at a market rate rumoured to be the equivalent of seven Chomp bars and an old Billy Joel album?

 

In fairness the two-legged final provided much to enjoy, with an Everton team containing players of the calibre of Peter Billing, Kevin Langley and Neil Adams meekly surrendering, both home and away, to an oddly motivated Liverpool. Although the 7-2 aggregate scoreline is remembered now principally for Ian Rush’s five-goal haul, my personal highlight took place in the first leg at Anfield, when Steve McMahon’s long range header exploded into Bobby Mimms’ net, a strike that contravened several commonly accepted laws of physics and geometry.

Passage of time makes it easy to over-romanticise such incidents.  Take Jan Molby’s legendary goal against Manchester United in 1985.  In my mind’s eye I still see Big Jan ploughing through United players like a portly Robocop on a mission to rescue an imperilled kebab, before detonating a shot to leave keeper, Gary Bailey, with a face coated in black ash in the style of  Wile E. Coyote after a cartoon explosion.  Similarly, to me McMahon will always be suspended eight feet off the ground somewhere near the Anfield centre circle, the ball exploding from his forehead with the velocity of a speeding truck, accompanied by the thud of 20,000 jaws simultaneously hitting the floor in awed wonder.  This is my Super Cup memory and no-one can take it away from me.

Legend has it that, during the lap of honour after the Goodison victory, Ian Rush presented the Super Cup trophy to one of the ball-boys and told him to keep it in his bedroom.  Whether he did as instructed or exchanged it for a pack of Panini stickers in the schoolyard the following morning has gone undocumented. Suffice to say, it was never required again.  The competition was abandoned as a failed experiment with as much haste as it was introduced.

It wasn’t missed.

But at least it was a trophy.  Wasn’t it?

The Importance of Beating Everton

There's never a bad way to win the derby. Granted, not every victory sparkles like a Cup Final triumph, a four-goal Rush demolition or a last minute Gary Mac miracle strike. But in terms of performance, commitment and overall context, it's hard to think of a more satisfying result against the Blue-Nosed Barbarians than the one on Saturday.

Because, and without wanting to veer into the realms of melodrama more suited to the Sky Sports production office, this was a game Liverpool really couldn't afford to lose. For all kinds of reasons.

Of course, a defeat in itself wouldn't have signalled the end of our top four aspirations. Nor would it have provided compelling evidence of a seismic power-shift in Merseyside's football landscape. But it would have been perhaps the sharpest dagger yet in the hearts of supporters slowly rediscovering a measure of belief, in their team, in their manager and perhaps in themselves, in the midst of this most tumultuous of seasons.

Whilst not performing with the remorseless intensity or unyielding conviction of the previous campaign, we have in recent weeks quietly established the foundations for a sustained push up the table. Six games unbeaten, five without conceding, pointed to a team regaining its solidity and, although the football on display was often functional rather than fluid, it's been enough to send the media vultures flitting away in search of fresh carrion (dutifully provided by relentless charm vacuum, England's Brave John Terry).

To have endured another setback here, against our bitterest (in all senses of the word) rivals, would have reignited the debate about Benitez’s competence, a debate that has been framed in such a way by the popular press as to leave no-one in any doubt as to the conclusions they are meant to arrive at. And, as is generally the case with such an emotive issue, the resulting divisions and recriminations serve only to foster the kind of instability that seldom ends well for anyone.

So the importance of Dirk Kuyt’s sharply-taken 55th minute header can not be over-stated. In truth, this was the kind of game Kuyt thrives on. He’s never going to be found wanting when commitment, hard work and physical presence are the essential requirements, and his performance here was a timely reminder to those who have questioned his worth and his place in the team. Quite simply, Kuyt was an example to all - tireless when Everton were in possession, closing down, harrying, intercepting, yet always available as an outlet when his team were on the offensive. His performance typified Liverpool’s grim determination to take three points, a conviction only heightened by their numerical disadvantage.

Referee Atkinson’s decision to dismiss Kyrgiakos could perhaps be justified given his view of the incident, which emphasised the centre-back’s lunge whilst masking Fellaini’s ugly follow-through. However, many of his other judgements revealed a degree of eccentricity, ineptitude and wrong-headedness on a par with Jedward covering the Velvet Underground’s ‘Heroin.’

How Pienaar managed to escape with just a yellow card for his despicable over-the-ball challenge on Mascherano would have left David Blaine flummoxed; that he received the exact same punishment for an innocuous leap towards Gerrard only emphasised the referee’s failure to exert any consistent measure of control. Similarly, Fellaini could count himself fortunate to receive no censure when attempting to volley Kuyt’s head from his shoulders.

Happily this was to be a day, unlike many this season, where inadequate refereeing did not materially affect the final result. In fact, it may be said that the loss of Fellaini, a man with the appearance and demeanour of something living in a ditch on Sesame Street, had a greater impact on Everton than the dismissal of Kyrgiakos had on Liverpool, given his aerial prowess and combative nature. The introduction of a half-fit Arteta as a replacement ultimately worked in Liverpool’s favour, given the lack of time and space in midfield and the relative ease with which his ambition was suppressed.

This was a victory to belie the oft-repeated notion of Liverpool as a two-man team. That’s not to denigrate the contribution of Steven Gerrard, who gave a performance of thoughtfulness and controlled passion to indicate at last that his peak form is returning. But collectively, Liverpool were immense. Matching Kuyt’s guts and industry every step of the way were Mascherano and Carragher, each displaying the kind of commitment and leadership that were perhaps absent earlier in the season. Reina, surely a shoo-in for the Player of the Year shortlist, was as dependable as we’ve come to expect; Insua demonstrated that he possesses the defensive capabilities to complement his attacking instincts; N’Gog ensured that the Everton defenders were constantly under pressure and underlined that, if he can only improve his decision-making, he could become a significant force at the highest level.

In terms of organisation, character, composure and ultimately, elation, Saturday’s derby brought back memories of the first Champions League semi-final against Chelsea. Obviously, and without wanting to go too far down the road of belittling Everton (which, after all, is never the most challenging of tasks), there exists a vast gulf in the quality of opposition in the two matches. But, from Liverpool’s perspective, getting somewhere near that level of self-belief and unity can only be a positive.

It remains to be seen whether we can build on this and achieve the kind of consistency required to push for a top four finish. In this respect, the next two games will be hugely instructive. But with the likes of Torres, Benayoun and Johnson to return, and with Gerrard, Aquilani, Rodriguez and Riera getting closer to full fitness, it’s fair to say that, after what seems like a long, miserable winter, we can finally allow ourselves to look ahead with cautious optimism.

That's what a derby win can do for you. And that's why we should treasure every one.