Breaking On Through

[Originally printed in Well Red magazine in Summer 2013]

You may not have noticed but Ray Manzarek, founder member and keyboard boffin of 60’s legends, The Doors, died recently.  For someone who fully bought into the whole Jim Morrison mythology, and once spent a particularly fraught afternoon trawling through a Paris cemetery to locate the grave of the erstwhile Lizard King, the passing of Manzarek was a sad occasion.  He always came across as an overly eccentric uncle, slightly frazzled by the excesses of an acid-drenched culture, stubbornly clinging to the last vestiges of hippy idealism.  But basically a decent sort, happy to trade on his memories and his musical legacy.

 

It was while thinking of Ray that a quote came to mind, often erroneously attributed to Morrison but more likely to have been conjured by the bespectacled organ lieutenant. It goes like this:

“There are things known and there are things unknown.  And in between are the doors.”

Now if I was some kind of lazy cleric, desperately trying to fabricate a tenuous connection between his faith and what he perceives to be the modern world, perhaps as a futile attempt to disguise his fear of women and gay people, this would be the point at which I’d say something like “…and, in a funny sort of way, that’s a bit like God.”

But I’m not.  I’m a militant atheist.  So all bets are off, really.

However, in an equally spurious manner I’m happy to take Ray Manzarek’s quote and, in an attempt to reawaken your no doubt flagging interest, apply it to an area that will hopefully resonate more strongly than long-gone psychedelic rock bands and hip priests craving appreciation.

Clearly, I’m talking about Liverpool’s defence.  Bear with me.

There are things known.  We know that there is a glaring need to address certain deficiencies in our back-line.  A vulnerability to set-pieces, an inclination to sit slightly deeper than was anticipated when Brendan Rodgers took over, a lack of concentration which has too often resulted in goals conceded.  The retirement of Jamie Carragher, arguably still our most potent defensive force last season, may have exacerbated such troubles, though the signing of Kolo Toure could well turn out to be a shrewd piece of business. 

True, the team had a creditable clean-sheet record, but this was offset by a disturbing tendency to crumble under pressure, encapsulated by the 17 league games in which our opponents scored two or more times.  Despite the growing influence of sports psychology, it seems that resilience and mental fortitude have not yet become fully embedded within the Anfield dressing room.

There are things unknown.  We don’t know which defenders will or won’t be at the club by the time the transfer window closes.  With Carragher gone, speculation has been rife that Skrtel is on his way out, while murmurs persist that any or all of Agger, Johnson and Enrique may follow. 

Simultaneously, we are linked to a host of potential replacements ranging from the effective yet limited (Williams) to the promising yet unproven (Ilori), via the cult figure cum borderline psychopath (Papadopoulos).  Although, as most of these links are circulated by on-line fantasists whose cravings for attention make Jessie J look like Syd Barrett, you might want to hang fire before dangling a Greek flag from your bedroom window.

And in between are the doors.  At the risk of stretching an analogy to a point previously only attempted in the Director’s Cut of ‘Fight Club’, the doors in this scenario could well be our route to defensive salvation.  For our purposes, flinging open the doors may reveal the future.  For, standing patiently, waiting for their cue to stride forward and kick the bloody things down, are Martin Kelly and Andre Wisdom.

There has been much talk of the need to bolster our defence, to cast our eyes far and wide in the search for the next Carragher, the next Hansen, perhaps even, given our desperation, the next Phil Babb.  Now there’s a prospect to chill the blood.

So, what if there are a couple of ready-made solutions already under our collective noses?  In the limited time Kelly and Wisdom have spent on the pitch they have displayed the kind of assurance, commitment and, most importantly in this context, defensive aptitude more commonly seen in considerably more senior players.  Sure, they have a rawness to their games that reflects their inexperience at the top level.  That’s inevitable. 

But if Brendan Rodgers is prepared to take a deep breath and, either separately or as a bold dual statement, offer them the opportunity to prove they are worthy of a regular first-team place, it could be a move to both define and validate his managerial credentials.

Kelly, in particular, has already shown himself capable of excelling on the biggest stages.  He has started games at Old Trafford and Stamford Bridge, the Emirates and the Etihad.  He’s survived the Mersyside derby maelstrom and shone in European competition.  It’s easily forgotten but, thanks to the impeccable judgement of renowned football visionary, Roy Hodgson, he’s also an England international.

Typically deployed in the right back berth, Kelly has demonstrated the composure and solidity to indicate that he can be more than just a back-up player.  With Glen Johnson’s performances falling anywhere between ‘sublime’ and ‘Degen’ on the competence spectrum, it would be no surprise if Kelly, with his consistency, his physical presence and his hair like a less-punchable Vernon Kay, became a fixture on the teamsheet in the coming season.

 

Though, like many others, I am convinced that Kelly’s long-term future lies in the heart of defence.  He presents all the attributes required to excel in a central position, his pace and comfort in possession seemingly fundamental qualities for a defender in a Rodgers team.  If he can overcome his susceptibility to injury, something which has badly impeded his progress in the last couple of years, Kelly could establish himself as a latter-day Lawrenson, which, I must emphasise to those familiar only with his joyless mission to rescue the art of football analysis from the high-brow musings of Alan Shearer and Robbie Savage, is a very good thing.

Now 23, Kelly seems ideally placed to exert his claim. 

Wisdom, though less advanced in the pecking order, is just as intriguing a prospect.  Still a rookie in the wider scheme of things, it’s rare to find a young defender with such confidence, aggression and positional understanding.  Thrown into the first team in the early part of last season, he never looked out of place.  Like Kelly, he’s mainly been deployed as a right back; also like Kelly, he seems naturally suited to a more central role, where his decision making and leadership qualities can be given free rein.

Whereas other newcomers to the backline have struggled to adapt to the demands placed on them, consequently appearing easy prey to forwards quick to sniff out their vulnerability (*cough* - Coates - *cough*), Wisdom stood out as someone who thrived on the responsibility of the position.  That’s a rare quality and one which, if nurtured correctly, should see him become an integral part of tomorrow’s Liverpool.

In fact, I’ll go further and suggest that if, in 5 years’ time, Wisdom isn’t captaining both club and country, working on his second autobiography and progressing to the latter stages of Strictly Come Dancing, something will have gone very, very wrong.   That’s the kind of career development I think all of our most promising youngsters should aspire to. 

It seems that the club finally understands the benefits of building up and promoting our emerging home-grown talent.  It is the way of the football hipster to bemoan British players as essentially dog-muck; to opine that the only way to ensure real quality is to recruit from more exotic climes, be it Spain, South America or, er, Armenia.  Our recent experiences do little to contradict this.

But, as ever, the truth lies in the margins.  Why don’t we look at the standard of players we already possess, whatever their passport says, and give them the confidence to attain the levels we all want them to reach?   If that means cultivating lads who have grown up as part of the club, who are more likely to be fully in tune with its history, demands and culture, and who may be less inclined to jump ship a few years down the line, then that surely is a strategy we can all get behind?  We acknowledge the need to replace Carragher and Gerrard, players who have become part of the fabric of the club, but struggle to accept that their (eventual) loss will be felt as much for what they represent as anything they have achieved.

So let’s look to Martin Kelly.  Let’s look to Andre Wisdom.  Let’s smash the doors down and watch the new breed storm through.

It’s what Ray Manzarek would have wanted.

And, as his oppo, Jim Morrison, once said, “No eternal reward will forgive us now for wasting the dawn.”

I’m not sure precisely what that means but I’m sure you’d agree, in a funny sort of way, it’s a bit like God….

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?