Football News
Liverpool Red Diary - part 17
by Joel Rookwood
The Derby, Blackburn & Arsenal
With Liverpudlians again starved of Saturday football, I left, accompanied by the usual crew of tracksuited scallies for Wrexham early on Saturday morning for their match with the absurdly named ‘Kidderminster Harriers’. It served as one of the least memorable days of football I have ever experienced. As we approached the Racecourse ground, a local off duty police officer sporting the local colours threatened me with a £100 fine for dropping litter before we got into the ground. Unfortunately this depressing incident proved a sign of things to come.
The pubs were even quieter than the ground, where barely a conversation could be heard, never mind a song. It seems the most significant occurrence of the day for the inhabitants of that God forsaken alehouse was a group of Scousers entering their pub and asking for a round of Brandies.
It was a miserable day, and an appalling match. The visitors took the lead shortly before the interval, Parrish making amends for an earlier miss with a sweetly struck shot that curled out of the reach of Rogers in the Wrexham goal. The Wrexham crowd thought about a response, but then thought again. No one really seemed to care. The goal did at least kill off the brass band, which was just as well, as I had every intention to do just that myself at half time. The second half saw more of the same - rubbish football that is, with the game’s only notable incident coming a minute from time when the majority of fans were already back at home with their pipe and slippers. Melligan hit a thunderbolt from thirty yards, which rifled into the top corner of the Wrexham goal, and prevented the day from becoming a complete write off. Just.
We stood on the Kop, apparently Wrexham’s most vocal stand, and heard nothing, save for the brass band in one corner of the ground and spasmodic cheers from the small pocket of Harriers’ fans at the opposite end. After experiencing Wrexham, I vowed never again to complain about the atmosphere at Anfield. Well not for at least twenty-four hours.
With Liverpool going thorough a torrid time, and our local rivals Everton riding high, we found ourselves in the unthinkable position of laying a point and a league position behind David Moyes’ men as the following afternoon’s Derby approached. So we went into the crunch encounter knowing that only a win would do, if we were to have any chance of enjoying our Christmas dinner.
But ultimately this goalless derby stalemate proved to be a contest neither side dared lose. And the sad thing is, I was happy with the result. Content to have not beaten and not even scored against a side clearly not as good as ours in our own back yard. But such is the relevance of form and confidence in deciding the outcome of football matches that is the position I found myself in.
Predictably the game was fiercely contested yet lacking in quality. Steven Gerrard, tormentor of Everton sides in previous Derby games summed up the mood in one first half tackle, a challenge that left Evertonians calling for his head, and Liverpudlians calling for a man of the match award. The Liverpool hard man has since apologised for the lunge on Everton’s Gary Naysmith, which although the referee only thought worthy of a booking, will no doubt earn the midfielder a three match ban when the FA get a copy of the incident.
It was dirty and ridiculously high and gets worse with every television replay. And we loved it. Because at a time when some Liverpool players have been found wanting, a man, and a local one at that, stood out from the crowd, desperate to effect a change in Liverpool’s fortunes. At last a sign of encouragement.
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However, in an uneventful first half goal scoring opportunities where few and far between, with Everton probably having the edge in this department. Radzinski and Carsley were guilty of missing the most clear-cut chances for the visitors, whilst efforts from Risse and Gerrard did not prove enough to trouble Richard Wright in the Everton goal. So in a game where chances were at a premium, it appeared a flash of genius or a momentary lapse of concentration would serve as the only method of separating the two sides, as is often the case in such tight affairs. Just ask Jerzy Dudek.
In the second half the Kop finally got its first glimpse of the seventeen-year-old wonder kid, Wayne Rooney who came on as substitute for the visitors. Now I must say the hype surrounding this young prodigy over the past eighteen months has been little short of ridiculous. When the boy was sixteen, months before he’d even played for Everton’s reserves, the stalls lining Liverpool City center were full of Rooney flags. And after the impact he’s had since becoming a first team player, its little wonder Evertonians have dubbed him ‘Roonaldo’. I first saw him playing for an Everton youth team in the FA Youth Cup final against Aston Villa and I must admit, he looked frightening.
The youngster had boldly mocked the Liverpool crowd whilst warming up, and entered the field to cries of ‘Rooney’s going to get you’ from the Everton faithful. Thankfully, it was a prediction that was not to be fulfilled, for although Rooney went close he was not to be rewarded for his efforts with a derby goal which would surely have won the game for Everton, subsequently plunging Liverpool into deeper depths of despair.
The derby banter from the terraces was predictably ugly, with references to Liverpool’s responsibility for the Heysel disaster, such as, ‘murderers, murderers’ and ‘thirty-nine Italians can’t be wrong’. For those of you not familiar with this issue, it relates to Liverpool’s match with Juventus in the 1985 European Cup final that saw thirty-nine fans from Turin perish. But if you were tempted to think that Evertonian obsessions with this event were remotely moral, then think again, for the only reason the blue noses refuse to forget this fateful day is that Everton, having been crowned champions in that season were refused the opportunity to compete in the 1985-86 European cup due to the five year ban imposed by UEFA on English clubs as a result of the disaster. Everton won the league and UEFA Cup that season and also got to the FA Cup final, so undoubtedly deserved the chance to pit their wits against Europe’s finest. However the blame for Everton not getting that opportunity since then, has been and always will be pointed squarely in our direction. And they never let us forget it.
Everton fans also attempted a bit of one-upmanship, with cries of ‘we are the peoples club’ and ‘we’re the pride of Merseyside’. The former chant was a reference to David Moyes’ attempts to instill pride into the blue half of the city shortly after his appointment as Everton boss, by cheekily borrowing from Bill Shankly’s views on Liverpool football club. As for the latter, well that’s just a laughable claim.
The mood around the ground was not aided by the fact that a Liverpool fan had defaced the Dixie Dean statue at Everton’s ground on the morning of the Derby, painting the sculpture of the legendary Evertonian red from head to toe. I was surprised to receive an email from the culprit in a bid to explain his actions, which read:
Dear Red Diary,
I am writing to you in a bid to explain my recent actions without fear
of recrimination. As you will no doubt be aware, prior to last week’s
derby, some one deliberately defaced Everton’s proudest monument,
the Dixie Dean Statue, which stands in the shadows of Goodison Park. And
I must confess, I am the man responsible. I was not intending to cause
any great offence by my actions. In a local derby that is becoming increasingly
hate-filled, I was attempting to insert a little humour. It appears I
have failed.
I’ve heard legendary tales of Evertonians breaking into Anfield in the dead of night and painting the Kop (as it used to be) blue. If I had have been around at the time, I’m quite sure this stunt would not have offended me. In fact, quite the opposite – I’d have wanted to meet the culprits and shake their hands for conducting such a daring and hilarious act. But it appears times have changed.
All I did was to spray the majority of the Dixie Dean statue red. I didn’t chop the head off, or scratch any offensive remark on it. I used a spray paint which I made quite sure would come off with ease when cleaned. And the Derby wasn’t at Goodison, so it’s not as if thousands of Evertonians were likely to see it. Also, with the kick off time being at 4pm, the locals had plenty of time to clean the statue well before fans began to congregate in the area.
It was a practical joke, a show of red defiance in the face of a resurgent Everton, who sit a place above us in the Premiership. No long lasting damage was meant or caused, but when it comes to derby games, certain segments of this football crazy city have a sudden humour bypass.
On the day of the derby, long after the paint had been removed, there were news reports condemning the act - furious and distraught Evertonians expressing their views on local and national radio. And then there was the reaction in the newspapers and websites, which in my view were even more absurd.
One such example, featured on Everton’s official website read,
“This is a disgusting and disrespectful act. I know that all right
thinking lovers of football in this city – be they blue or red –
will condemn this sick piece of vandalism. It would be wrong for us to
opt for a knee jerk response and simply blame Liverpool supporters –
that’s 99.9 per cent of them – would never dream of doing
such a thing. I suspect this is the work of mindless vandals and not football
supporters because Dixie Dean is not only an Everton legend, but a Merseyside
hero.”
So we there we have it. I am a vandal – and a mindless one at that. Though I do agree with certain aspects of this statement. Dixie Dean is a legend and a hero all over Merseyside. Anyone who scores sixty goals in one season, as he did in the 1927-28 season, a record that has never and will never be broken, deserves such status. But there is a statue of another Merseyside legend, which sits less than a mile from where this ‘sick piece of vandalism’ occurred. And if any blue nose had mustered up the courage to paint the Bill Shankly statue blue on the morning of the derby, as long as it was done in a similar manner to my stunt (i.e. using paint that could easily be removed, causing no lasting damage), then I would find it funny.
Does that denote a lack of passion for my club or city, or a lack of respect for one of its legends? Certainly not – I have not missed a single game all season, am extremely proud to hail from this city, and think that Bill Shankly, although I never met him, was one of the greatest men to ever grace this earth. And yet if someone had the bottle to paint that statue blue I would laugh. And that is why I had no shame in committing such an act. It was meant as a joke.
But I fear I have done nothing for blue-red relations in this city, and have possibly even fanned the flames of detestation. And if so (which time will tell), then regardless of my view, I will regret this act. If some sick individual from the blue half of the city chooses to seek vengeance by causing long- lasting and utterly disrespectful damage to something Liverpudlians hold dear then maybe as I take subsequent walks past the statue, the glimmer of red that remains on Dixie will cause me no satisfaction, but instead remind me of something I shouldn’t have started.
Yours in Merseyside,
Anonymous.
On Boxing Day Blackburn came to Anfield, a game that Liverpool simply had to win, with the following two fixtures away to Arsenal and then Newcastle, and our title aspirations disappearing in front of our eyes. It proved another tight affair at Anfield, with goal opportunities few and far between. Liverpool lead for the majority of the match thanks to a Riise goal, a strike deflected heavily before eventually nestling in the Blackburn net after seventeen minutes.
Predictably Houllier decided to change the team for this must win game, bringing in Emile Heskey for Milan Baros, and Vladimir Smicer for Salif Diao. But it was the approach more than the team that vexed Liverpudlians. As yet again, after securing an advantage Liverpool sat on the one goal lead, inviting Blackburn to attack as a result.
The chance that saw Liverpool go into an early lead came from a Blackburn defensive mistake, an error that was not untypical of the visitors’ play, as frequent errors were a characteristic of the first half. Liverpool though failed to capitalize on the Lancastrian defensive frailties, as much through lack of inclination as poor finishing. It was to be another frustrating afternoon.
In the second period Anfield’s least favorite son and Blackburn manager Graeme Souness attempted to reshuffle his side’s approach, replacing fullback Nils-Eric Johansson with Egil Ostenstad. Within minutes the substitute had an immediate impact setting up former Manchester United hit man Andy Cole with a chance, though he drove wastefully over the bar.
Cole was not to be denied a goal at the Kop end however and converted a subsequent opportunity expertly with thirteen minutes remaining. Liverpool had introduced Baros into the game, and whilst the Czech forward was lively, the change came too late for it to have any subsequent impact. Owen went close to winning the game for Liverpool in the closing stages, but the impressive former Liverpool ‘keeper Brad Friedel saved well. As the final whistle went, so did any hopes even the most optimistic of Kopites had of bringing the league championship to Anfield come May. We desperately need a win, but predictably the fixture list has not been kind, with a trip to Arsenal next on the agenda.
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With Arsenal tickets proving once again like goal dust if you’re a Scouser (as opposed to a member of the Essex, Bergen or Singapore Liverpool fan clubs), I had to travel alone, with none of my usual accomplices proving successful in their bid to acquire tickets. So I decided to go down the day before and take in a match in the South East with my aging father. I had promised him a seat in the executive area at Selhurst Park for the match between Crystal Palace and Preston, though was let down at the last moment. So we had to change our plans, deciding instead to head for the South coast, with Brighton our chosen destination.
We arrived at BAHAFC (a ridiculous mouthful even in abbreviated form) to find the game was completely sold out, not surprisingly given that the capacity of this ‘football’ ground was only around six thousand. We took more than that to Rome for a fourth-round UEFA Cup-tie the season before last for God sake. But whilst our spirits where dampened on this further piece of bad news, they were not altogether sodden, as I noticed the ground was at the bottom of a steep hill. Surely there had to be some location somewhere up the hill from where the game could be viewed? From the pained expression on my dad’s face, it was clear that he had read my intentions, and knew attempting to talk me out of traipsing all over Brighton to find a spec was futile.
After an hour’s walk we eventually found a place where fans of both teams who had also been unsuccessful in attempting to get tickets were congregating. So we watched the game sitting on a fence at the south end of the ground, from where only about 2/3 of the pitch was visible. When the ball went out of view we were entertained by some Burnley fans outside the ground, who were too drunk to realise that climbing over the fence into the Withdean stadium was actually a bad idea. Their stupidity was rewarded with a night in the cells. Those away fans fortunate enough to get into the ground taunted their hosts with cries of ‘you’re going down on your boyfriend’. With Brighton second from bottom and with a reputation for homosexuality, those of us who understood the abuse were quite amused. Though in hindsight it’s probably heard wherever Brighton play so I’m not surprised only a handful of us found it funny.
A goal either side of half time put the visitors in an unassailable lead that did not look in any danger when we left with two minutes to go. By the time we had arrived back at the car to listen to the results on the radio, Steve Coppell’s side had equalised, with two goals in as many minutes. Bloody typical. However, the next morning I awoke to found that Brighton’s luck had finally deserted them, with the news that their famous Pier had collapsed into the sea. I heard the news whilst supplying the finishing touches to my latest flag, in preparation for the trip to Auxerre next month before setting off for Highbury. Serves them right for having such a crap ground.
I was unfortunately subjected to crowds of Arsenal fans on the train to Highbury, but was soon able to escape the hoards of cockneys and get back with the Liverpool fans in the Drayton Park, a boozer we seem to take over every season, situated around the corner from the ground. The singing there was as good as its been anywhere this season, though the Scousers were diluted with Scandinavians armed with camcorders requesting songs about John Arne Riise. I could have started the ‘why are these lot getting tickets when my mates are sat at home’ argument, but in truth I couldn’t be bothered. So we gave them a few stories and no doubt countless memories to take home with them, before concentrating on the task in hand. Lifting our team in the hope we could scrape a win against the Champions.
Our last game of 2002 finally provided the performance I had been craving - solid, convincing, and dependable. For some reason I didn’t fear going to play the Double winners in their own backyard. Highbury is never a cauldron of noise, and Liverpool’s dismal run had to come to an end somewhere. I was even optimistic we could end our four hundred game run without a win, though I should have known better.
In the first half we played exactly how we should have played away to Arsenal. We gave nothing away and did not look like conceding. We didn’t create much either which the media mistook for an inadequate performance. But when you’re short of confidence you don’t go on all out attack. But we did play like a side in form at times, and after witnessing our performances over the last six weeks, it was a refreshing change, I can tell you.
The second half saw Liverpool come out of their shell a little, even putting the Arsenal goal under pressure from time to time. Then with a little more than twenty minutes remaining, every Scouser at the Clock end thought our long wait for three points was finally at an end, when Danny Murphy dispatched a penalty with some aplomb.
Cue Franny Jeffers. The former Evertonian and least influential forward in England, came on for the closing stages of the match, with his only contribution to dive under a ‘challenge’ from Riise in the penalty area at the North Bank to earn Arsenal a penalty of their own. And with ten minutes remaining, Thierry Henry killed off any hopes Liverpool fans were harboring of going home having secured all three points. We just knew we weren’t going to score a second, and so did Arsenal. But in truth whilst we had taken a solitary point from a game we could easily have won, I was not too downhearted for at least the performance was there. Four points from eight games in the league tells its own story, but we’re now four unbeaten. The question is, will we take this form onto Newcastle in three days time?
As I left the ground I felt dejected and annoyed, bemoaning our continued misfortune. And it was then, stuck motionless in a seemingly endless queue for a tube, that I got my sister’s message to say my Grandad had died. To say the news put things into perspective would be a wild understatement. He had been ill for some time so the news was not unexpected, but it was nevertheless a shock, as thoughts of the fortunes of a football team suddenly paled into insignificance.
So if I may, I’d like to dedicate this issue of Red Diary to the memory of the late Lieutenant Colonel Charles MacFetridge. You and your endless tales of yesteryear will be sorely missed.
The views expressed here are those of the author and are not necessarily endorsed by Soccerphile Ltd.
