by Joel Rookwood
After the unforgettable events of Easter Saturday, and yet another famous derby win, the celebrations that followed ensured that Monday afternoon didn't take long in coming, with Charlton the visitors to Anfield for this Bank Holiday encounter. I always feel a bit sorry for fans who have to travel on a public holiday, with England's public transport network proving even less reliable than normal. But my sympathy for Charlton fans was not limitless, after they inflicted a painful defeat on us during our 'bad spell', sandwiched between defeats against Man United and Sunderland among others. It was such defeats that led some to claim this was the worst season in living memory. And for the majority of this contest, it seemed a game destined to be just as frustrating.
The last time the sides met, in the weeks leading up to Christmas, our worrying form that had seen us topple from the Premiership summit at an alarming rate was in stark contrast to that of The Addicks, who were at the time on course for European qualification. But roles had been reversed leading up to this game, with Liverpool having a Champions League place firmly within their sights and Curbishley's men on the back of a series of poor results. We had won five from six in the league, and they had lost five from six going in to this game - but in truth you would have never guessed.
For it was Lisbie and Bartlett in the Charlton attack who looked the more threatening partnership, with Owen and Co not calling Dean Kiely into action until the back end of the first half, when a Michael Owen effort was comfortably saved by the former Ireland international, before both Gerrard and Riise went close as the home side gradually came to life. Houllier responded at the interval by replacing Heskey with Baros, much to the delight of the Liverpool faithful, who grew more impatient as the game wore on.
Our best player of the half was probably Djimi Traore, who put in another commanding performance in the center of defence alongside captain Hyypia, the latter having returned after suspension. In the absence of the injured Henchoz the much-maligned Traore has been our most improved defender over the last few weeks, and has had much to do with the recent resurgence of the Mighty Reds. It was more than a little unfortunate therefore that the player's worst attribute proved his undoing in the most excruciatingly painful of circumstances, with the second half just moments old.
The French defender is brilliant at what he does – defending, but on the ball he is simply woeful. And so when he received possession as the last defender on the edge of the area, my heart sank as, for some inexplicable reason he tried to turn instead of simply clearing the ball. He subsequently panicked and lost his footing, presenting the onrushing Bartlett the opportunity to pick up the ball and fire the Londoners into an unlikely lead, which he did with consummate ease. Big Jim meanwhile was out for the count. He wasn't injured whilst turning, and although the physio Dave Galley came on to help the player to his feet, it seems our first team coach Jacques Crevoisier, armed with his doctorate in psychology would have been a more helpful figure. The big defender was indeed distraught after his costly error and took time to find his feet. But it could prove to be a blessing in disguise now however, as hopefully this altercation will have taught him that if he hasn't got the ball, he should win it, and if he has got possession he should give the ball to someone in a red shirt who can do something with it other than gift rap it for an opposing center forward ten yards from goal. But this costly error could only be perceived as remotely advantageous to the Scouse cause if Liverpool were going to be able to rescue themselves from what was threatening to be another painful home defeat.
But after the goal, the response the crowd were hoping for didn't exactly materialise, as the tension began to seep into the players from the stands. Then when Smicer and Cheyrou were introduced, many sensed the game would prove beyond us. Those with a little more faith however were set to see their trust rewarded, as captain marvel Sami Hyypia stabbed the ball home amid a frantic scramble in the Charlton goal, to level the scores with only four minutes remaining.
With Liverpool attacking the Kop end in the second half, despite the fact Dudek was called upon to produce a stunning save after Euell threatened to restore Charlton's lead with a powerful header, local lad-turned-hero Steven Gerrard was set to have the last word on proceedings. With injury time looming, the Huyton-born midfielder burst into a seemingly non-existent space between two Charlton defenders and fired the ball under Kiely to send the Kop into a state of wild hysteria, and to leave the Londoners with the prospect of an ultra-depressing trip home to the capital.
With this win we were now back in the driving seat, with our Champions League destiny firmly in our own hands. And with Newcastle only managing a point at home to lowly Aston Villa, who knows, maybe third place isn't beyond us. Three games now remain, with a hat-trick of wins required. Complete this task, and we'll be back in with the big boys next season, as we attempt to banish the Champions League nightmare of Basle for good. Worst season in living memory? Do me a favour.
The trip to West Brom for our penultimate away day of the season, unfortunately involved another run in with Barnes Travel, and the Happy Al's Coaches. The six of us stupid enough to accept the challenge were split up for the trip on board the Sauna Express, and had to sit in excruciating pain, the taste of warm brandy doing little to compensate for the lack of air conditioning or open windows on the sweltering vehicle.
Now West Brom is the only ground in the league I have never been to. In fact we haven't visited the Hawthorns in the league for sixteen years, and whilst I vaguely remember beating them there in the League Cup in 1997, I didn't go that night and so have never had the fortune of sampling West Bromwich hospitality. And as with Sheffield United at Bramall Lane earlier in the season, this was set to be an unfamiliar and somewhat unfriendly trip.
As we poured off the coach and went in search of an alehouse, our attempts were to be consistently thwarted by a combination of irate and snarling animals, fierce old women and boarded up entrances - this town certainly wasn't for the fainthearted. So instead we took a walk around some of the town's more colourful districts, and somehow escaped without dying in the process.
I'm not entirely sure why, but no doubt the brandy consumed en route to the West Midlands had something to do with my attempts to enter the back seat of the car of some nutter as he sat motionless at a cross roads. As a result of my actions he was a little irate to say the least, with his response being to speed off recklessly into oncoming traffic, nearly killing himself and those around him. He then proceeded, somewhat bizarrely to drive five yards, stop without any warning to those behind him, beep his horn for thirty seconds, with his finger raised in our direction, and then do the same thing all over again. It seems he was trying to raise local awareness to his distress, which it has to be said was fairly minimal. We laughed at him for a bit, though the possibility of him being armed with a sword or a device capable of doing away with a small town was on our minds. We then went on in search of a pub that might serve ale to Scousers, and keep us out of trouble with the locals. The closest we got was a 'pub' called 'New Navigation', which would have had to smarten itself up somewhat to qualify for slum status, believe me.
So we were destined not to succeed in our mission, and instead we were left in no doubt of just what a shed this part of the world is. If anyone ever fancies making a film about the war in Iraq, I've found an ideal setting, which clearly shows the devastating effects of desolation. All the director would need to do is smash the place up a bit and West Brom would prove an ideal location. …And to think their fans still come to Anfield and sing about 'Liverpool slums' - the idiots.
As our search for alcohol reached a stage of desperation, little did we know but behind a run-down though highly active garage, which specialized only in BMWs with blacked out windows, our saviour was about to be revealed to us, in the most unlikely of forms – Jandu's Convenience Store. After purchasing a bevy or two each in this, the epicenter of Black Country life, we decided it was best to vacate the area after hearing Jandu's friends telling him to lock up before the police came to 'sort us out'. The charming proprietor then decided to quickly pull the shutters of his lovely establishment down on us. We defiantly remained outside the premises and sang songs about how good it is to come from Liverpool. The passing locals seemed impressed. Before we vacated the area we swore revenge on this genius entrepreneur, with one of the lads storing Jandu's phone number, which was displayed above the shop door, in his mobile for safekeeping.
En route to the ground we met some similarly friendly local supporters who were clearly excited by the prospect Liverpudlians were in town. One such individual thought it would be funny to stick his hands up and plead with us not to rob him. We cheered in response, as although it was painfully unfunny and unoriginal, it seemed an attempt of repartee and for once not a threat of death. The charming man then turned and inexplicably yelled f$!%ing t$!%s at us. Simply delightful banter.
Then after a brief and unplanned tour of the ground we entered the Hawthorns, where the idiotic stadium announcer managed to read the name of just about every Liverpool player who has never played for England incorrectly. By 5.00pm however, the precise names of these players would doubtless be etched on his brain, assuming his tired eyes were quick enough to follow the men in red as they rampaged all afternoon, terrorising the Midlander's defence with an unquenchable thirst for West Bromwich Albion blood.
With the Baggies already condemned to the first division, Liverpool threatened to send Megson's men down with a sucker punch, when Michael Owen set the ball rolling, opening the scoring with just fifteen minutes played. The number ten collected the ball from Riise who shrugged off the attentions of Clement and placed the ball in the corner of the West Brom goal, but the player was still a single strike shy of his hundredth league goal as the interval approached. Indeed Houllier's side looked a little sloppy after taking the lead, with both Murphy and Baros guilty of missing clear-cut chances to increase the visitor's lead. But the Liverpool management team were clearly not about to settle for yet another nervous win, as the half time team talk certainly served to spark the Scousers into life.
In the ground our group of six had managed to occupy a space designed only for two, in a bid to keep the assembly together, with each squashed Scouser becoming increasingly annoyed by the presence of a slightly strange man of Chinese extraction, who was stood in front of us. What aggravated us about this individual was not only his intensely infuriating behaviour, but that his presence was denying one of us, a fellow Liverpudlian the opportunity to be at the game. The man, who shall be referred to as 'the irritation', insisted on standing - sporting a Formula One jacket - with one leg perched on the seat in front, waving at the West Brom fans for ninety minutes, singing "steeee gerrr" and "olly olly gereee hoouueee" at regular intervals. If the price of fame and fortune is the infiltration of fans such as this, then relegate us to the football wilderness…
Before long the players had reëntered the arena and we could focus once again on what was occurring on the pitch. And within minutes of the restart Baros claimed his first of the afternoon, scrambling the ball home from close range. Owen then netted his century in similarly unremarkable fashion, as he collected a rebounded shot from Baros and made no mistake with the finish. Then just when you thought Owen would take the foot off the gas, he went on the rampage again, finishing off another Baros effort that Hoult could not hold, before latching on to an inch perfect ball from Murphy minutes later, subsequently notching his fourth of the afternoon.
The West Brom faithful (and say what you want about the inhabitants of this much-maligned town, but any set of fans who remain in their seats despite witnessing this cruel destruction of their team, deserve such an accolade), were further tortured with a rendition of "There's only one Steve Bull", which didn't go down well. The Wolves legend, who has just had a stand named after him at nearby Molineux, was at West Brom before they released him to the old enemy. The England international went on to become Wolves' greatest ever player, and is not the most popular man in West Bromich as a result. After this song, neither were we.
Following the game, the mood around the ground seemed strangely up beat. We even chatted briefly with some West Brom fans outside the stadium, and wished them luck in their bid to regain their Premiership status next season. They responded in kind by expressing their best wishes for us in our bid for Champions League qualification. But just as though our opinions of the town were threatening to change, with the unforgettable events of the previous two hours in stark contrast to the hellish couple of hours we endured before the game, things were about to turn nasty once again.
Now our coach was the first in a line of about fifteen, waiting to transport Liverpool fans back home. As soon as we had boarded the double-decker vehicle, I was alerted to a fairly violent scene unfolding on the pavement next to us. When I saw that a group of at least eight Asian men were stamping on the head of one Liverpudlian, who lay helpless on the ground, I saw red, and a load of us piled off the coach and gave chase. It was a good ten minutes before they were caught, but as the quickest amongst this group of irate Liverpudlians had reached the Midlanders, and began inflicting his own unique brand of justice, the police arrived on the scene, with impeccable timing.
The thin blue line managed to prevent the incident from escalating out of control, and they were unsympathetic to our claims against the group of idiots. I was wise enough to realise that when you're not on your own turf, the maltreatment of your fellow aliens is of little concern to the local constabulary, so kept my protests to a minimum. We weren't nutters looking for trouble, but when you see such violence it's hard not to react. When things had calmed down, we gave personal details to the police - not our own, I hasten to add - and made our way back to the coaches. With ours being the first coach in line, every vehicle that stood motionless behind was forced to wait for our return. But having just won six nil, our fellow Scousers were thankfully fairly patient.
Back on the coach, the racist chanting from the majority, (which I must state I was not a part of) inspired by the previous events soon became refocused on issues closer to the hearts of Liverpudlians, such as cries of "Harold Shipman's me cat" together with the song "All we are saying, is give him parole", the latter obviously relating to the subject of the first song, which was sung to the tune of Lennon's peace anthem. The rest of the time on the sweltering coach was spent making prank calls to Jandu, who was less than receptive. By the way, if any Newcastle fans (West Brom's next opponents at the Hawthorns) want Jandu's phone number in order to conduct similarly mischievous behaviour, don't hesitate to contact me. And with the guarantee that 'the irritation' won't be present, you Geordies are sure to have the time of your lives at West Brom. They are generous people, particularly in defence.
It's been sixteen years since our last league meeting at the Hawthorns, and I hope they don't get promoted in the next sixteen, 'cause I'll be damned if I'm going there again. I'll just watch the next six nil win on the TV at home. Well on second thoughts, maybe not… For this was a monstrous win. And just as when I was returning from Ipswich last year after another six-nil win, the journey home, regardless of how problematic it was, passed with the minimum of stress - as it always seems to when you've just won in such emphatic style. And as for the rest of the season, we're now down the final two, and we must now win them both. If this bid is successful, then this strange old season can actually end on a good note.
And when it does we can feel a sense of satisfaction, at rescuing the campaign regardless of the mid season blip. Though it has to be said that despite our overall relief, there will be a tinge of sadness, for as with every season we curse its final curtain. The last thing you want is three months starved of football to spend playing cricket, sitting on beaches and going on endless shopping trips with the wife. The very thought makes me shudder. Though when your team is on top form, but has peaked too late in the day to make amends for the disappointing drop in form, it is even more frustrating to see the term come to an end.
For although this season has been a term of antitheses, going unbeaten in the first twelve games, then going eleven without a win, followed by a run of eight wins from our last twelve outings, with Saturday, and the six-nil annihilation of poor old West Brom to cap it off, it is still heart breaking to end a season on top form, when so much more could have been achieved.
West Brom's ever honest manager Gary Megson conceded that Saturday's encounter was 'a disaster waiting to happen', a game which was effectively 'men against boys' - a refreshingly honest, response but a fairly obvious one at the same time. It could have been fifteen, it should have been at least ten, and that's not even a biased view. How the Midlanders had the audacity to have a shot when we were six goals to the good in the closing stages is beyond me. And while I said when West Brom visited Anfield that they were among the worst teams to have ever graced the Premier League, this shouldn't take away from how brilliant Houllier's side were. And remember that, all you doubters. This is Houllier's team, and the rebuilding process that will begin in the summer, will surely not begin on such fragile foundations as some would have you believe. Win the remaining two games and that's a trophy and Champions League qualification from this, 'the worst season in living memory.' Oh ye of little faith and short memories, when will you learn?
Southampton, Blackburn, Preston & Newcastle, Birmingham City, Valencia, West Bromwich Albion, Spartak Moscow, Chelsea, The Fields of Anfield Road, Leeds United, West Ham, Middlesbrough, Fulham, Ipswich & Charlton, Vitesse, Sunderland & Villa, The Derby, Blackburn & Arsenal, Newcastle, Man City, Sheffield Utd & Villa, Southampton and Sheffield Utd, Crystal Palace & Arsenal, West Ham, Auxerre, Manchester United, Bolton, Spurs, Man Utd Again, Hillsborough Remembered, Everton, Charlton.