The clocks went forward last night, and this morning, we rose. The sun was out and the warm spring air wrapped its arms around us.
All over Liverpool. All over the country. All over Europe. All over the world. We all woke up just that little bit earlier than we would otherwise have liked on a Sunday morning. Some of us were nursing hangovers. Some of us just felt sick, and alcohol had nothing to do with it. I woke up at 9am, and there was no chance of me getting back to sleep.
We watched it all yesterday. We didn’t dare hope. If we let ourselves for one second think that actually, Palace were playing well, and they could win this, we’d tell ourselves off. City not beating Arsenal? No chance. Not a chance. I said it yesterday: Palace beating Chelsea was one thing – I’d take that all day long, because Arsenal weren’t going to get a thing.
Then it happened. We sat back, and for a second we bit our lips. Our eyes were deceiving us. “It’s in Liverpool’s hands”, they said. After a short delay, it sank in.
It was in our hands.
So this morning, we rose.
All over the world, people like me. Kids like me. Born on the 27th of September 1990. Never seen it. Had good times that we’ll always treasure, never take for granted. Had Istanbul. That was amazing. The FA Cup. The treble under Houllier. The League Cup under Kenny. Brilliant. Makes you love football.
We had 08/09. It wasn’t to be. Shortly afterwards, we’d be stood outside the Royal Courts of Justice, trying to get our club back. Standards Corrupted.
We had Hodgson and Konchesky and Poulsen and Jovanovic.
For a while there, I was wondering if I’d see it. It wasn’t even that we had to win the league, we just needed to be… good. Good again.
Describe it to me, lads. Tell me what it was like watching us in the 80s.
Tell me if we’re as good as I think we are right now.
Because I woke up this morning and I felt nervous, but it wasn’t the same as it has been before. Sunderland, right? They got a goal back. It was a bit dodgy for a while. I shat bricks. But I woke up today and something felt different, like I’d finally let myself accept something. I felt like a weight had been lifted off my shoulders.
Football. Oh, football. So many times I’ve wished I didn’t care, because my life would be so much easier. [Poor language removed] football. You wait all week for it – you look forward to it, but you dread it. You want to trust them to pull off the result that they should, but it’s never that simple. You sit there and you’re losing and there’s no way back.
Then this season came along. We can do anything. We play the best football in the country, and some of the best in Europe. We can be losing, but we know we’ll still win. Now, when it’s a game that we should be winning on paper, we’re winning it in reality. I look forward to every game with ravenous anticipation. I’m hungry for it. Bring. It. On.
Tell me that they’re not scared of us. When those players were leaving the pitch today, Anfield erupted, and I’m not sure I’ve ever heard anything quite like that before. Tell me they’re not terrified of us.
One game left.
One after that.
One after that.
One after that.
One after that.
One after that.