Standing in the corridor of Swansea City’s Liberty Stadium last Saturday, a twinkle-eyed Jose Mourinho had revealed the full extent of his man crush on Steven Gerrard.
It had been his dream, he said, to bring the Liverpool captain to Chelsea in 2005. He had spent hours fantasising with the club owner, Roman Abramovich, about the midfield partnership Gerrard would form with Frank Lampard, about the power, the poise, the drive the pair would deliver. He had even worked out a solution to the decade-long conundrum that had so taxed England managers: how to accommodate the pair in the same midfield. Simple, he said, get them to play in front of the defensive shield that was Claude Makelele. The answer, apparently, was there all the time for England to get the best out of their gilded duo: just naturalise Makelele.
But the what-if question hanging around Anfield as Mourinho’s Chelsea engaged in the never-ending story of cup semi-finals against Liverpool was this: if the manager had lured him to Stamford Bridge a decade ago, would Gerrard still be in his team? Would he still be the man? Or would he, like Lampard, have been moved on, his place taken by the whip-smart midfielders who occupy Mourinho’s fantasy moments?
For the Liverpool supporters, the relief that the question need never be answered was everywhere palpable. The proximity to the Capital One Cup final had taken on the proportions of a personal crusade. One fan in the Kop waved a bedsheet banner before kick-off instructing the captain’s colleagues to 'Get to Wembley for Stevie’. But Gerrard’s hopes of signing off at Anfield with a trophy were confronted with a major obstacle: his former suitor Mourinho.
The Chelsea manager showed his respect by choosing a midfield that would make it as hard as possible for the Liverpool No?8. Only Oscar was missing from his usual fluid, electric-heeled quintet, replaced by the robust presence of John Obi Mikel, who, while maybe not adding to the sum of creativity, was there to test the great man’s shin pads. The oldest of that midfield five, incidentally, is Cesc Fabregas: at 27, he is seven years younger than Gerrard.
But still the Liverpool captain went into this game as if anxious to show exactly what Mourinho had missed. In this era of gloves, tights and snood, Gerrard gave a mark of intent by emerging into the snowy Anfield evening wearing a short-sleeved shirt. Stationed in the middle of an advanced trio, flanked by Lazar Markovic and Philippe Coutinho, and just behind Raheem Sterling, his role was clearly to attack.
From the start he did his best. A lovely shot from distance that Thibaut Courtois scrambled over, soon prompted the Kop into voice about his hardy physical qualities. Moments later, he broke through Felipe Luis’s challenge as Liverpool cleared a Chelsea corner, and, after advancing a dozen paces, threaded an arcing pass to Sterling. Then, demanding the ball from Martin Skrtel, he charged forwards, oozing the kind of muscular drive that once used to play across the screen of Mourinho’s mental cinema.
All around him, as if keen to fulfil their captain’s wishes for a trophy-gathering finale, Liverpool’s midfield picked up his lead. Even after Chelsea had taken the lead through a penalty converted by Eden Hazard, they did not stop. Noting the hospitality his old club Swansea had shown to their visitors at the weekend, Brendan Rodgers deployed Lucas and Jordan Henderson to block off the gaps and spaces which Chelsea’s deft ball players love to exploit. Ahead of them, Coutinho shimmied and danced, while Markovic dashed and darted. But it was Sterling who would have most impressed Mourinho. His equaliser, sharp, clever, beautifully finished was the mark of a player any manager would covet. “A proper semi-final,” was how Mourinho described it.
And it was after 66 minutes of Gerrard’s prompting and coaxing that the moment came that had Anfield drawing breath, the moment that many had assumed was written in fate. Coutinho galloped down the right of the Chelsea defence, checked and wrong-footed Branislav Ivanovic before cutting a deliciously inviting pass back to Gerrard, lurking on the edge of the area. As the stadium held its collective breath, Gerrard swung his right foot in that precise manner that has long been his trademark and bent the ball perfectly through the visitors’ backline. On it went, past the huge outstretched presence of Courtois. By now, not a seat was left occupied in the Kop. This was it, this was what they were waiting for. Instead of burrowing in the net, however, the ball slammed against the post and spun out for a goal-kick. Gerrard sank to his knees, head in his hands.
For him, that was the end of his efforts. Three minutes later, Brendan Rodgers standing within a couple of feet of Mourinho, his old mentor, in the tight confines of the Anfield technical area, issued the instruction: Gerrard was replaced by Adam Lallana. He went off to a huge ovation and an admiring, conciliatory glance from the man who would have so liked to be his boss.
Meanwhile, the Chelsea fans had heeded their manager and moderated their use of the song about Gerrard, when he slipped and unwittingly presented the ball to Demba Ba, and with it the title to Manchester City.
Instead, as the game concluded, perfectly poised for the second leg, they entertained themselves with a noisy inquiry as to whether anybody had seen Gerrard win the league. Seemingly nobody has.
0 comments:
Post a Comment