Liverpool FC Team Talk/Gossip/Rumours Thread 2015/16 (*EVERYONE READ MOD POST in OP)

x43r0 wrote: »

Imagine how I feel

I'll be sat in the stands watching it

MightyMandarin wrote: »

I'll admit that when Rafa left I wasn't despairing over his departure, and in hindsight I probably should've. But to put the blame on any fan for wanting him gone at the time is wrong imo.

Rafa's departure was a big loss and it'll be a long while before we see a tactically better manager in charge of the club. But the decisions taken in the years following did more to cause the club's regression than Rafa leaving.

There are a lot of things I hate about the beautiful game; our ugly, flawed, gratuitous, imperfect beautiful game.

I hate clubs charge nearly £60 for 90 minutes of football and that our own club isn’t much better. I hate when fans still expect tickets to be a fiver while singing the name of their £20million striker.

I hate electronic turnstiles, electronic scoreboards and video screens. I hate pies. I hate the Upper Centenary and the fact it’s called the Upper Centenary. I hate Football Manager, Championship Manager, Fantasy Football and Wigan Athletic.

I hate fans who dress up as Elvis, Superman and Budgie the Little Helicopter. I hate fans who dress in Henleys and emit the cry of the Neanderthal any time the referee blows his whistle.

I hate inane punditry. I hate Alan Shearer and his crimes against fashion telling me that he passed it there, shot there and it’s a goal. I literally hate Jamie Redknapp and his tight, testicle-twisting trousers. Literally. I hate Gary Neville for talking more sense than both combined.

I hate Robbie Savage, Tim Cahill, Rio Ferdinand, David Moyes, Kiki Musampa and Garth Crooks, not to mention Emmanuel Adebayor, Scott Parker and the entire population of Middlesbrough. I hate Patrice Evra, Darren Fletcher, Rio Ferdinand and Phil Jones. I despise Rio Ferdinand.

I hate a fair portion of the media and those who think the entire media is corrupt, biased or full of liars. I hate bloggers who think they’re journalists because they can open up WordPress; I hate journalists who think they’re bloggers because they have a Twitter page.

I hate football managers and their droopy faces, so reminiscent of a mashed-up Echo left in the gutter on a rainy November morning. I hate how they dangle their faces out of their expensive cars, links themselves with every striker available in world football and pander to the media in order to secure the England job. I hate the England job.

I hate Roy Hodgson. I hate Manchester United fans who sit upon their high horse while that same horse tramples on dignity and decent human behaviour. I hate the fact Goodison Park has an escalator. I hate Goodison Park.

But there’s one thing I hate more than any of that.

After any defeat, be it big, small or insignificant, there’s always one person who stays behind as the Kop disperses onto buses and into pubs. They sit there long after the final sounds of disappointed applause dissipates into the night; they sit there shortly before the stewards get ready for their post-match operation.

Television, naturally, picks up on this. It’s been viewed so many times. A perfect end to the narrative. The full stop; the final scene. The heartbreak and despair of the sport encapsulated in one shot of a supporter, head in hands, unable to move. The aftermath is poignant for some, hilarious for most.

I’ve never understood it. I never want to understand it. A little over 18 months ago, I became everything I hated.

For 120 minutes, I stood on the Kop watching Liverpool’s next stroll into another European final. Hamburg.The Reeperbahn. Another anecdote to tell; another memory for the scrapbook.

Fifteen minutes after Diego Forlan ended Liverpool’s Europa League hopes, I was still sitting down. Numbness hit.

I loved a lot of things about football.

I loved watching my club take on Europe’s titans; better still, I loved watching those titans demolished by our own. Each victory another verse in Liverpool Football Club’s epic.

I loved the enthusiasm from opposing fans when we entered backdoor bars. I loved answering questions about Istanbul, Steven Gerrard and You’ll Never Walk Alone. I loved Barcelona, Madrid, Milan, Porto and Eindhoven.

I loved sharing these moments with friends. I loved sharing hotel rooms and airport lounges with them; I loved that eight-man round, even if it did cost the same price as my flight.

I loved Anfield and how it transformed when the floodlights radiated and Zadok the Priest reverberated. I loved how the buzz along Walton Breck Road carried the crowd like a conveyor belt towards the ground. I loved being one solitary brick in that wall of noise.

I loved watching Cannavaro, Zanetti, Ronaldinho, Ibrahimovic, Del Piero and Messi. I loved watching Gerrard, Carragher, Hyypia, Luis Garcia, Alonso, Mascherano, Agger, Kuyt.

I loved Rafael Benitez.

Rooted to the plastic red seat, I stared at the empty Anfield pitch. The floodlights started to dim, the reverberations eased. Everything I loved was slowly decaying; everything I hated was strengthening.

I knew defeat to Atletico Madrid would signal the end of Rafael Benitez as Liverpool manager. I knew some would be given what they wanted.


Rafa’s influence at Liverpool stretched far beyond football. Far more important than the 2-1 win at Camp Nou was the night before, crammed into a bar eating tapas and drinking sangria until the early hours; far better than beating Milan, Real Madrid or PSV were the moments around that – the moments still talked about to this day.

More than any trophy, signing or 90 minute lesson in football management, Rafa gave us experiences we still remember and allegiances we still cherish. Rafa keeps giving, too – this time away from football. This time, he and his wife Montse give to the city of Liverpool through the Montse Benitez Foundation; they give themselves as fine ambassadors to the city.

That is why I’m angered when I see anything uncomplimentary written about Rafael Benitez. To debate his merits as a manager is fine. To debate the impact he has had on the city of Liverpool, both during and after his time as manager, is foolhardy at best and ignorant at worst.

Hate is a strong word. It should be reserved for only those who have harmed this football club, its supporters and the city.

Redknapp, Shearer, escalators at Goodison Park and all the other aforementioned items are not targets of hate, just a mild irritant to the landscape mentioned with tongue planted in cheek.

But I do intensely dislike those who felt the need to force Rafael Benitez out of Anfield; I feel an intense dislike for those who still don’t appreciate what he does. I dislike the fact some see a European Cup, an FA Cup and countless fantastic nights as a failure; I dislike it when those people don’t realise that Rafa’s legacy is a lot more than that.

I hated the fact I couldn’t tell him this in person as a supporter of Liverpool Football Club.

That was until he walked through the door of Parr Street during The Anfield Wrap’s 10th podcast.

I’d met Rafa before, both personally and professionally, when he was Liverpool manager. This time, I was meeting him as a supporter; this time, I could thank him for everything he did for Liverpool Football Club and the city of Liverpool.

He greeted us all with a warm smile – a smile some in the press told us never existed. It did exist. It existed at Istanbul and Cardiff. It existed at Old Trafford when Andrea Dossena put his side 4-1 up; a carbon copy of the smile four days earlier when Real Madrid were demolished at Anfield.

I used to argue I would rather have the cold steel of a European Cup rather than a warm smile. I now realised they were not mutually exclusive.

He sat down and spoke passionately about his football and his charity. He listened to those he sat with; he answered questions from both journalists and supporters. By the end of the podcast, there was no distinction: it was no longer a host, a few journalists, some fans and Rafael Benitez on the Anfield Wrap podcast; it was eight Liverpool supporters talking football with each other.

As he left, I shook his hand. I wanted to say thank you for Olympiakos, Juventus, Istanbul, Cardiff, Real Madrid, Barcelona, Old Trafford and the countless wins over Chelsea and Everton. I wanted to say thank you for the work both him and Montse were doing for the city.

I wanted to say thank you for speaking out against Hicks and Gillett and putting the club and supporters ahead of himself; thank him for being the glue of my hefty mental scrapbook bulging with moments from his time in charge, shared with people I consider great friends. I wanted to thank him for making our ugly, flawed, gratuitous, imperfect beautiful game just that little bit more beautiful for us.

I shook his hand, placed an arm upon his shoulder and uttered: “Cheers Rafa” before walking away. An opportunity missed.

I just cling to the hope Rafa knew, as he looked me in the eye, why I was saying thanks. He always did have fine attention for detail, after all.