There must be something magical in the murky waters of the Mersey. Some strange element, some intangible something. How else do you explain the apparent resurgence of Liverpool FC?
A club that has, in recent years, been beaten down by sharklike owners and failing managers, stripped bare of its prize assets, its best players leaving season after season. All the hacks have their obituaries on standby: when Chelsea FC, a club built like an argos dining table, flat-packed and soulless, beat Liverpool with their own 50m player it will symbolise the descent of Liverpool from the top tier, consigning us to history.
Yet when history calls, Liverpool answers.
Herein lies a part of the reason why Liverpool is such a famous, loved club. It is an institution that revels in stories and folklore, a club which by some sixth sense knows when there is history to be made, and rises to the occasion. It is often when the spotlight falls brightest on the club that I end up feeling relaxed: we rarely let a chance to forge a legend pass us by.
And so it will be remembered that Torres turned his back on Liverpool, broke all our hearts for a shot at some quick-fix medals at the plastic Bridge, and was made to regret his decision within a week. The Spaniard may yet win his medals, with the game's focus on money it's all but certain, yet he has failed to recognise that there is one thing in football even more valuable: the chance to be remembered for generations, to join a pantheon of legendary figures at a club that somehow always finds a way to write itself into the history books, to do something worth remembering.
The game itself was a mesmerising, nerve-shredding affair. Once again Kenny Dalglish rose to the occasion with the perfect formation: perhaps best described as a take on the exotic 3-3-3-1 formation pioneered by Oscar Tabarez' Uruguay at last year's World Cup. In truth, so fluid is the formation that it is difficult to pin it down with numbers and hyphens, yet in practice that fluidity provided a base solid as steel.
Three at the back allowed two defenders, usually the colossal Carragher and Skrtel, to swamp whichever Chelsea striker was receving the ball, safe in the knowledge that the revitalised Agger would be around to pick up any loose balls, and start Liverpool forward again with composed passing that is a joy to behold after years of hoofing from the back.
Even more crucially, just ahead of this three, were Martin Kelly and Glen Johnson. Both players have been a revelation under Dalglish, and here both provided an outlet, and the key to stopping Chelsea. Suffering from a lack of width all too familiar to Liverpool fans, the route to stopping Chelsea was to suffocate their fullbacks, and in freeing up his rampaging fullbacks to move forward, safe in the knowledge that Lucas would drop back to form a tight-knit central four, Dalglish did that.
In midfield, Lampard was muted, leaving Chelsea to attempt to build attacks through the passing of Essien and Mikel. As a result, Chelsea, with nigh-on 20 tame attacks, were rendered toothless, while Liverpool waited and waited for the chance to come their way, ready to strike when it did. It was a masterclass in controlling an away game, something Benitez would have been proud of.
And above it all, players that looked like a collection of strangers under Roy Hodgson once again looked a cohesive unit. Every player, the execrable Maxi aside, contributed to a team performance that went beyond the sum of its parts. Special mention though to two players: Raul Meireles was not only the goalscorer but again was pivotal to the passing game that allowed Liverpool to build attacks with intent. Meireles and Gerrard are key to our newfound fluidity, always rotating, always popping up in unexpected areas to help keep possession and drive the play forward.
And then there is Jamie Carragher. Two months out, facing one of the most expensively assembled attacks ever: no problem. Carragher's discipline, mental strength and desire to win are remarkable, a living embodiment of the Liverpool spirit. There's a reason why we all dream of a team of Carraghers.
Indeed, if Fernando Torres wants to ponder just how his betrayal will resonate, he needs look no further than Jamie for inspiration: Carragher is a player of limited technical ability with nothing like the skill possessed by Torres, but has risen to legendary status through sheer force of will. Along the way, Carragher's loyalty has been rewarded with the chance to be remembered, to play in games whose significance will not soon be forgotten, to earn a place alongside some of football's most famous names. After all, he plays for a club that writes football folklore, where the name Fernando Torres is nothing more than a footnote.
A club that has, in recent years, been beaten down by sharklike owners and failing managers, stripped bare of its prize assets, its best players leaving season after season. All the hacks have their obituaries on standby: when Chelsea FC, a club built like an argos dining table, flat-packed and soulless, beat Liverpool with their own 50m player it will symbolise the descent of Liverpool from the top tier, consigning us to history.
Yet when history calls, Liverpool answers.
Herein lies a part of the reason why Liverpool is such a famous, loved club. It is an institution that revels in stories and folklore, a club which by some sixth sense knows when there is history to be made, and rises to the occasion. It is often when the spotlight falls brightest on the club that I end up feeling relaxed: we rarely let a chance to forge a legend pass us by.
And so it will be remembered that Torres turned his back on Liverpool, broke all our hearts for a shot at some quick-fix medals at the plastic Bridge, and was made to regret his decision within a week. The Spaniard may yet win his medals, with the game's focus on money it's all but certain, yet he has failed to recognise that there is one thing in football even more valuable: the chance to be remembered for generations, to join a pantheon of legendary figures at a club that somehow always finds a way to write itself into the history books, to do something worth remembering.
The game itself was a mesmerising, nerve-shredding affair. Once again Kenny Dalglish rose to the occasion with the perfect formation: perhaps best described as a take on the exotic 3-3-3-1 formation pioneered by Oscar Tabarez' Uruguay at last year's World Cup. In truth, so fluid is the formation that it is difficult to pin it down with numbers and hyphens, yet in practice that fluidity provided a base solid as steel.
Three at the back allowed two defenders, usually the colossal Carragher and Skrtel, to swamp whichever Chelsea striker was receving the ball, safe in the knowledge that the revitalised Agger would be around to pick up any loose balls, and start Liverpool forward again with composed passing that is a joy to behold after years of hoofing from the back.
Even more crucially, just ahead of this three, were Martin Kelly and Glen Johnson. Both players have been a revelation under Dalglish, and here both provided an outlet, and the key to stopping Chelsea. Suffering from a lack of width all too familiar to Liverpool fans, the route to stopping Chelsea was to suffocate their fullbacks, and in freeing up his rampaging fullbacks to move forward, safe in the knowledge that Lucas would drop back to form a tight-knit central four, Dalglish did that.
In midfield, Lampard was muted, leaving Chelsea to attempt to build attacks through the passing of Essien and Mikel. As a result, Chelsea, with nigh-on 20 tame attacks, were rendered toothless, while Liverpool waited and waited for the chance to come their way, ready to strike when it did. It was a masterclass in controlling an away game, something Benitez would have been proud of.
And above it all, players that looked like a collection of strangers under Roy Hodgson once again looked a cohesive unit. Every player, the execrable Maxi aside, contributed to a team performance that went beyond the sum of its parts. Special mention though to two players: Raul Meireles was not only the goalscorer but again was pivotal to the passing game that allowed Liverpool to build attacks with intent. Meireles and Gerrard are key to our newfound fluidity, always rotating, always popping up in unexpected areas to help keep possession and drive the play forward.
And then there is Jamie Carragher. Two months out, facing one of the most expensively assembled attacks ever: no problem. Carragher's discipline, mental strength and desire to win are remarkable, a living embodiment of the Liverpool spirit. There's a reason why we all dream of a team of Carraghers.
Indeed, if Fernando Torres wants to ponder just how his betrayal will resonate, he needs look no further than Jamie for inspiration: Carragher is a player of limited technical ability with nothing like the skill possessed by Torres, but has risen to legendary status through sheer force of will. Along the way, Carragher's loyalty has been rewarded with the chance to be remembered, to play in games whose significance will not soon be forgotten, to earn a place alongside some of football's most famous names. After all, he plays for a club that writes football folklore, where the name Fernando Torres is nothing more than a footnote.
