Can you imagine the weight on this man's shoulders? The sheer burden on this Atlas, lugging around the hopes and dreams of millions of Liverpool supporters worldwide for all this time? The critical mass of his own dreams and hopes of glory for his own club? It's not measurable. It's not comparable to things you and I have experienced or ever will. His rewards have been great - the luxury and comfort of a great life, the acclaim - but the weight on his shoulders? The screaming catcalls of his inferiors mocking his every mistake at every turn, thousands of horrible cretins giving him two fingers, emptying the reservoirs of their abuse in his face, plastics eponymously laminating signs to commemorate an error that had almost nothing to do with them. He's a human being and all these barbs left their marks, surely.
But he's so much more than a man, isn't he? He is an avatar of our potential greatness manifest. People will argue that he was born great, but this discounts the countless hours he spent breaking himself down and building himself up again, getting himself fit for club and country year after year after year. Never failing to answer the call when it rang out across the commons.
I am a soft c*nt, sitting here with wet eyes trying to find words worthy of a man who has meant so much to me. That goal against West Ham, the violence of that strike, a howitzer like I've never seen before, in a moment when mere mortals would have shit themselves to death. And coming hot on the heels of number 5 a year earlier. It felt like we had turned a corner and would never stop winning things again. It didn't work out that way.
BUT ...
You say the word "Istanbul" in this context enough times, it becomes nearly a cliche. Our enemies and naysayers far and wide remind us that it was 10 years ago and ask what we have done for them lately. We know better, don't we? Miracles never devolve into the mundane - they are, by their nature, eternal, immortal. We had no business winning that title. We could have folded at any point and no one would have blamed us. We were undermanned, overmatched, at just about every stage of that tournament.
But we had Steven Gerrard, and that made all the difference. That always made all the difference. He always made all the difference. His imperfections and mistakes kept him close to us, because he was and is one of us. He's only human.
But he's so much more than that.
